Drake continued. “Even knowing you’re on my side, on her side, my every molecule is fighting to make me shift because you are just too fucking dangerous, man. To know that you are on our side only matters to my brain, but my body only sees a threat that would take all three of us to even survive.”
He turned to Cowan.
“What about you, big guy? You see any chance of the three of us taking him on and winning? Or is even survival a fool’s gambit? A whisper of a hope?”
Cowan cleared his throat, not hesitating. “No chance. I agree entirely. If it wasn’t for my oath to Ashley and Gunnar, I would go for a walk. Right. Now.” He turned to look at me, wincing apologetically. “Just to get away from the power slamming into me from your emotions. I feel like I’m standing before a storm.”
And I realized his legs were locked into a semi-squat and his hands were balled fists. He wasn’t exaggerating.
“He’s actually kind of a pushover once you get to know him,” Gunnar rasped through gritted teeth, obviously lying. He met my eyes and gave a brief nod.
I took a deep breath, dialing down on my rage. And the male werewolves visibly relaxed in a chorus of gasps, looking as if they wanted nothing more than to pass out on the floor.
“More importantly,” Ashley said in a stern voice directed at her husband, “Gunnar needs you, and I need him.” A faint sob escaped her lips. “Calvin and Makayla will need their fathers. Both of them, even their habitually tardy, scarily-powerful, fairy godfather.” She smiled weakly. “I need you to teach Makayla your emotional fire. Your passion. If she adopts even half of it, I’ll curse you until my last breath,” she admitted, shaking her head. “But I’ll bless you for it, too. Because she will need it. You will show her what a real prince is. Not one of those flawless, lifeless, Disney figures, but a man who knows his wild side, a man who knows his flaws, a man who has defeated everything that has ever gotten in his way—even, and especially, his own self!”
Her voice rang out, and I saw she was shaking weakly.
Gunnar took a step closer, but she flung up her hand, halting him. He obeyed, clenching his jaw.
Then she turned those fiery eyes back to me. “And you better teach Calvin how to slay monsters and swoon women. How to become his own darkly just prince. A man in command of his demons. A man who holds their leashes draped over his forearm, daring them to try escaping as he sips a cocktail and flirts at the bar.”
I nodded eagerly, feeling a strange, anticipatory smile split my cheeks at the thought of me spoiling the twins rotten. “Yeah, Gunnar only knows how to slay, not swoon.”
He scowled in my general direction—a few inches off, to be honest.
I turned back to Ashley. “Okay. You want me to teach Thor a lesson since you’re both blind and worthless.” Gunnar growled instinctively, but I patted him on the shoulder, letting him know it was a joke since he couldn’t see. “I’ll clean up this mess the only way I know how—by making an even bigger mess for them.”
She smiled, letting out a breath of relief. “You always do. Even when everyone else doubts, you always pull through with some miracle. Some last-ditch effort to turn the tide.” She studied my general vicinity intensely for a moment. “You are our last hope, Nate. Your best friend needs you…”
I felt a tear fall down my cheek. “Defiance,” I whispered, reciting the word that signified a promise woven into the soul. I said it for myself, but Gunnar growled his acknowledgment. It was a promise that I would keep them safe, no matter what.
Which meant I had some trash to take out. Thor first, and then Mordred, because both were threats to Gunnar and Ashley and their kids. Thor, directly, and Mordred, indirectly. Because if I didn’t make good on my promise to Anubis, he would demand his two souls back.
Gunnar and Talon would die.
I shivered at an unbidden thought. I’d also just met two new souls ready to enter the world—Calvin and Makayla.
I shuddered at the macabre thought, deciding Ashley and Gunnar had enough to worry about without me bringing up the Anubis situation.
I nodded stiffly. “I’m going to go find out the good doctor’s intentions. Right the fuck now.”
Gunnar glanced in his wife’s direction. “Sleep, my sweet. Don’t mind the screams you’re about to hear.”
She mumbled something so softly and lucidly that I wasn’t sure she was even awake, but her dazed words set my heart on fire.
“Screams…” she murmured groggily, “like sweet lullabies are the agonized cries as the blood of your enemy sprays the skies.”
Yeah. Whether that was an actual quote or some super-pregnant-mother-level of darkness, I wasn’t sure.
Either suited me just fine. I had my theme song. Now to go talk to Doogie Howser about his house call business.
“Wait here, Wulfric,” I said, dusting off my hands to reveal a flicker of the glowing ichor in my veins—the substance that signified me having the power to kill a god. I’d thought I’d used it all up or that it had faded away without use, but to see it suddenly appear now…coincidences could sometimes work in your favor. “I intend to light him up, and you can barely handle a nightlight. I’ll have answers in less than five minutes. Or I’ll have a body for you to put on a pyre.”
He didn’t seem happy about me excluding him, but I felt better knowing he was here to keep Ashley safe. And he’d done enough already. I began striding out of the room, clenching my fists open and closed. I made it to the door before I paused at a random thought. Then I turned to glance over my shoulder.
“Does anyone know what day it is?”
“I think it’s Saturday,” Cowan answered. “Why?”
I smiled wickedly, turning back to the door. “Good. That means tomorrow can be a new holiday. Thor dies on Bloody Funday.” And I followed it up with a dark chuckle straight from my heart.
He already had one day of the week named after him—Thursday. I would give him another—and hope that he didn’t pull a Jesus on me, rising back to life three days later for a rematch.
The werewolves growled excitedly behind me as I made my way to the exit.
I was still counting the three-day thing absently, wondering if that would make Thor rise back to life on a Wednesday or a Thursday. Wednesday was named after Odin. Maybe I should just kill both of them and make a back-to-back holiday just to be certain.
Either way, I would wait by Thor’s corpse just to make sure.
First, it was time to deal with Thor’s daddy and get some gods damned answers from the damned Norse gods.
Chapter 18
I strolled outside, letting the door slam shut behind me.
Everyone turned to stare as I walked a few paces from the door and stopped. Even Odin, who had finished his astral ride-along with Hugin and Munin, or whatever the hell he’d been doing when he’d zoned out.
I ignored them, and took a calming, meditative breath. Then another.
Then, I glanced over at my rainbow staff, scratching my chin thoughtfully. Finally, I shook my head and turned to find everyone fidgeting nervously.
Except for Alice. She was sitting on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees, her chin buried into the crook of her elbow. I knew her well enough to know she was grinning toothily but concealing it from view. Being a Seer, she had noticed what was really going on in my mind, not just what I was physically projecting.
The theatrics.
What I was physically projecting was still genuine, but for reasons not so obvious at first glance. I had secret, ulterior motives as well—just like everyone else in my life. Because I was sick and tired of being the only one not hiding secrets. They wanted to play games? Fine. I could play games, too.
Starting right now.
I considered my plan for a few silent moments before turning to face my target. “Hey, Odin,” I called out. “A word.”
Odin nodded warily, absently waving off Freya’s open concern with a tired, long-familiar gesture. He had taken off his pointy hat at some
point, but I didn’t see a bag of any kind to indicate where he had put it. Odin had long, wavy silver hair, and it was tied into long, thick braids on either side of his head. The ends of the braids were capped in melted silver with unknown runes stamped into them.
Freya folded her arms and shot me a flat, nervous look as Odin made his way over. She definitely assumed I was up to something, meaning she was either wiser than I thought, or overly judgmental. Either way, she was the smarter of the two for it.
Thankfully, Gunnar hadn’t argued to join me for this. It would have really killed my vibe to have my one-eyed, service werewolf stumble and fall—since he now needed his own service animal. Gunnar was also prone to volunteering himself as my moral conscience at the worst imaginable times. As Odin approached, my mind ran through Gunnar’s story about the broken Gateway, Thor, Mordred, the ravens killing a Knightmare in Niflheim, and everything else that had happened in my absence.
Odin finally reached me, and I studied him for a few tense moments, not speaking as I considered how many problems we faced thanks to his meddling. But how Odin had also gone out of his way to help my friends when they’d been in very real danger.
There were just so many things I wanted to say to him…
I hauled back and punched him right in the nose as hard as I could, since I was a devout student in the Tao of Fisticuffs. The old adage that actions speak louder than words was hard to refute when foreign knuckles were indenting your internal hard bits.
I felt cartilage crunch beneath my knuckles, but my face remained as cool as a winter pond at dawn. Odin, on the other hand, staggered back, clutching his nose in shock.
I stared down at the fresh blood dripping down the back of my hand. Then I feigned surprise upon seeing the golden light peeking out from my wrists beneath the cuffs of my shirt. I grunted, rolling up my sleeves. “Would you look at that,” I said as if talking to myself, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Looks like the godkiller is back for an encore.”
Geri and Freki lunged forwards instinctively. Both Freya’s frantic shrieks for them to restrain me and Odin’s stuffy-nosed commands for them to stand down were ignored by the powerful killing machines. They saw only that their master was in pain, meaning the time for half-measures was over. Without looking at them, I flung my hands out like I was shaking water from my fingertips.
And unseen webs of air struck their legs like bolas, tripping them, trapping them, and then sending them crashing and tumbling to the ground—their own momentum turned against them.
“Science,” I said dramatically, wiggling my fingers as the wolves skidded faces-first across the rubble. The hog-tied wolves finally came to a stop, and instantly began snapping their teeth at the unseen bonds. I grunted at their persistent efforts. “Good luck with that, pups.”
Then I reared back and punched Odin again—in his good eye—even harder than my nose-breaker. The god cursed, stumbled, and started to fall—and his wife and wolves began to howl. I courteously caught him up in a cord of air and lifted him back upright like I was a concerned citizen.
Except I was actually a Bad Samaritan and waiting with an uppercut to the god’s chin that knocked the poor bastard clear off his feet and had him horizontal in the air. The force of the blow even tore away his eyepatch, slingshotting it directly at Grimm—who somehow managed to catch it on his horn. My murdercorn let out a triumphant cheer like a bachelor catching a bride’s garter at a wedding.
I shook my head at the odds, and then heard Odin’s back strike the ground behind me. Judging by the loud expulsion of breath, it had knocked the air from his lungs. I turned around to see him lying on the ground, staring dazedly upwards with a now partially swollen eye, gasping to catch his breath.
The god’s face was a mask of blood.
And the godkiller laughed—a raucous, merciless sound that mocked the stunned silence of the dusty creek bed.
Because the godkiller was learning, adapting, evolving.
No one—except perhaps Alice—realized the true importance of what was happening right now. Which made it all the more effective—on so many levels.
Although a very loud, insistent part of me wanted to continue the show—pummeling Odin into a can of Spam—beating down a god in front of others was actually the smallest benefit of what I was currently doing. Was it rewarding and fulfilling?
Ohmygodkiller, yes.
Not my ultimate purpose, though.
My true intent had been to put both the god’s resolve and strength to the test. Dean would know and understand why I was beating him down.
Odin, on the other hand, was more likely to get angry and respond to my disrespect with hyper-violence.
I needed to know which mind was controlling this meat suit—where this god truly stood, and what his ultimate motivations were. The cold, bitter, bloody truth.
And I also needed to know his strength—why he appeared to be running on a low battery.
“Heh.” I chuckled, studying the god’s blood painting my knuckles. “Battery,” I murmured under my breath, smiling briefly at the double entendre. I needed to understand the truth—what was really going on here—because my friends’ lives were on the line.
And nothing spoke the truth like knuckles to the teeth.
The wolves were snarling, actually chewing—and crushing—the loose stones that littered the ground in their attempt to break my bonds. It was futile, but it was entertaining to let them think they had a chance—to watch their hope slowly bleed out following each failed escape attempt.
Freya cursed, whipping her hand into her pouch to scoop up some magic powder. I couldn’t have any of that nonsense.
Not knowing what she was actually capable of, or where she drew her magic from, I instinctively tapped into my Fae magic to call out to the skies above, introducing me to the currents of power residing high above this strange realm.
Almost instantly, I found an impressionable, adolescent bolt of lightning living within a perfectly white cloud. So I dared it to run away from home and come down to Niflheim to see if it was brave enough to kiss a goddess’ fingers.
Luckily for me, the adolescent lightning bolt was bored and prone to mischief, so it eagerly accepted my challenge.
The concussive blast struck Freya’s pouch with a blinding flash—obliterating it—and sent her flying ten feet. The explosive power even ripped her toga free from her shoulder.
Even Grimm cursed in surprise, eyeing the white clouds with concern—since none of them had looked stormy. Alice squealed, darting behind the potty-mouthed pony to hide.
I silently thanked the teenaged lightning bolt and then urged it to go back home before it got into any more trouble.
Then I turned to check on Freya. I didn’t feel guilty about striking a woman. Not even remotely. For multiple reasons.
Primarily, it was impossible to look at my world with that kind of innocent bias or misplaced courtesy. These two beings were gods. The male and female identity was way too simple of a category to limit them to. Unlike with humanity, gender didn’t matter in the slightest.
Because gods could do impossible things like giving birth to themselves, sleeping with swans and horses to conceive bizarre animal-human hybrids, and all sorts of other sordid, deviant acts—which pretty much contradicted any arguments trying to sort them into such limited definitions as male or female.
It was akin to having a problem with hitting redheaded gods but being totally cool with hitting blonde-haired gods. Utterly ridiculous.
In fact, gods would frequently try to use their sex—both figuratively and literally—against mortals.
I’m talking to you, Zeus and Aphrodite, ya’ kinky weirdos.
And besides, most goddesses knew of a man’s deeply-ingrained, almost instinctive penchant to avoid physical confrontation with a woman—and they would shamelessly exploit that weakness faster than a man could whimper Lorena Bobbitt.
In summary…
Gods. Were. Not. Like. Us.
And we humans needed to be careful about how much of a leash we gave the kinky deities.
So, I had chosen to hit Freya as hard as I hit Odin. Maybe even harder—that lightning bolt had been eager to impress.
Freya scrambled to her feet with a stunned look—her hair sticking straight up, and her scorched, dangling toga strap revealing an impressive display of perfectly smooth, curved flesh. I noticed this out of my peripheral vision, simply wanting to make sure she wasn’t about to attempt another attack. I wasn’t an ogler on the worst of days, but I definitely never ogled another man’s wife. Not knowingly, anyway.
But it was fair to say that I was an avid art enthusiast, always eager to broaden my horizons on the aesthetic of the human form—strictly for academic furtherance.
Geri and Freki continued to rage against their unseen restraints, snapping their teeth and snarling at me. I dismissed them with a flick of my wrist that sent them sliding back another ten paces. I noticed Odin climbing back to his feet, so I crouched and spun, kicking to sweep his legs out from under him. The timing was perfect, and he grunted at the unexpected attack before striking the rocky ground hard enough to gasp—again.
I crouched over him, and waved my glowing arm before his bloody face. Deep purple bruises painted the flesh below his functioning eye and his nose was a crooked, flattened ruin. Where his other eye had once been was a scorched, melted crater—the scars seeming to gleam with golden flakes of metal deeply embedded into the pale tissue.
I’d have to ask him about it some other time.
Because what I had in mind was an altogether different kind of conversation.
Chapter 19
I cleared my throat. “It’s come to my attention that your son, Thor, is an asshole of truly epic proportions. In fact, he gives honorable assholes like me a bad rep. Hitting a pregnant woman is a death sentence if I’m within a one-hundred-mile radius, but that distance rule doesn’t even apply if it happens in my city. And the sentence changes to slow torture if that woman is my best friend’s wife.”
Knightmare: Nate Temple Series Book 12 Page 11