by Meg Ripley
“Yes,” again another short answer.
It wasn’t long after that she abandoned the relatively fruitless questions and they reached a lone house. It wasn’t the image of a rundown shack like one might expect in the middle of nowhere. In fact, it was beautiful; it was white-washed, it had beautifully tended gardens and a white picket fence. Beyond it were several cottages, all smaller versions of the main house.
Without a word, he slid out, but he told her to wait there for just a minute.
She didn’t listen, hopping out of the car, stretching her legs and then following close behind him.
“I said to wait in the car, Freya,” he said as he knocked on the door, though his voice didn’t sound particularly irritated.
“I know,” she said simply.
A woman opened the door almost right away and Grant turned his smile to her. “Hello, Genevieve,” he greeted her, and his tone was warm. She got the immediate impression this was not a casual acquaintance, but a woman he cared for deeply.
“Mo charaid!” the woman exclaimed, opening her arms and pulling Grant into a motherly embrace. “What has it been; thirty years? Forty?”
Forty years? Grant didn’t look more than thirty years old—maybe thirty-five, at most. But before Freya could contemplate this anomaly further, the woman stepped back and settled her gaze on her, peering at her intently with eyes that were kind but seemed to see right through her. Eyes that were surprised by what they found.
“Grant,” Genevieve breathed without looking away, “what have you gotten yourself into?” she asked, motioning for them to come in, albeit reluctantly.
“By the look on your face, my friend, I imagine I’ve gotten myself into some trouble.”
“What on Earth are you doing here, Freya?” she asked, switching her attention once again.
How did the woman know her name? Had they met before? Could this woman tell Freya who she was? A tremor of excitement raced through her.
“You know who I am? We’ve met before?” she asked hopefully.
“No. No, we’ve never met, my Lady.”
My lady? Freya’s brow furrowed as she pondered her new title. What the…?
“Genevieve? Do you know what Freya is?” Grant asked, touching her arm in concern.
“Yes, of course,” she replied, seemingly snapping out of whatever had fazed her. “But do you mean to tell me you don’t know?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea, actually. I’ve never met anyone like her. We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that subject.”
“Of course, you haven’t met anyone like her. Grant, she’s Freya,” Genevieve said, as if that somehow explained everything.
Freya sighed, trying to hide her disappointment. Her name was about the only thing she already knew about herself so the woman’s insight was less than helpful.
“Yes, that much we’ve managed to establish, mo charaid—” Grant started, but Genevieve cut him off.
“No, Grant, you don’t understand. Surely, you’ve discovered for yourself she isn’t human; that she’s unlike any creature you’ve seen. Your senses have always been spot on, impressive for a dragon, but I suppose you couldn’t possibly understand what you’ve been sensing, could you?”
Hold on. Did she just say a dragon? As in a scaly, fire-breathing lizard? Freya’s eyes began to shift between Genevieve’s and Grant’s, hoping for an explanation—fast.
“Freya and I have not been acquainted long…” Grant ground out between gritted teeth, while his eyes conveyed more to the message. Apparently, he was none too pleased with what the woman had revealed, but Genevieve couldn’t possibly be serious; the woman had to be off her rocker.
“Grant,” Genevieve said, seeming to grasp his meaning and having a thing or two to add, “You can’t keep what you are hidden from her; you can’t keep anything hidden from her. She’s Freya,” the woman reiterated.
“Yes, I know that much…” he cut in, a hint of agitation in his tone despite the patient expression on his face.
“She is Freya, daughter of Njord…and the wife of Odin.”
Suddenly, Grant sat down hard on the sofa behind him. He looked stunned, but at the same time, a bubble of laughter rose up in Freya’s throat. The woman was obviously joking. There was no way in hell she was the most powerful goddess of Norse mythology—hence the term ‘mythology.’ It was folklore. A legend. A fanciful story passed down from generation to generation.
“That’s not possible,” Grant said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. She agreed whole-heartedly, but why did it seem there was a noticeable lack of commitment in his tone?
Now she was certain the woman was batshit crazy, and how sane could Grant possibly be if he was putting any stock in what Genevieve was saying? “You can’t be serious,” Freya said, meaning no disrespect, but someone had to bring this conversation back into the realm of reality.
They both looked up at her, and she got the impression they were serious. Dead serious, she’d wager, by the grave expressions on their faces.
Grant sprung to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, deep in thought. “Alright,” he said, stopping in front of Genevieve, “assuming you’re not mistaken, how could she forget that? No potion, no curse I’ve ever heard of could affect an Aesir god.”
“You believe she has truly forgotten?”
He resumed his pacing, silent for the moment. “Yes, I do,” he replied.
“I fear I do as well,” Genevieve said, sighing heavily. “If she were Loki, perhaps I would doubt it, but Freya has no reason to lie. What need would there be for it?”
Loki—the shapeshifting trickster? She cringed at the mention of the name, though it evoked no particular memory.
“But then how is it she can’t remember anything if nothing on this Earth could affect her so greatly?”
Genevieve sighed. “Only the spell of a god could have befuddled her mind. It is possible to remove the shroud, but we must consider that she may have done it to herself; that perhaps she doesn’t wish to remember. And perhaps it might also be in our best interest if she didn’t remember,” she added quietly, as if she were ashamed of the suggestion.
“You think she deliberately erased her memory?”
Great. They were actually taking this seriously. It was time to refocus on injecting a little lucidity into this outrageous conversation. “The two of you genuinely believe I’m Freya—a mythical goddess—and on top of that, you think I erased my own memory?”
“Yes,” they replied in tandem, though neither of them looked happy about it.
“It isn’t erased, though,” Genevieve continued. “All of your memories are there, my Lady, just hidden behind a mask of darkness.”
“So, what could the hunters after her be looking for?” Grant asked.
“Can you imagine what could be done with the lifeblood of a god, Grant? If they could harness even a small bit of that essence…She doesn’t get sick, she heals faster than you or I. I don’t think a broken neck or a bullet to the heart would stop that. She has an infinite amount of power, and if that wasn’t enough, on top of all that, do you know Freya’s special gift, Grant?”
They conversed back and forth, talking about her—or rather, talking about the mythical goddess they believed her to be—as if they’d forgotten she was in the room.
Genevieve looked at Freya then, her shrewdly assessing eyes peering into her own. She looked away after a moment, though whether she’d found what she was looking for or not, Freya didn’t know.
“Her gift is far more dangerous than anything we’ve ever encountered. She can manipulate a person’s will. She has the power to control one’s desires, his health…everything around her. With her memory restored, she would make a very powerful ally—an unstoppable one, in fact—but a more dangerous enemy than we’ve ever known if she turns against us. Just look at what she’s done to this poor lass,” Genevieve said, opening her front door and letting in Cat, who had apparentl
y escaped the car and had been waiting patiently on the other side of the door.
“What do you mean?” Freya asked as Cat headed straight for her and laid down at her feet. “What did I do to the cat?”
“The cat? I don’t think so,” Genevieve exclaimed, making Freya take a second look at the feline at her feet. Yes—that was definitely a cat.
Genevieve reached out her hand and tapped Cat on the top of her furry head. In a flash, the animal transformed into a young woman—a plump girl who was perhaps nineteen years old, with long, blonde hair and eyes that were the color of amber.
Freya stumbled back, stunned. “Dear lord, what did you do?” she asked Genevieve, coming up with no possible explanation on her own.
Then, to make matters worse, the young woman fell prostrate on the ground then, touching her forehead to Freya’s feet. “Please forgive me, Mistress, but it was the only way.”
“The only way…to what?” Freya asked, now even more perplexed than she’d been the morning she woke up without a memory. The worst part, though, was that the girl seemed oddly familiar.
“To stay close to you, of course. I should have warned you; I should have kept you safe when the dragon man came, Mistress. I knew there was something not right about him, about the way he courted you. I failed you, I know, but I could not bear for you to send me back.”
“Back…where?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure that was the most pertinent question at the moment.
“To Asgard, of course.”
“Asgard? You’re worried I was going to send you to a mythical world because of a dragon man?” This is insane, she thought.
“I should say no more, Mistress.”
It was Freya’s turn to flop down on the sofa, completely baffled by the conversation of the past ten minutes. She wondered, not for the first time, if she was stuck in some strange nightmare. Perhaps the past several months had all been a part of it? Or maybe the nightmare began when she’d been attacked. Or was she still lying fast asleep in Grant’s arms on the motel floor? Any of these seemed like more plausible explanations than the ones being presented here.
“Who are you?” Genevieve asked the young woman who was now sitting protectively by Freya’s feet.
The girl explained that she was, Ragna, a servant from Asgard, a fortunate one to have been assigned to look after the goddess’ needs. The goddess herself had named her, the name synonymous with ‘advice,’ on which Freya had come to depend. At first, that was all the woman would say.
Freya looked at her, taking in her sweet, childlike features, knowing that everything about the girl was somehow familiar. “Tell me more,” she heard herself say aloud, the words slipping from her lips of their own volition.
“I’m sorry, but are you sure, Mistress?”
Freya couldn’t speak. Of course, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure about any of this. But she nodded, encouraging Ragna to recant more of her story—which was probably all it was; a fairytale. But they all listened as Ragna explained how Freya had been lonely on Asgard, left alone for centuries at a time while Odin went off to fight his wars. The only company she had was Loki’s; the evil trickster would stop in from time to time just to torment her. And when her mistress could take no more of it, when she had set aside Odin for good and her loneliness threatened to consume her, Ragna had boldly insisted she accompany her to Earth.
Ragna looked up at Freya then, an uncertain look in her eyes, waiting for permission to continue. “Forgive me, Mistress, but you went to a great deal of effort to purge these memories. Are you certain you wish to have them back now?”
For the first time since stepping through Genevieve’s front door, Freya felt a moment of panic. It couldn’t possibly be true, but something deep inside her told her that it was.
Accepting that she was probably off her rocker, too, she wondered whether to let Ragna continue. If she really had sacrificed all her memories in order to escape…something, could she really welcome them back so easily?
“What dragon?” Grant spoke up, addressing Ragna for the first time.
The girl blushed, and Freya remembered last night and this morning in the motel room, what she and Grant had done right there in front of the servant girl—because she’d had no reason to think Cat was anything other than a cat at the time.
But the cat was really a woman. And she was apparently a Norse goddess. But what was Grant? Or Genevieve? The woman had called him a dragon. Was that possible? And if so, was he the same dragon man to which Ragna had been referring? If he was, then the girl made it sound like he was dangerous.
“He was like you,” the girl told Grant, “But much younger, I think. Four…maybe five centuries. That is just a guess, of course,” she said, bowing her head demurely.
Four or five centuries? Four or five hundred years old—and that was younger than Grant? Alright. That was it. She couldn’t take another minute of it.
She wished they would all just be quiet.
She stood up and started to pace back and forth in front of the sofa, just like Grant had done moments before. Caught up in her tumultuous thoughts, she nearly jumped when he tapped her on her arm.
She paused mid-step and looked up at him. A wave of desire rippled over her despite the chaos in her head, and there was something else. Something…more. A pull toward him that was almost physical in its intensity.
He cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t say a word, his expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement.
“What?” she asked, not willing to take a stab at yet another puzzle to figure out what he was thinking.
His eyebrow rose higher and the corners of his lips tremored, as if he was trying to fight back a smile. He looked pointedly at Genevieve, and then at Ragna, who was smiling impishly at her. But no one said a word.
“I don’t understand,” she said, but then she did understand—at least, she did if she was willing to believe what the young girl had been telling her. She remembered what she’d been thinking a moment ago—just seconds before the whole room had gone silent. She’d wished they would all be quiet, and then they were. But that couldn’t be, could it?
She looked up at Grant, and he nodded, as if he’d been able to read the unspoken question yet again. Maybe he could. If she could wish for something, and that alone could make it happen, then why couldn’t he be a mind reader?
“I wish you could all talk again,” she said, feeling like a fool for even considering such a fantastical possibility.
“Thank you,” Grant said as the smile he’d been holding back lifted the corners of his full, sensual lips.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she whispered. It was the final straw. Her life hadn’t exactly been normal the past few months, but it seemed like a walk in the park in comparison to this. This was insane. There were no such things as goddesses and dragons, or cats that turned into people. And even if there were, she wasn’t one of them. She was just an ordinary woman. Plain, ordinary Freya.
She raced out of the house, ignoring the blur of voices behind her. Outside, she took deep breaths of the fresh air, trying to calm the panic that overwhelmed her, but it was no use. Grant’s hands settled on her shoulders from behind. She knew it was him without looking; she could smell his uniquely masculine scent and the invisible elastic that pulled her toward him had slackened.
“It’s a lot to take in,” he said.
“Shouldn’t you be afraid I’m going to sew your lips shut or turn you into a cat?”
“Actually, so long as you’re not rearranging my house again, I think I’ll survive,” he said teasingly.
She remembered back to that morning, standing in the hall, hoping she’d chosen the right direction. And then miraculously she’d found her way without difficulty. Of course, nothing had struck her as odd about it at the time, but now she understood. And come to think of it, the fleeting glimpse she’d gotten of his house when they’d driven away seemed different than when she’d driven up to it the day before in the back of
a cab.
Oh god, she’d rearranged an entire house in the blink of an eye—and without knowing she’d done it? Just how much damage had she inflicted in the past few months without being any the wiser? And how much more would she inflict unknowingly?
“I just need a few minutes to think, Grant,” she said, though a plan had already begun to formulate in her mind. Well, perhaps not a cohesive plan, but she knew she needed to get away from him. Grant had stepped into a situation that didn’t concern him. He shouldn’t be running from dangerous men because of her, and who knew what other dangers she would bring to him.
So, she needed to put as much distance between her and Grant as she could. There would be no reason for the men to pursue him once she was no longer with him, and she would make sure no harm came to him through her own thoughts and actions by committing to putting him out of her mind.
He eyed her, and she could see the reluctance in his gaze. Maybe he was reading her thoughts, but it didn’t matter. This was for the best, even if it felt like the most wrong thing she’d done in all the time she could remember. Hoping that he couldn’t actually read her thoughts, she tried again. “Please, Grant, this is a lot to take in, and I don’t know what to do with it right now. I need time to think.”
He sighed heavily, but he didn’t move at first. And then he turned her around and covered her lips with his. It was funny; she’d only known him days, and yet she knew she would miss him terribly. His lips, his hands…the fire in his eyes and the way he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. She knew right then she would never have grown tired of him, that a thrill would course through her body every time he took her, no matter how many years they spent wrapped in each other’s arms.
“I’ll be inside when you’re ready,” he said when he’d broken the kiss and stepped back.
33
Freya did go back inside minutes later. She realized that she couldn’t just walk away, not yet. She wouldn’t have gotten more than five minutes away before they realized she was no longer standing outside on the front porch. So, she’d bide her time and wait until Grant was fast asleep. And then she’d walk away and never turn back.