The three women shared a significant look before following suit.
“Who are they?” Alucard asked, plopping down on the stool beside me.
Nicolas didn’t turn to look at us, but he was smiling as he answered. “Valkyries…”
“Oh, man. That is not good,” I breathed, rounding on Alucard. “You never mentioned that addition,” I growled accusingly. “Ashley will kill me if anything happens to Gunnar.”
Alucard was holding up his hands. “I didn’t know either. I just reached out to him!” he said, pointing a finger at Flamel.
Nicolas grunted. “They swore the oath. Don’t worry. Your friend is as safe as a babe…” but I caught a faint flicker of a frown on his face.
“You sure about that?” I asked him.
Instead of answering, he lifted up a tray of drinks and left the bar, passing them out among the crowd as recompense for all the hubbub. I grabbed my own beer—which Nicolas had magically refilled—and motioned for Alucard to do the same.
Then we made our way over to the ring like we were walking to the gallows. I saw Gunnar boldly mount Betty in front of the crowd now circling the ring. He tied his voodoo bride’s arms in a knot and draped her over his neck like a cape before latching onto the handhold and signaling Asterion to hit the mysterious button that made Betty go so wild, so fast.
The irony wasn’t lost on me, folks. The Minotaur knew how to find Betty’s hot button.
Asterion slapped it and jumped back with a monstrous bellow of excitement.
Chapter 7
Gunnar howled loudly as the gleaming bull tried to kill him. For the first two seconds, it seemed like he might stand a fighting chance, but then Betty jerked forward abruptly. He did a painful-looking front flip and landed flat on his back on the mat. Amazingly, his voodoo bride had flown free from his shoulders and got wrapped around the handhold where she stuck. The bride had lasted longer than the groom.
Probably typical for most newlyweds.
The Valkyries were cackling as Gunnar climbed to his feet, frowning. He scooped up his voodoo bride and made his way over to us. Nicolas Flamel appeared at my side as if by magic, extending a tray of three mugs brimming with more of the Beerlympian brew. Asterion, Achilles, and Gunnar each grabbed one and the five of us downed our drinks as we watched the Valkyries prep for their first ride.
Heh. Ride of the Valkyries…
To be honest, I didn’t know much about Valkyries. I’ll admit I never considered running into them at a bar, assuming they were too busy saving fallen heroes from the fields of battle to whisk souls off to Valhalla—the hall of the slain—otherwise known as Odin’s buffet table.
There, the claimed souls were trained to be Einherjar—warriors for Ragnarok, the Norse version of the Apocalypse. I’d also heard that when they weren’t training their Einherjar they were feeding them barrels of mead, so I was pretty sure they were open to a little hanky-panky—meaning that Achilles just might have a chance at that kiss he apparently wanted more than anything in the world.
The leader shot Achilles a sultry look as she prepared to mount Betty, some silent debate happening between the two warriors. Achilles grinned knowingly, and the leader hesitated. After a long pause, she stepped back and let the tall brunette take her place as first ride.
The crowd was silent as they watched the leader slap the button to get Betty a-bucking. The Valkyrie gritted her teeth and latched on with a familiar calm. Betty jerked back and forth, and the Valkyrie flowed with it easily, but then Betty snapped sideways and spun in a full circle, hurling the rider directly into Asterion’s chest.
The Minotaur didn’t even budge as the Valkyrie hit him with a grunt and fell to the mat. Asterion glanced down—not at the fallen rider, but at his own chest—and brushed his hand across his prayer beads as if wiping some crumbs from his fur. Then he simply walked past her and mounted Betty.
The Valkyrie climbed to her feet, her face a thunderhead, and we watched satisfactorily as the Valkyries drank their beers. Asterion took a deep breath, kissed his prayer beads, and Achilles slapped Betty’s hot button.
Betty went buck-wild, faster and crazier than I’d seen her move so far. I heard the handle groan as Asterion gripped it tightly in one massive fist, but it was hopeless. He was tossed over the wall surrounding the bull ring—where he bowled over a group of bystanders who had been too busy drinking to notice the Moo-teor—a Minotaur meteor—hurtling their way like a hunk of alien rock in the darkest sections of deep space.
He jumped to his feet with a growl and I heard the Valkyrie he had snubbed chuckle mockingly. She mimed pounding a drink and folded her arms, staring back at him defiantly. Nicolas appeared with our beers and we all drank. I wobbled uncertainly as I tried to set the stein back on the tray, but I didn’t feel sick or anything. Just tipsy as all hell. One quick look at my crew told me they weren’t faring any better.
Even Achilles—for all his bravado—was weaving slightly, like a tall tree in the breeze, swaying left and right so subtly that he might not even realize he was doing it. The head Valkyrie seemed to notice, judging by the smile she was biting back. She motioned for the other Valkyrie to go, saving herself for last—like Achilles.
Long story short, she didn’t fare much better than her fellow, but overall, the Valkyries were stomping our asses on the cumulative time-clock. If Achilles could last eight seconds, we might stand a chance. But if the lead Valkyrie matched that, we were screwed.
Achilles strolled up to the bull, trailing his hand across her flank as if she were a real beast he was trying to soothe and calm. He began climbing up onto Betty, but before he could get seated—while he was perched on her back on the balls of his feet—the lead Valkyrie slapped the button.
Betty immediately bucked back and forth, sending Achilles into a double backflip directly above the bull. Then he landed face-first onto her saddle with a sickening crunch of broken cartilage and flopped off to the side. He lay on his back, eyes wide as he panted in understandable bewilderment, likely wondering what the hell had just happened.
The lead Valkyrie leaned over him, grinning. She extended her hand to help him up and Achilles’ eyes cleared long enough to accept the help. She pulled him to his feet, and at the last minute he leaned in for a kiss.
He managed to make contact before she reared back and headbutted him back to the mat.
Her forehead was bleeding as she climbed onto Betty with casual arrogance, held on with one hand, and nodded at one of her warriors to slap the button. Like she was a willow in the wind, she rode Betty as if born for it, not even remotely losing her balance or faltering.
And she stared at Achilles the entire time.
He had propped himself up with his hands, his face a mask of blood, and he grinned at her through bloody teeth, shaking his head in wonder. The timer hit eight seconds, but she rode it for a few more before kicking the button to shut Betty down.
The crowd burst into applause, catcalling and hooting loudly.
Nicolas cleared his throat beside us, proffering two drinks for each of us because we’d forgotten to drink after Achilles’ ride was sabotaged. To be honest, I wasn’t even upset that she had tricked him because with her performance, we would have lost anyway.
Achilles approached us with his arm wrapped around the lead Valkyrie’s shoulders, totally unconcerned about his bloody face. “Totally worth it,” he said, snatching up a stein, pounding it, and then doing the same with his second beer.
The rest of us double-fisted our beers as we made our way back to the bar, smiling and laughing with the Valkyries—who were suddenly much more conversational after the competition, as if it had forged bonds of friendship to get our asses handed to us so blatantly.
But we’d done it with class—which we humbly disguised as fumbling awkwardness for the crowd’s sake.
Chapter 8
We settled back at the bar and I listened absently as the Valkyries began talking to Asterion, Gunnar, and Achilles, introducing thems
elves for the first time. I focused on remaining vertical, narrowing my eyes to improve my vision. At least it felt like it was helping. It probably just made me look standoffish, but it was better than looking comatose on the floor if I took a chance at walking around.
Herja was the lead Valkyrie—currently suffering Achilles’ amorous affections. The Greek hero was following her around like her personal bodyguard, or perhaps a particularly aggressive guard-puppy. I heard her tell Achilles that her name meant devastate. That was either a not-so-subtle hint that she had reached her limit with him or a very honest warning he should probably heed before romanticizing their future relationship status.
The taller, wavy-haired Valkyrie was named Kara, and she was proudly telling Asterion that it meant wild. The Minotaur’s face had the intense focus of someone who was so out-of-his-mind drunk that he was simply trying to catch every third or fourth word in order to guess whether he needed to nod or shake his head in response.
The last, and seemingly youngest, Valkyrie with the lopped-off hair was named Olrun, and although polite, she wasn’t as talkative as the others, only giving Gunnar and his plush voodoo bride single syllable answers. I motioned for Nicolas to pour two more beers and slid one her way, smiling pleasantly. She looked suddenly relieved and pounded her beer in one go before plopping down on the seat beside me.
“Thank the gods,” she breathed. “I needed that.”
I frowned in amusement. “Why didn’t you just ask for one, then?”
She pursed her lips as if debating on how to answer. “I’m not as comfortable talking to men. I always get tongue-tied.”
I scoffed. “Well, look at you go! You’re talking to a genuine manly man right now,” I laughed, motioning at my body with my hands. “And you’re not remotely tongue-tied.”
She eyed me, looking abruptly hungry. I stiffened in my chair, wondering if I had missed a few minutes of the conversation or something. “We should talk,” she murmured. “Later. When you’re finished with your friends,” she added in a huskier tone, practically panting as she leaned closer to me, licking her lips.
My eyes widened further, and I decided that either Nicolas had added a little something-something extra to her beer or that I had definitely missed major parts of our conversation. What had I said to flip her hormone switch so deftly? I realized that I really wanted to know the answer for future reference. But no matter how hard I tried, my mind only produced the sounds of crashing alcohol waves in my cranium.
Herja came to my rescue, swatting Olrun’s arm with the back of her hand, snapping her out of a Valkyrie’s equivalent of feline heat. “Easy, Olrun. He’s just a mortal. They are quite breakable from what I’ve seen,” Herja teased, but something in her eyes let me know she was slightly serious, and that the potential danger Olrun’s flirting offered was very real.
Olrun pouted in disappointment and finally leaned back into her stool, muttering under her breath.
Rather than attempting to trade wits with Herja, I used the distraction to hop off my stool in search of Alucard. I found him down the bar openly glaring at a trio of vampires seated around a table-top a dozen paces away. The vampires shot me pleasant smiles and continued drinking. I turned back to Alucard. “What gives?” I asked him.
He grunted. “I don’t trust the local vampires,” he said in a low drawl. He didn’t elaborate, and I knew I probably would have forgotten his answer in four minutes tops anyway, so I let it go.
Herja clapped her hands to catch our attention. My crew turned to face her, but I noticed the vampires get up from their table and casually make their way over as well. My shoulders tightened, expecting an attack, but they simply walked up to Herja, grinning wide enough to reveal their fangs.
“You princesses ready for your dare?” she asked us. We nodded, wondering what craziness could top the last two challenges. “I dare you all to go streaking around the block.”
We stared at her as if we hadn’t heard her correctly, our smiles faltering. “Um, that’s the opposite of fun,” I suggested. My friends instantly mumbled their agreement.
Herja shrugged piteously. “That’s the dare. Refusal will result in a visit to the type of strip club none of you would ever want to visit…Cockodile Skins would eat you alive. Literally.”
We put a lid on our protests so fast that the sudden silence was almost deafening, letting me realize that practically the entire bar was now listening. Herja nodded matter-of-factly and mimed brushing off her hands as she jerked her chin at the vampires standing beside her. “This is Julian.”
“I don’t think our streaking dare requires anymore dong on the roster,” Alucard said, narrowing his eyes at Julian.
The vampire chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. We won’t be streaking.”
And his lack of explanation seemed to imply a whole lot. Was this part of our bachelor party schedule or Valkyrie improv?
The rest of the bachelor party sighed in relief that Julian wasn’t participating in the streaking, not picking up on the undertones, but Alucard cleared his throat. “What about our new drinking rule?” he asked Herja, eyes still fixated on Julian and his vampires.
Herja beamed. “An old one, but a good one. Anytime the bachelor mimes putting horns on his head like a Viking helmet,” she began, holding up a finger on either side of her head like a bull, “any of you within earshot must pretend to row a boat. The last one to row has to drink.”
Gunnar straightened happily. “This one is much better than the stupid shark thing.”
Herja nodded and held out a hand for Julian to take over. The crowd around us was growing, especially at the mention of the Valkyrie’s dare to streak around the block. I wondered if any of us were sober enough to survive it, decided we probably weren’t, but that we had the sheer willpower to at least die trying.
That brief rational thought floated away like a puff of dandelion seeds as I turned to face the vampires to hear what they had to do with the dare, all the while keeping a close eye on Alucard—who looked ready to murder them all at the slightest provocation, real or imagined.
Chapter 9
Julian cleared his throat, smiling excitedly as he rubbed his hands together. Herja, Kara, and Olrun swaggered up to the bar to request more drinks, leaving us to the vampires.
“Your goal is to streak one lap around the block. You can’t return to the bar until you all finish your drinks and have the voodoo bride safe in hand.” I frowned at the last part and Julian grinned wider. “We’ll be trying to take her from you,” he explained, looking at my best friend—who was suddenly clutching his doll with a death-grip. “Gunnar, right?” he asked. “This is Javier and Renaldo,” he said, pointing a thumb at the other vampires who could have been brothers straight from Italy. They merely smiled rather than speaking, making me wonder if they spoke English or not. Julian extended his pale hand towards Gunnar. “My name is Julian.”
Gunnar took it uncertainly, twisting his body so that his wife was safe from the vampire. “The Regulars will notice vampires chasing us through the streets,” he said dryly.
Flamel cleared his throat. “I put a little something extra into your last beer,” he admitted without an ounce of shame. “It will disguise your powers as something believable. If you stepped outside and began throwing a few fireballs, the non-magical folk would see the fire, of course, but they’d also see something like you throwing a Molotov Cocktail or a streetlamp exploding and starting a fire.” I frowned doubtfully as he turned to Gunnar. “If you shifted, they would simply see a drunk man freaking the fuck out like he had just overdosed on bath salts,” he chuckled.
I blinked a few times, impressed. “That’s…really cool,” I finally admitted.
Alucard pointed at the massive Minotaur. “What about him?”
The bartender smiled. “Just a big son of a bitch who is so drunk he believes he’s a bull. It’s New Orleans. People are used to seeing the bizarre down here.” Before we could ask any more questions, Nicolas waved a
dismissive hand at us. “Give us a few minutes to set up and we can begin.” With that, Julian and Nicolas huddled together with the Valkyries, speaking in low tones.
I squinted at them suspiciously, wondering what they were planning. He’d said something about us having to finish our drinks before the game was over so maybe they were filling up sippy cups for us to take on the road.
“That woman could start Ragnarok with a single twerk,” Achilles commented, openly scrutinizing Herja’s rear. Without considering the consequences, I realized I had turned to see what he was talking about and found myself openly inspecting the lead Valkyrie’s ass. She’d spent a lot of time in the squat rack—or maybe she deadlifted cars in her daily warmup sessions.
I realized how it might look with both of us checking out Herja’s ass and quickly averted my eyes. “Sure, man,” I said hurriedly, still trying to process the fact that Achilles had used the word twerk with a straight face.
But Achilles wasn’t quite finished. “Her booty is about to wake the world serpent,” he chuckled, leering. I immediately tensed as Herja’s shoulders stiffened. Had she overheard him?
“What are you two staring at?” Asterion asked from directly over my shoulder, making me flinch since I hadn’t realized he was looming behind me. Then he snorted loudly as he caught on. “Oh. Wow. That woman is thick…” he murmured in an approving tone. Too approving.
I lifted my hands in an I’m innocent gesture and tried to extricate myself from the suicidal conversation before anyone overheard, but the two didn’t budge, so my only exit was to approach Herja—which wasn’t going to happen. That would only make me the first casualty when she finally decided to let us know how she felt about us leering at her.
I was pretty sure I would never call a girl thick and expect a positive response, even though it was technically a compliment. I was sure that certain other factors were involved that granted one the right to use the word, but for the life of me I couldn’t gather my thoughts to recall what those requirements were.
Last Call: A TempleVerse Anthology Book 1 (TempleVerse Anthologies) Page 19