by Meg Ripley
“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 apparently 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.
Chapter 12
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.
“Freya, it’s been a long day. We can sort this out in the morning,” he said when she’d come back inside and stood there, searching for something to say. His voice was tender, and she realized that there were tears filling her eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.
Genevieve moved to stand in front of her and reached out timidly, patting Freya gently on the shoulder. “There, mo luaidh—my dear. It’s late. Why don’t you get some sleep. There are cabins behind the house where you’ll be safe.”
“Yes, they’re lovely. Thank you,” she replied distractedly, still trying to process what was going on.
“Get some rest.” Genevieve turned to address the young blonde then, “Ragna, would you please accompany your mistress and see that she gets settled.”
“Of course.” Ragna leapt to her feet, seeming glad to finally have a task, and she followed the young woman back out of the house to the first cabin behind it.
“You said that I’ve turned to you for advice often, Ragna?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Then tell me, what should I do?”
“I can only tell you that you felt guilty, never having taken a life before, but it was not your fault. You had no choice. You are responsible for so many good things, but you have banished the memory of those in your attempt to escape remorse that you should not feel.”
“I…I killed someone?”
“No, Mistress. You defended yourself because he left you no other choice.”
“I see.” She’d hoped that the young woman would have been able to give her some sort of advice, but now her mind was reeling with new chaos. She’d taken a life, and then banished every memory she’d ever had. Was that why she’d done it? She couldn’t live with the guilt of what she’d done? Or was it something else? A large part of her didn’t want to know, thinking that she must have felt it was too much to bear to have blocked it all out. Would it destroy her to call up the memory of it now?
She dismissed Ragna—feeling absolutely ridiculous treating another human being like a servant. But then, apparently, neither one of them was human. It was irrelevant now though, since she intended to be gone by morning and Ragna would be free to live her life however she chose.
She headed for the shower in the suite attached to the large bedroom. It wasn’t likely that washing away the grime from a day on the road would do much to ease her troubled mind, but it was a start. And as she stepped beneath the rainfall showerhead, she couldn’t deny that the heat did wonders to soothe the tension in the muscles in her neck.
“It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” Grant said, appearing out of the blue and stepping into the shower still fully dressed. Desire surged through her veins, and she grasped onto it like she had before, this time knowing it would be the last time she would ever feel so entirely consumed by desire for a man. She could live a million years, and already she knew there would never be another like him.
His hands slid over her slippery body and she reached for the hem of his shirt. He grabbed her wrists fast though, and she didn’t fight him this time. This time she’d do it his way; she’d take whatever he had to give and savor the memory for however long she had left of this life.
Lying in bed sometime later, he drew idle circles across her back while she traced the hard planes of his chest with her fingers.
“Freya?” he asked, and she knew he wanted to know what she was thinking.
“I can’t seem to process it. It’s all so unbelievable, isn’t it?” She could remember every word that Genevieve had said, and the dilemma those words had created.
“Not really,” he said, and he seemed so certain. “Have you given any thought to what Genevieve said, to whether you want her to help you remember?” he asked, once again seeming to read her thoughts.
“Can you read minds, Grant? You always seem to know what I’m thinking.”
“No,” he said after a hesitant moment. “It’s more of an intuition, I guess you could say. I suppose when you’ve been around long enough, you get a feel for how people
think…how they react.”
“And I react just like an ordinary person?”
“No. From the first moment I saw you, I thought you were anything but ordinary. But it’s different. I feel…” His hand stopped its path across her hip, but started up again a moment later. “It’s not important. What is important is figuring out what to do now. Freya, the man who attacked you; the one who drugged you…he’s like me.”
She waited for the disbelief, but it didn’t come. Looking at him as he spoke, she could see the truth in his eyes.
“We’re safe for now, but we can’t remain with Genevieve forever. And if Genevieve’s right about what they’re after, they’re not going to give up.”
“The man who attacked me…he seemed to know me. The way he talked…the things he said. You said he’s a dragon, and Ragna said that whatever happened before, it was a dragon man involved. Do you think it’s the same man?”
“It’s possible. Without your memory, there’s no way to know for certain right now. And I don’t know…”
He’d let the thought trail off and she figured she knew exactly what it was he was thinking. Genevieve had made it perfectly clear what a threat she could pose to them. And she couldn’t blame either of them for being concerned. If she could really do the things they said, then it was a wonder they hadn’t pitched her out the front door the moment they’d found out. Then again, that approach might leave them worrying just what she might do in retaliation.
And now they were stuck with Freya, at least in their minds, afraid that to turn her out would be to incite her anger. Of course, she would never…but then again, did she know that she would never? She didn’t know what it was that had compelled her to bury her memory. Perhaps the man who was hunting her—a dragon, according to Grant—was justified in his hunt. Had she hurt him somehow? Had he angered her and she’d retaliated in some terrible way? And what of the man Ragna said she’d killed? Without her memory, there was no way for her to know whether it was in self-defense, or whether it was another terrible act of retribution.