by Eve Langlais
“I am broken. This. It wouldn’t work.” He did a karate chop that stopped short of his groin.
He drew attention to the bulge in his pants and, idiot that I was, I peeked. It should be noted that I mentioned his large feet. Did I neglect to remark on his rather enormous hands? All that to explain that when I saw that bulge below his waist noticeably grow, there was no mistaking it.
A single arched brow went with my reply of, “Seems in working order to me.”
“With you, perhaps. But it has been failing me since the battle.”
It took me a second to grasp his accusation. “Are you seriously accusing me of making you impotent?” I snorted then laughed. “Listen, twat waffle, don’t blame me because you’ve got erectile dysfunction.”
He winced. “Don’t say that.”
Which of course meant I said it even more slowly. “Er-ec-tile dys-func-tion.”
“I am not impotent.”
“I thought you just said you couldn’t get it up,” I sassed, in one of my less bright moments.
If looks could kill… I wanted to buff my nails and show off as I made him tremble in rage. Yet I couldn’t seem to help myself.
Now some might wonder, where the fuck was Claire during all of this? Given her possible relation to the Energizer Bunny, she’d woken early and gone for a jog. Exercise. Blech. All that running and sweating and healthy shit. Give me a bag of donuts, and I’d run circles around you—in a library or with an online search engine. My legs and I had an understanding. I didn’t abuse them, and in return, they brought me places. Not far.
“You will undo your spell, siren.”
“First off, who said I was a siren?”
“I heard you sing.”
“And? What of it? Hundreds, no, make that thousands of people sing every day. Do you go around calling them sirens, too?”
“They don’t all have the ability to force people to do their bidding.”
“Exactly how have I forced you to do shit, buddy? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not singing.” And as far as I knew, the moment I stopped, whatever influence I had quickly dissipated.
“You broke my cock.” The glare, given below angry brows, was meant to cow. I feared nothing—except rolling waves on a sandy beach.
“I didn’t put a spell on you. Dude, it’s been like a week since I last saw you.”
“My issue began a week ago after you sang to me.”
“To everyone,” I exclaimed. The biggest concert of my life and no one had even taped it.
“So you admit to casting a spell with your song.”
“I admit to staying alive.”
“And making me your thrall!” He just wouldn’t let it go.
“Listen here, bud.” I’d had quite enough of him. I stalked forward and jabbed him in the chest. “I. Did. Not. Make. You. My. Slave.” If I had, he’d be wearing fewer clothes and bearing powdery goodness and a carafe of caffeine. Of more interest, despite the subtle nudging in my words, he didn’t react. Not one flinch, even when I let out a trill of annoyance.
Which meant not human, even if he appeared as one.
“If you did not enslave me, then explain why my cock only seems to work in your presence?”
If I were a girl given to romantic fantasy, I’d say, destiny. Because wasn’t that how it worked in fairy tales? Guy meets girl, falls madly in love, and its one dick for one hole forever.
Total crap, of course. In the real world, where men were annoying pricks and arrogant to boot, a man accusing me of being his solution to the hard-on in his pants was obviously after one thing.
“If this is your version of a pick-up line, then you can waste it on someone else. Really, who the fuck falls for that kind of bullshit?” I gave the t on shit a hard spit, and it emerged as discordant displeasure with a shove of magic. Usually enough to get the guy on the bus to remove his hand from my ass.
Conan still glared. “I am getting annoyed.” And aroused. Testosterone oozed out of him, and that bulge in his pants wasn’t getting any smaller.
He stepped closer. The heat of him invaded my personal bubble.
“What are you doing?” The panicky high flute of the query didn’t slow him in the least.
“Perhaps if I give in to the desire, the spell will be broken.”
“Don’t you dare manhandle me.”
“I haven’t laid a hand on you.”
He hadn’t, and yet my body tingled as if he touched me everywhere. I should have stepped away.
Instead, I found myself caught in his gaze. “I didn’t cast a spell,” I reiterated.
“Prove it. Kiss me.”
Me, kiss him? I snorted. “Not happening, Conan.”
“Is it because you love women?”
“Why do guys resort to that lame query whenever they get shot down?”
“Why do you protest so much?”
“If I kiss you, will you go away?” A stupid offer, and yet he did have a strange point. Why was there such an attraction between us? Because it certainly went both ways. While I couldn’t claim impotence, all week long, I’d craved this man’s touch.
Perhaps a spell had been cast on that battlefield.
Maybe a kiss would break it.
“I want nothing more than to be gone from your presence,” he replied. “Kiss me, and let’s be done with it.”
“One kiss,” I stated. One kiss would be all it took to break me of this strange fascination I had with him. He’d probably have chapped lips or smelly breath.
I stood on tiptoe, and he had to bend down. We met in the middle. My mouth against his firm slash of lips. A light brush that went back and forth, then deepened as he tugged at my lower lip. A gentle exploration I didn’t expect. A sensual kiss that stole my breath. Addled my wits. Melted a few bones. The wetness of my panties would not be discussed.
However, I wasn’t the kind of girl who just slept with a guy because he got my motor running.
I ended the kiss.
Even hornier than before.
“You can leave now,” I managed to say, only slightly breathless.
“More,” was his murmur before going in for a second taste.
A taste I didn’t give permission for.
“I said no.” And to make sure he got the point, I shoved at him. With my knee. In his erection.
That got his attention. He released me and bellowed. “What is wrong with you, wench?”
“For starters, don’t call me wench, Conan.” Which, in retrospect, was probably just as disrespectful. But I didn’t care about that. I had an angry giant with a hard-on in my front hall.
Given he’d recover quickly, I acted faster. I whirled and grabbed my saltwater basin by the couch—for evening foot dips while Netflix binging. I slid that sloshing bucket under his foot as he stomped in my direction.
When he looked down at it incredulously and said, “What is that?” I dropped a lamp into it.
Chapter 5
The siren wore a triumphant smirk on her face. Meanwhile, the electricity coursing through the water tickled.
Jory lifted his foot and shook it, sending water droplets flying. “That was interesting.”
The corners of her lips turned down in displeasure. “You were supposed to die.”
At that, he laughed. “I’m not that easy to kill.” Just ask his enemies. “Shall we finish that kiss?”
She wagged a finger in his direction. “Lay one hand on me, and I will hurt you.”
He’d like to see her try. In bed. With fewer clothes. “I didn’t think you were into that kind of thing. But I am open to trying.”
“I was not—you—” she stammered. Her chin angled. “You got your kiss. And there won’t be a second. So, unless you plan on raping me, you might as well leave.”
Jory never had and never would force a woman against her will. If she wanted to ignore the fire their embrace had ignited, then…her loss. He just hoped they’d kissed long enough to break whatever spell kept him celibate. His b
alls ached something fierce. A pity she didn’t seem inclined to fix them for him. They were worse than ever.
“Erm, someone order coffee and donuts?” Whirling, Jory beheld a lanky fellow with a ball cap pulled low, holding a tray of beverages in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
Lana, the siren who’d scowled at him since his arrival, beamed as if the sun had come out after a long dark night of fighting off the undead.
“Breakfast!” she crooned, the happy notes making the boy’s eyes glaze over. He also had an instant little boner in his pants that irked Jory. How dare he show such disrespect to the lady.
He stomped past the siren, grabbed the kid by the coat, lifted him, and shook him. “Who are you?” Was this a rival for Lana’s attention?
“It’s the delivery boy. Put him down this instant.”
“What if I don’t want to?” He gave an evil eye to the boy, who gulped.
“Are you such a wimp that you can only pick on guys a third your size?”
Did she question his virility? With one last shake, Jory lowered the fellow, frowning the entire time as she divested him of the food, slid money into his hand, and sent him on his way. She then walked away from Jory, tossing over her shoulder, “Fix that door on your way out before someone else wanders in.”
“We are not done speaking.” His lips had plenty more to say to hers.
“I’ve had my quota of bellowing ass for the day. So, leave. Before I call the cops.”
“Human law enforcement can’t contain me.” As if a human jail could hold him.
“Maybe they can’t arrest you, but they have guns. How do you feel about holes in your body?”
Not too good, actually. “Surely, we can handle this amongst ourselves.”
“I am handling it by telling you to leave, or I will stand and laugh as the cops shoot your arrogant ass, Conan.”
“My name is Jory—”
“Don’t care what your name is. The only thing I want to hear coming out of your mouth is goodbye.”
“I will not depart until we have resolved the issue.”
“Your issue, not mine.” She perched herself on a stool, coffee in one hand, donut in the other.
“Who are the other beverages for?” Because she appeared to be alone, and yet the tray held four cups.
“Me.”
His brows rose.
She scowled. “Don’t judge. I have a caffeine addiction.”
“So if I were to ask you to share…” He reached, and she slapped his hand.
Slapped him like a naughty boy touching the forbidden pie.
His erection returned.
She sighed. “Listen, freakazoid, I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t have time for it. Some of us have to get to work.”
Speaking of work, a new battle had probably begun at dawn in Valhalla. He really should return. And yet…
He did it. He thrust his hand into the box of donuts and pulled forth a powdery pastry. He then held it out of reach as she screeched, loud enough to rattle the dishes in the cupboard.
“Give that back.”
“No.” He brought it to his mouth and took a big bite as she jumped and grabbed hold of his biceps. She dangled from it as he chewed.
She fumed. “That was mine, asshole.”
“Humans have an expression. ‘Sharing is caring.’”
“I’m not human,” she growled.
No, but she sure was intriguing. “I shall leave now. That you might regret your choice in refusing me.”
“Not likely,” she grumbled, dropping to the floor and snaring her box of donuts in a tight hug.
“Leaving.” He made his way towards the door while chewing on the rest of the pastry.
She did nothing to stop him.
Nothing at all when he exited into the hall. She didn’t even thank him when he propped the door back in its frame.
It would require the aid of a locksmith. But Jory was a warrior. The only thing his hands wielded was a sword. Besides, she’d made it clear that she wanted him gone.
So he left and returned to Valhalla, the portal to his world one that only the chosen warriors of Odin could call. It deposited him just outside the massive stone block castle. Think a dozen levels, and turrets haphazardly placed. Over the centuries, the original building had grown. Not as much in recent years, though. Damned pacifists. He missed the glory days when the Vikings ruled the seas, and those on shore trembled in fear.
Jory stomped into the hall, uncaring of his boots. The rushes underfoot would capture any dirt, and the magic in this place kept them fresh.
Odin treated those who fought in his name well. Endless drink, the barrels lining the walls never empty, the platters of roasted meat and other foods plenty. There was loud music, ribald laughter, and talk. Everywhere he looked, familiar faces celebrated because every day was a new fight. He saw friends among them, and yet he felt alone.
Not in the mood to talk, Jory shoved a Viking from a bench and seated himself. In moments, he found himself with company as the crew who’d fought alongside him in Limbo joined him.
“Why the long face? We won last night’s skirmish!” Neil raised his tankard and toasted their victory.
“We always win.” A boon and curse at the same time.
“He’s just miffed because he didn’t get lucky with some of those nymphs that followed us back from Limbo,” teased Ralph.
“He missed out,” chortled Neil. “They’re even more flexible than a Valkyrie.”
To which, a Valkyrie took offense. Neil was yanked from his spot as Anya wrapped her arm around his neck and proceeded to scrub at his head, shouting, “There’s none more flexible than a servant of the goddess Hel.”
No one jumped in to help Neil. Why bother? They’d argued this same thing how many times already?
Just like Jory didn’t need to sleep with another nymph. Sleep with one, sleep with them all, literally. The nymphs got around. A good thing Odin blessed his warriors with dicks that didn’t weep or fall off from disease.
“You look like someone barfed on your nachos. What’s up?” Ralph asked before taking a swig from his tankard.
“Ever wonder what the point is?”
“Point of what?” Neil asked, having gotten loose from Anya who went off to break the thumb of a man who’d patted her ass.
“Point of this.” Jory gestured with a hand. “We celebrate nothing.”
“We won.”
“Every day, someone wins. We are fighting each other.” Battling and dying over and over on the fields, then celebrating. Only rarely did Odin allow his soldiers to participate in outside skirmishes.
“What other kind of life is there?” Ralph appeared truly puzzled.
What kind, indeed. Jory did wonder what it would be like to live a more normal life. A more human-ish one with a home, not a party palace. With a wife, not a series of concubines. And perhaps instead of constant battles, a job.
“Fuck me, did Jory just say he wanted to get a mundane job?”
He scowled as he realized that some of this pensiveness had been spoken aloud. “What if I do? Maybe I’m ready to move to the next phase.”
“I thought the next phase was recycling into a new body to live again.”
That was the only way to leave Odin’s service. Was it finally his time?
“Something’s got your loincloth in a knot. What is it?”
“Got to be a woman,” Neil said with a sage nod—if a man with his hair rubbed into spikes could look sage.
“Ever think of settling down with one?” Jory asked. Back when they lived on the mortal plane, before ascending to Valhalla, they’d had families. Wives. Lovers.
Those things had been left behind when they joined Odin’s army. But Jory had never had those things. He’d been born in Valhalla. A place where relationships were forged and broken daily.
“I got married once.” Ralph grimaced. “And only once. She tried to kill me in my sleep. She’s the reason I signed up to go
to war.”
Neil sighed. “I still remember Petra.”
“She obviously didn’t remember you since she remarried before the next planting season,” snickered Anya, taking a seat beside him, ignoring the bellowing Viking behind her, who now only sported half a beard. “And why are you talking about past wives?”
“Jory wants to get hitched.”
“I never said that.” Not in those exact words. But he did have to wonder if his lack of experience in relationships had something to do with his sudden interest in them. Or could this be blamed on a certain green-haired siren?
Seeing her again had accomplished nothing except making his blue balls ache more.
The good news? His dick worked. More or less.
A pair of tits was shoved in his face. It got in the way of his tankard of beer. Which he really needed given the sudden realization that he might still be broken.
“Jory, you need to settle an argument. I say my breasts are much perkier than Klara’s. What say you?”
The old Jory would have insisted that they both bare them for him, and then he’d have taken turns sliding his cock between them for comparison—and a good time would have been had by all.
The new Jory—whose cock remained asleep in his pants—pointed to Ralph. “Ask him, he’s a breast man.” Whereas Jory recently discovered a fetish for salty lips and a sharp tongue. But how to get closer to Lana? His first attempt ended abysmally.
A newspaper was dropped atop his mug.
As if anyone wanted to read when there was drinking to be done. He went to throw it aside when he heard someone say, “You might not want to toss that just yet.”
He looked up to see Bjorn with his habitual smirk. Jory sighed. “What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you’d seen this.”
Seen what? He looked down at the newspaper, The Hel Times. It was folded open to the classifieds. His eyes skimmed them, catching only glimpses: lost my red cloak in the woods, babysitter with a resistance to turning to stone. Then one that was circled in red. It took only a moment for him to read the small text.
He read it again to be sure before chuckling.
Fate either smiled on him or set him up for a cruel joke because he’d just been handed the solution to his siren problem. Even better, he’d wager she would hate it.