Forged in Blood and Lightning: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (Descendants of Thor Trilogy: Book One)

by S. A. Ashdown

  ‘When the time comes, he will need you. Protect him.’

  ‘Who? Who?’ The question echoes through the woods, but this time something new happens. Now she is falling, screaming. It’s a wail of dread and panic, desperation, and my heart smashes against my rib cage as her body is dashed against an outcrop of rock. For a while, the roar of the waves echoes her final words. Or, I should say, final word. Theo.

  I see a child in his room, sitting on a rocking horse and crying. Rocking back and forth, sobbing, compulsive in his motion, unable to stop despite his misery. I run to him, try to pick him up and hold him to my chest, but I’m a child myself, with little chubby arms and tiny hands. So I get on the horse and we rock together, his golden curls brushing my nose. We cry together. We grow together from toddlers to young children. He is older now. Strong even. But still he cries.

  When I wake up, my pillow is soaked with salty tears. ‘Theo,’ I breathe into the night. ‘I’m here.’

  Her visions were exhausting trials, breaking down the structures in her unconscious mind the same way exercise causes tears in muscle. Deep sleep helped the rebuilding process, but when she rebooted, her reality would shift slightly. It was as if Isobel had planted a seed in the recesses of thought, as if there were a perfect sized crevice in a wrinkle of brain, or a grey matter cloud that itched for one particular idea.

  Idea was too vague; the new thought twisted her feelings, lacing her emotional organs, pushing her in one direction. There were so many ways to describe it, this new obsession, this new knowing. No single definition fully grasped the truth. She closed her eyes. To paraphrase the song she’d performed at the Red Hawk’s open mic night, when she closed her eyes she saw more clearly. Going blind was never a fear of hers; she could see without sight. Her grandmother had called it second sight sometimes, but names weren’t really important.

  This was important. The amulet was important. The image stuck to the back of her subtly made-up lids. Her lashes fluttered as she traced the smooth, square shape in the dark room of her inverted vision. The trinket had a bronze sheen and depicted a fish. Strange symbols glinted with a mysterious glow under the light of Ava’s third eye.

  This thing – whatever it was – a kind of necklace, embodied a grave threat for Isobel. It wasn’t a sentimental piece. No, Ava was certain, it had nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do with Theo, and with Isobel dying. The answer was on the tip of her tongue, mishmashed non-words that promised an epiphany. Ava fought the frustration by snapping her rainbow hair into an untidy ponytail, and pulling out her disused sketchpad from under the bed. She brushed dust off the cover and rooted around her bedside table for a stray pencil. She fell on the paper with the blunt writing instrument, and instead of producing lyrics, she rendered a rough reflection of the amulet.

  Song writing was one thing, art was a different matter. Her calling was about the abstract, not physical objects. Still, a pitiful drawing was better than analysing a colour fragment with no substance. Despite the picture beneath her smudged fingertips, she’d drawn a blank. Where was she meant to start, looking for a necklace, no – an amulet? How many old pieces of jewellery were lost in attics or crammed into boxes, stored in countless museum basements?

  What would her mother, Lolita, think of the effort she was placing in this, when her textbooks sat unread on her desk? Of course, she thought, maybe Mum knows what these symbols are. Her grandmother had desperately searched for signs of sensitivity in Lolita, encouraging her to take up Wicca and meditation for years, until Lolita had finally snapped and told the old woman in no uncertain terms that she just didn’t have it, and wasn’t interested either. It never did you any good, Mama! That’s what Lolita had said days before she’d met Ava’s father. Maybe if Lolita had inherited the gift, she would’ve known what a lowlife her new partner was; a few affairs later, she didn’t need to be clairvoyant to understand that – neither did Ava.

  There was no harm in trying. Ava drew the symbols onto a blank page, sans necklace, and took it downstairs with her to breakfast. Her mother had managed to dump a cereal packet on the table for her but that was it. Ava meandered over to the kettle in her PJs with the drawing tucked under one arm. Lolita was hunched over Red magazine. Two mugs of tea later, Ava placed the paper on the table without comment, and poured some cereal into a bowl left on the drainer since the morning before.

  After a few crunchy mouthfuls, her mother seemed to notice her. She was slow to wake, and Ava was the same, lost in dreams. They didn’t often talk beyond casual greetings until midday.

  Finally, a shade before Ava began to squirm in her seat, Lolita looked up and clocked the drawing. She frowned, confused, as if she thought she might not be awake at all and was in fact still dreaming.

  ‘That doesn’t look like revision to me, Ava.’ She yawned, her throat still croaky from lack of speech.

  Ava shrugged with a nonchalant ease. If she pressed Mum too hard, she’d withdraw into a shell of disapproval. She had nothing against Ava’s abilities but she’d made a stand against her daughter living in her head at the expense of her studies. ‘I saw one of the art students use these in an oil painting, but I didn’t get the chance to ask what they were, and wondered if you knew. I dreamt about it last night and it’s annoying me.’

  Playing the distracted student was easy, lying to Mum was tricky. Ava hated it. Her father had lied to both of them for so many years that any untruth summoned the hurt back into her heart. But the urge to complete this puzzle from Isobel was growing exponentially. She gripped the mug of tea while she waited for Lolita to engage her morning-brain long enough to reply.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ She squinted at the drawing. ‘Oh, they’re runes.’

  ‘Runes? I’ve heard of them. Never seen any.’

  ‘It was the alphabet of the Germanic and Scandinavian languages, before we all started using Latin. Some pagans use them for divination – so did Grandma.’

  I should’ve known that. On the other hand, Ava had never required props to channel her gifts. A fact, a feeling, a watery vision; they’d burst out in a complete package, ready to absorb. ‘Oh, okay. That solves that.’

  Her mother shot her a doubtful smile, but what could she say when Ava had so abruptly dropped the subject? Lolita didn’t want to encourage it, Ava was aware of that. They diverted their silent questions to breakfast. Ava ate fast, building up a plan in her mind – her student card opened a world of books to her at the university library. There must be a history section dealing with Germanic linguistics that might reference a necklace inscribed with runes. If not, she might find a titbit in the alternative religions aisle, where she once found a slim volume about mediums.

  ‘I better go, I’m meeting Grace in the auditorium. We’re hoping to write a duet.’

  Her mother stretched like a cat in her chair and purred a sleepy murmur of interest. ‘Great. Pick up some milk on your way home, will you?’

  Ava nodded but didn’t really register the request. She almost forgot her guitar as she bounded down the narrow, backless staircase on her way out the door. It would help, she thought, as she ran for the bus that drew up near the entrance of Oakley Park, if I knew who Theo was.

  19

  Philosophers Love Definitions

  Menelaus loved the smell of books, the musky scents mingling in harmony with the crisp, new editions that lined the shelves at the university. It didn’t matter where he was, at the library or in the Praefecti’s archives, the atmosphere was weighted with history and stories to tell. Arguing with Julian over digitalising the archives didn’t mean he wanted to replace physical copies but duplicate them in cyberspace. He was a confirmed member of the techno-generation, but even so, hell would freeze over and cause Earth’s next ice age before Menelaus sat down with a tablet and read a novel on Kindle.

  Not that he had much time to read these days. Since Rachel had whizzed up her scent-mask he’d pounded the streets, watching for signs of the De Laurentis vampires, and his sup
plies were running low. He’d started at St. Michael’s, and followed Lorenzo as much as he could, considering the new vampire’s ability to travel at near warp-speed and preternatural panache for parkour. Menelaus was fit but he had his limits. At least he had a rough diary of movements recorded in his notebook. It had been a successful surveillance as far as he was concerned, except for one detail. Theo. Bloody. Clemensen.

  He ground his teeth as he recalled how Theo had accompanied Lorenzo and an unknown woman into the Old Vicarage. Not only was the warlock consorting with vampires, Menelaus had another variable to place. He just didn’t know her name. Focus on one problem at a time, the rest will come.

  He pictured the trio in his head, as they walked together shielded by shadows. Theo’s arrival was unexpected and brought up some memories Menelaus wanted to keep stuffed away, smothered by the pillow of his will.

  The warlock’s build – which he had to admit impressed him – and his somewhat elegant array of crimson-gold curls didn’t sit right in the scene as he played it back. Why would a Clemensen be there, his Viking-like demeanour a stark contrast to his companions, both clad in black?

  It didn’t make sense. It was unlikely that Theo knew Lorenzo, because he wasn’t a student at the university; hardly anyone had seen Theo since boyhood, including Menelaus, and as such he’d become a sort of mythical figure, a male version of Rapunzel locked away in a tower. He dreaded meeting him face to face. Surely, Theo would see the guilt written into the lines forming on his brow.

  The best bet was to skirt around him as much as possible. Yes, that’s what he’d do. Which was rather difficult when he was standing in the Norse history stacks waiting for Raphael, after discovering a note left on his desk; anyone else would wait outside the office for his return, but not that strange boy. Boy. How ridiculous. He’s older than me. And yet that was the description that best fitted Raphael.

  ‘Menelaus.’ Talk of the devil. The contrast of thought and vision struck him as he clocked those divine features gazing up at him. Menelaus moved to greet Raphael, who took a gentle step back and shook his head with soft warning. No, please don’t touch me, it read. As if to confirm his desire to redirect Menelaus’ attention, Raphael rubbed the plastic plaque that marked the shelf. The books there didn’t look as if they’d been checked out very often, except maybe after a spate of Marvel films.

  ‘Norwegian fairy-tales,’ Menelaus said, reading the tag. ‘Scintillating reading, I’m sure.’

  ‘It seemed an appropriate place to meet.’

  Menelaus knew better than to rush him. Raphael would talk when he was ready. The boy swallowed hard and gurgled at the back of his slender throat. Finally, the words came. ‘Theo Clemensen has made contact with your vampire student. They don’t seem to like each other very much but they look as if they could be friends. It worries me.’

  ‘Why?’ Menelaus had about a million reasons why he was worried about Theo’s sudden appearance but figuring out Raphael’s concerns was a lateral thinking puzzle in itself.

  They paused as a rare student sidled down the aisle and out the other side, evidently lost. She didn’t seem to notice them except as obstacles in her path. ‘I hope Lorenzo won’t take after his Pater Sanguinem and become varmint. It is important Theo remains on the right path, also. He is very powerful.’

  Powerful enough to string me up in the market by my guts if he finds out what I did. He grimaced at Raphael and peered through the bookshelves, the girl who’d passed them attempting to reach a book on the opposite side of the stack. Menelaus found her quite pretty, no – arresting. Maybe it was her unusual hair. He felt a little disappointed she hadn’t responded to his towering form when she’d brushed past them. She was distracted, he decided.

  ‘I must go,’ whispered Raphael. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘What’s the problem, Raphael? Why do you always run away?’

  ‘Three’s a crowd, Guardian.’ He held his arms across his chest. ‘People’s thoughts stream out of their heads like… like spaghetti. They don’t realise. Animals are different, they’re pure and embedded in the moment. I crave their clarity.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Menelaus.

  ‘I’ll contact you if I have news.’

  The boy slipped away as deftly as he had appeared. Menelaus let him go, lingering with the books instead. Matters could get complicated if he tried to split Theo and Lorenzo up. At best, they might help each other. If Theo dragged Lorenzo away from the De Laurentis clan that would be a good thing – he hoped – but it could easily go the other way.

  He resolved to help the mysterious girl whose effort-laden grunts were floating over the bookcase as she tried to reach the upper shelves. It was a rare event that his exceptional height was actually useful to anybody, and he didn’t want to go back to his office to sit and worry over departmental feedback forms.

  Soon he was at the foot of the rolling library ladder, trying not to study those shapely thighs extending down from her flowery dress, its ruffled hem hinting at retro. ‘Here, let me hold those for you.’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ His head ended up level with her breasts, yet another distraction to avoid. He held eye contact as he tucked a relay of books under his arm. ‘I’m done actually, before you offer to swap places.’

  ‘How did you know I would?’

  She flashed him a tired but appreciative smile. ‘You look like the shining armour type.’ As she climbed down, he adverted his eyes from her long legs and generous hips. She didn’t need the wedge in her sandals. ‘Thanks for your help.’ She pointed at the bounty, which he held in his arms as carefully as he would a baby. Habit; scuff a roll of papyrus belonging to the Praetoriani’s archives and you’d say sayonara to that month’s pay. ‘I’m Ava by the way.’

  ‘Menelaus, nice to meet you. Did you find what you wanted?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she shrugged, ‘that assumes I know what I’m looking for.’

  Menelaus became aware of a dawning sense of familiarity. He’d seen Ava on campus before but not in his lectures. Then he noticed the guitar propped up by the shelf, chiding himself for missing such a large object; for goodness sake, she’d walked right past them with it! He was so wrapped up in Raphael, in Theo. It was only a guitar, acoustic, but it was his job to notice stuff like that. If he couldn’t notice a guitar in a library, how the heck would he notice when his students were turned into vampires?

  ‘Ah, so that’s where I know you from. I’ve seen you play on the open-air stage by the performing arts faculty.’

  Ava shrugged. ‘Yeah, I sing there a lot.’

  ‘So, what’s a music student – I presume – doing looking up…’ He read the book titles as he handed them over to her. ‘… Nordic archaeological discoveries?’

  Her laugh pealed in the narrow space of the aisle. ‘I’m quirky like that. I don’t suppose you major in ancient history, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he smiled, ‘I teach philosophy.’

  ‘Right,’ Ava sighed, making a show of rolling her eyes, ‘you’ve proven useless. Unless you’re a philosopher who’s written a thesis on the theological ramifications of amulets inscribed with symbols from the runic alphabet!’ She paused. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Sorry, too specific a topic, I prefer general themes. What it means to be good, for example.’

  ‘And do you have the answer to that? If you could tell me what goodness is, I’ll count this foray into the library as more than a futile exercise in procrastination.’

  Menelaus paused as if considering her question. ‘I’m not very good at my job. I know that much. I do, however, know what a good date is. I could show you, if you like.’ I’m losing her, he thought as she blushed, but he ploughed on. ‘I love having my ear talked numb about amulets.’

  ‘Are you even allowed to date students?’

  ‘You’re not my student.’

  When she consented, it was a defeat. She’d given up on some resolution she had set herself. ‘That was a rubbish chat up line,’ she teased, as they
left the library together and headed to the piazza. It was another dreary day, but they were soon undercover again.

  ‘Really? Could you define “rubbish” for me? Philosophers love definitions.’

  ‘Maybe you should check out a dictionary.’

  ‘I tried to but I got side-tracked by a beautiful girl I met in the library.’

  Menelaus pulled out a chair for Ava at a small table near the floor-to-ceiling window, which overlooked the steps, as the lad behind the counter unleashed a blast of steam into the air from the coffee machine. He scrutinised Ava – and her companion – but Menelaus blocked her from his view. This was his date. His first in a while. And he’d be damned if he was going to let some scrawny kid catch her eye.

  20

  Mentor

  ‘Praise the Graces, I was starting to worry about you.’ Julian twirled his cane and listened as Menelaus continued on his charming ramble about a pretty girl, and try as he might, his attention tended to wander. It was a relief though that his prodigy had actually shared fluid with a female, even if it had only been coffee.

  ‘I told you, I’m not gay,’ Menelaus said, fighting the urge to raise his voice. Julian was quite clear on Menelaus’ leanings, but it was fun to tease. It kept him from getting lost in his serious thoughts. How he hated serious thoughts. ‘We ended up talking about this old necklace she’s researching. It’s a family piece or something, a replica from Scandinavia, but it’s gone missing. Anyway, I’m going to ask her to dinner.’

  ‘Old necklace you say?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  Julian fondled his beard and watched the flurry of human traffic racing around the courtyard of the Praetoriani Headquarters, some of the poor souls so stressed their thumbs were twitching, micro movements planning their next text or email. It was a tragic thing, all those tense feet squashed into uncomfortable work shoes. The auxiliaries were the worst for that, wearing heeled pumps that squished toes, or clumpy shoes, something to do with working in an office. Julian preferred sandals or bare feet when he could. In his opinion, the reason why fellows became so disconnected, cut loose from their natural inclinations and moral voice, was because they spent so much time conforming to artificial symbols of productivity and status.