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

by S. A. Ashdown

  Living in a grand estate had left me with a dislike of small spaces, and being packed in the tight, square room underground hammered on my big, red claustrophobia button. I counted the guards, ensconced in armoured clothing and holding batons, and Jörð knew what else. Ten in all, big guys, and one scary woman with cropped hair and muscles rivalling my own, who would’ve been at home in a wrestling ring. They were all staring at me.

  The Assessment had already started, apparently; the guards scrutinised my composure as if scanning a field for hidden mines. I smiled weakly, avoiding piercing stares.

  ‘Bruce, I’ve worked here for forty-five years. How long do you need to inspect my lanyard?’

  ‘You’re not alone this time, Mr. Knight. I need to radio it in.’

  Julian threw up his hands, the cane almost slipping from his grasp. ‘Fine, be quick about it. I’m an old man who needs his tea. Make us wait any longer and I’ll be dead in my grave.’

  While we waited, I tried to figure out Julian’s age. He kept claiming to be old, but didn’t look much over sixty, sixty-five at a push. If he’s worked here for forty-five years, he must have joined when he was about twenty. About my age. So where did Menelaus fit into it all? Could Julian be his father, or even his grandfather? Lorenzo never said that his professor looked at all oriental.

  I frowned, as a sharp flurry of words crackled over the walkie-talkie. Bruce snapped to action, punching a long code into the keypad next to the vault doors, standing aside to let us pass. Unlike the reception, which was a modern room – albeit small and dank – the walls in the corridor were chiselled from solid rock, and lit by torches flaring along the arched passageway.

  The tunnel twisted and forked, and with no reference points, I soon lost track. Imaginary flames licked up my back and I coughed on a lungful of phantom smoke; if a fire broke out down here even dematerialising wouldn’t help much. How could I escape if I didn’t know exactly where I was? It was like being stranded in an unwinding tangle of guts that stretched out for miles.

  At last, after descending a narrow stairwell, Julian gestured for us to stop. He stared at a blank wall and nodded once. ‘How far underground are we going?’ I asked, realising the blank wall was actually a camouflaged lift.

  ‘One more floor. Below that are the Chambers of Justice, and the Rehabilitation Facility. I presume you don’t fancy a peek at those.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘The assessors will ask you lots of questions. Answer truthfully and temper your words with respect.’ As the lift door retracted, Julian levelled with me. ‘I will be acting as your invigilator. It’s my duty to report any inconsistencies or improper conduct committed by anyone present during the Assessment. Down here, your family name means nothing. No one is going to treat you with starry-eyed adoration.’

  ‘Right.’

  My stomach lurched along with the lift. We stepped into rooms tied together like links on a chain, Julian pressing the crook of his cane into my back, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Don’t argue and act enthusiastic to follow the rules,’ he said.

  Act. I thought. Why is he telling me to act?

  He jammed the cane into my spine. ‘Okay. I got it,’ I said, and he released the pressure. I just didn’t get why he was trying to help me. But I was grateful for his warning when a broad man with ebony skin came charging towards us, handcuffs swinging from his hip.

  27

  The Assessment

  A minute later, I was sitting on a dimpled, leather armchair, a solitary glass of water set on the side table. What if there is such a thing as truth serum? Father’s neurosis was clearly hereditary, and I left it untouched.

  The panel presented itself as a triad of authority, imperious behind the crescent-shaped desk, set upon a dais. The woman on the left had the crinkled skin and pearl-lined neck of a strict, but kindly, grandmother. In the centre, a judge, a magistrate perhaps, minus the customary wig, but fitted out with a velvety robe. That left the young guy, early thirties at best, his tie-less shirt unbuttoned under his neck. The selection felt carefully staged. How many young Pneuma had walked through these doors and sat in this chair with an identical glass of water next to them?

  ‘Good afternoon, Theodore. We are glad you could join us at such short notice.’

  Julian took a seat in the armchair in the corner, a bulbous light casting the effect of a halo on the plastered wall above his head. I was itching to complain about how I’d been summoned, but his warning was still warm in my ear.

  ‘Good afternoon. I apologise for not attending sooner. I believe my father misplaced the letter he was sent.’ Yeah, misplaced it in the fire. The judge smiled in a way that didn’t reach his eyes and noted something down.

  If Father had told me about the letter, I would be prepared for this.

  ‘This interview is being recorded. Do you have any reasons to object?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, without hesitation. That was one trap I wasn’t about to fall into.

  ‘Good, then we can begin. Please recite your full name.’

  ‘Theodore Alistair Clemensen,’ I said. My middle name was a nod to my Scottish grandfather.

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘Fifth of May 1994.’

  The names and addresses of my immediate family came next. The young man on the right wrote down every answer. It irked me that they were asking all these questions but hadn’t even revealed their own names. But I played along, casting a curious glance to Julian every now and then, who sat with folded hands, his cane leaning against the chair.

  ‘The purpose of this interview is to assess your commitment to the rules governing the Pneuma community and to assign you an appropriate Guardian. This will include detailed questions about your knowledge and practice of magic, and your home environment.’

  The judge stopped short of reading me my rights. The terminology was vague at best, leaving them a gallows-worth of loopholes to ask about – or accuse me of – whatever the hell they wanted to. I drank that glass of water in the end, if only to stop me fidgeting and shooting nervous glances at the door. The only door.

  ‘Yes, sir. Whatever you want to know.’ I said, keeping my responses equally vague. If there ever was a time to act like the obedient and studious warlock, it was now. The universe depended on them believing me.

  ‘Have you at any time conjured spirits?’ It was the woman who asked, lacing matriarchal warmth through her subtle gestures and gentle speech. She cut straight to the heart – my grandmother, Elsa, shared the knack.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘but when I lost my mother, I piled flowers over her memorial and prayed for her to live again.’ Somewhere in this labyrinth below the earth, we dwelt in profound stillness. I watched their flat expressions, hoping for a glimmer of guilt that betrayed a knowledge of Isobel Clemensen. The Praetoriani was a big place, and I’d be filthy with dirt by the time I’d finished digging.

  ‘Yes, such a tragedy.’ The woman dipped her greying head in acknowledgment. ‘But prayers and spell casting aren’t the same thing.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘The dead belong on the other side of the veil.’ The veil that I kept intact. What a hand fate had dealt me, to set me as the Gatekeeper, the proverbial rock blocking Jesus’ tomb, preventing his resurrection. My body divided the living from the dead; I had yet to see in the shadowy cave hidden at my back. Nor did I particularly want to. One can of worms at a time.

  ‘Quite right. Tell me, Theodore. Have you caused a person or animal harm through your use of magic?’

  ‘Do you mean accidentally?’

  ‘Or deliberately.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why would I cause harm deliberately?’ I hitched my eyebrows as if disturbed by the notion. A string of flashbacks mocked my statement: Lorenzo pouncing as I tried to escape in Father’s Jag, the lightning I had stirred to put him in his place. Point to an overflowing drain or a pile of smashed roof tiles, and hey presto, you have a case of misdirected magic. I suppose that wasn’t my fault
when I couldn’t control it. ‘No, no lasting damage, except fraying my father’s nerves the first time he taught me to light our fireplace by channelling the elements.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the judge, skimming over my attempts at humour. He nudged the young man at his elbow, and the questions took a chatty turn.

  ‘It can be hard making friends for young Pneuma, don’t you agree?’

  My family’s standoffish stance wasn’t a state secret or anything, but it grated that this guy took advantage. I didn’t want to be lulled into a false sense of security. There was none to be had here. Not with these people. ‘I guess.’

  ‘How important is it for you to fit in, Theo? Is that why you shorten your name?’

  How do they know I shorten it? ‘I don’t want to be an outcast or anything.’

  ‘What about a loser? Do you want to be a loser, Theo?’

  I squirmed in my seat, the cold leather penetrating my trousers. ‘Where are you going with this?’ I asked.

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  Act enthusiastic. What had Julian meant exactly? Answer the questions in the way I was led, or artfully dart around them to come up with ultimate answer they were looking for: that I was a good guy and would remain loyal to the Praefecti?

  ‘Nobody wants to be a loser.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, running his fingers through his bristly hair, ‘imagine you meet a group of guys at the pub, say you’ve had a few too many—’

  ‘I don’t drink. Very little anyway.’

  The interruption didn’t go down well. He stared, scratching his fingers on the polished desk before continuing. ‘Fine,’ he bit, ‘you decide to go clubbing. You get caught up in the music. You listen to music, don’t you, Theodore?’

  They knew how to push my buttons. Not the commercial crap they play in bars and clubs. How I wished to continue like that, forcing him to redirect the flow of his analogy. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Of course you do. These friends of yours start playing a few tricks on the DJ. Make him play the songs you all like, or interfere with the lighting. Everyone tries to top each other’s efforts. Sure, it’s a public place, but it’s dark, no sapiens will notice, right? Then it’s your turn to cast a few spells. What would you do, when as you say, nobody wants to be a loser?’

  I hesitated, not sure whether I should appear to be considering the answer or react immediately. I needed them to believe I was taking this seriously, as if I didn’t know they were trying to trap me in checkmate, without letting on that I could see the chessboard.

  ‘It wouldn’t get to that point,’ I manoeuvred, ‘it’s not fair to interfere with the lives of sapiens. Why should we get to influence the environment to suit us at the expense of others? I’m not a coward. I don’t want friends who can’t respect my conscience.’

  ‘Do you have a conscience, Theo?’ The triad rushed at me like a tidal wave.

  ‘Do you really care about fairness?’

  ‘Doesn’t might equal right?’

  ‘If sapiens expect us to abide by their rules, why don’t they suffer ours?’

  I was pinned to the chair by all the questions, overwhelmed. My defences began to crumble.

  ‘I like to think we have evolved past such primitive reasoning,’ I said, taking another sip of water. ‘Guardians don’t misuse their power over the Pneuma they care for, do they?’ I visualised the angelic face of an infant and imitated it. These three weren’t the only ones conducting an Assessment. This was my opportunity to polish off my dusty magnifying glass and play detective.

  ‘We follow strict rules and guidelines, with an emphasis on internal discipline,’ said the judge.

  ‘As does my family, we are committed to the wellbeing of all life.’ That was practically our motto: iron is life to Earth. It was the core mantra to our lives.

  The interrogation continued, and with no clock on the wall, my internal watch was running out of battery. I started imagining a banquet of food on the table and wished I’d thought to bring some snacks with me. As I grew tired, I lost concentration. They started asking about Nikolaj, where he went when he left Hellingstead Hall, how often he visited Alfheim. And Espen, why does he find it necessary to defend his property with magic? I don’t know, you tell me, I said, losing my temper, why do you feel the need to invade his personal space?

  ‘I’m starving,’ I said at last, unable to go on. ‘Can we take a break?’

  ‘There’s one matter left to discuss, Mr. Clemensen.’ All of a sudden it was business-like, and I felt foolish for getting so snappy. They had saved the worst for last.

  The young man rose from his seat and handed me a piece of paper, a crude sketch in charcoal, to examine. Oh, bollocks, I thought, please not this.

  ‘Theo, have you seen this object before?’

  I made a show of holding it close. ‘No, I don’t think so. What is it?’

  ‘What does it look like to you?’

  ‘Like some kind of old coin?’ I said, turning my face into a question mark by narrowing an eye. ‘Should I know about it?’

  ‘If it falls into the wrong hands it’s very bad news for all of us.’

  You’re telling me. ‘Has it been stolen?’

  ‘Misplaced perhaps,’ smiled the woman. ‘But anyone proven to be withholding information regarding its whereabouts will face severe punishment.’ I considered the implications of her threat and dreaded ever having to come down here again.

  ‘If I hear anything about an amulet I’ll inform you straight away.’

  They seemed satisfied, and after further note taking, the Assessment was over. ‘We’ll be in touch once we’ve placed you with a suitable Guardian. Further interviews may be required, so don’t leave the county, and open your mail. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, already leaping up from my chair and heading towards the locked door. I peered out the small window while I waited for Julian and came face-to-face with the mountain-sized guard outside. The lock clicked open, and I reached for the handle.

  ‘One more thing, Mr. Clemensen.’ I froze as the judge rose to his feet. ‘What made you call it an amulet?’

  28

  The Date Crasher

  What had I done? A slip of the tongue, a thought taking shape, a bubble popping, a verbal bang. A bomb. The care I had taken, and in the final moments of my Assessment, I had slipped.

  ‘Mr. Clemensen?’

  I cleared my throat. As I was about to panic, a vague impression of a holiday with Mum and Father wriggled its way to the surface. ‘Oh, yes!’ I swallowed the enthusiasm, trying not to sound so relieved. ‘The drawing reminds me of an object I saw in a Swedish museum once. I think that was called an amulet — the Kvinneby amulet, that’s it.’

  Whatever I’d seen in that museum was a copy at best, and by the anger and disappointment on their faces that I had come up with a viable excuse for my terminology, they must’ve known about it. ‘You’re free to go for now, Mr. Clemensen.’

  I felt like sacrificing a sheep to Thor in gratitude about then.

  Julian was quiet on our return through the tunnels. Any sense of urgency had evaporated, and I noticed he wasn’t using his cane.

  ‘I’ll escort you home,’ he said, matter-of-factly, as he guided us past the guards and up the spiral staircase into the entrance hall. I retrieved my mobile and wallet from Kate, and ignored the rumble in my stomach. There was no way in Jörð’s fertile Eden that I was going to dine with the Praetoriani staff in the cafeterias. The setting sun had retreated into a shroud of gloom, a vague, amber halo hinting at its deteriorating power. There would be places to eat on the way home. I couldn’t eat with Father and Uncle Nik after I’d handed my assessors a neat little envelope labelled moron, with my gilt-lined confession slip inside. I needed to be alone.

  ‘Thanks, but I’d rather walk.’

  ‘In the dark?’ said Julian, as if I were bound to be accosted by a pack of famished bears. I clamped my jaw and folded my arms. He scratched his beard and shr
ugged. ‘Fine. I’ll have to take you through security. You can walk from the gate.’

  I didn’t care, as long as I escaped before the magistrate came charging up the stairs shouting ‘seize him’ and all hell broke loose. If it hadn’t already.

  The journey was longer than I had imagined. The road veering left snaked across the fields and woodland descending from the HQ, and my legs grew weary by the time I caught sight of the low, stone wall encompassing Oakley Park. But it felt good to burn out those tics with exercise.

  A grey blanket sank from the sky, and the lack of streetlights hindered my progress. The chill in the air had a special way of finding microscopic holes in the fabric of my clothes, so I drew my green cloak tight, and barrelled through the wind into the park, sticking to the lit pathways.

  I had five missed calls on my mobile. All from home. I rang back, pretending it had all gone well, but that I was going for dinner to unwind. Restaurants and bars crowded together along the outer edge of the park. This was the place to be on a night out if you didn’t want to trek into town. Awnings protruded from the continental-style bistros, but apparently, the managers had given up on warm – or dry – evenings this spring, and few tables remained outside. With nothing better to do, those who’d resigned themselves to drizzly Somerset were blithely denying the weather with huge, tulip-shaped glasses of red wine.

  The rough melody of chitter-chatter was what I needed. It was embarrassing to be alone, to eat with nothing but a candle on the table for company. Up and down I walked, picking my spot, dithering. Why, I wondered, when I was so hungry, was I lingering on the pavement?