by Lu J Whitley
Greta sighed and tossed her duffel on the dusty canvas that covered the gigantic corduroy sofa. How long had it been? Five years? She could still picture Jen's braces-clad grin as they'd torn over the bare hardwood running from Jen's older brothers: Michael and Scott. The Collum boys still looked at Greta as their adopted younger sister. It had always made her feel safe. Loved. Like she was part of a family.
Jami stomped the mud off his boots in the tiled entryway. “It'll do.”
She rolled her eyes. Apparently, his perimeter check had been to his satisfaction – though Greta'd told him at least twenty times on the ride here he had nothing to worry about. The Collums were a high profile family. They lived most of their life in the public eye, so when they vacationed, they were cautious about where they spent their time. This cottage had been purchased under the name of a development company owned by one of the many lawyers that were employed by the family.
Located well outside the town center, the cottage was situated on a wooded five acre lot bordered mostly by state parks or designated nature preserves. The town itself was only home to about six-hundred residents, and if not for a healthy tourist market, no one would know the place existed. They couldn't be much more remote if they tried. Even if the Takers had somehow learned about her connection to the Collum family, which she was sure they wouldn't, they’d never find out about this place. For now, they were safe.
“Kitchen's through there.” Greta gestured to the archway that divided the small galley-style kitchen from the living room. “Bedrooms and bathrooms are down the hallway.”
Jami's eyes followed her pointing hand. “Stay here. I'll go check it out.” She nodded, holding her tongue. He was being ridiculous, but there was no use arguing.
Her eyes were gritty, and she felt like she'd been awake for a full week. She yawned and stretched her arms over her head, her shoulder giving a loud pop at the movement. Road dust and the lingering smell of Jacob's truck, a combination of cow manure and old man sweat, wafted up into her nostrils. Ugh. The forty-some-odd mile ride, though far preferable to a forty mile walk, had been a bumpy tilt-a-whirl that had left her stinking to high heaven and more than a little bit on the queasy side.
Their savior, Jacob Ernest, who hadn't minded filling the tense silence in the pick-up's dusty cab for the past hour, had insisted on not only taking them twenty miles out of his way to get them to Beverly Shores but had taken them the extra eight miles to the cottage's half-mile long private drive. If Jami hadn't 'politely' declined, their escort would likely still be there. Making sure her blonde giant didn't put the moves on her. Not that she needed any help in that department. The brief lapse in tension on the long trek through the corn-infested countryside had slammed down like a steel trap as soon as they were both neatly wedged into the old truck. Jami had stared straight forward. Not moving a muscle.
And Jacob had prattled on about his life, taking the odd moment to crank down his window and spit a sticky brown wad of chewing tobacco and saliva out into the lightening night air. She felt for the old guy. Not for his disgusting tobacco addiction, but for the fact that they seemed to be the highlight of his dull life. Jacob was sheltered, living all his life on his family farm, and not having anything to go home to now that his wife of thirty-eight years, Bessie, had passed. She could relate. There was no one waiting for her to come home either. No home to go back to.
She blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand over her face, wincing at the feel of her abused skin. What she wouldn't do for some moisturizer. Greta fetched her duffel and slung it back up on her shoulder. What she needed was a long soak in a hot bath, a meal that didn't come out of a plastic wrapper, and a good night's... day's sleep.
“I told you to wait.”
Seriously? She hadn't even made it six inches into the hallway. “Well, I told you everything was safe, but you didn't feel the need to listen to me.”
He chuffed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning casually against the wall, though his expression was full of checked aggression. “Why do you have to be so argumentative?”
“Why do you have to be so controlling?” She stepped into his personal space, ignoring the rush of heat that bled in through her pores every time she was close to him.
“I feel like I'm not in control of anything when you're around.” She didn't know who was more surprised by the statement, but the look of shock that glossed over his features showed her at least the feeling was mutual. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head like he was trying to shake the right words free. “All clear.” He moved aside and gestured down the hallway, giving her permission to pass.
She wanted to tell him she didn't need his damn permission to do anything. Wanted to stand her ground and duke it out with him, get everything out in the open right then and there. Instead, she felt her feet moving like they were on fire. And like a coward, she retreated down the hallway, putting as much space between herself and his big body as she could get. “Why is he so fucking difficult?” The closed door had no opinion on the matter. The large four-poster bed had even less to say. She fought the urge to flop down on the thick mattress and spend a few hours staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. It's what she would do if she were at home. Lay with Mama and talk about all the ways that boys were the root of all evil. She reached up and swiped away a dusty tear before it could be shed. She had to harden up. She wasn't at home. Her mother was gone. And Jami was most certainly not a boy.
She opened the door to the connecting bathroom and tossed her duffel in the corner next to the gleaming white wooden vanity. The soft yellow marble shone under the first rays of sun that broke through the windows. It hurt her eyes. She pulled the blinds shut and avoided the mirrors, feeling like a vampire herself. Nothing a hot bath couldn't cure. She hoped.
★ ★ ★
Jami didn't like it. Not one bit. They shouldn't have stopped. Shouldn't have even slowed down for this place. It was too risky.
He sidestepped a bright ray of light seeping in through the kitchen window. With a strong yank, he pulled the cheap plastic blinds down over the dusty glass. Spun the rod to close the slats. Not much he could do about it now.
He looped the strap of his satchel over his head and set the bag on the granite counter top. He busied himself with familiarity. Sliding free the mag on his sidearm. Checking it was loaded. Locked. Which it was. Always. “Safe place,” he mumbled to himself as he moved on to his knives. Each one was cleaned. Oiled. Placed back in its respective sheath. “Safe my ass.”
He'd swept the property. The cottage. All five acres were clear. Each room was secure. But he couldn't help a niggling seed of doubt from settling at the apex of his spine, giving him chills. The beast in his mind coiled, vigilant. It, too, wasn't satisfied. He fought the urge to check the rooms a second time. Maybe a third, for good measure. But Greta felt safe here. Comfortable. He wasn't going to throw that away on a feeling. She'd have enough running to do in the days to come. He could give her a few hours of peace.
He moved back to the dark living room, satchel in tow. Stowing the bag next to the coffee table, he moved through the room on auto-pilot closing blinds. Blocking windows. Sealing himself away from the sun and cursing the beast wearing his skin. Weakness in any form was dangerous. He couldn't walk about in the daylight, and that made him a liability. Greta could run. She'd told him she wouldn't, but he really wouldn't blame her if she did. And if she did, he'd have no way to follow. He'd be useless.
He scrubbed his knuckles over the shadowed stubble on his jaw. He needed a shower and a shave. Shit. More than that, he needed a plan. With a sigh, he retrieved his burner cell from the outside pocket of his satchel.
“Deacon,” a gruff voice answered before the second ring.
“I have the girl.”
“About time you decided to check in, Ragnarsson. Where the hell are you?”
Jami plopped down on a dust-sheet covered chair and slid an arm behind his head. “Shit got complicated.”
&nbs
p; “Complicated?” Deacon's voice dropped an octave. “That's what you're calling it? Every news station in the country is crawling all over that place. What the fuck happened?”
“The Takers were at the house. Waiting for Greta.” He cleared a sudden lump of emotion out of his throat. “Hannah's dead.”
Deacon fell silent on the other end of the line. Jami let him. If anyone deserved a moment of silence, it was Hannah Brandt.
“That's a damn shame. The girl okay?”
“A little worse for wear, but handling it well, considering.” He pictured Greta dropping him to his knees with a swift kick to the balls and bit back a chuckle. “She's a tough one.”
“Good,” Deacon grunted, “Where are you?”
The words were on the tip of his tongue. All he had to do was spit it out. An away team would be here by nightfall. They'd take over. He'd be off the hook. No muss. No fuss. But he couldn't seem to make his mouth work.
“Ragnarsson?”
“Yeah, Deak,” he sputtered. “Don't worry. We're in a safe spot. I'll check in tomorrow.” With that, he thumbed the cancel button and disconnected the call. He stared down at the phone in his hand like it was a coiled serpent ready to strike. What the fuck was he doing?
He'd done his job. Mostly. Protect the Brandt women. Yes, he'd failed as far as the mother was concerned, but Greta was the number one priority. Always had been.
What he should do now was call in back up and have her hauled off to Fraktion HQ where the organization could keep her safe. End of story. But the thought of walking away now... It tore away at something inside him. He was all she had. Her mother – her life up until this point – everything was gone. She'd only known him for a few days, but he'd known her nearly her whole lifetime.
He'd been there through everything, in the shadows. Getting a letter when she'd lost her first tooth. Gone to her first day of school. Had her first date. That thought caused the stalking monster in his head to perk up and take notice. He took a calming breath. Air in. Out. Seething through his teeth. Red took over his field of vision. Weakness is dangerous, he repeated to himself as he glanced down the hallway. His gaze found the door to her room, where she was no doubt already sound asleep.
He could call Deacon back. She'd never know. His thumb was already tapping in the numbers from memory. But he paused, his thumb hovering above that green button. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't budge the digit. “Shit!” He tossed the useless phone on the coffee table and roughed his fingers through his long hair, pulling what was left of his braid free. The strands sifted through his fingertips and settled against his skin.
He pulled his locks over his shoulder, the elastic tie hanging crinkled at one end where his braid had once been. He wrenched it free and gathered up the blonde strands, the soft ends tickling around his waist as he secured them at his nape in a low ponytail. He reached down into his boot and pulled his field knife free. Palming the blade, he closed his eyes and spoke the words his father had once taught him. “May the Gods find my sacrifice worthy, and shall we one day feast together in Odin's great hall, Hannah.”
★ ★ ★
“Mama,” Greta called after the fleeting shape of her mother’s form, but she couldn't see through the mounting fog. “Where are you? Mama!”
“Greta,” a soothing voice cooed. One she knew. She found herself drawn toward it like a magnet, pulling her from the murky gloom. “Wake up, Greta.” She felt warm, strong fingers wrapped around her upper arms. Hot breath fanning out across her skin. “Wake up.”
She opened her eyes, letting them slowly adjust to the darkness. “Ja...Jami?” She croaked, her throat dry and scratchy.
“Shh. It's okay. It's just a dream.” Jami shifted slightly to the side, and she heard the sound of metal grating against wood next to her ear. Was that a gun?
She shot up in the bed, clutching at a blanket that wasn't there, and nearly braining herself on Jami's angled jaw in the process. “What's happening?”
“Nothing,” he chuckled, letting out a deep exhale of palpable relief. “You were screaming loud enough to wake the dead.”
“Oh.” She freed one of her arms to reach up and brush a few rogue strands of hair away from her eyes, her bare skin flushed with goose bumps from his touch. Her whole body shivered with a chill.
Jami sucked in a breath and scrambled to his feet, turning away to face the wall. “Shit!”
“What is it?” What had she done? He was so warm. She craved more of that heat.
“You're... You might want to...”
“What?” She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling a little petulant. He did wake her up, after all. She was still so tired. Her whole body ached, and not just from the walk. She unconsciously rubbed her thighs together, her bare legs sliding over one another. “Fuck!” A damp towel sagged around her hips, parted from top to bottom, leaving nothing to the imagination. She slapped her hands over her breasts in panic.
“I didn't see anything,” he coughed.
“Yeah, right.” She tried to peer around in the darkness, her sleepy eyes only barely filtering enough light to see black silhouettes of furniture. Clothes. She needed clothes. She vaguely remembered setting out clothes to sleep in. Where? On the bed? She pulled her hands away from her chest to feel blindly around on the mussed comforter for the soft cotton of Jami's shirt, but found only puffy comforter, damp sheets, and the other towel she'd used to dry her hair.
Giving over to necessity, she reached out for the bedside lamp, knocking Jami's gun to the side and wincing, hoping the thing didn't go off accidentally. That would be just her luck. “Shit. I'm gonna turn on the light.” She finally found the chain, and clicked the bulb to life. “Keep your eyes closed.” Jami didn't answer, but he didn't move either, so she took that as a sign of assent.
There you are! She pulled the black cotton out of a fold in the comforter, letting out a cry of triumph when the fabric was firmly in her grasp. She finagled her way up and out through the armholes, her arms not wanting to obey directions. Her hair getting caught in the neck, followed by her nose. It was like she'd never put on a damn shirt in her life. Having better luck with her legs, her panties were safely in place before the shirt fabric reached her hips. Feeling a little more presentable, though sorely in need of a pair of pants, she cleared her throat and gave Jami the all clear.
He turned slowly, peering over his shoulder to make sure she was decent before following with his entire body. She lost her breath, watching his back muscles tighten and shift as he did a full about-face and moved effortlessly toward the door. “I'll let you get back to sleep.”
That panic rose again, and she almost shrieked, “Jami, wait!”
He stopped instantly, his eyes meeting hers with an expectant look. “What?”
Shit. Now what? “Will you...” She took a bracing breath. “Will you stay? I mean...Just...Just for a little while...Until I fall asleep. The nightmares...”
“Sure.” He nodded slowly, his hair falling raggedly against his shoulders, the ends uneven and choppy.
She rose to her feet, not thinking about the movement until she was crossing the floor with her arm outstretched, intent on touching his damaged locks. He didn't as much as blink, but she pulled her hand back at the last second, feeling a little self-conscious. “What...What happened to your hair?”
He glanced down at her still raised fingers, a quizzical expression shaping his features. Blue eyes lit up with curiosity. “I cut it.”
“Why?”
“I...” He raised his own hand, letting the fingers rake through his hair like she'd wanted to do. “It's custom.” His eyes roamed away from her, taking on a faraway look. “I failed.”
“Failed?” She couldn't imagine this man failing at anything. Except for failing. But is failing at failing really a failure? She shook her head, clearing away the sleepiness and bringing herself back to the moment, and realized he'd been talking, and she'd missed a good chunk.
“...P
rotect your mother. She died on my watch.”
“So when you fail,” she hoped he hadn't noticed her lapse in attention. She really needed a fucking nap, “you have to cut your hair?” A yawn broke through the last word, and Jami chuckled.
“Among my people, a man's hair is a sign of his honor and his skill in battle. When he fails, a man must offer his braid as a sacrifice to the Gods, so that he might atone for his failure and prove himself worthy.”
“I don't know about your Gods, but I don't think you...Failed.” The yawns were coming fast and hard. “You did everything you could. Saved my ass anyway.”
“Greta, if I didn't know better, I'd think that might be a thank you.”
“Not hardly.”
He laughed, a wide smile splitting his face. “Come on, let's get you to bed.”
She couldn't help herself. One minute she was turning to walk back to the bed, the next she was against him with her fingers in his hair. “It really was beautiful.” His smile dropped, and she faltered. “I mean...I like it this way as well.”
He gave her a half-smile and put his hand on the small of her back. “Thank you.”
A shiver shot up her spine, and suddenly, she wasn't so tired anymore. “Er. Uh. It was so long. How long had you been growing it out?” Stupid.
“Almost eighteen years.”
“The last time...” He started ushering her to the bed before she could finish the thought.
“I won't fail you again,” he said sternly, “I promise.”
She believed him. All the way from the ends of her hair straight down to her toes, she knew this man was good to his word. She let him fold her into the bed, paying no attention to the damp spots on the sheets left by the towels. He tucked her in, pulling the comforter up to her chin and smoothing his hand soothingly over her hair.
“Go to sleep now.” He pulled away slowly, as if he was reluctant to move.
She reached out and caught his lingering hand. “Where you going?”