Mortiswood: Kaelia Falling (Mortiswood Tales Book 2)

by Gina Dickerson

  ‘I will do whatever you want me to,’ Cadence’s voice was hollow. ‘All you have to do is ask.’

  Not noticing anything was wrong, Thom’s features softened for a moment. He stroked Cadence’s hair, smoothing her ruffled fringe from her forehead. ‘Do exactly as I say, Cadence, and you will find life after death to be more rewarding than your human life. I told you I will give you everything, I was not lying. I am giving you not only immortality but responsibility.’

  ‘Stop hurting me,’ Cadence lowered her voice and peered up at Thom through her eyelashes. Smiling softly she stroked his cheek. ‘I’ll do whatever you ask as long as you don’t hurt me anymore. I can’t take it when you’re mean to me. I want to be yours; I want to be with you, to help you in The Salloki cause.’

  Thom trailed a finger across the fresh wound on the top swell of Cadence’s left breast. ‘You deserved that for allowing the necromancer to steal you away.’ He lowered his mouth to the wound and traced his tongue around the tender edges.

  Squeezing the edges of the wound together with his fingers, he covered Cadence’s mouth with his, silencing her cries of pain. When he released her, the wound had healed. A tiny silvery-blue line was all that remained as a reminder of its very existence. ‘I can hurt you and heal you,’ he said. ‘You are of my blood, my world, Cadence. It would serve you well to remember so.’

  ‘I will.’ She nodded. ‘I won’t ever forget again.’

  Thom smiled a genuine smile this time which held echoes of his long-dead humanity. Cadence swallowed down repulsion and bile, and wrapped her arms around his neck, arching her back so her body pressed against his.

  After all, for revenge to work she had to be close to the one she wanted to exact it upon.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mainland, opposite the Isle of Stone

  On the mainland shoreline Bran jumped out of the rowing boat he had stolen from the same place a short time earlier to take him across the water to the Isle of Stone and to Father Peter. Seawater lapped over his boots, wetting the hem of his dark jeans. With ease he dragged the small boat from the inky water onto the pebbled beach. The lay of the land was flatter here in comparison to the Isle of Stone. The pebbled bay stretched up to the main land with no cliffs to hinder view back across to the stony cliff face of the island.

  Bran’s sharp gaze picked out the ruins of the old abbey. Certain a shadow moved between the fallen stones, he shook his head. The corners of his lips twitched.

  ‘It’s no use; you can’t run away from this.’ He knew the priest could hear him when he spoke, his link to the Father was the Draegarni spirit inside the older man, and the spirit would pass on Bran’s every command.

  The shadow reached the edge of the cliff top. Four other shadows juddered behind the first, each with a red, shimmering haze writhing from their backs.

  ‘Don’t even try it, Old Man,’ Bran said with a chuckle. ‘Suicide won’t save you. I’ll merely bring you back to life and we’ll start this all over again.’

  The distant figure that was Father Peter turned away from the cliff and plodded back, out of Bran’s line of sight. Slowly, the four Dybbuks turned and followed.

  Bran scratched his neck where the new skin was still taut. Remembering when he and Rosalie had sung words of his mother’s song, his voice was deep and lilting as he sang, ‘Take my hand and I will lead you safe, you have fallen, Warrior, I will guide you to your soul’s final resting place. Take my hand, Warrior, you have fought brave and true, ride with me and you will be glad you do....’ He paused, pondering what the next line of the song could be.

  Echoes of a voice floated into his mind—his mother’s voice—and he knew the next line of the song. ‘Warrior, brave and strong, take my hand and we’ll rise from here, there’s nothing left to fear, come, Warrior, you’ll fly with me to Sessrumnir.’

  A cold prickle ran through Bran’s body, he trembled.

  It couldn’t be. His mother can’t have come from Asgard, can she?

  The song played over and over in his head, knocking the wind out of him.

  Surely his mother can’t be a...a Valkyrja?

  * * *

  Margate, Kent

  Bran waited impatiently at the traffic lights at the junction to the Stone Pier. He revved the motorbike, wondering whether he should wait until the cover of night to call access to the Gjallarbru bridge to Niflheim. If anyone saw him step off the edge of the pier and vanish, they would think they were mad, or he was tombstoning. The thought made him chuckle. Last time he had been here he had fought with the Vallesm—Bay, and that had caused more than enough panic.

  Should’ve killed the fur-ball right there and then. Vallesm skins fetch a mint on the right market.

  The traffic lights changed and he manoeuvred the motorbike around the gallery building on the corner and beyond it to where the cliff overhung the promenade. He wasn’t supposed to ride on the pedestrianised section but he did not care. Hell, he wasn’t even wearing a helmet. Foolish, he knew. His head could cave as easily as anyone else’s but he had completely forgotten to grab his helmet on the way out of the tower. Leaning the bike up by its stand, he patted his coat pockets to check he had the pouch of bone dust needed to grant him access to the bridge. Yup, he hadn’t forgotten it.

  From a dull, grey sky a fine drizzle fell, the kind that sticks to the skin and settles in beads upon the hair. The seafront was surprisingly deserted. A lone dog walker hurried along next to the railings by the edge of the promenade, head bent down against the drizzle. Raindrops were salty upon Bran’s lips, stinging them. He looked away as the woman walking the dog passed and her eyes flitted to him. She visibly stiffened as she caught sight of the rough scar on his face. Her pace picked up and she hurried around the curve of the cliff. Normally Bran would have laughed at her, followed her even, purely to unnerve her further, it would have been entertaining, but not today. He really wasn’t in the mood for games, enough had been played already.

  The drizzle expanded into large drops as Bran made his way back along the esplanade to where it joined the Stone Pier. Brightly coloured doors livened up the units within the stone arm. Chairs and tables outside an open door at the end of the pier were unoccupied but there was evidence people had been there not long before. Even from a distance Bran could see a still-warm coffee mug, his extra sensitive nostrils detecting the aroma despite the falling, salty rain. He stopped and slowly turned around at the sound of approaching footsteps. He was the only one to be seen, the only one foolish enough to be caught out in such an exposed area in a downpour.

  Storm clouds cast shadows onto the water of the harbour. Small boats bobbed on rising waves, which in turn lapped against the grey-white stone steps forming part of the sea defence. Rain fell furiously, splattering atop Bran’s head and dripping off the peak of hair hanging over his brows. Annoyed, he flicked the sodden hair from his eyes, slicking it back so it exposed his pale forehead, and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his long, dark overcoat. To his left, traffic moved faster than usual as if eager to escape the rain in case it ruined the paintwork of the vehicles. Along the edge of the harbour wall on one of the stone seats facing up the hill, sat two teenage girls huddled underneath an umbrella, eating chips from paper wrappings balanced on their knees. They finished while Bran watched. Scrunching the paper into balls they scuttled underneath the umbrella’s canopy, arms linked, and tossed the rubbish at a nearby bin, not noticing one scrunched wrapper fell on the wet ground instead. Then, shrieking, they jumped over rivulets of rain water running down the hill and hurried along a side road. A seagull swooped on the fallen chip paper, pecking at it to loosen it. The unmistakable smell of salt and vinegar tantalised Bran and his stomach growled. He wondered whether he should grab something to eat in the town before journeying through. Hel’s palace had food; it was, well, not quite the same.

  This time the footsteps sounded faster and made Bran spin on his heels, his fingertips prickled, violet light sparkl
ing in readiness of an attack. Behind him was empty. He flexed his fingers, easing out the tension. Licking his lips, he told himself not to be stupid. Again, the clip-clop of footsteps startled him from behind, even though he had been anticipating them.

  Alert and buzzing, Bran turned quick enough to catch a glimpse of a shadow scuttling across the ground. The footfalls resonated once more behind him and he exhaled in frustration.

  ‘Enough!’ he bellowed, startling the lone seagull, which promptly abandoned the chip wrapping and took off in flight across the swollen waters of the harbour.

  Violet light swirled around Bran’s splayed hands. Falling raindrops sizzled upon meeting the swirls, giving off bursts of steam.

  ‘Still as demanding as ever, Necromancer.’ The name came out as an insult.

  The voice froze Bran. His light faltered, and snuffed. There had been a time he had known that voice well, had been seduced by it. Loved it.

  ‘Lifa,’ he whispered. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  A woman, already six feet tall and not in need of the extra height of her high heeled, lace-up knee-high boots, drew into view. Her long, toned legs were taut beneath black leggings as she strode to a stop before Bran. The cropped, sleeveless t-shirt she wore was see-through from the rain, exposing a neon pink bra beneath. A sparkling stone piercing set in the side of her right nostril blinked in the dismal light. She shook out her damp, waist length, dark purple hair and placed her hands on her hips. Tipping her head to one side, she smiled slyly.

  ‘Hello, Bran.’ Lifa’s full, pink glossed lips pouted with the exhalation of his name. ‘It has, indeed, been a long time. You could look more pleased to see me.’

  Bran jumped at a tap on his shoulder. ‘Pack it in, Lifa.’

  ‘Pack what in? I’m not doing anything. I’m standing right here. I didn’t touch you.’

  ‘I know it’s her.’ This time it was a sharp prod in his back, and Bran swore. ‘Don’t make me have to stop you. Both of you.’

  Lifa’s tongue slithered over her bottom lip and flicked back in again. ‘Maybe that’s exactly what I’m angling for, Bran darling. I have missed you. We have missed you.’

  Bran sensed the approaching shadow before he felt its touch. In a flash he whipped around and caught it in his hands. The shadow was tall and lean, exactly the same size and shape as Lifa. Shaking it, he held it out to Lifa. ‘Will you take your shadow dancer back willingly or do I have to force her back inside you?’

  Lifa clutched her neck. Red handprints marked her skin from where Bran had his hands around the shadow’s neck. She risked a cocky smile and struggled to speak. ‘It would mean you have to come close to me.’

  Bran increased the pressure around the shadow’s neck. ‘Why would I want to?’

  Her voice turning husky, Lifa said, ‘There was a time you couldn’t keep your hands off me.’

  ‘I think we both know that time has long since passed.’

  Lifa’s cheeks paled, she choked as Bran squeezed the shadow’s neck with both hands. Gasping, she pointed at the shadow and then at herself.

  A faint smile cracked Bran’s face. He released the shadow and watched it flutter back to Lifa. Colour returned to Lifa’s cheeks and she held her arms open. The shadow danced around her, caressing her body with its shadowy hands, the strokes sensual.

  ‘That old trick won’t work.’ Bran let out a sigh.

  ‘You used to find it a turn-on.’

  ‘I was younger then.’

  ‘You’re still a man, aren’t you?’

  ‘What kind of a ridiculous question is that?’

  ‘Or has it shrivelled up and dropped off while I’ve not been around?’

  Bran raked a hand through his wet, raven hair. ‘Stop being childish.’

  ‘Stop being such an uptight prick,’ Lifa snapped. Immediately the shadow ceased writhing and melted into her. Swirling track marks appeared from her hairline on the right hand side of her heart-shaped face. Lighter than tattoo marks, the swirls extended down her body in intricate curls and twists until the whole right side of her body was covered with the faded, grey design. Lifa sneered. ‘Or are you uptight because you’re in love and your affections are being spurned? Haven’t you been able to get one off since I last saw you? You know I can help you if you want. All you have to do is look at me in the way you used to.’

  ‘You’re full of ridiculousness, aren’t you?’

  ‘You must be in love if you’re turning me down. Just tell me!’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because I’m asking you!’

  ‘I don’t owe you anything.’

  Lifa’s laughter was sharp. ‘You know that’s not true. Answer the question, oh great and powerful Dark One. Are you or are you not in love?’

  ‘Not.’

  ‘In lust, then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar. It’s written all over your face.’ Lifa drew up close in front of Bran. With the height of the boots she was wearing she was nose to nose with him, matching his six-foot-four-inches. ‘I can almost see her image in your eyes although I don’t even know what she looks like. I’ve heard the rumours. The whispers about you and her.’

  ‘Since when do you listen to rumours?’ Bran flinched.

  ‘I’ve always listened to rumours where you’re concerned. We were made for each other, Bran. You know how good we were together. I know you haven’t forgotten how I felt beneath your hands as we made love.’

  Bran frowned. ‘Actually, I have.’ The realisation surprised him.

  Lifa laughed. ‘I don’t believe you. I can easily remind you....’ She ran a teasing finger down the front of his chest.

  Bran brushed Lifa’s hand away. ‘Quit it, I’m not interested.’

  ‘You cannot hide from me, Bran. We have known each other all of our lives.’

  ‘You’ve been gone for one hundred and twenty years of those lives. I am not the same as I was when you left.’

  Lifa struck Bran across the cheek. ‘You make it sound as if I left by choice!’

  Bran licked the corner his mouth where a tiny dribble of blood glistened. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘You know I didn’t!’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Do you know why I did this?’ Lifa touched her nose piercing. ‘I pierced it so every time I twist it I remember the pain you inflicted.’

  ‘You make it sound as if I were the only one in our relationship who inflicted pain.’

  Lifa’s violet eyes twinkled. ‘If I recall we both enjoyed being the inflictor and the inflicted.’

  Bran stormed past her. ‘I think inflictor is the role you still enjoy best. Why else are you here now, after all these decades of silence?’

  Lifa stomped after Bran, following him along the Stone Pier. ‘I am not the one at fault. The blame lies solely with you. You stole away my happiness and broke my heart.’

  Bran span around, his face thunderous, voice booming. ‘You think I’m not broken? Do you think my heart doesn’t ache?’

  ‘I don’t reckon your heart feels a damn thing!’ Lifa screeched, lunging for Bran.

  Bran caught Lifa’s hands in his own and roughly pinned them to her chest. ‘Enough, Lifa. I’m not fighting with you.’

  ‘No, the fighting should’ve been done a long time ago!’

  ‘There’s no need for us to fight.’

  Lifa wrenched her hands free. The grey patterns marking her skin lifted in smoke trails from her body, converging to form her shadow dancer. ‘There’s every reason for us to fight. Did you think I had disappeared in a puff of air?’

  ‘I didn’t know where the hell you were. It wasn’t as if you kept in contact. For all I knew you could’ve been in some other realm.’

  Lifa’s shadow had formed and now stood beside her. ‘This is the first day in one hundred and twenty years I have been able to release my dancer, and it’s all your fault!’

  Violet flames erupted around Bran’s hands. ‘I heard you went on a killing spr
ee before you did your disappearing act.’

  Lifa charged at Bran, her shadow dancer twisting into attack from the opposite side. Bran fired a bolt of light at Lifa, momentarily stunning her. The dancer jumped on Bran’s back, clawing at his hair, pulling a clump from his scalp. Bran roared in pain, and then reached backwards and yanked the shadow up and over his head. At the same time as he tossed the shadow dancer into the air, Lifa flew at him. She was so fast, so strong, that she catapulted them both back along the Stone Pier, tearing up tracks in the concrete. Bran’s light forked from his fingertips, he sent it crackling up to Lifa but she barely flinched with the surge of energy. Bran increased the intensity until sparks of his light spat out from Lifa’s eyes, raining upon him. Although Bran was stronger than she, Lifa punched Bran square on the jaw, earning herself the advantage as his light extinguished.

  Concrete spat up in angry chunks as Bran and Lifa grappled with each other, their twisted limbs scarring the ground, the walls, anything they came into contact with. Bran charged at Lifa, scooping her up by the neck. Lifa kneed back, striking Bran in the chest. Winded, Bran dropped Lifa affording her to be able to return the throat grab. Racing along, pushing at Bran’s throat, she screamed frenziedly. Her face contorted, eyebrows squeezing together, nostrils flaring with her crinkled nose. Spittle formed on her clasped lips.

  Suddenly, Bran’s hands were around her neck, ripping her scream from her. The two of them span around and around, neither relinquishing their hold on the other. Lifa’s shadow dancer ran along the upper wall edge of the Stone Pier and pounced down upon the fighting pair, landing on Lifa’s back she added weight to Lifa and they managed to force Bran to the ground. The dancer clawed Bran’s hair again. Bran cried out as Lifa bit his neck. The metallic tang of his own blood soured his taste buds. Lifa laughed, her teeth made pink with blood. Bran managed to gain the advantage, flipping Lifa and her dancer over so he squashed the shadow against the ground beneath Lifa.