Bran jumped to his feet and threw his hands out, reactivating his light. Rapidly he aimed a succession of bolts at Lifa’s shadow, until it caught alight.
‘No!’ Lifa wailed, patting at her own skin as it too burst into flames. ‘Stop it!’
‘Stop trying to fight me,’ Bran ordered. ‘Or you will force me to burn you both to death.’
‘You took her from me!’
‘I had no other choice!’
Lifa crumpled to her knees, her shadow doing the same. ‘You gave her away...you gave my baby away, she was only three days old!’
Bran ceased firing and clenched his fists to put out his light power, allowing Lifa’s shadow to crawl back to her. ‘She was my baby too, Lifa. She still is my baby. Our baby. Our girl.’
The shadow dancer evaporated back into Lifa, and Lifa’s eyes pooled with tears. ‘She’s still alive? I had feared she would have died by now, it has been so long.’
Bran strode over to Lifa and offered a hand to help her to her feet. ‘Go on,’ he said softly as Lifa hesitated. ‘If you promise to stop behaving like a lunatic, we can talk about Rosalie.’
Lifa grasped Bran’s hand and sniffed back tears. ‘Okay. It’s time to get out of here anyway; people are noticing the damage and there’s a crowd gathering over the other side of the harbour. I can’t be arsed with another fight.’
* * *
Both Bran and Lifa were breathless and wet by the time they stopped running. They had raced through the sea edge along the coastline so fast they left behind a trail of sea foam. The bottom of Bran’s coat was soaked, as were the hems of his jeans, luckily his boots had kept out the worst of the water and his feet were relatively dry. Lifa’s boots reached up to her knees so she had escaped the worst of the water, ending up with a faint white tide mark around her calves where the salt had marked the leather.
The rain had eased off during the time it had taken them to flee from the harbour, although stormy skies still swirled ominously. The long, residential road set back from the chalk cliff edge was littered with parked cars. Usually populated with walkers and those out for a leisurely stroll, the sweeping grassed area atop the white cliffs was, unsurprisingly due to the weather, empty. A neatly trimmed hedge in a shape resembling a rounded off rectangle surrounded a mix of treetops which broke up the even lay of the grass.
‘Down here.’ Bran indicated a gap in the hedging. ‘We won’t be disturbed in here, not when the weather’s as miserable as sin.’
‘It knows my mood.’
Bran and Lifa descended one of two stone staircases leading into sunken gardens. The gardens were broken into two levels; the first did not extend far from the edge of the garden and afforded views down into the further sunken level. A variety of plants and shrubs filled the Italian style garden. It seemed a world away from the seaside outside; peaceful, secluded.
Bran stopped by a bench on the first level of the garden. Planting opposite the bench was kept low and he liked how he could see the whole of the lower level. Rain had settled upon the wooden slats of the bench and Bran flicked his hands out, igniting his light.
‘Allow me.’ He blasted the bench with violet light, drying it, and then turned to his own sodden clothes. ‘Shall I?’ he asked Lifa once he had dried himself.
Lifa half-smiled and nodded. ‘I had forgotten how handy you are at the small things.’ She stood still while Bran radiated his light at low power, drying her top, leggings, and curtain of deep purple hair.
They settled uncomfortably on the bench, each taking an end. Bran cleared his throat. Lifa fiddled with her now dry hair. Neither looked at the other but stared instead at the sunken garden before them. Bran folded his arms across his chest and leant backwards, resting rigidly against the back of the bench. Lifa leant her left elbow on the arm of the bench, crossed and uncrossed her legs, the heels of her boots scuffing the grit beneath them. Bran swallowed, the sound loud in his ears. Several seagulls swooped down into the middle of the garden, the beat of their wings the only audible sound above the rustle of the planting in the salty, cool breeze.
‘I’ll go first, shall I?’ Lifa broke the silence.
Bran nodded tightly, wiping his sweating palms on his jeans. He kept his gaze straight ahead as Lifa started to tell her side of the story.
* * *
Chapter Twenty- Three
1894
Lifa’s Story
Heat hung heavily in unmoving air. Lifa stretched in the bed, it was stuffy under the covers. The sun had not yet begun to rise, it was the hour of the wolf, the time when wolves were said to pace outside peoples’ homes, waiting, watching for a chance to strike. Lifa had been told tales of the evil Vallesm which stalked in the shadows since she had been a little girl. Growing up in Hel’s realm in Niflheim with Bran had been the same as growing up in a bubble. They had been safe, cossetted. The first creatures she had played with had been the Hellhound puppies. Sure, she’d had to be alert with them or risk the loss of a finger, but she had felt safe in Helheimr. Being out here, in the human world, took some getting used to. It had been a whole century since she and Bran had left Hel’s protection. They had been separated, reunited, and separated again, tempted by the delights of human lovers. This time their union had already lasted the longest since they had entered the human world. She and Bran had been living in this beach front home for five years. Five years of bliss. Okay, admittedly not entire bliss, they argued, of course they did. Both of them knew their own minds and neither ever wanted to back down in an argument. Luckily they had both agreed to stay together, especially now.
Lifa pushed the covers back and ran a hand across her warm midriff. It was still soft and larger than usual, her waist not as defined. She smiled. It was worth it, though. She was worth it. Their baby. She rolled the baby’s name around in her head. Rosalie. It even sounded adorable. Lifa’s heart swelled. She had never imagined she would ever be this happy. The past three days had been perfect. The birth hadn’t been as difficult as Lifa had been expecting. She’d seen loads of deliveries of human babies and ninety-nine percent of the time the mother screamed her head off. The creatures in Hel’s realm had been no different when giving birth, except the screams themselves had been enough to turn your blood cold.
Lifa was proud she hadn’t been a screamer. It had hurt. A lot. Far more than any other physical pain she had experienced. Oops, no hang on, the time she was bitten in the calf by a delinquent Hellhound pup had been a tad more excruciating, the beast did, after all, have rather rotten saliva. Anyway, she had only cried out once during the six hour birth. On the stroke of six in the morning, their daughter had been born weighing exactly six pounds. She was a neat, perfect bundle with a pink rosebud mouth and a head of thick, strawberry-blonde hair. They couldn’t tell yet what her powers would be. Would she grow to be a necromancer, a shadow dancer, or a combination of them both?
It didn’t matter what Rosalie grew to be, all that mattered was that she was theirs. Their very own mini-them. Lifa laughed; Hel would be totally cross, she had only allowed them both to leave on the promise neither would reproduce without her blessing. Lifa bristled, who did Hel think she was anyway? She didn’t own them, what right had she to tell them not to bear children? As far as she—Lifa—was concerned they were both free to pop out as many kids as they liked. She rather fancied a few. Rosalie definitely needed at least one sibling. Both she and Bran had been only children and both would have been lonely if it hadn’t been for the friendship of the other.
The curtains at the glazed doors were fashioned from old sheets, Lifa had yet to master the skill of sewing, and moonlight easily penetrated the flimsy cotton material. The bed was rumpled on the side where Lifa sprawled but the other side, where Bran should have been sleeping, was empty. Lifa wasn’t worried; Bran had taken Rosalie for a few strolls along the beach since her birth, when the child had been fractious. The salty sea air had quickly sent the babe asleep in her father’s arms.
Lifa left the bed and grabbe
d the shirt Bran had taken off before bed. Slipping the shirt on, she padded across the room to the doors overlooking the beach. Moonlight bathed the windswept sand and grassy dunes outside. Lifa deftly buttoned the shirt, parted the makeshift curtains, and opened the doors. It was muggy outside, the air lacking the day’s refreshing breath. Usually, at this point of the shore, a cool breeze played with the land. Lifa pushed up the sleeves of the shirt to her elbows and ventured outside. The sand, which during a sunny day would have been warm, was cool beneath Lifa’s feet. Grains here were coarse and littered with fragments of seashells. Tufts of scrubby grass protruded from the sand dunes, their leaves yellowed and rough to the touch.
Lifa slid down the dune leading to the shoreline. Gentle waves lapped against smooth damp sand, the break of them against the shore the only audible sound. Moonbeams danced on the swell of the sea, shattering with the ripples. The beach was empty. Lifa turned back towards the house. A light was lit in the living room and she mentally slapped herself, thinking she should’ve checked there first of all before coming outside. She walked slowly back to the weather boarded house. It was quiet here, no other houses looked over the point, and the road did not even reach within a mile. Access was via a single, bumpy track that was completely covered at high tide, cutting them off from the rest of the mainland. It suited Lifa well, she enjoyed the isolation. It was difficult to fit in, in the human world looking as she did. Isolation did have its advantages. She tingled; she rather enjoyed sex with Bran in the dunes. The way the air lapped around their sweat slicked bodies as they devoured each other. The human lovers she had taken were enjoyable but none had known how to handle her, not like Bran. At times she thought it was as if they had been made for each other’s hands.
Leaving the bedroom doors open to allow what little air there was to come inside, Lifa made her way to the living room. A single candle illuminated the room with its soft, yellow glow. Both of the high backed, comfortable chairs were empty. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished. There was a small bookcase with a collection of leather bound books Lifa had never read, although Bran encouraged her to, a side table with the candle, a hand woven rug in muted reds and browns filled the room almost corner to corner, warming the wooden floorboards—a necessity as wind whistled through their gaps in the winter months, a wooden rocking chair Lifa favoured for nursing Rosalie, and a fireplace that was unused in the summer time.
‘Bran?’ Lifa called. ‘Where are you?’
When there was no response, Lifa hurried through room after room. The kitchen was empty; the table still bearing remnants of the evening meal. The small dining room, study, and the bedroom set to be Rosalie’s own room when she grew large enough, were all empty as well. Panic constricted Lifa, stealing her voice and preventing her from calling out again. She raced to her bedroom and threw open the doors of Bran’s wardrobe. His long coat was missing. Lifa swallowed nervously. It was summer, why did he need a coat?
Unless he was going somewhere cold.
Frenziedly, Lifa tore through the chest of drawers containing Rosalie’s blankets and clothing noticing the thickest blanket was missing as well as a knitted shawl and matching bonnet.
Clutching one of Rosalie’s remaining shawls to her chest, Lifa screamed.
‘No! Bran, you bastard!’
Hot tears stung Lifa’s pursed lips. Smoke rose from her, lifting the intricate markings of her dancer from her skin and into its shadow form. Lifa dressed quickly; foregoing the weight of her heavy, long skirts she wrapped a corset around her waist over the top of Bran’s shirt. Quickly, she laced the corset and pulled out a pair of riding breeches. They were old and fusty but Lifa didn’t care. She needed to run fast. The stupid skirts dictated by human fashion would be a hindrance. The men’s breeches would draw attention to her if she were caught out in daylight but that did not much matter considering her hair was purple. Leaving her hair loose, Lifa nodded to her dancer and together they ran from the house that had for so long been more than a place to shelter, it had been home. She knew if she were right about what Bran had done, she would never want to return here.
* * *
Her own sweat dripping down her face was salty as Lifa skidded to a halt at the beginning of the Stone Pier. It had originally been a pain when work had commenced on the stone structure. The bustle of construction had meant for five years the bridge back to Niflheim had been out of bounds. The Gjallarbru bridge came into the harbour and it had been easy for Bran and Lifa to slip from the end unnoticed by the humans when all that had been in the water had been small fishing boats. Now, even after the pier had existed for almost eighty years, Lifa was still uncomfortable having to be exposed at the end of it when calling up access, although it was handy no longer having to worry about getting wet.
Dawn was breaking and in the harbour several of the small fishing vessels bobbed on the waves. Voices of human men lifted above the sway of the seawater and Lifa glanced over her shoulder, darting down the westward curve of the stone arm. Her dancer skittered around her, tapping her on the shoulder when she saw another fisherman making his way to a boat. Lifa drew up against the octagonal base of the lighthouse and shrank into the shadow of its elegant column. Holding her breath she waited until the man was safely aboard his small vessel before she drew a handful of bone dust from a velvet pouch.
Casting the dust over the sea Lifa chanted, ‘I call for rights of safe passage. My spirit is not yours to take, I tread with feet of those not yet dead, hear my words, to Hel I sheath my powers strong, and I’ll pass through quietly, to your realm I once belonged. Show me now the golden pass, let my feet not cut on blades, show me the way to where fear is made.’
Lifa stepped off the end of the pier and her dancer followed suit. Their feet came down and underneath appeared a brightly shining golden bridge formed from a delicate, latticed metal. Through the base of the bridge Lifa peered into the water underneath. Instead of the usual coloured seawater, the water was now a translucent purple and moved with a fast current. From the riverbed thin barbs of long black-gold hair streamed, a reminder of the deadliness of the Gjoll river. Those who perished in the frozen waters were sucked into the gritty riverbed and suffocated to death, leaving only the tops of their scalps visible. The hair continued growing in the river of the dead, even after the rest of the body was nothing but bone. Slivers of razor sharp silver flashed in the rapids of the river, deadly knives awaiting an unsuspecting victim.
Lifa and her dancer had made it twenty paces along the bridge when it started to shake. The dancer hovered closer to Lifa, wrapping her shadowy arm around Lifa’s lean toned one. Lifa took a stance and braced herself, using her strength to keep balance. She knew what was coming, correction—knew who was coming. A thunderous pounding made the bridge sway ferociously. As much as Lifa’s stance was steadfast she was no match for the motion of the bridge, she crashed into the side of the golden metal and grasped the bars. Even holding on she was unable to stand properly and her feet slid from beneath her. Lifa’s shadow clung onto her and wrapped both arms and legs around Lifa’s torso so she resembled a trembling, shadowy backpack.
For a few moments Lifa could not see the cause of the pounding until a giantess charged into view. With every step forward the giantess took, the bridge swung from one side to the other. Her enormous feet were bare and violet water streamed from the silver robe she wore, running rivulets down her tree trunk wide legs. Straggly, wet hair dripped with the water of the river Gjoll, plastering the strands against her skull. Although the giantess was, well, huge in a fearsome way—being tower block tall, her face was surprisingly delicately featured. With skin as smooth as porcelain her strawberry pink lips made a striking contrast. Lifa knew how beautiful the giantess guardian was; having encountered her numerous times before, but the memory of her was completely different to seeing her in the flesh.
‘Stop being a coward,’ Lifa hissed to her shadow dancer as the giantess skidded to a halt before them. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’<
br />
The shadow shivered. Slowly, she unwrapped one leg from around Lifa and hesitantly placed it on the bridge; next she untangled the second and put her toes down before quickly lifting them back up and clinging on.
‘Stand down, now!’ Lifa ordered sternly.
The dancer slid down, reluctantly removing her arms from around Lifa, and peered over Lifa’s right shoulder at the giantess.
‘Well, well,’ the giantess boomed. ‘If it is not little Lifa the Shadow Dancer returning home. Do you bring me a corpse to eat?’
Lifa shook her head. ‘I do not.’
A scowl darkened the giantess’ face. ‘You know the price of crossing the bridge, Lifa. You are wasting my time.’
‘No, I’m not!’ Lifa protested. ‘I swear I’ll bring two corpses next time I want to cross. I didn’t have any time to waste, I had to come immediately. I’m really not wasting your time, if anyone values time as much as you, it is me. I have to cross into Hel’s realm!’
Shaking her head, the giantess pursed her lips. ‘You know you cannot cross without first bringing me an offering.’
Lifa clutched at her hair. ‘I don’t have time, you don’t understand! I must have access now!’
‘You are denied access, Lifa Shadow Dancer. You may step no further.’
‘No, I must have access. It’s my daughter. Bran has taken my daughter and I know he has passed through here.’
The giantess folded her arms across her wide chest. ‘The necromancer has passed me. I do not deny you that truth.’
Lifa strode forward only to be blocked by an invisible force that catapulted her backwards. Landing on her bottom, Lifa screamed in frustration. ‘Let me through!’ She batted away the shadowy hands of her dancer as the shadow tried to help her to her feet.
‘Return with a fresh corpse and I will grant you access.’
Mortiswood: Kaelia Falling (Mortiswood Tales Book 2) Page 20