‘So you spent over a century as a prisoner of The Three?’ A wave of guilt washed over Bran. ‘I never knew. I thought you had run to ground, fallen to pieces.’
‘I did fall to pieces,’ Lifa snapped. ‘I was informed I had done the unthinkable and grossly exposed our existence to the human world. It is fine if you’re a stinking Draugr who picks off human prey at will but the rest of us can’t go around turning twenty fishermen and sixteen women into stone without there being some sort of intervention. Whoever—or whatever—those three were, kept me so weak I was unable to walk. I had to crawl across the floor of this room I was in whenever I needed the toilet which, by the way, was some kind of bowl. It sucked the waste from you as soon as it was expelled. Very undignified. My shadow was kept in a room next to me, suspended from the ceiling by a hook. If they sensed I was beginning to strengthen they’d spike my shadow with lightning bolts until she twisted and burned in agony.’ Lifa touched her neck. ‘One time they did it so much, my skin bubbled. Actually bubbled. It was excruciating.’
Bran unfolded his arms and, using his left hand, reached for Lifa, changed his mind and instead laid his hand on the space on the wooden bench between them. He nodded mutely at Lifa to continue.
‘Then, one day, they released my shadow and sent her back to me.’ Lifa shrugged. ‘I was free. Well, almost.’ She twisted on the bench and lifted her hair to expose the back of her neck.
Bran reached out and gently touched the small, glowing nodule protruding from the top of Lifa’s spine. It was surrounded by a fresh scar and throbbed at his touch. ‘What is it?’
‘I think it’s a tracker, so those things always know where I am.’ Lifa shrugged. ‘I am forbidden from leaving this human world. I suppose, it’s their sick idea of rehabilitation. Sentencing me to live forever with this inferior species I could so easily destroy.’
‘But I thought you wanted to come into Hel’s realm with me?’
‘I do.’ Lifa smiled. ‘I must see my Rosalie.’
‘What about your tracker-thingy?’
Lifa shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. I’ll have thirteen minutes to reach Rosalie before it goes off. Those smoky witches told me if I leave this realm, it will take thirteen minutes before the thing inside me does its stuff.’
Bran shifted uncomfortably. ‘What happens when it goes off?’
Lifa fingered the nodule on her neck but did not answer.
‘It’s some form of a bomb, isn’t it?’
Lifa nodded. ‘Correct. After thirteen minutes, boom it implodes, I lose my head.’
‘Let me remove it.’
‘You can’t. I’ve already tried.’
‘If it was put in by those undead creatures perhaps I can remove it even if you can’t. I’m not called The Dark One for nothing. I’m half dead, too.’
‘Yes, because you can always do what I can’t.’
Bran bit his lip. ‘Let me try, Lifa. Please.’
‘First I want to hear your explanation. If you can’t remove the damn thing from my neck and my head pops, I don’t want to die not having heard your excuse.’
‘There is no excuse for what I did.’
Lifa’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you trying to charm me?’
‘Charming is not how I would ever describe myself.’
‘Stop dilly-dallying and tell me why you gave our baby over to that bitch, Hel.’
Bran sighed and rested his back rigidly against the aged wooden bench. Lifting his chin he folded his arms. It looked as if his gaze was fixed on a point in the garden below them but the pain of the past swirled in his irises as he recounted his tale.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Five
1894
Bran’s Story
Bran poured red wine into the earthenware cup on the small table in the kitchen. Rosalie was asleep. She was a good baby. Quiet. Not even one day old and she was already settled in the evening. Lifa, upon Bran’s instruction, had retreated to the rocking chair. Peering over his shoulder to check he was still alone in the kitchen, Bran withdrew a small glass vial from his pocket. Unplugging its cork he tipped the vial’s clear contents into the wine he had just poured. It fizzled briefly before settling down. Bran sniffed the cup. It smelt normal. Good, it needed to.
‘Were you crushing the grapes yourself?’ Lifa teased as Bran swept into the lounge and passed her a cup.
‘Funny.’ Bran lifted Lifa’s feet off the table where she had rested them and sat down, placing her feet in his lap.
‘You’re not having any?’ Lifa lifted the mug to her lips and took a long drink. ‘I needed that!’
Bran massaged Lifa’s feet. He knew the exact spots to make her sigh with pleasure. ‘I’ll have some in a while. I thought you deserved a little pampering first. You gave birth this morning.’
‘You delivered her.’
Bran stroked the smooth skin of Lifa’s ankles. Leaning forward he rubbed his hands firmly up and down her shins, just how she liked. Lifa laughed and pulled her long skirt up and over her knees.
‘Don’t be getting ideas,’ she said with a laugh. ‘We don’t want any more babies yet!’
Bran did not return her laughter. ‘Thank you,’ he said instead. ‘Thank you for giving me the most precious gift ever. No words I can say will ever be enough to convey how much this day means to me.’
Lifa took another glug of her wine. Eying Bran over the top of the cup, she smiled. ‘I didn’t make her all on my own.’
‘You carried her; it was your body that nurtured her, yours that kept her safe.’
‘And you kept us both safe. Even after all of your fears about Hel finding out we were to have a child.’
Bran lifted Lifa’s feet from his lap and gently set them back on the table top. Kneeling before Lifa in the rocking chair he smoothed wayward tendrils of hair from her forehead, before lightly kissing her on the mouth. Beneath his lips, Lifa sighed lightly. Her eyelids flickered shut, then open, then closed.
‘Bran...,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, my love?’ Bran butterflied his lips across her face to her forehead. ‘Lifa?’
Lifa’s head lolled to one side, her lips parted slightly and her breath came out in puffs. Bran eased the cup from her grasp and rested it on the table before scooping her into his arms and carrying her into the bedroom.
* * *
Bran closed the bedroom door behind him. A cool breeze lifted the makeshift curtains from the glazed doors leading to the sand dunes outside. Bran carefully laid Lifa upon their bed, once again smoothing her tousled, purple hair from her face. He spread her hair out to one side, ensuring the ends trailed over the edge of the mattress to keep them neat. Knowing Lifa would never fall asleep in bed wearing a skirt; Bran unbuttoned the waist and eased it from her. She was not wearing a corset, having only given birth that very morning so at least he did not need to fiddle with such intricacies as lacing. He shook the skirt out and carried it to the wardrobe where he hung it up, as Lifa would have done herself.
Rosalie was sound asleep in her basket crib at the foot of the bed. Bran kissed a finger and pressed its tip against his tiny daughter’s forehead. She stirred but did not awake.
‘My precious girls,’ Bran whispered, retreating to the glazed doors. ‘I’m sorry, Lifa, but you need to regain your strength.’
He lifted both hands in the air and whispered a string of words in Old Norse tongue. ‘May you both sleep without waking until the sun rises in tomorrow’s sky. May your ears be closed to sounds other than the lull of sleep. May the breath of evil never touch your precious flesh.’
Violet smoke poured from his hands and spread across the ceiling in a thick blanket, slithering down the walls and across the floor until the whole room was shrouded. Bran dropped his hands and stepped out into the break of night, softly closing the doors behind him.
As Bran had expected, moonlight outshone night’s darkness. Waves crashed around the sand dunes surrounding the wood-boarded house. It was high tide and their l
ittle sanctuary was well and truly cut-off from the mainland by the tumultuous sea. Bran’s mouth formed a grim line. It was better that way; at least no humans would be around to witness what he expected was coming. In truth, he was not entirely sure what was coming he simply knew something was on its way. Something was searching for something else and he knew that the something else was Rosalie.
Bran had been apprehensive the moment Rosalie slid into the world at six that morning. Lifa had not seemed to feel anything other than a rush of love, well apart from exhaustion. Bran paced around the perimeter of the house, his shoulder length, dark hair whipping in the rising wind. Salt spray stung his skin. The sand beneath the leather soles of his boots was damp and his many footsteps left deep imprints. The scrubby grass sprouting from the dunes bent in the relentless breeze. Hairs on the back of Bran’s neck prickled. His nose twitched. The air was different. Above the usual beach scent hung a heavy note of something else entirely more sinister. It was a scent he knew well.
Draegarnae.
Splaying his hands against the rising wind, Bran braced himself. Air blew harder against him, plastering the thin cotton of his white shirt against his sinewy shoulders and chest. With his hair whipping behind him, his usually dark eyes blazed fiercely violet. Light swirls, the same shade as the blazing of his eyes, danced around his hands. Heavy clouds tumbled across the sky, obliterating the useful sheen of the moon, plunging the small, sandy island into darkness.
Bran cursed under his breath and intensified the light from his hands, casting a subtle circle of light around him. He should have lit several candles inside the house by the windows. Idiot, he had not been thinking clearly. He licked his lips and swallowed. The faintest tremor coursed through his body and for a moment his light faltered. Had he made the right decision inducing Lifa with the sleep lulling qualities of Nightshade? Sure, Nightshade was deadly to humans but to those who bridged the gap between life and death, it did little more than bring on a solid six hours’ worth of sleep.
No, he told himself, he had been right to send Lifa to sleep. It was for her well-being. If he had told her what he was expecting to arrive she would have insisted on being by his side. If he had told her to her face he thought she needed to rest, she would have slapped him. Hell, she would have punched him. Hard and in the face. She was stubborn like that. The reason he knew she was so stubborn was because they were so similar; he was also stubborn. Lifting his chin he pulled his shoulders back and widened his stance.
‘You’re not taking her from me!’ he bellowed into the darkness.
The wind swallowed his words. Waves twenty feet high crashed against the shoreline and rose up in watery sheets before shattering and raining upon Bran and the small house behind him. Still, he stood his ground.
‘Is that all you have?’ he screamed. ‘I expected more!’
A single wave, thrice as high as the previous waves, rose from the sea. Its white foam topped point shot menacingly towards Bran. The wave crashed against the shallow shoreline but instead of dispersing, carried on across the sand. Bran leant forward and aimed his streams of light at the wave. Sand parted as the wave sliced across the dunes, sending both sand and mounds of grass into the air. Grains of sand peppered Bran’s face and he lowered his head, keeping an eye-slit gaze on the wave. Thunder clapped and lightning forked up as wave and light met. For a few seconds Bran held the wave back, forcing it to retreat to the shoreline but, suddenly, the wave split into two and the second wave broke free. Bran jumped back as both waves grew taller and wider and pressed forwards, creating a two-pronged slicing attack. Having to split his light between the waves, Bran’s knees buckled.
Perspiration dripped from Bran’s forehead, stinging his eyes. Even his sweat was salty. Cursing under his breath he rubbed first one eye then the other on his shoulders. The milliseconds those two small actions took was enough for the waves to gain advantage. This time they both split, which made four. At breakneck speed the water tore across the dunes, engulfing Bran. Struggling for breath, his light was snuffed. The salty waves lifted him off his feet, carrying him along in their watery hold. Bran kicked out and struggled as hard as he could. Stupidly, he took a breath and water rushed down his throat making him splutter. There was no air. He couldn’t breathe. Panic swept over him, he needed to breathe! He was going to die and Rosalie would be lost. His whole life would have been in vain. He could not die like this—of less use than a ragdoll! Hang on, his heart was slowing. Damn it, he really was going to die. He was half-dead already, surely he could survive this?
Desperate for air, Bran thrust his hands out and called upon his light. Heat surged from within his veins, it was hotter than usual and he was not sure if it was because of the icy water engulfing him or because he was the angriest he had ever been. With a whoosh his light burst from his hands and cut through the water, allowing him to struggle through it. Gulping mouthfuls of oxygen Bran used his light to push against the water, propelling him to the top of the wave. Unsteadily he rode the wave and blasted his light down into its watery core. Angry hisses rose from the water as Bran’s light sliced and cut it. Red-hot bursts of steam erupted from the water splitting it apart. He had to jump from section to section as the water he struck burst in the way of water balloons.
The wave reached the house, lifting some of the tiles from the roof. Bran furiously blasted a tunnel through the wave and slid down it. The instant his feet hit the sand, he span around and blasted upwards, into the water, creating an umbrella of violet light over the house. His arms ached, his shoulders were sore and his skin throbbed but he was determined to beat the waves. Foamy saltwater cascaded over the edges of Bran’s light umbrella. He fought back but his arms shook and he wilted. He knew not how long he held the water back for; however long it was, was too long. Eventually, he ended up on his back in the sand with his hands locked thumb to thumb, his light waning.
Then he heard it. A faint cackle of laughter. It was so distant at first he thought he had imagined it until he heard it a second time. It was a triumphant cackle and one belonging to Hel.
‘Never!’ Bran puffed, struggling to his feet. ‘You will not hold my child captive the same as you did me!’
With a surge of renewed energy, Bran put all of his anger and hate into directing his light at the very core of the wave. With sheer determination he blasted it apart and rapidly took out each parted section until the water crashed down and washed back into the surrounding sea.
‘I beat you!’ Bran punched the air. ‘You are not as strong as me in this world and you never will be, not while you are still down there!’
In answer, wind whistled around him, scooping up sand along its way. The windows in the house rattled and Bran was glad he had cast protection around Lifa and Rosalie. Shielding his eyes with one arm, Bran laughed. He almost collapsed with relief into the sand but his nostrils twitched. Damn, how had he forgotten them? Draegarnae. Where were the blasted shadow demons?
Wiping his face, which was wet with a mix of sweat and saltwater, Bran studied the now water logged sand dunes. The heavy clouds had parted with the water and the moon’s gentle beams illuminated the house. A shadow at the top corner of the roof caught Bran’s eye and he fired out a bolt of violet light. Although he was tired, his aim was sharp and the bolt of light caught the feet of a shadowy figure as it attempted to fly upwards. With an unearthly wail the shadow demon writhed in agony, the light consuming it.
‘One Draegarni?’ Bran scoffed, raising his voice he called, ‘Do you really think one measly demon is enough to defeat me? I’ve controlled more; I use Draegarnae all the time...how little you really know me!’
Although there was no answer Bran knew his voice could be heard by Hel in her realm, Helheimr, far in Niflheim. He knew she would be using one of the bowls from her table to watch his every move in this attack. Maniacal laughter bubbled from Bran’s mouth. He raked a hand through his wet hair, and threw his arms open. Facing the now calmer wind, he closed his eyes and stood ther
e, arms spread, enjoying the cool breath.
Gasping unexpectedly, his eyes sprung open. A searing pain shot through his body as a Draegarni demon passed through him. Another demon shot through him from the opposite side, and another, and then another, until he was shrouded in a writhing mass of the shadow demons. There were so many Bran was pulled this way and that, the demons shooting through his body, winding him with their iciness. Each time a Draegarni tore through his body was akin to being stabbed with the ragged blades of a thousand knives. How many shadow demons were there?
Twenty? No, forty? Wait, no a hundred!
He screamed and a demon flew into his open mouth, choking him and sliding down his throat before erupting from his chest. There was no blood, the demons could not cut him but they could torment him inside. Ear-splitting screeches polluted the air as the Draegarnae dive bombed Bran, tearing into and out of him with evil glee. For twenty, tormented minutes, the Draegarnae dived through Bran, confusing and hurting him.
A demon wrapped around inside Bran’s skull. His mind fogged. Why was he fighting?
There was a good reason...wasn’t there?
With all of the pain he wanted to reach inside his own head and scratch from the inside out.
Mortiswood: Kaelia Falling (Mortiswood Tales Book 2) Page 22