by Hazel Hunter
“Why me?” she said, her eyes stinging with the start of tears. She put up a hand to stop his answer, already knowing what it was. “Because I’m the cop.”
“No, my lady,” Raen said and stroked her damp cheek. “Because you are the sister of Tormod’s heart.”
Tormod searched through the crumpled linens on the empty bed, and then glanced under the ticking. “Diana has left, Jema. You dinnae need cloak yourself any longer.” When she didn’t respond his search became more frantic. “Where are you, my lass? Speak to me, now, before I tear apart the room.”
The door creaked open and shut, and Jema materialized, naked but for his tunic. In her hands she held two mugs of hot brew.
“Wench, oft times you terrify me.” He started toward her, his pace slowing to a stop as he saw her strained expression. “You’ve seen the others. They’ve no’ come to capture us. The laird sent them to help us take back Gavin.”
She nodded, and set the mugs aside before she went to close the window shutters. “I have to tell you something.” At last she came to him, and took his hands in hers.
She looked so miserable he didn’t try to jest. “This cannae be good. Mayhap you should no’.”
“I don’t want to,” Jema admitted. “But if it were Gavin, I would want to know.”
What Jema told him next fell on his ears like the blows of heavy fists. She repeated everything she’d overheard Raen, Evander and Diana say while she’d stood just a few feet away. Because she had been cloaked downstairs they hadn’t realized she was listening.
When she finished he couldn’t move. “Surely no’ this. No’ come back as undead. The gods wouldnae be so cruel.”
“Gavin is with her,” she said softly. “He’s a good man. He’ll protect her.”
The paralyzing shock released him, and he backed away from her. “He’ll have no choice. She enslaved him.” He peered at her. “Why would Red keep this from me?”
Jema hugged her waist with her arms. “Maybe she thought it would put you in an impossible situation.”
“Aye. ’Tis that.” Tormod sat down on the bed and propped his head in his hands as he tried to fathom it. “Fenella must have found the crypt. ’Twas likely close to the portal where you crossed over with Gavin.” He shoved his raging emotions deep inside and locked them away before he looked up at his lady. “I must find Thora before the clan does.”
“I know,” Jema said and came to him. When he pulled her onto his lap she pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “There’s a back way out through the kitchen. We’ll leave the inn before they return.”
He drew back to regard her. “Such a canny lass. You’ve already found a way out?”
She smiled and nodded. “We should try to rouse my Viking spirit and see if she can help us.”
Her words cut through him like a hail of scythes. Jema spoke of arousing the Aesir as if the spirit that possessed her was simply an ally waiting to provide wisdom and guidance. He’d never told her of the nature of the Viking gods. They demanded respect and reverence from all mortals while showing very little regard for their lives. If given enough control, the spirit would use her. If that happened, her fate would be little different than that of Fenella Ivar. And that, he could never allow.
“Is there another way?” she asked, as if she could hear what he was thinking. “Maybe you should tell Diana that you know about Thora. She helped us escape Dun Aran. I know she would try to help with your sister.”
Tormod steeled himself for what had to happen next. Gently, he held Jema’s lovely face between his big hands and tipped up her chin to look into his eyes. “Give me a kiss for luck.”
Jema sighed against his lips, opening for him, and shivered as he drew her down to lay beneath him. But as his lips enveloped hers, he smoothly shifted his fingers down. He pressed gently but firmly against the two pulsing veins in her throat. For a moment her eyelids fluttered and she tried to say something, but he kept kissing her until her body went limp a few moments later. Tormod took his hands from her neck and checked her breathing and heartbeat before he stood.
“You will be safe here. Diana and the men will return to set you free. Gods willing, I shall return to you for a sound scolding. You may even beat me if you wish.”
Though it grated fiercely on him to do it, he ripped the bed linens into strips and used them to tie her to the bed. He bent down to kiss her one last time.
“I love you, lass.”
Jema’s lips parted, and a melodic, unearthly voice came out of her mouth. “The chaos will not end with ice, son of Arn. Fire must also play her part.”
He backed away from the bed as the rage boiled up inside him. “I give myself to the Aesir, but you cannae have her. If my life is no’ enough then fack you and Odin and Asgard to Hel.”
The golden arrow from Jema’s arm shot through the air, stopping to hover an inch from Tormod’s right eye.
I, too, loved, the voice whispered inside his head. Thora the Merciless offered her heart and vowed her devotion. Yet when I gave her my most powerful and precious jewel, she used it to betray me. When she would not return it, I cursed her.
Tormod scowled. Thora cursed? She’d been the chosen of the Aesir from the day of her birth. But then he thought back on her burial. It had evaded him for centuries in its remote location and hidden with cunning traps. There was naught about it that spoke of honoring her life as a shieldmaiden. No, it had been secreted away as one would bury the plague.
“I am not Thora,” he said, holding out his arms. “Use me. I shall be your vessel. There is no one she trusts more than her brother.”
So be it. The arrow darted down, piercing his sleeve and burying itself in his skinwork. I will guide you to her, son of Arn. Together we will take back what she has stolen.
Tormod pulled back his tunic, gritting his teeth as the golden arrow etched itself in the center of his skinwork. The design of his helm rippled and changed, becoming a circle of map points with the arrow pointing north.
Looking at Jema, he felt a little better. She would be safe, and all the risk of carrying the Aesir would be his. In time, he hoped she would forgive him.
He picked up the axe, and tucked it in his belt. To the arrow he said, “Take me to Thora, Freyja.”
Chapter Nineteen
THE MOMENT THE sun set Quintus opened his eyes, and stared up at the moldy wood of the deck overhead. He had never favored traveling by boat. The stink of the ocean permeated everything. Having an island stronghold required the use of the black ships, but the McDonnels had before proven they could send them to the bottom of the sea. He would not be at ease again until he recovered Fenella and returned to the safety of Staffa.
An hour later a knock came at the door to his cabin, and the mortal captain of the ship entered. “Forgive the intrusion, Tribune. This message came with the supply boat from Tarvodobran. The centurion on deck said you would wish to see it at once.” The captain bowed before he offered a scroll.
Since Fenella had vanished Quintus had felt an inexplicable and growing sense of urgency. From the evidence found at the forest grave site her men had all died to protect her. He’d ordered all the mainland patrols to search for her while he’d hunted through his library for more stories about Freyja’s Eye. References to the disastrous sea battle repeatedly warned against sailing near a small island near the waters where all the ships had sunk. In every text the same reason had been cited: the island had been cursed by the gods. Since the Ninth Legion had been made undead under very similar circumstances Quintus wondered if the Eye might provide more than leverage against the McDonnel Clan.
From the scroll, Quintus read the alarming news that an entire patrol had been wiped out at a farm in the highlands. One centurion had survived by crawling into the farmer’s grain storage fougou, where he was able to heal and wait for darkness. The sole survivor claimed that Fenella Ivar alone was responsible for slaughtering his patrol, and would likely try to steal a black ship.
Quintus consul
ted his map of the coast and the roster of the ships’ schedules. The only ship in the region was the supply boat, the Ebon.
“Extinguish all the lights. Have the lookouts watch for the Ebon.”
“At once, Tribune,” the mortal said and hesitated. “Your chamber wench awaits your command.”
“Send her in.” Quintus rolled up the map and stowed it in his trunk.
The female mortal who came into the room had dressed in a fine gown, and wore her dull brown hair in a single long braid. Like all blood thralls she appeared happy and eager to please him. She dropped into a deep curtsey before she reached for the fasteners on her bodice.
“No,” Quintus ordered and stared at her as he remembered the placid blue of Fenella’s eyes when she had been mortal. “What is your name?”
“Bryn, milord.” She bobbed a second time. Sturdy and plump, she had rounded cheeks that made her eyes almost disappear when she smiled. “How may I please you?”
As his mortal thrall Fenella had been as eager, and he had fallen in love with her. It had been that love that had compelled him to turn her after Ermindale had tried to kill her. Fenella had been a dangerous distraction, his former prefect had claimed, and later he predicted she would turn on Quintus. Knowing the marquess had been right in his suspicions was a bitter draught to swallow.
“Milord?” Bryn said sounding hopeful, even when she had no hope.
He focused on the mortal, and for the first time saw the paleness of her flesh. She might survive another feeding or two, but no more. She would die of blood loss, gasping for breath as Fenella had. But if Quintus turned Bryn, would she become as vicious? Or could he mold this female into something more than a selfish, greedy killer like Fenella? Though she’d had her faults, she’d been quite useful.
“What were you before you came to us?” he asked as he tugged up Bryn’s sleeve.
“A hoor in the town of Pennan, milord.” She sidled closer to him as she offered him her wrist. “Shall I lift my skirts?”
“No, my dear,” Quintus said and bit into her flesh, drinking her hot blood until her knees gave way. He bore her to the deck, draping her over his arm and draining her until he felt her heartbeat stutter. Then he tore a gash in his own wrist, and pressed her mouth to it. Feeling her drink his tainted blood filled him with an unexpected, savage satisfaction.
For reasons still mysterious to Quintus, turning a female mortal to undead took less time than with a male. The process also proved much more violent, so once she had taken enough of his blood he carried her over to his bed and shackled her to it.
Bryn smiled up at him. “Thank you, milord.”
“Rest now, my dear.” As she died and began her conversion, he covered her face with the blanket. “When you awake, we shall have much to do.”
Quintus went to the upper deck and joined two of his centurions at the front of the ship. Running without lights made them virtually invisible to the shore as well as other vessels, and his men had taken positions at the railings to keep watch for the Ebon.
“Advise your men that Fenella Ivar no longer serves the Ninth as prefect,” he told one of the centurions as he watched the waters. “She is to be treated as a traitor, but take care. I do not want her killed until we recover the Eye. Once we have the jewel, you will bring her to me in shackles.”
Until she was a prisoner, Quintus had no intention of being near her.
The captain hurried over to them and pointed to a cluster of lights moving north. “A black ship departs the docks at Tarvodobran, my lord.”
Quintus felt calm finally settle over him. “Change course and follow it.”
Jerking on the bindings that Tormod had left her in proved useless. Unless Jema got help she’d be stuck on the bed until Diana found her or her lover came back.
She felt completely ridiculous. She’d been so busy kissing her Viking that she hadn’t even felt the pressure he’d used on her throat until a few seconds before she blacked out. She should be furious with him, but when she saw the golden arrow missing from her forearm she understood. He’d offered himself to the Aesir again, sacrificing himself to save her.
Jema couldn’t let that happen.
“Help!” she called out. “Help!”
Though it took a few more yells, the door to the room finally rattled and then swung open. A maid stopped in her tracks, her jaw dropping as she saw Jema.
“Please, help me,” she said, and hated herself as she added, “I’ve been stolen from my family by that Viking.”
“Oh, ye poor thing,” the girl said and rushed over and untied the strips of bedding. Once she helped Jema to her feet, she said, “I’ll summon the sheriff’s men. They’ll find the bastart.”
“He went south to steal horses,” Jema told her, and waited for her to leave before changing into her clothes and cloaking herself.
Rushing out of the inn through the kitchen door, Jema tried to think where Tormod would go. But seeing that it was night made her fear spike. He could already be gone.
A familiar burning on her chest made her duck between two buildings to uncloak. When she pulled out the map disc, its fine etchings already glowed with white light. Though she had no map to shine it on, she pointed it at the ground. A series of circles and triangles illuminated in sequence one after another, and as she followed the direction of their travel, they pointed directly to the town’s main pier.
“Please be right,” Jema murmured as she cloaked herself and ran for the docks.
A number of boats and small fishing vessels had been tied to the pier posts, and Jema had to weave her way through a busy cluster of men unloading the day’s catch from nets into a huge cart. Once she got past them she saw several empty dories and one last boat where a man was raising a sail.
Tormod.
Moving as silently as she could, Jema walked down the last stretch of planks until she stood beside the sail boat. Tormod tied off the sail and reached for the rope around the pier post, when he suddenly looked up into her eyes.
“Fack me,” he muttered, but then shook his head and shoulders as if throwing off a chill.
Jema barely had time to step onto the side deck as he cast off. Her Viking steered the boom so that the sail caught the wind. The narrow hull began to cut through the water as the boat moved away from the docks.
With hardly any empty space on the upper deck, Jema was forced to stand against the main mast. Tormod was only a few feet away, close enough that if he stretched out an arm he could touch her. She started to sigh and then caught herself. If she made any noise he would find her, and turn the boat around to take her back to the inn.
His shoulder suddenly glowed with light, and while Tormod looked down at it he adjusted his course.
So the Aesir were guiding him, she thought. No wonder he hadn’t used his water-travel. He needed to see the tattoo.
Anger flooded Jema as she stared at the golden arrow. The Gods, if there really were any, expected too much from Tormod. Hadn’t he suffered enough? When would they finally be done with him?
Jema bit her lip as her forearm grew hot, and something on her cheek did the same.
It is time for you to hide again, blood of Anea, blood of Eryk, a melodic voice said inside Jema’s thoughts. Tormod will find his sister, but you must find the jewel. You will bring it to him, or your lover will die.
How can I find the Eye when I don’t know where it is? She winced as her arm seemed to catch fire. Yes, right. You’re all powerful. You’re going to show me.
I will show him where to find his sister. He will keep her distracted while you do your work. The spirit’s voice grew flinty. Do not disappoint us, Jema McShane. He is long beloved of the Aesir. We will see the son of Arn rewarded for his valiance.
Jema looked at the lantern light gilding her Viking’s face. So will I.
The sight of the black ship anchored just beyond the skerry made Tormod extinguish his lantern. Once he drew close enough, he took down the sail and dove over the side of the bo
at. Swimming through the icy sea water, he thought of Jema, and wished now he hadn’t left her at the inn. He could have taken her to Diana, or explained why she couldn’t go with him. He might have asked her to wait for him, but it was too late now.
Tormod used the rocky outcroppings on the shore as cover, and moved carefully inland. The tiny island appeared to be mostly rock that was honeycombed with tidal tunnels. It was topped by a mound of shell and driftwood built up around a narrow depression in the ground. Waves crashed all around the skerry, misting the air with spindrift. As Tormod scaled the rocks, he looked out for nests before he took a handhold. That was when he realized there were no birds anywhere, nor crabs or voles or even hares.
Could it be that not a single living creature resided on the island?
A flickering torch appeared on the opposite side of the mound, carried by a big man dressed in a hunter’s tunic and jacket, with faded blue trews like Jema’s. He looked pale but determined, and from the muscle that strained at the tunic’s seams he’d be a brute in a fight.
Gavin. Tormod crouched down to watch as Jema’s brother stopped to look around the mound before glancing over his shoulder and nodding. While he was looking away Tormod changed positions, gaining enough elevation to see inside the pit. Dark, churning water filled a perfect oval in the center of the mound.
A sea well, fed by the island’s tidal tunnels but cut off from the ocean.
Tormod flinched as Fenella Ivar walked into the torchlight, her golden hair now a rich dark brown, and her eyes no longer black. She had dressed herself like a farmer, and for a moment he wondered if it were all a terrible ruse. Then Fenella bent down to pick up a shell, and with a flip of her wrist tossed it into the sea well.
Closing his eyes could not remove the memory of Thora doing the same thing on the shores of Skye as she threw rocks into the sea. The heat in his shoulder vanished as he stood, drawing the axe from his belt. He stepped into the light cast by Gavin’s torch.