Serpent's Kiss

by Deborah Cooke

  He saw a light, a bright spot in the blood, and instinctively tried to swim toward it. He wasn’t sure his efforts made any difference, but the rippling walls pushed him closer to the light. The beating became faster and he realized it was a pulse, a heartbeat but not his own. His surroundings convulsed again, forcing him into the light.

  Understanding dawned as the baby Thorolf had once been was shoved into the cold light of the world.

  He could hear his mother panting, although he couldn’t feel her heartbeat anymore. The midwife cleaned off his face and he took his first choking breath. She blew into his mouth to make the second breath easier, and he saw her triumphant smile when he took another breath and hollered at the indignity of being shoved into a cold world. Then she laid him on his mother’s belly. He felt a hand cradle his head, his mother’s hand, and closed his eyes as the glorious familiar sound of her pulse resonated beneath his ear. It was too far away, but hearing it and feeling it reassured him.

  His mother. Tears pricked Thorolf’s eyes.

  She’d died too soon.

  “A boy,” the midwife announced, in a language Thorolf hadn’t heard in many centuries.

  It was a language he’d never wanted to hear again. He stifled his resentment and his anger, knowing that this vision must have a purpose. He should just go with it.

  For now.

  It was strange that he was both observer and participant in this vision: his own distant memories were mingled with what he had learned since that day. The infant couldn’t have seen his surroundings as well as Thorolf did now. He recognized the hut, his mother, the midwife who had died when he was ten, the smell of the peat fire, the trunk against the wall where his mother had kept all of her treasures. He knew without looking that it was snowing outside. The feel inside the hut had always changed in the winter. He knew all of this, even as he felt the wonder of his own self in these first moments. He smelled the dead deer just before the door opened to admit his father.

  His breath caught, his emotional reaction shaking him. He felt the old anger, and could have expected that and the burn of betrayal, but was surprised by the warm presence of love.

  That was a lie. His father had never loved him. Thorolf had loved his father and believed himself loved, but he’d learned the truth of that when it counted. He’d gotten over it.

  Still, it wasn’t all bad to see his father again.

  Thorolf remembered his father as being large and powerful in both forms, a giant of a man with a resounding laugh and ferocious loyalty to those he called his own. He’d been a Pyr who didn’t mind making different choices from others: in his day, few dragon shifters had remained with their mates after the firestorm, but Thorvald had.

  Thorvald had been a fierce and decisive judge, too.

  Thorolf remembered that detail a bit too well.

  His father was dressed in furs and leather, his shoulders covered with snow, his beard long and fair, his eyes as bright a blue as a summer sky. A deer was flung over his shoulder, his hunting knife jammed into his belt. He looked vital and male, a man providing for his family in the midst of winter. He also looked younger than Thorolf remembered him, but then, the day father and son parted was the memory that haunted him. That was decades away from this moment, and he wished with sudden force that they hadn’t disagreed.

  That he hadn’t been judged and found wanting.

  Thorolf felt his mother’s pulse skip at his father’s appearance and recognized that the firestorm had continued to light the days and nights of these two.

  “A boy, Thorvald,” she whispered and Thorolf’s father grinned. He shut the door behind himself and slid the deer to another table.

  The midwife stood and bowed deeply, even as Thorvald came to his wife’s side. He bent and kissed her cheek, pushing the damp hair back from her face. His smile was filled with such tenderness and affection that Thorolf’s heart clenched. He’d seldom seen this side of his father’s nature. “I knew it would be a son, Solveig,” he said with a confidence Thorolf recalled. “And I knew he would be strong. My fear was all for you.”

  He bent and kissed her, and Thorolf watched as she closed her eyes in relief. A tear slid from the corner of one eye and Thorvald captured it with one roughened finger, lifting it to his own mouth as he watched her. “Nectar of the gods,” he said, as he always had when he’d removed Solveig’s tears.

  As Thorolf remembered, it made her smile.

  It was remarkable to witness this moment, this emotion in a man who had usually hidden all of his emotions from view.

  Solveig smiled, then exhaled. Her features softened, her gaze locked upon her Pyr until her eyes closed. She slept and Thorvald watched her avidly, even as the midwife cut the cord, cleaned and wrapped the new baby.

  “She will survive?” he asked, his fear clear.

  “It was hard for her,” the midwife said softly. “He’s big, like his father. He was not easily brought to light.”

  Concern lit Thorvald’s eyes and Thorolf saw his grip tighten on his mother’s hand. “She will be well, though?”

  “Tomorrow I will tell you for sure. If she is well, you should wait a while before another,” she cautioned and Thorvald nodded, still watching his mate.

  The midwife bit her lip, then decided to speak outright. “Maybe you should not have another, but be content with one.”

  Thorvald smiled. “Who is ever content with one?” he joked and the midwife smiled. “The choice is Odin’s, in the end.”

  The midwife’s lips tightened a little. “So all the men say,” she muttered.

  Thorolf knew it would be the second son who killed Solveig, both infant and mother dying in childbirth. His mother would live five years after Thorolf’s birth, long enough for him to remember her and mourn her loss.

  But these people didn’t know that. Not yet.

  He suspected the midwife saw many women die in labor, for the only way to completely prevent more pregnancies was to abstain. The passion between his parents was such that Thorolf knew that unlikely to happen.

  And it hadn’t.

  Once he had blamed his father for his mother’s death. Once he had flung that crime in the old Pyr’s face, believing that his passion had been selfish and out of control. Now he saw his father’s fear for his mate’s survival and realized the truth his father had hidden from him.

  It was startling to think he hadn’t known everything about Thorvald. How much else had his father hidden from him?

  The midwife lifted Thorolf into her arms, clearly intending to focus on the good news. “A fine boy you have, Thorvald. I can tell you today that he will be well.”

  “Indeed. I heard his robust cry. He is big and strong.” Thorolf’s father smiled, and reached a hand to gently touch his son in wonder. “We will feast for three days and nights to celebrate his birth. His name will be Thorolf, son of Thorvald, son of Thorkel.” His eyes burned with a pride that tightened Thorolf’s throat. “He will be the first of my sons and the greatest, the one who carries the power of my lineage, the son who wields the Avenger of the Aesir.”

  Inevitably, there it was. Thorolf wasn’t surprised but he was disappointed. His father was glad of his birth because he had a task for him. Barely out of the womb and there were expectations, measurements, duties and obligations.

  Thorolf remembered all too well how that task had gone. He hadn’t forgotten about his father’s blade, but he’d never wielded it and he hadn’t worried about it once he’d ditched it. He could see the sword in his mind’s eye, the Helm of Awe carved into its pommel, the vicious blade flashing like lightning as his father trained him to use it.

  Seeing it again, he remembered what a majestic weapon it was.

  But it had nothing to do with him. The price had been too high.

  “He will be more than that,” a woman said in a sultry voice.

  Thorvald and the midwife spun to confront the woman who had silently entered the hut. Thorolf felt his father’s alarm, for the door hadn’t
opened again, and she hadn’t been there before.

  It was Chandra, in the form she’d taken in this temple. She looked incongruous in this place, modern and purposeful, as well as being of different coloring than the others. Her tattoos looked right though, although they seemed to glow, as if she were lit from within. She possessed a sense of command that seemed to startle the midwife and Thorvald’s father as much as her clothing and coloring.

  Thorolf blinked and stared, but it was Chandra.

  How could that be?

  Was she older even than him?

  What was she?

  Chandra strode closer as they stared at her, the crossbow in her left hand. She glanced at the child, then her gaze locked on Thorvald. At her expectant expression, he fell to his knees before her. “You are one of them,” he whispered, bowing his head and holding his son protectively against his chest. “The Vanir, walking in our midst.”

  The Vanir? Whoa! Chandra was a goddess?

  If so, that explained a lot.

  And, incidentally, left Thorolf with a million questions.

  The midwife fell to her knees and bowed her head as well. She began to murmur a prayer.

  “I’ve been sent to choose a hero,” Chandra said crisply. She was perfectly at ease with their reactions and seemed to have expected as much. “I choose your son.”

  Thorvald caught his breath.

  Thorolf felt a chill slide through his body as Chandra planted a kiss on the baby’s head. Quicksilver raced through his veins from the point of contact, a sensation not unlike the firestorm’s touch but cold instead of hot. Her lips were cool and firm, not soft and warm as they’d been when he’d kissed her. It was a dutiful kiss.

  A blessing.

  She stared into the baby’s eyes, and Thorolf saw the thousand shades of blue, grey and silver snared in her eyes. When she spoke, her tone so authoritative that no one dared defy her. “You have the blade and he has the mark of my blessing. Together, they will make it right. He will be the salvation of the Pyr and of the world.”

  Defiance rose in Thorolf at her words. She had no right to claim him and command him without his consent. She had no business assigning him a job.

  Was that what her refusal to sate the firestorm was about? Did he have to pass some kind of test first? Besides, the Pyr didn’t need saving.

  “But the Pyr don’t need saving,” Thorvald protested. Thorolf was startled to hear his unspoken reply on his father’s lips.

  Chandra smiled. “Not yet.” She nodded at Thorvald. “I give you my pledge that he will survive until they do.”

  Thorolf shivered, fighting a major case of the goosebumps.

  Chandra held Thorvald’s gaze, her air of command a palpable force. “You will pledge to me that you will bestow the Avenger of the Aesir upon him.”

  Thorvald bowed deeply. “I can do nothing else, my lady.”

  Did anyone ever say no to her? Thorolf thought it unlikely.

  Chandra spun on her heel, as if to leave, but never reached the door. She disappeared instead, her form replaced by a flurry of what looked like falling snowflakes. The flakes twinkled, then disappeared in a heartbeat.

  She might never have been there at all.

  Thorolf was aware of his father’s astonishment and the midwife’s uncertainty, even as the vision was obscured by swirling snow. He had a good bit of uncertainty of his own and more than a little irritation. How could his mate be a goddess? How could she be the one who had set him on the path to failure?

  How could his firestorm not be about love and partnership? Thorolf had spent centuries yearning for his firestorm, for a woman and mate who would love him for what he was, and not for what she could do for him.

  Yet the firestorm was simply bringing him back to his father’s unfinished business, back to what had been called his destiny, back to an obligation that he’d never wanted and had refused to fulfill.

  It was wrong.

  It was unfair.

  And it was Chandra’s fault.

  * * *

  Thorolf opened his eyes to find himself back in the temple of skulls, with Chandra before him. She was watching him with dismay, as if she were shocked.

  Well, that made two of them.

  “You started it,” he said, shoving the skull back into her hands. Her fingers shook and he thought she might drop it. He was too pissed off to care. “You!”

  Her mouth opened and closed, and she stammered as if lost for words. It wasn’t like her, but Thorolf didn’t care. For all he knew, her apparent surprise was another trick. He’d been betrayed in every possible way, and his mate was at the root of it.

  His mate.

  A memory he would have preferred to avoid was filling his mind and his senses. He smelled ash. He smelled burning skin. He saw destruction and felt the weight of his own failure to defend what he loved. He felt ripped apart all over again, furious and devastated.

  And Chandra had launched the whole thing, by choosing him at birth for a task he didn’t want.

  “This is why you don’t want to satisfy the firestorm,” he charged and she flushed scarlet. She didn’t deny his accusation, though, which stung. “Because I haven’t done what you wanted me to do. You’re just like my father: everything is an exchange.”

  “It’s not like that,” she said, stammering a little in a way that was both uncharacteristic and endearing. Thorolf gritted his teeth, not wanting to cut her any slack at all. “You don’t understand.”

  “The problem is that I do understand.” Thorolf flung out his hand. “Everything, all of it, was your fault!”

  Chandra lifted a hand, maybe to beg for his understanding, but Thorolf didn’t care. He refused to be affected by her show of vulnerability. He’d manage to hang tough as long as she didn’t cry.

  He couldn’t imagine Chandra crying, which gave him a chance.

  “You weren’t supposed to see that…” she began but Thorolf interrupted her.

  “Not part of your plan? I’m guessing that everything always goes the way you want, seeing that you’re a goddess. I’m guessing that no one ever says no to you.”

  “That’s not how it is!”

  She looked angry, which worked for Thorolf in a big way. He’d make her just as mad as he was, then she’d never cry.

  Then he’d never cave, just to make the tears stop.

  “No? Well, maybe you’re right about the firestorm,” he said, tossing it like a taunt. “Maybe we shouldn’t satisfy it. Maybe it would just be another mistake.”

  Chandra bristled and her eyes flashed. Her displeasure was making sparks fly between them. The firestorm shimmered around her, caressing her hair, her lips, and making her look touched by moonlight. It was easy to believe in this moment that she was a goddess.

  A goddess and his mate.

  Thorolf felt awed by the firestorm’s gift, but fought against it. Chandra wasn’t telling him all of the truth. He shouldn’t trust her.

  But he couldn’t look away either. “So, it’s fine for you to decide against the firestorm and say you don’t want me, but quite another for me to agree with you?” Thorolf scoffed deliberately. “Is everyone supposed to want you?”

  “That’s not the point,” she retorted. “What about your responsibility to your kind?”

  Responsibility was just about the worst argument she could have made, if she’d been hoping to change his mind.

  He shrugged, as if he didn’t care. “They’re probably better off without me. Last thing they need is another one from my bloodline.”

  Chandra’s eyes snapped with fury. “That’s not what you just saw,” she scolded. She jabbed a finger through the air at Thorolf. “You’re destined to wield the blade that saves them forever. You can’t turn your back on that!”

  Thorolf folded his arms across his chest, kept his tone indifferent, and watched the show that was his mate. She had to be the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen—and there were dozens of versions of her. He couldn’t wait to meet them all.
“I didn’t volunteer.”

  “Destiny isn’t that picky!” She straightened. “You were chosen.” She inhaled, pride in her stance. “I chose you and I’m never wrong about champions.”

  “But I’m choosing not to play.”

  “You can’t do that…”

  “Of course I can. I don’t have the sword, and I’m not going to look for it.” He leaned down so that their noses were almost touching to let her see his resolve. The firestorm was a brilliant silver orb of light, snapping and crackling between them. “Your assignment isn’t my problem anymore.”

  Chandra drew herself up to her full height and braced her hands on her hips to lecture him. Thorolf was starting to hope she’d smite him. Otherwise, the desire fed by the firestorm might make him spontaneously combust. Even knowing what he did of her—and how conflicted it all was—he wanted her with every fiber of his being. “You have a duty and a responsibility,” she said through gritted teeth. “You can’t just walk away…”

  “Watch me.”

  “You were chosen,” she argued, her voice rising. “You have an obligation. Your father vowed…”

  Thorolf couldn’t resist her any longer. He caught her by the nape, lifting her to the tips of her toes. The mention of his father made him feel volatile and angry, and he saw the pale blue glow that heralded his shift to dragon form. “Now you’re the one who doesn’t understand.” She felt small and precious in his grip, and the firestorm once again turning his anger to desire. He couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or wrestle with her.

  “Then explain it to me,” she whispered.

  The words could have been a challenge, but her voice had gone all soft and breathy. Her gaze was flicking over him, her awareness almost tangible. Thorolf could smell her arousal, which didn’t help him think straight at all. The firestorm was sparking and glittering between them, brilliant white and silver, its touch turning his blood to fire.