"How is it that we're even still alive?" Skinner asked, grappling with disbelief. "I was there. We shouldn't have been able to escape. We were surrounded on all sides by motherfucking undead..."
Jake had died in Tucson—three times over the course of a single night. However, he kept his mouth shut since his death didn't count. No matter how awful or grievous the injury, he always got back up in the end. Whole and sound in body, if not mind.
"They drove us out. The Necromancer is playing with us. I don't doubt he's taking direct orders from Loki." Jake summoned his worn patience. He and Skinner had already had this exact conversation and a couple variants of it over the course of the past three days since their defeat in Tucson.
"What the fuck are we going to do, Jake? We can't win." Opening and closing his fists, Skinner looked to Jake for answers. An awful thing to witness, such a strong man reduced to beseeching.
As second-in-command, Skinner's crisis of faith fairly represented all hunters as a whole. The spirits of many in the ranks were flagging. As a result of the death and destruction of the last several months, his people suffered from severe battle fatigue. Even a fresh infusion of new recruits, courtesy of the U.S. military, hadn't alleviated the stress. They needed Jake to be strong, now more than ever.
"That's what Loki wants. To instill defeat in our hearts. He desires to reduce us to despair and agony. Seeing us suffer means more to him than simple death. So that's what we must deny him. I refuse to allow him to win." Jake infused his voice with unwavering resolve. Drawing on the magic that connected all hunters, he projected his determination to Skinner and on to his followers.
"Right. The bastard won't win." Skinner squared his shoulders, set with renewed conviction. "We're dug in. Our defenses at Red Butte are as ready as they're going to be without reinforcements. Sir…"
The other man's uncharacteristic hesitation set Jake on edge. He tilted his head back but the position produced pain from the knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders. “What?”
"Are we going to move our families?" Skinner blurted out the question. The man never hesitated to risk his own life, but his wife and son were another matter.
"Not yet." Jake's tone allowed no refusal or discussion. He suffered similar anxiety for the safety of his own sons, but evacuating their families did no good if there was no safe place to send them. He had a possible sanctuary in mind, but it wasn't time.
Not yet.
"What about Finn and his people?" Skinner asked of the White Mountains Tribe of wolf shifters, the potential allies they'd been courting since the short but bloody hunter-werewolf war had ended. In the natural course of things, wolves detested the undead with a fiery passion. The wolves were few in number, but powerful.
And as contrary as a woman convinced of her rightness.
Jake suppressed the impulse to swear. Fucking werewolves never stopped complicating his life. Instead, he said, "I'm still working on that."
Skinner grunted. "Better work faster."
"Yeah."
After he and Skinner parted ways, Jake drove home and parked in the driveway of his single-story suburban home. The house was quiet but not empty. As he entered through the garage, Michael's Rottweiler mix, Rascal, met him at the back door. The dog's tail wagged in greeting, but the animal gazed past Jake, seeking his master.
"It's just you and me tonight, mutt." He patted Rascal's head in passing. For all his complaining, Jake had a marked rapport with both dogs and wolves in particular. A poet might have called them kindred souls.
Rascal whined but followed him. Ultimately, the dog's empty stomach trumped the inconvenience of second-rate companionship. The canine accompanied him through the empty halls of the home he'd shared with his wife. Since Sarah's death over two years before, he hadn't changed a single thing. The interior remained intact, just as she'd left it.
Jake fed Rascal canned food and zapped leftover pasta in the microwave for himself. He passed the evening in the family room, lounging in his favorite armchair with Good Omens by Terry Pratchett. A heavy weight resting upon his knee drew him out of the story. He peered at the Rottweiler, and an involuntary smile cracked his hard face.
"Sorry, boy. You're stuck with this old man for a few more hours." Jake closed his book, and he stroked the dog's silky head.
With a mournful moan, Rascal stared at him with pleading eyes. In response to the attention, his tail produced a half-hearted thump but the dog clearly missed Michael. Having survived a traumatic ordeal together, the pair was inseparable. Initially, it had proven to be a challenge to convince the boy he had to leave the animal while he was at school.
Hours passed, and the ratchet of slamming doors and competing voices shouting over one another signaled the return of his sons. Barking, Rascal leapt to his feet and galloped from the room. A short time later the boys burst into the kitchen which was open to the family room. Rascal trotted on Michael's heels.
JD made a beeline for the pantry while Gage opened and hung on the door of the refrigerator, gazing into the cavernous depths. The teenagers appeared energetic in sharp contrast to Michael. The laggard six-year-old wandered into the room last, covering a yawn with his hand. All three sounded jovial as they argued music, naming bands Jake wasn't sure he'd ever heard of and probably didn't care to know. His tastes tended to old time rock and roll.
"Did you have a good time?" He noted the time—half past nine—but decided not to reprimand them. Instead, he closed his book, set it on the side table, and eased to his feet.
"Yeah, it was great." JD extracted an armful of various boxes and bags from the pantry and dumped them onto the counter.
"Yep." Holding a gallon of milk, Gage dug out a package of tortillas.
"Didn't you go for pizza?" Jake entered the kitchen as the twins added even more food to the rapidly expanding pile. His critical gaze swept the collection. He sighed.
"Geez, Dad. That was three hours ago." JD swept past the hanging pot rack and snatched two frying pans.
"Make sure you clean up the kitchen afterward."
"Will do."
He directed his next words to Michael. "You ready for bed, Champ?"
"Yeah." The boy nodded, smothering another yawn.
"No story tonight. It's late."
Michael agreed without protest, a sign of how tired he was. In short order, the boy brushed his teeth and changed into pajamas while Jake let the dog out one last time. Then, he tucked his son in with Rascal stretched out across the foot of the bed.
"Are you ready to sleep with the lights off?" Jake asked before he left.
"No. Leave them on." Michael gripped the sheet covering him in clenched hands. "Please."
"Good night, kid."
"Good night."
The lights were a concession to the boy's nightmares, the same as the dog on the bed. With his older sons, he'd always forbidden pets on the furniture. Lately, though, he'd gotten downright soft as far as discipline went, and the twins never missed an opportunity to give him a hard time about it.
The child fell asleep immediately.
Leaving the table lamp on, Jake padded from the room and closed the door behind him. He rejoined his older sons and passed another hour hanging out before they went to bed. He double-checked all the doors to be sure they were locked and checked in on Michael one last time.
The child slept safe and sound, and forlorn longing filled Jake's heart. If only he had it in his power to keep it that way.
Chapter Three
Sessrúmnir, Freya's hall in Fólkvangr
Freya sprang forth and revealed herself with a flourish that set her gown to fluttering about her luscious feminine form. The intruder lifted his face and regarded her with an unblinking stare that was markedly similar to that of both cats.
Arik Koenig, former attorney-at-law and the general of Freya's army, sat on the raised lip of a planter bursting with ferns. In his late thirties, the man was fine in both fitness and form, though there was a touch of gray in his br
own hair. He had a broad chest and shoulders, muscular arms and legs. His features had splendid symmetry, though a silver scar on his right cheek marred his perfection. The shape of his brow, nose, and lower face hinted at a distant Roman heritage. High cheekbones alluded to his Nordic blood.
"How dare you threaten my precious Bygul with slipperification!"
"Slipperification?" Arik arched a querulous eyebrow.
"I heard you say it with my own ears. Don't bother denying it... Cad." Freya freed a playful smile, but then she schooled her expression to sternness. She glided with cultivated grace across the marble floor. She possessed absolute confidence in her irresistible charm. In all the nine worlds, no other woman was comelier than she. Her golden hair cascaded about her shoulders and then flared artfully about her cleavage. The sheer material of her gown left little—but enough—to the fertile male imagination. She was the embodiment of desire.
"I confirm nothing, I deny nothing." He shrugged in philosophical fashion while holding his arms immobile, fingers splayed. Bygul obliged his attention. The tigress banged her head against his palms with relentless persistence until he scratched behind her ears.
Phoenix, Arizona
Absorbed in his book, Jake stayed up past one until fatigue eventually overwhelmed him. Even though he possessed staggering stamina, his human body required rest. Sleep. He despised the mortal weakness more than any other because it was when he was at his most vulnerable.
He possessed the curse of prophecy, an ability to perceive the awful future where everyone he knew and loved perished. While conscious, Jake kept his second sight closed up tight. Sleep weakened the barrier. When his consciousness was submersed, nightmares plagued him. Visions of what was yet to come.
In his dreams, the world burned—inevitable, inescapable doom.
Entering the attached master bathroom, he stripped and showered, rinsing away a day's worth of sweat and stench, base products of human existence. He'd endured the indignities of aging without complaint. Salt and pepper dappled his once dark brown hair. The harsh desert sun tanned his skin to a color and consistency like weathered leather.
His mortal body bore evidence of every wound ever sustained and healed. Scars layered atop scars. Silver lines crisscrossing his body, forming elaborate fractal patterns. Three tattoos remained intact, protected from damage by virtue of their innate magic. One was the stylized dagger hunters wore on their bicep as a badge of brotherhood. The second were two words over his heart: Absit omen. It was a protective invocation, translated—May what is said not come true.
The final tattoo, a double-sided dagger with a straight blade, stood apart from the others. A larger version of the membership symbol, it ran the length of his forearm. The image had a raised textured surface, and the surrounding flesh puckered and burned as if molten metal had seared his skin. When drawn, the tattoo became a physical weapon, a knife with a molten blade. The dagger was Stakhla, whose name meant Standing Fast, an enchanted weapon that dated to antiquity even though the few surviving sagas made no mention of it.
Many more ancient stories had been lost than recorded.
Although in perfect health, sometimes his head ached or his stomach soured. He loathed admitting it, but his aging muscles took longer to limber up. His reflexes had slowed and his joints ached. Over the years, he'd grown accustomed to the inconveniences of a mortal existence.
When he emerged from the shower, the clock's digital display read 2:04. Rubbing his hair dry, he headed straight to the bed. The towel lay where it fell. He crashed to the mattress, surrendering to the greedy grasp of sleep as his head hit the pillow.
He plunged straight into the nightmares he dreaded—the gaping jaws of a monstrous wolf swallowing him whole. His sons fallen before sword and axe. Thor perished before the serpent's fangs. Sun and moon snatched from the sky. The world smothered in ice, and then consumed in fire. He endured until the moment he realized—
He wasn't alone in the dream.
Unease coiled about Jake's slumbering form, a sly serpent impinging upon his sleep, sliding neatly past the mystical wards that were supposed to protect him from intruders. Naked except for a sheet tangled about his hips, he lay prone upon the king-sized mattress.
He opened his eyes. Blinking, he looked around and registered the familiar profile of his bedroom. Nothing appeared out of place. No obvious threats lurked in the shadows. Restless, he rolled over and flipped the sheet off. He stretched his long limbs, steel-tough sinew flexing. His heart rate sped. Reflexively, he reached cross-body, fingers brushing the stylized dagger tattoo on his forearm. His fingertips followed the raised, rough edges of the blade that overlaid scorched scar tissue like a brand, one twist and it would become real in his hand.
"Hey, Jake. You awake?" Loki's sibilant voice rolled out of the darkness, perceptible as full on surround-sound.
An annoyed huff burst from his mouth and morphed into a moan. "Loki, what the fuck do you want now?"
"That thing we discussed..."
"We didn't discuss shit." Disgusted, Jake withdrew his hand from the tattoo. Judging from the Trickster's chatty tone, he wasn't looking for a fight. "We haven't talked in months."
Loki scoffed. "What's months between gods? Our dialogue began millennia ago and will continue until the very end."
"At last, a good reason to welcome the world's destruction." Jake sat up and glanced at the nightstand. The digital clock radio read 3:23 a.m. He'd never get back to sleep. No point in even trying, especially since the opportunity to thwart any attempt would delight the Trickster to no end.
"Hardy-har-har." Loki clucked his tongue.
Groaning, he ran his hands through his hair and dragged them over his face. His mood was the color of phlegm. Exhaustion hung over him to the point where moving was a chore. Taking the lazy route, he beckoned to Loki. "Come here so I can throttle you."
"Geez, what's with the foul mood, old man? Here, I've suspended hostilities, enabling you to spend these last several idyllic days with your family. Aren't I at least entitled to a nod of gratitude? Would thanks be out of order?"
"I lost nine hundred men in Tucson, and you want a nod of gratitude?" Patent disbelief infused his voice. He tried and failed to keep his astonishment and anger off his face. The smart move would've been to show nothing and deprive the Trickster of the satisfaction of a reaction, but the devastating loss in Tucson had robbed Jake of more than just his composure.
"It could've been an even thousand." Loki's tone sharpened with irritation before he drew an audible breath and continued calmly. "Look, I didn't challenge your army to a final showdown at the OK Corral. That was your idea. As soon as I found out what was happening, I called off my dogs, but most of your people were already dead. The best I could manage was to have them clear a path so the survivors could escape."
"You called off the vampires?" Jake asked with unvarnished skepticism, even though Loki's words had the ring of truth. He and the handful of his men who'd survived the vampire assault in Tucson had pulled off a miraculous escape. Experience informed him that things too good to be true must be lies. Ah, and what a coincidence. Here, he had the god of lies spinning stories for him. Yet wisdom contraindicated what common sense dictated to be a simple matter. Nothing involving Loki was ever entirely what it seemed; nothing should be accepted at face value.
"Who else?" Loki asked in a smug tone. Finally, the Trickster's voice had attained directionality and definition, no longer a disembodied manifestation. He'd either produced a tangible illusion or actually taken on physical form.
"That's a question." Jake reached across to the end table and turned on the bedside lamp, casting dim illumination throughout the room. His legs dropped over the side of the bed, so his bare feet touched the cold tile floor.
A youth on the cusp of manhood sprawled on a wicker chair at the far end of the room, close to the French doors which led onto the pool deck in the back yard. The Trickster's physical experience seldom mattered, but Jake studied his ri
val anyway, noting the other's elven appearance. A curtain of burgundy hair, some strands loose, others woven with copper filigree. A tarnished silver key dangled from a braid behind his ear. He wore forest green garments, brown boots, and looked like he'd wandered too far from a Renaissance fair.
Loki rubbed his chin. "I even ordered our troops to withdraw so you could recover their souls. A few had already turned. Not much to be done for that."
"Why?" Jake asked, point blank. Not that he would believe the answer, but he wanted to hear it anyway.
A shadow crossed Loki's features. "Because things have gone too far. This whole thing..." He swept his hand in a wide circle meant to encompass some vague generality. "...began as a means of screwing with you. It's taken an ugly turn, and it's getting out of hand—"
"Why?"
"Thousands of mortals are dead. You don't think this is out of control?" Loki gaped at him with patent disbelief.
"No." Apparently, he needed to clarify the question. "Why did you pull back the troops in Tucson? Why not just finish it?"
"Oh." Loki crossed and uncrossed his legs. "I didn't order the attack in the first place. My minion—"
"The Necromancer?"
"The Necromancer initiated the attack without checking first. Not that I'm denying responsibility. I encourage my followers to be go-getters..."
"It's not like you to plead ignorance as a defense."
"I'm not defending what happened," Loki’s jaw jutted at a stubborn angle. "Or apologizing."
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Explaining. That's all." Loki huffed.
"Well, ain't that special." With a grunt, because he was old and grumpy, Jake pushed to his feet.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 3