"DNR's dead but I guess you know that."
"Yeah, I experienced his death. I'm sorry. He was a good kid." Sorrow weighed on Jake's shoulders. The young man had been too damn green to be in the field. Sierra Pines should've been a cushy assignment that kept him safe. Trouble was, safe didn't seem to be a real thing anymore. Jake took comfort in the knowledge that Victoria had chosen DNR's soul to live in on Valhalla.
Perhaps misinterpreting Jake's silence, Sawyer spoke in a guilt-laden voice. "I'm sorry, Dad. I should've protected him better."
"It's not your fault, Son. Just tell me what happened. Who started it?" Jake returned his attention to the conversation. He'd already witnessed fragments of the fight through the eyes of ravens but interpretation mattered as much as context. He wanted to hear Sawyer's version of the confrontation and the beginning was as good a point as any other.
"They did."
"Did they?" Jake harbored skepticism. Sawyer's itchy trigger finger inspired doubts. Though, ultimately, it made no difference who had fired the first shot. Sawyer was his son so Jake would back him.
Family first. Always.
"Yeah, they started it." Sawyer answered without hesitation. "Does it matter?"
"No." Jake perceived no other choice than to take his son at his word. "First shot's been fired. First blood spilled. Besides that, given who these people are—what they've done to those wolves, Victoria and her people wouldn't accept reconciliation."
"Did you see it all? Do you know who they are? Why they came after us?" Sawyer asked, terse but also—accusatory? His tone set Jake's teeth on edge.
"I saw enough—" Jake stroked his thick eyebrow, flattening the bristle. He opened his mouth to make an angry reply, cut it short, and exhaled hard to vent steam. Instead, he posed a question in a distinctly stilted tenor. "What the hell are you implying, Son?"
"Nothing. It's just... I can't—" Sawyer cut himself off. His silence conveyed the same impression of repression and restraint. Internal pressure built, testing the integrity of his son's control.
Explosive tension brooded between Jake and Sawyer. One misspoken word—one spark—would set them both off. It left him wondering how the hell they'd jumped down this rabbit hole. It was a damn shame when a man communicated better with his archenemy than his own son. Just the day before, father and son had been on the exact same page when Sawyer had agreed to represent the hunters at the damn werewolf shindig. What had changed?
"You can't what? Just speak your mind. Stop with all the damn pussyfooting."
"The woman we spoke to said they called themselves Den Valgte," Sawyer said in a scathing tone. "She claimed that they serve you. That they're your 'chosen people'."
Jake turned toward Michael's bedroom, watching to make sure nothing disturbed the child's rest. He dropped his volume but spoke with force. "Sawyer, do you still have a hunter's mark on your arm?"
"Yeah."
From the jump in Sawyer's voice, the disruption in pitch, Jake envisioned his son grabbing for the tattoo on his bicep—a frantic glance to verify it was still there. And he wasn't above gloating over the brief terror his son endured—it served his brat right for even doubting.
"My chosen people are the ones who bear that mark."
"Okay, fair enough. I had that coming. These guys insisted they were your followers."
Jake deliberated before replying. He'd had this conversation before with his sons, most recently with his oldest boy, Daniel, when he'd turned fifteen. His oldest son had possessed an intuitive understanding of how passion intertwined with knowledge; true power comprised much more than the possession of the most weapons or the best-trained warriors. In many ways, Daniel's inherent objectivity had been his greatest weakness. It cut him off from the song of the hunt.
Sawyer had the opposite problem.
"They were my followers, Son."
"Bullshit." Sawyer growled, sounding remarkably like the wolves he now kept company with. A smile tugged at Jake's lips. He supposed he should've expected the adaptation. He considered it apropos. Every god eventually found the creatures that best imbued their fundamental traits—their spirit animal. A deity might have more than one but the first was always the most vital. Odin's were the raven, the wolf, and the bear. However, clever and curious ravens had been his first—still the dearest to his heart.
"Sawyer, calm down." He infused command in his voice and naturally his rebellious son sputtered. Jake glanced over his shoulder toward Michael's bedroom; a self-reminder to keep his voice down.
He imagined Sarah's laughter—warm and bright—so vividly that her alluring scent filled his nostrils. His wife whispered in the back of his mind, "Be patient with him, my love. He questions authority... much as his father did before he became Authority."
"I am calm." Sawyer's feet stomped on wood—stairs? "But this is pure bullshit. They invaded our territory—killed on our lands."
Our territory—the language of a wolf.
"Long have warring tribes come into conflict. Kingdoms fight; I often have followers on both sides. It is a matter of history and the nature of men to war with one another. This cannot come as a surprise to you, Son."
"Your greater form was there, Dad."
"I'm cut off from my greater form, Sawyer. However, my division doesn't rob either of my selves of agency. You know that."
"It looked like you and talked like you so excuse me for calling bullshit. That's just a load of crap. It was you."
"So it was." Immense impatience hollowed his voice. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and Jake counted the many, myriad reasons he had to remain patient. "Did you imagine my aspects would be substantially different?"
Sawyer took his own sweet time to answer and when it came, he gave up the admission with grudging resentment. "Yeah, I guess I did."
His anger eased. Sawyer's frustration stemmed from honest misunderstanding. "God or man, I'm me. As I move away from humanity, I become more of what I am. Do you understand?"
"No."
Jake exhaled and his patience thinned. "I am the storm. I am the hunt. I am the searcher, the wanderer, the poet, the scholar, the knowledge seeker, the hanged man—I am all and none of these things. When men worship me, their quest brings them closer to true understanding. There are times when I test men—to determine their worth or to further their journey—"
"You're saying this was a test?"
"I'm not saying anything at all."
When Sawyer snarled, Jake smiled.
"I get it. You're saying you don't take sides in mortal affairs. But that's a lie. You're here. I'm here. We're fighting against this undead army—trying to save the world. Dad, I hate to break it to you but that's choosing a side."
"Your mother handed me a prophecy, Son. A smart man heeds his wife."
A fat spider scurried along the wall, moving toward Michael's bedroom. Jake smashed his fist down on top of the arachnid, leaving a reddish brown smear on the plaster. He wiped his hand on his jeans.
"Prophecy again," Sawyer said in a tone thick with disgust. "You're said that before but you won't even tell us what it's supposed to be."
His son's distaste reflected rather precisely how Jake had come to regard such matters—being kept in the dark and foresight. The All Father counted his relentless pursuit of premonition amongst his greatest blunders. Odin possessed one eye and the third sight. Yet, having a single eye made it difficult to perceive—his depth perception was shot. In the past, he'd compensated, relying on Frigg or Loki for advice and perspective. However, his wife was beyond his reach and Loki—not to be trusted. For now, Jake kept his own counsel, relied on his own judgement, and wondered how many mistakes he made along the way.
Jake tried to put himself into Sawyer's shoes—born human, his mother and oldest brother recently dead, and a crap relationship with his father. Sawyer had a hot head and poor impulse control, but he was also a man who preferred logic to intuition. He acquired knowledge as facts and formulas, and perceived reality as a thi
ng rooted in logic. Math and matter, not magic and mysticism. He lacked the capacity to accept truth based on faith.
Father and son would never see eye to eye unless Jake loosened his grip and parted company with some of his secrets. So he sighed and plunged.
"Decades ago, your mother foresaw a possible resolution to Ragnarök that would allow me to save some of the Nine Worlds, and—most importantly—the tree."
Sawyer's poignant silence befitted the weighty mood. "Some. Not all?"
"People are going to die—men, elves, dwarves, and even giants. This is a numbers game. Some surviving is better than none."
On stealthy feet, Jake eased along the hallway until he reached Michael's room. He pushed the door open just enough to allow in more light. His son slept safe in his bed—Rascal sprawled full across the foot of the bed. No sign of danger—not even a spider. He pulled the door closed, leaving only a crack. He once again retreated toward the kitchen.
"And that happens by you being mortal and taking a side?"
"It's even more trivial than that. Your mother insists that salvation turns on one insignificant mortal life." He tasted irony as he spoke.
"One—who?"
"Ain't that the million-dollar question?" His sweet, maddening wife had refused to tell him, citing need-to-know. In other words, she expected him to mess it up if he possessed too much information. He chaffed at the prohibition, but honored her wisdom.
"You think it's Victoria."
Sawyer's shrewd intuition impressed Jake but he kept his approval concealed. "Victoria is significant. Our destinies are irrevocably intertwined unless I can find some way to cheat fate."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sawyer sounded scared to death. Rightly so.
Jake hesitated, and debated, but he chose silence. His son wasn't ready. Sawyer had a fiery trial of his own to endure. If and when he survived... Maybe then.
"Fine, don't answer. I'm used to that. You still haven't answered my question." Sawyer's voice hinted at an immense ocean of frustration being kept behind an unstable dam.
Jake snorted. "I've done my best considering that you never actually asked."
"What—" The phone caught the scrape of Sawyer's nails on his scalp. "Oh."
"Oh," Jake mocked, disingenuous and Loki-like. And damn, it felt good.
"Okay, Den Valgte isn't your chosen. Who the hell were those guys then?"
Jake released a thin sigh. If Sawyer had shown half as much interest in his heritage as he had in math and physics, a history lesson wouldn't be necessary. "Berserkir were solitary warriors who wore the skin of a bear they'd slain. They weren't allowed to use traps or poison, or have assistance. They wore the bear skin into battle—"
Sawyer grunted. "Oh—yeah, I recall the stories about berserkers. They were bad asses. Right?"
The modern capacity for reducing everything significant to the trivial just chaffed Jake's shorts but it simply wasn't worth the argument. "Right. The úlfheðnar were the same except they wore wolf hides and fought in packs."
"What happened to them?"
He'd been getting to that if the boy could just wait... "Both orders served me centuries ago but over time, their behavior grew increasingly bloodthirsty and lawless. They slaughtered innocents—raping and pillaging—entire villages..."
"Mom made you get rid of 'em, huh?"
A wide, involuntary grin flashed over Jake's face which, thankfully, his son couldn't see. As JD would've said—Oh burn. With self-deprecating irony, he savored the humor. He said in all seriousness, "Both orders were banned and hunted to extinction."
"You're sure they were destroyed?"
"I'm positive. No matter what Den Valgte may claim, they are not descended from the original orders."
"Dad, these guys had scary-powerful magic. The bear-chick was damn near impossible to kill. If the knowledge wasn't passed down from their ancestors, then someone must've taught them. Who?"
"That's a good question." And one for which he had no ready answer. It would've been easy to cast the blame onto Loki. Far too easy. Even though it was a convenient cliché—just blame Loki for everything. Jake guarded against the lazy habit. A great many other factions existed in the world. To forget was sheer stupidity.
"I know I'm missing something," Sawyer said, grim with determination. "You know something but aren't telling me."
Jake answered with a smile his son couldn't see.
Sawyer huffed. "What happened after I left to take Cali to the hospital?"
"The High Valkyrie, Ráðgríðr, lied about Freya having terminated Victoria's status as a Valkyrie..." Jake went on to provide an abbreviated account of what had transpired. For once, Sawyer listened without interruption. Once he finished, silence hung on for a time.
Eventually, Sawyer ventured a question. "What would you have done if Victoria had chosen Magdalena to enter Valhalla?"
"Magdalena would've been granted entry to Valhalla."
"What? No!" Sawyer sputtered.
"Victoria is a Valkyrie. It is her duty to decide who is worthy. Of those chosen, half go the Fólkvangr and the rest join the Einherjar."
"I don't get it."
"What don't you get?" Jake bit off his words; great was his impatience with his recalcitrant son. He confessed to wondering whether Sawyer tested him on purpose. And he already had his answer—Yes, of course.
Sawyer said, "The Einherjar are your army, those who will follow you in the End Days. Those deemed worthy to sacrifice their immortal souls in the fight to save the Nine Worlds. Mother told us the majority of warriors who seek Valhalla are denied. A select few are allowed entry to the halls of the other gods, but the vast majority enter Hel's domain where they'll dwell for eternity with their ancestors. Despite having been twisted by modern religions, her realm is not a place of eternal damnation. Though, the souls of those who are wicked are made to suffer."
"That's correct." Maybe his son had been playing attention after all.
"So why would you want someone like Magdalena or your followers with you?"
"Sawyer, you're missing the point."
"Am I?"
"You are."
"Explain it to me then."
"What happened in Broken Bend wasn't about Den Valgte at all."
"Who was it about then?"
"Victoria. It was all about Victoria."
Sawyer fell silent as though thunderstruck but eventually said, "You're not going to explain that at all."
"No." Jake shook his head.
His son grumbled. "There's too much that doesn't jibe, Dad. On the one hand, you're not taking sides in mortal affairs, but on the other you are. You've got a prophecy that may allow you to save the Nine Worlds, but you're still preparing for Ragnarök. And what about Daniel?"
"What about Daniel?" Jake winced at the sound of his son's name. Daniel's death remained an unhealed wound; every mention ripped off the scab. Not enough time had passed for him to have gained any sort of perspective.
"When Baldur was murdered, you lost his soul to Helheim—" Baldur was the brother Sawyer had never met—and never would.
"That was centuries ago."
"I'm just using him to make a point. Jasper, the boy I shot…"." Sawyer's tone turned harsh with condemnation. "He's there too—enduring endless torment because he died a coward's death."
"The boy was fleeing in terror when you shot him in the back, Sawyer. If he'd rushed toward you, I could've intervened and claimed him. He died as a coward, so his soul rightfully belongs to Hel. In the underworld, She is the supreme. "
"So that's what I don't understand." Sharp, rapid clicking came from Sawyer's end of the conversation—a pen perhaps? Had he been taking notes while they talked?
Jake's irritation receded as soon as he confirmed his son's barrage of questions had direction and purpose. To facilitate learning, he would willingly endure the interrogation. "Sawyer, what is it you don't understand?"
"Daniel was murdered too. Victoria told me—his ba
ck was turned to his attacker when he died. Why were you able to save Daniel, but not Baldur or Jasper?"
"I didn't save Daniel's soul, Son. Loki stole him."
"So you're saying..." Uncertainty defined Sawyer's tone.
"Loki is capable of stealing just about anything—thoughts, memories, hearts, and souls. He's not limited to physical objects." To his own ears, Jake's chuckle turned over like a strained transmission. The Trickster was another sensitive topic—difficult to discuss with any impartiality.
"How does he get away with it if Hel is all-powerful within her domain? I mean—I know they're related..."
"Good question. You just hit the nail square on the head. Loki is Hel's father. He gets away with shenanigans she wouldn't tolerate from anyone else."
"Okay, huh."
Jake imagined the gears turning in Sawyer's head, producing an audible clatter. He decided it was past time to change the subject from existential matters to the pragmatic. "Can I still count on you to represent me at the gathering of the packs, Sawyer?"
"Yes, of course. I was just wondering whether this thing with Den Valgte will complicate things for us at the werewolf moot," Sawyer said, determined to dredge up the worst possible scenario. "Especially if Victoria decides we're somehow complicit. Whatever you're not telling me—I can tell when that woman is pissed off."
"Victoria's angry." Jake offered ready agreement. Sawyer hadn't caught on to the depth or source of the she-wolf's grievance yet, but he had to suspect. Jake supposed he was a massive asshole for not warning his son, but damn it—the boy needed to grow up. Victoria had proven herself—she had refused to murder Sawyer. She'd acquitted herself with honor.
Sawyer was his son, but Jake had named Victoria his daughter. He perceived the wisdom in stepping aside and allowing his children to sort out their differences... So long as the drama didn't end in bloodshed. Every man traveled his own path and faced his own obstacles—these were Sawyer's.
"What am I supposed to do?"
Jake dragged a hand over his face and looked askance at the ceiling. There were days when he suspected his genius son of being a damn fool. "You talk to her. And when she talks, you shut your trap and listen."
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 28