“C’mon, Tuck,” Graham called. “We’re late. Grab the soccer ball and let’s go.”
Then Tuck was gone, slipping down the porch stairs after Graham.
I should have been happy that everything had worked out the way it had. But my grandmother’s words were echoing through my mind, and as Tuck glanced back at me, his smile was disturbingly sunny. A horrible realization was exploding into my consciousness, sending shock waves that threatened to shatter the rest of me.
Hard as it would be, I knew what I would have to do. I carefully folded the page with the poem into my pocket, keeping it close. Knowing I’d need it far sooner than my grandmother could ever have anticipated.
WHEN I CLIMBED up onto the roof that night, Tuck was already there. He was on his back with his hands behind his head, staring up at the stars. As I approached, he spread out his left arm, making a spot for me. I stretched out next to him, memorizing the way it felt to put my head on his shoulder and to have his arm wrap slowly around me, pulling me closer, until every inch of my side was pressed so closely against him that there was barely enough room for a molecule of oxygen to slide between us.
I touched my pocket, where the slip of paper was hidden. It was far too dark to read, and I couldn’t afford to get this wrong, so I’d practiced this moment again and again, until I knew each line, each curve of my grandmother’s handwriting, by heart. I closed my eyes, willing myself forward, telling myself for the thousandth time that this was the right thing to do.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why the right thing felt so wrong.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, rolling onto his side to face me. “Or would you prefer a different kind of barter?” Then his lips found mine, and I was sucked under. My grandmother’s poem slipped away, dragged into the back of my mind by the other waves that were washing over me. We stayed like that for a long time, although all too soon, he was pulling back.
“Maybe that was a bad idea. Personally, my thoughts aren’t fit to be shared right now,” he murmured. “Now talk. You didn’t say a word at dinner. Does it have anything to do with Kjell? I heard he came over this morning and then left town. Guess I’m the jealous type, because I was relieved.” Those unreadable and undeniable gray eyes were an open book, so full of longing and tenderness and a thousand other things I never expected to see there, at least not when they were looking at me.
Kjell had looked the same way that morning, but he’d snapped back to normal when he’d heard my poem. And I knew it would be the same with Tuck.
As much as I wished his feelings were real and could last forever, it would be unfair to trap Tuck, my Tuck, in such a state of servitude. I loved him too much for that.
I took a deep breath, and the first phrase slipped from my tongue. Tuck’s eyes widened at the odd sounds and syllables pouring into the night between us. Even in the deep darkness of the roof, I could see how his face changed as the poem worked its magic. The dawning realization that something was happening, freeing his mind.
Before I knew it, it was over. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for what would come next. I didn’t know what I’d do if he pulled away from me in fear, like Kjell had.
Tuck’s arm disappeared. I felt him shift, rolling onto his side with his face angled away from me. The lump in my throat threatened to explode, and I hoped it would take the rest of me out with it. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, to see his reaction. Would he be horrified or confused—angry even?
Finally, breathing slowly to steady myself, I opened my eyes, prepared for anything. Anything, that is, except his reaction.
Tuck settled onto his back again, next to me, his chest shaking with laughter.
“Ells,” he said, raising his voice above a whisper. “If you want to dump me, you’ll have to do better than that.” His arm wound its way around me again, rolling me over until I was on top of him. I could feel his heartbeat in my own chest, hear the way his breathing changed as his other hand slid through my hair.
“I—I don’t understand,” I said, drawing back even though every nerve in my body was begging me to do the exact opposite. “It didn’t work. You should wake up now.”
“Wake up? And have this be over? If that’s a legitimate possibility, keep me knocked out forever.” He kissed my neck, and it was impossible for me to concentrate on what I needed to do.
“I think I know why this happened—why you feel this way. It was that time in the bar, when Graham was kidnapped. I had to use my influence to break Astrid’s spell. And I accidentally kept you under it all this time. That’s why you feel this way. But it could have happened earlier, at home. You haven’t had that mark on your shoulder for long.”
“Interesting theory.” He was laughing at me again.
I felt flushed and flustered. I couldn’t figure out what was happening—how I’d failed. It had been hard enough the first time. The second would probably kill me. But I started reciting the poem again, this time looking him straight in the eye, willing the magic to find its mark.
But I was only a few words in when Tuck pressed his index finger against my lips. “Stop, Ells, stop.” His laughter faded. “Are you honestly worried that all this”—his arms around me tensed—“hasn’t been real?”
Tuck flashed a sweet, disarming smile, and again I found myself wondering whether I really, truly had to give him up. “Actually, I’m disappointed. Aren’t I worth keeping at any cost?”
The challenge in his eyes told me he didn’t expect an answer. “I’m a hopeless case,” he added, burying his face in my neck and murmuring the rest against my skin. “And it’s got nothing to do with your wily Valkyrie ways. Because I’ve been this way for ages.”
His smile was exquisite when he wanted it to be.
It took me a shamefully long time to process all of what he’d said. It seemed like too much all at once—that after spending all day worrying, I’d been so far off the mark. That everything that had happened and still was happening with Tuck was real. And that for the last two minutes, Tucker Halloway had been methodically unfastening the tiny pearl buttons on my cardigan.
“Finally,” he muttered as he slid it off my shoulders.
I had only a thin T-shirt underneath, and the night air was cool against my skin. I shivered as he pulled me closer, pressing his lips against mine and ending the conversation once and for all.
But I wasn’t cold for long—Tuck had more than a few very effective ways of keeping us both warm.
SAYING GOOD-BYE TO my grandmother was always hard. But the ocean that would separate us seemed bigger than ever now. We’d grown so close that trip, in ways I was still just beginning to understand. For years I’d worried about her living alone. As other people’s grandparents started to decline, I’d imagine Grandmother falling and breaking her hip, like so many grandmothers seemed prone to do. And there’d be no one there to bring her flowers in the hospital or take care of her. But at the end of this trip, as I looked at my grandmother, I knew that it would take more than a fall to bring her down. It would take more than an army.
Now that I knew the truth about her, the truth about us both, I couldn’t believe how blind I’d been to the way people stared at my grandmother as she passed, awestruck by her height and the aura of power and confidence that surrounded her.
We said our farewells at the airport security entrance, and as Graham set his bag on the conveyer belt and watched it disappear into the X-ray machine, Grandmother caught my wrist.
“Don’t forget, don’t be complacent. Keep your skills sharp and do those drills I taught you.” She smoothed my hair back, out of my eyes. “I’ll come for Christmas, and more often now, so you’ll be ready for whatever life, or Astrid, chooses to throw at you.”
“You don’t think Astrid will just forget about me—leave me alone?”
“Of course she won’t, sweetling, not now that she’s seen your mettle. She liked you far too much for that. Tuck won’t be the only one vying for your affection—or you
r loyalty.”
The thought sent a cold chill down my spine, but at the same time, I knew that I’d be able to handle anything Astrid, Loki, or the world could throw at me. After all, I was Hilda Overholt’s granddaughter, and just like her, I was made of pure fire.
OUR MOTHER WAS there for us when we walked through customs, exhausted, jet lagged, and so thirsty that I swore my tongue was wearing a tiny felt jacket. While I couldn’t wait to see him, I was relieved that Tuck hadn’t come to the airport. I’d told him on the phone a few days ago that I’d meet him that night—after I’d had a chance to clean up. Somehow, Tucker Halloway was far scarier at home, on his turf.
It was surreal to be in our modern, oh-so-American home after the antique plumbing of our grandmother’s old house in Skavøpoll. As I started carrying my bags upstairs, on the verge of collapse, my mother called after me, “Ellie, there is a package for you. I put it in your room.”
That perked me right up. I never got packages—especially surprises. So I took the steps faster, itching with curiosity. The box was perched on the edge of my desk, wrapped in sturdy brown paper. Where the return address would have been, the name Astrid was emblazoned in an intricate script. There was no postmark, or any other sign that this box had ever been touched by a U.S. postal worker. In fact, the covering was perfectly preserved, free of creases, dirt, and any signs of wear and tear. I wondered how my mother could have missed such obvious oddities.
I backed away from the box slowly, like it would explode if not handled with care.
Graham’s heavy tread pounded up the stairs, and his bedroom door opened and closed behind him. For a moment, I thought about calling out to him, not wanting to be alone when I ripped into the smooth brown paper. Just in case. But Graham had been through enough, and he probably wouldn’t understand the depth of what had transpired between Astrid and me and all the reasons I wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or touched that she’d thought of me.
I used scissors to cut away the paper, buying time by folding it into a neat square and setting it on my desk to be recycled. It was a plain brown cardboard file box, the kind my mother used to store old tax receipts.
I lifted the lid slowly, scanning underneath for a trip wire.
Inside was a pair of all-too-familiar fur-trimmed knee-high boots. Thin straps crisscrossed over the front, lacing up the leg like ballet slippers. I smiled as I finally ran my fingers along the smooth tanned leather. The soles were a transparent rubberlike material I’d never seen before, and I touched their sticky surface, realizing that this level of traction would take me up the side of an ice-covered cliff without a hitch.
As I slid them out of the box, a slip of paper fluttered to the ground. Staring up at me, in the same curled calligraphy, was a note.
Train hard. Next time I won’t go so easy on you. —A
“Ellie?” My mom knocked softly at the door. “Tucker’s downstairs—he wants to see you.”
“Coming,” I said, slipping the note into my desk drawer. “I’ll be right there.”
After all, who needs sleep? Definitely not me. Especially when I’d missed Tuck every minute of the last five weeks.
As I unlaced the boots, I hoped his Morrigan blood would boil at the sight of the fur-tipped symbol of Valkyrie valor on my feet. After all, what fun would dating be if I couldn’t still drive Tuck crazy?
I smiled at that thought, but then laughed out loud as I realized that the Valkyrie boots fit perfectly.
Just like I’d always known they would.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my wonderful agent, Suzie Townsend, for finding such a perfect home for my book and for believing in me. A huge thanks as well to Brendan Deneen, who dug me out of the slush pile.
I will be forever grateful to my editor, Anne Hoppe, whose wisdom and insight helped me unlock aspects of my story and my characters that I didn’t know existed. I’ve learned so much from Anne. I also want to thank Laurel Symonds, who provided invaluable editorial guidance.
Martha Flynn, Whitney Miller, and Heidi Kling, my amazing critique group, I couldn’t have finished this book without you. I also want to thank Mary Kole and Alie Slavin, who read my earliest drafts.
I have been so fortunate to have an amazing group of friends and family who were conscripted to read countless drafts: David Paulson, Katharine Kivett, Katie Watson, Shin-e Lin, Lei Lynn Lau, Kerri Tarvin, Keith and Pamela Pugh, Kristin Bousquet, Tanya Marston, Georgie Hanlin, Kristen Harper, and my husband, Alex. I couldn’t have done this without every one of you. Lastly, thank you to the Paulson women: Natalie, Kathy, and Grandma, who were with me on the fateful trip to Norway that started it all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ingrid Paulson lives in San Francisco with her husband and daughter and enjoys long-distance running, eavesdropping, and watching science documentaries. She has always loved books and writing short stories but was surprised one day to discover the story she was working on wasn’t so short anymore. VALKYRIE RISING is Ingrid’s first novel.
Ingrid’s grandmother might actually a Valkyrie; Ingrid is still waiting for her come clean.
You can visit Ingrid on the web at
www.ingridepaulson.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors and artists.
CREDITS
Photograph of girl © 2012 by Michael Frost
Photograph of boy © 2012 by Gustavo Marx/MergeLeft Reps, Inc.
Cover art and design by Joel Tippie
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Valkyrie Rising
Copyright © 2012 by Ingrid Paulson
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www epicreads.com
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Paulson, Ingrid.
Valkyrie rising / Ingrid Paulson.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: While visiting Norway, sixteen-year-old Ellie must step out of the shadow of her popular older brother, join forces with his infuriating best friend, and embrace her Valkyrie heritage to rescue teen boys kidnapped to join the undead army of the ancient god Odin.
ISBN 978-0-06-202572-2 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780062190291
[1. Valkyries (Norse mythology)—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Kidnapping—Fiction. 4. Loki (Norse deity)—Fiction. 5. Odin (Norse deity)—Fiction. 6. Norway—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.P28433Val 2012
2011042307
[Fic]—dc23
CIP
AC
* * *
12 13 14 15 16 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
&nbs
p; London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollins.com
Valkyrie Rising Page 28