Playing Easy to Get

by Kresley Cole

He nodded his head. “You are angry with me.”

  “Not at you specifically—I’m mad at this entire civilization.” She splayed her hands. “Your ways are not normal to me, Johen. If you stole a woman above the ground, you’d go to prison.”

  He whistled through his teeth. “Prison? A cell of incarceration? For doing what the gods decreed?”

  “No one believes in your gods up there,” she said gently. “They haven’t for thousands of years.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  Johen threaded his fingers through Sofia’s. “I know this is difficult for you,” he murmured. “I vow to give you as much space and time as you need in order to find your happiness.”

  “What if I never find it?” she asked sadly.

  He squeezed her hand. “You will. I would allow it to be no other way.”

  Sofia couldn’t help but grin at his arrogance, and he winked down at her.

  They sat in silence for a long time, neither of them saying a word. They held each other’s hand, their souls finding a peace neither of them had experienced in years. After what felt like a lifetime to Johen, Sofia at last rested her head on his shoulder, allowing him to embrace her.

  Old Myria, the herbalist, watched in the shadows, a smile parting the wrinkly folds of her face. She had known these two were right for each other the moment she met Sofia. Some called her gift a blessing, others a curse. Whatever it was, she had known.

  Fate was ironic with its twists and turns, but in the end it always worked out right. That was difficult for the newly wedded couple to fathom now, but in another month, Sofia would love Johen with as much passion as he loved her. Another month later and she would be pregnant with his child.

  Fate was indeed ironic, yet equally wise. There was no other person alive who could have recognized and understood the shadows that the other carried.

  Clutching her hooded cowl tightly about her, old Myria crept away. Something portentous was about to grip New Sweden in the form of a wench. She could only pray to the gods in Valhalla that her people were ready for it.

  Epilogue

  Three months later

  You are definitely with child,” Johen proclaimed. He shouldn’t feel so pleased with his fertile self whilst watching his poor wee wife try to ward off the morning sickness that had consumed her over the past couple of weeks, but he couldn’t seem to help it. She was pregnant. No wench could ever hope to be sexier.

  “Either that,” he teased, “or you’ve succumbed to a new illness no Viking has ever heard tell of.”

  Sofia moaned as she clutched her rebellious stomach. “What kind of illness would that be?”

  “Mayhap we would name it wife-of-the-green-face.”

  “You are not funny.”

  “And here I thought myself a court jester in the making.”

  “You could use a few more lessons.”

  Johen rubbed Sofia’s back, doing his best to comfort her. It was long moments before she felt relieved enough to sit up, and then took a seat in her favored place—his lap.

  Smiling softly, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I am very happy, you know.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Aye, I know,” Johen murmured. “I can see it in your eyes.” He gave his wife a gentle squeeze, not wishing to tempt nature and make her sick. Especially not whilst she was sitting upon his lap. “I have never felt more blessed, Sofia. Thank you for all the goodness you have brought to my life.”

  “That’s so sweet—you’re going to make me cry.”

  “You do that often, too, these days. Mayhap we should change the name of the ague to wife-of-the-green-face-and-red-eyes.”

  Sofia gave him a good-natured thump on the chest. “You really do need more lessons.”

  A court jester he was not, but fool-crazy in love, he was. The past three months had been the most wondrous of his life. He and Sofia had become so close that Johen was hard-pressed to recall a life before her. ’Twas almost as though he hadn’t lived before that fateful eve at the bride auction.

  Truth be told, he hadn’t. He had existed, but he had not truly lived.

  “Thank you for having my child,” Johen murmured, his gaze memorizing her face. “I love you, Sofia.”

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered back. She reached up and ran a hand over the contour of his jaw. “I love you, too.” Her smile held the promise of a long, happy life together. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  Later that afternoon, once the morning sickness had securely passed, Sofia and Johen took a mine car to a docking station on the far side of Hannu, where Johen’s parents lived. Her in-laws took the news of Sofia’s pregnancy just as she’d known they would: with hugs, kisses and tears of joy.

  “I cannot begin to tell you how happy we are!” Amani laughed. “Eemil and I are to be grandparents!”

  Eemil was equally thrilled, running a few homes down to pound on his brother’s door and share the news of her pregnancy. Pretty soon Johen’s entire extended family was there, with food and drinks brought in for an impromptu celebration.

  Sofia grinned up at her husband as his father and uncle began singing and dancing, a bawdy Viking performance reserved for only the most special occasions. Johen threw his head back and laughed, then gave Sofia a contented squeeze.

  She was happy. God help her, but she’d never been happier.

  Life in the Underground had turned out to be more wonderful than Sofia had thought possible. It didn’t hurt that she was married to the world’s greatest man, but Johen aside, the kingdom still had a lot to recommend it.

  Johen had given Sofia the most amazing present—the gift of being loved no matter what. They had only been married for three months, yet her heart felt as though they’d been together for three lifetimes. Everything between them had clicked that fast and that well.

  She still thought about the world above the ground from time to time, and now was one of those times. Her mom and dad would have been as overjoyed as Johen’s parents at the news of her pregnancy. And Sam would have been the world’s greatest uncle.

  Sofia smiled. She hoped that her family was looking down from the heavens and seeing this moment through their angels’ eyes.

  She blinked, then turned her attention back to the Viking performance. Laughing with her husband, she laid her head on Johen’s shoulder, grateful to be a part of this wonderful family.

  The Warlord

  Wants

  Forever

  Kresley Cole

  The Origin

  of the Valkyrie

  Into the blood-splattered snow, the lone warrior fell to one knee and shuddered with weakness. Still, an arm shot out to raise a sword against the oncoming legion.

  Her dented breastplate swallowed her small form.

  The winds howled, whipping her hair, but she heard the twang of the bowstring unleashed. She screamed in fury; the arrow punctured the center of her armor, the blow sending her flying back.

  The arrow had pierced through metal, then barely through her breastbone, just enough that her heart met the point with each beat. The beating of her own brave heart was killing her.

  But her scream had woken two nearby gods sleeping together through a brutal, wintry decade. They stirred and looked down upon the maiden, seeing in her eyes courage burning bright. Bravery and will had marked her entire life, but the light ebbed with death and they mourned it.

  Freya, the female god, whispered that they should take her courage and preserve it for eternity because it was so precious.

  Wóden agreed, and together they gave up lightning to cleave through the ether and strike the dying maiden.

  The light was violent and slow to fade and made the army tremble.

  When blackness cloyed once more, the healed maiden woke in a strange place. She was untouched, her human mortality unchanged. But soon an immortal daughter would be born from her—a daughter who possessed her courage, Wóden’s wily brilliance, and Freya’s mirth and fey beauty. Though this daughter enjoyed
the power of lightning for sustenance, she also inherited Wóden’s arrogance and Freya’s acquisitiveness, which merely endeared her to them more.

  The gods were content and the maiden adoring of her new baby. Yet after an age had flickered past, the gods heard another female call out for courage as she died from a battle against a dark enemy. She wasn’t a human, but a Furie, one among the Lore—that strata of clever beings who have convinced humans that they exist only in imagination. Scarce moments had the creature—in the freezing night her breaths were no longer visible.

  “Our halls are great, yet our family is small,” Freya said, her eyes sparkling so brightly a mariner in the north was briefly blinded by the stars and almost lost his way.

  Grim Wóden took her hand, unable to deny her. Those surrounding the dying Furie saw lightning rent the sky once more.

  And it would strike again and again in the coming years, continuing on well after female warriors—be they human, demoness, siren, changeling or any brave creature from the Lore—knew to pray for it as they died.

  Thus the Valkyrie were born.

  Chapter One

  Five years ago

  Mt. Oblak Castle, Russia

  If the overgrown vampire didn’t stop staring at her face, even his wicked talent with his sword wouldn’t keep his head upon his shoulders.

  The thought made Myst, an immortal known as the Coveted One, grin as she curled up in the windowsill of her cell. Leaning against the reinforced bars, she watched the two vampire armies battle below as she might a rumble from the back of bleachers.

  The poor warlord with his broad shoulders and jet-black hair was about to join a legion of other males whose last sight on earth was her smiling face—

  She frowned when he ducked and ran through his enemy. He was a big male, at least six and a half feet tall, but he was surprisingly fast. Tilting her head, she studied him. He was good. She knew fighting and liked his style. Dirty. He’d cut with his sword then strike out with his fist, or duck a parry then throw an elbow. It amused her to watch, but what she wouldn’t give to be down there fighting. In the middle. Against both sides. Against him.

  She fought dirtier.

  His gaze continued to stray to her, and once he’d even killed while his eyes were still on her. She’d blown him a kiss, sincerely, choosing to see it as a tribute.

  He found time to glance back even as he thundered orders and gave commands to the army of vampires around him, showing brilliance in strategy. She examined it all as though watching Decisive Battles on A&E and grudgingly noted the effectiveness of his army’s acid grenades and guns.

  The creatures of the Lore scorned human weapons like these. The only ones such weapons could kill were humans, which was beyond nonsporting. Yet that was the thing about bullets—aside from ruining perfectly good couture, they hurt and could immobilize an immortal for precious seconds. Long enough for a dirty fighter to take your head. Done enough times, they could help take an “untakable” castle like Ivo the Cruel’s.

  Myst hardly cared that Ivo, her jailer and tormentor, was about to have his ass handed to him by this warlord with his forbidden modern weapons. Her situation would not change, for these rebels, turned humans known as the Forbearers, were still vampires. A blood foe is a blood foe is a blood foe….

  An explosion rocked the castle, and sparks and bits of debris wafted down from the roof of Myst’s cell. The low creatures in the dank holds down the corridor howled with impotent fury, increasing in urgency with each successive blast, until it was…over. Silence. An aftershock here and there, a muted whimper…

  The defense of this castle was no more, its inhabitants having disappeared—by tracing, as the Lore called teleporting—leaving no more than an airy draft and the burned records of their Horde.

  She could hear the rebels searching the bowels of this place but could’ve told them they wouldn’t find any of their enemies. The denizens here had not been a fight-to-the-death sort, more of a he who fights and runs away, lives to run away another day type.

  Shortly after, she heard heavy boots clicking on the stone floor of the dungeon and knew it was the warlord. He crossed directly to her cell and stood before it.

  From her perch, curled in the window, she examined the vampire up close. He had thick, straight black hair that hung over his face in uneven sections, no doubt from where he’d sheared it off with his blade months ago, and never thought to cut it since. Some hanks were kept from his field of vision with those small ravel plaits like the berserkers used to wear. He had scars on his hands, and his big body was powerful and cut with muscle. She wanted to purr—because apparently central casting had just sent down the consummate virile warlord.

  “Come down from there and show yourself.” Deep voice. Russian accent, moneyed, aristocratic.

  “Or what? You’ll lock me away in a dungeon?”

  “I might free you.”

  She was at the bars before he’d had time to lower his gaze from the window. Had his squared jaw slackened just the smallest bit? She listened for a quickening of his heart, but found none because there was no heartbeat whatsoever. So the vampire was single? His eyes were clear of the red haze that marked bloodlust, which meant he had never drunk a being to death. But then a Forbearer eschewed taking living blood through the flesh altogether.

  When he saw her face up close, the key wasn’t immediately in the lock as it usually would have been, but his lips parted, exposing his fangs for her to see. Of course his would be sexy—not too prominent or even much longer than a human’s canines.

  When she saw the short splendid scar that passed down both of his lips, lightning struck just outside, but he didn’t flinch at the bolt or even glance up—he was too busy staring back at her.

  Scars, any external evidence of pain, attracted Myst. Pain forged strength. Strength begat electricity. This one could give it to her.

  It was possible he was even missing an eye under a thick hank of hair.

  She stifled a throaty growl as her hand shot out to brush his hair back. But he was quick, catching her wrist. She curled one finger in a beckoning gesture, and after a moment he released her, allowing her to reach forward. She brushed his hair back, revealing a hard-planed, masculine face covered with grit and ash from the battle.

  He was still in possession of both of his eyes and they were intense. Gun-metal gray.

  When her hand dropped, his brows drew together, perhaps at her blatant interest, or perhaps at her fingers already stroking the bars in invitation as she stared at his mouth. She was surprised by how carnal she found it, especially since the vampire could use it to hurt her.

  The smooth gold chain that she’d worn at her waist for millennia now felt heavy on her.

  “What are you?” he asked in his pleasingly low voice. She realized then that his accent wasn’t Russian, but from that of neighboring Eesti. The general was Estonian, which made him a kind of Nordic Russian, though she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate that description.

  She frowned at his question and pulled back her hair to show him her pointed ear. “Nothing?” She parted her lips and tapped her tongue against her smaller dormant fangs. No recognition.

  Apparently, the rumors were true. Here was a leader in this army, a general most likely, and he hadn’t a clue that she was his mortal enemy. He would think she was fey or a nymph. She’d prefer fey because she’d cringe to be confused with one of those little hookers—

  She shook her head. As long as he didn’t know she was Valkyrie it worked for her.

  Killing the unwitting Forbearers would be easy for her and her sisters. Too easy. Almost like being your own secret Santa.

  Myst had just confirmed rumors in the Lore that whispered of asses and elbows and this Horde’s inability to differentiate between the two.

  “What are you?” Nikolai Wroth demanded again, surprised his voice was steady.

  When he’d seen her in the light, he’d felt like exhaling a stunned breath—if his kind respired—f
or she was strikingly lovely, with a beauty only hinted at from the distance of the battlefield. He’d been attracted to that face to his reckless peril.

  Though she had expected him to recognize her kind, all he could determine was that she wasn’t human and that he hadn’t a clue what she might be. Her ears said fey, but she also had the smallest fangs.

  “Free me,” the creature said. Flawless skin, coral pink lips, flame red hair. The eyes that flickered over him appraisingly were an impossible green.

  The way she held the bars was suggestive—everything about her was…suggestive.

  “Swear fealty to my king, and I will free you.”

  “I can’t do that, but you’ve no right to keep me here.”

  His brother Murdoch passed by then, raised his eyebrows at Wroth’s discovery, and muttered in Estonian, “Sweet Christ.” Then he walked on. Why was Wroth unable to do the same?

  “What’s your name?” He wasn’t used to his questions going unanswered.

  Another stroke of the bars. “What do you want it to be?”

  He scowled. “Are you a vampire?”

  “Not the last time I checked.” Her voice was sensual. He couldn’t place her accent, but it was drawling, honeyed.

  “Are you innocent of malice against us?”

  She waved a dismissing hand. “Oh, good God, no! I love, love, love to kill leeches.”

  “Then rot in here.” As if she could kill a vampire. She was scarcely over five feet tall and delicately built—aside from her generous breasts showcased in her tight shirt.

  Just before he turned, he saw her eyes narrow. “I smell smoke,” she called after him. “Ivo the Cruel burned his records before he fled, didn’t he?”

  Wroth stilled, clenching his fists because he’d have to return.

  “He did,” he grated at the cell once more.

  “And this new king’s army is full of Forbearers—turned humans? It matters little. I’m sure the king is very knowledgeable about the vampire Horde’s extensive list of enemies within the Lore. He wouldn’t need this castle’s millennia’s worth of records. In fact, I’m positive that that is not the reason you chose this stronghold over the four others, including the royal seat.”