by Poppet
Read between the lines. Can I go home now?
In an uncomfortable twist of attitude he wiggles an eyebrow at me, “Dirty you say?”
His smirk is so indulgent I have no doubt how much my proclamation has been twisted by his depraved mind. Pervert.
He moves back to examine my forehead, exhaling hot breath all over my eyes. Mommy's little traitor uses the opportunity to stand on my boobs to nudge his chin with affection.
What did he feed her? Did he rub catnip all over his face to coax my kitty to the dark side?
He withdraws so fast it pumps a fresh surge of cortisol through my veins, and turns to scowl thunder at Adam. “You stupid twat! Her face was wet so nothing happened! You created a barrier.”
Adam gives an insolent shrug, “The babe needed the rinse cycle. She can't have her big moment with crusty vomit stuck to her.”
Ewan rounds back to face me with a fierce stare of purpose, dunking his fist in the holy grail and powdering me and Bella the way a coiffeur would set Ludwig's wig.
Coughing through the disgusting sprinkle, I fan my hand to waft the offending substance away. Blowing ash off Arrabella, I give him my 'back the hell away before I turn you into a soprano' glare.
And then the noxious conundrum I was in earlier pales in comparison to the way the walls are shimmering, flexing in and out, running pulses of light through them like neurons sending morse blips.
I'm instantly lightheaded and feel alarmingly intoxicated. Yew ash? Is that their code for a quick hit of cocaine before it's gone through the bleach?
Good grief. Sagging heavily against the chair, the smoke which surrounds it becomes animated with weird writing, illuminated in the vapor the way a searchlight cuts through mist.
It's gibberish. I don't speak devil so I haven't a clue what it says. My latent nausea rockets into the stratosphere and I'm quivering with the overwhelming bilious waves forcing my eyes to tear up.
My mouth is watering uncontrollably and my stomach feels like I just got sucker punched by the resident ghost in my third chakra.
It's the smoke. It's radioactive or something. I'm so piqued with nausea that I'm quivering as if in withdrawals.
Ewan stoops to pry my eyes wide between insistent fingertips and his palm emanates a beacon of yellow into my pupil. His hazel irises are so light they fleck with shafts of bronze, glinting evilly, burning into my soul with the eeriness of animal irises in headlights.
“She's rejecting it. She's fucking rejecting the ash! Get me the juice.”
When he speaks his mouth yaws and wavers, a chasm unhinging to swallow me whole, to be sucked and crushed down the serpent's length. His voice warbles as if reaching me from a parallel universe.
Crap! I think I'm really dying this time. Well hell sure lives up to its reputation. I hate vomiting, I'd rather stick a needle in my thigh than hurl my guts out; right now I'm desperately fighting back the curdling bile cauterizing my insides with acid.
I'm going to pass out, or purge, or... god!
I'm depleted and shaky, weakened by the vile possession destroying my body from the inside out. All light recedes to nightmare black when he manhandles me, pressing my head back to force fluid into my mouth.
Spluttering and choking, his voice scythes through the catatonic murk, “Drink!”
It's that damn tone, the special one with a particular vibrato, it ruins my defiance and makes me comply.
My throat works while my mind screams objection. It'll just come right back up.
This is horrid!
I heave to push him back, to resist, but his bulk is too vast, or whatever they poisoned me with has already frazzled my nervous system which is why I've got seismic shakes and the strength of an inebriated vegetable peel.
Twisting my face to get away from the force-feeding of their potion, it ends up pouring down my cheek and into my cleavage.
Ewan spits expletives, gripping my face in his ginormous hand and renewing his punishing barbarism.
Tears are running now, this ordeal utterly exhausting that I just want to go home. What the hell do they want with me? This is one screwed up way to get your kicks.
Are they human traffickers? I've heard of girls being drugged to their eyeballs and sold into slavery. It's damn effective. I couldn't fight now to save my life. But I can bite, and his wrist is poised above me while he tilts the cup into my mouth.
Forced to swallow, I wait for the grip on my face to relax when he knows the cup is drained of fluid. I'm clinging to consciousness just so I can damage this bastard who is inflicting me with his demented criminal activity.
Sound is diminishing as my body goes into meltdown, but I feel blood throb back into my cheeks when he releases his painful hold. I flick forward so fast the entire room eddies in surreal swirls. My forehead bangs something with enough force that it gives me an instant migraine, but I'm focussed wholeheartedly on the thick wrist, biting down on it emphatically as the rest of my life's meals decide to reincarnate on this plane, in this moment, time traveling; and it's hot and choking when my cheeks bulge with a fresh slew of regurgitation. It spews hotly through the gaps either side of my captive's wrist. His howl delivers to me the weak moment of justice I craved.
Blood blurs my vision when the hand withdraws with a wounded appendage and my body rejects me entirely. Frightened claws impale my legs, causing a sharp automatic inhalation. The blocked airway swipes the room bland. The snowglobe of smoke and ash and lunatics, earthquake, shaking violently in bizarre judders.
Relaxation claims me and I succumb.
*
Ewan:
Leaping back to avoid the plague-like puking, I've got it all over my jeans and wrist now. She bit me with such precision I swear she hit bone. It's burning like a motherfucker.
Horrified by this ludicrous twist of fate, she slumps as I watch her from a safe distance, folding gracefully off the chair to cascade onto her side. Twisted unnaturally, she's emitting choking sounds when her eyes roll back and she starts banging on the floor in exorcistic seizures.
“Fuck Ewan!” yells Adam.
“Shut it! I'm thinking!”
Fuck fuck fucking fuck!
She looks like I brutalized her with my blood leaking from her mouth and spattered across pale cheekbones.
Odin! What have I done?
Adam lurches past me, shunting me aside, skidding to his knees in front of her, opening her mouth and scooping two fingers between her lips to dislodge her tongue.
“Water!” I snap at Alweada, kneading my forehead to alleviate the throbbing in the bridge of my nose. Blood spurts hotly from both nostrils, but I don't rightly care right now. I have never lost an eagle and I don't intend to start today.
Pushing Adam out of my way, I stand over her, legs akimbo, shoving my hands under her armpits and hefting her to her feet. Rocking her up in energetic jolts to the right level in my arms while she spasms in aggressive jerks, I execute the Heimlich, wrinkling my nose as the obstruction blows out of her with force.
Gently lowering her back to the ground, the stench of puke is gut churning but I do my best to ignore it, even though the wildcat has forced me to breathe through my mouth. Checking she isn't swallowing her tongue again, I stroke back fever saturated hair.
I am so proud of you. If I ever needed proof you are an Eagle, you just delivered it to me. You fought even when on the verge of collapse, you battled to the bitter end.
She's a warrior, our kind. Surrounded by three men twice her size she didn't flinch, or even censor her opinion. Straight up and cutting. Perfectly acceptable and absolute proof.
Alweada arrives, offering me a bucket and a glass of water.
“Put them both down,” I mutter, unwilling to take my eyes off the last lost member of my clan. We're all accounted for now and I don't need these jackasses ruining my happy moment.
Employing the water in the bucket I wipe her face clean, tenderly, afraid I'll inadvertently hurt her.
“Ewan I don't mean to
intrude, but you're bleeding. We'll stay with her while you staunch the nosebleed.”
Hating the annoying voice of reason I glance at Adam, giving the meagre nod of thanks he's due, then ruin his hopes with Deliah by demanding, “Go get the cleaning supplies. Grab someone to help you swab this mess up. I'll carry her to my chambers and clean her up there after I stop the stigmata she punctured into my face.”
He looks ready to argue, glancing from me to Deliah.
“Now!” I bellow, irritated.
I know what he's thinking and it's never going to happen. She's got two choices, and Adam isn't one of them.
He gives me the resolute 'this isn't concluded' stare before exiting the ashroom. The way he scuffs his footsteps tells me he's plenty pissed with the current state of affairs.
Lifting Deliah into my arms again, relieved she's breathing normally, I look at my right hand man, “Bring the cat.”
Alweada goes striding to the table the cat's now hiding under, and I stalk off to my suite cradling Deliah.
She smells like she's been rolling in rotting turnips, but beneath the immediate stench is the smell of hope.
Mine.
She's marked me as effectively as I marked her. We may as well chuck out the old sofa and get it replaced. Luckily the stone floor in there doesn't absorb fluids or we'd be scrubbing for days.
My nose is dripping hot blood onto her right breast, the spilling of Læraðr juice having suctioned her flimsy frock to her body, and now it looks like a macabre corset covering her breast.
What a right mess we are.
I'm her chief, I'm the only one I trust to clean her up without accosting her in any way. My men are good guys, but they're still guys. And the damn women have all gone off to pay their respects to the firstborn child of one of the clan who chose to move away and reconnect with society.
Perfect timing, as bloody usual.
Stalking into my bedroom I head straight for the bathroom. Carefully laying her in the bath, I snap to the basin, running the frigid mountain water.
It's cold enough to preserve my eyeballs but the flow across the bridge of my nose halts the damage. My nostrils feel hot and I scoop water into them, rinsing them out, sneering when I inhale sharply through my teeth at ice-water in my nasal cavity.
I rinse until the water runs clear and the cold has contracted the blood vessels. Shutting off the water, grabbing the towel, I look at my image in the mirror as I dab my face dry.
I think I'm in love. She hit me hard enough to bruise.
Pressing an investigative fingertip into the discoloration, the pain gives me a boner.
She's fucking perfect; and she's going to cut my heart into bite sized pieces and ruin me.
Chapter 5
Hræsvelgr hight he who sits at heaven's ending,
Giant in eagle's coat
~Völuspá
Ewan:
I don't understand it. By virtue of the stone surrounding us, encapsulating us even, she shouldn't have had a toxic reaction.
Yet that's exactly what she had, as if she is allergic to her very heritage. It's confounding and the first incident I've ever known of any such debacle occurring.
Black stone, such as the obsidian of the eagle's nest, has many virtues which by modern standards would seem superstitious. It protects against poisoning, lightning, evil, possession, illness, sorcery, and venom. Some of that is common sense as glass doesn't conduct electricity. Simple logic really, but when we adopted this hidden lair as our home the attributes did bode well for our longevity and protection.
And yet the evidence to the contrary lies before me, fast asleep from exhaustion with a precious bundle of fur snuggled up close for company.
I don't know if it's the chief in me or the writings in the mist, but the vision of such a vulnerable woman ensconced in my bed, her tranquil beauty surrounded with a halo of cocoa hair which showcases her delicate complexion, just makes me smile while wreaking havoc with my heart.
If my men see me mooning like a gawky adolescent I'll never hear the end of it, yet every cell in my body is struggling. My instinct is to protect her. Any way, any how, with pleasure, the agony is invited.
Fuck, the road ahead of us is riddled with potholes and spike strips. I know she'll fight me and I relish the anticipation of the clash. It's in our blood.
Does she comprehend it's foreplay? Does she have any residual memory of how enticing aggression, resistance, attack, pain, and scathe is? It turns us inside out and ready to nail her to the closest pike.
She head-butted me like a damn pro, with her pupils so dilated she wouldn't have been focussing well, all while having a cathartic episode. That would fell most adult men and yet she accomplished it without a day of training or any of the mind control taught to the warriors. She stepped right up and socked me; it was fucking fantastic! The instant my face went numb my blood frothed over with the urge to procreate.
Damn it! The mist has spoken and I can't. I can't do a fucking thing until he arrives to give her a choice. Until then I won't mark her or induct her into the clan. But fight her, yes I will. You can't deny me that. I want to test the strength, the resilience, and get off on her skills when she's going berserk.
Adam would make a good starter tutor. He's got a stupid soft spot for women, treating them as if they'd break even when they're splitting his lips open and smashing his eyes closed. His early years left a lasting impression on him and he can't seem to shed the gentleman's code of the philistines. The greatest form of sabotage ever imposed on the world's best warriors was 'behave like a lady'. The hereditary populace of this land had women as fierce as their men fighting side by side. Would act like a lady have worked for Boudica, or Hlaðgerðr? Exactly. They were acting like ladies. Since when is 'be a good complacent victim' equivalent to behaving as a gender which perpetuates the bloodline? Lady my fucking ass. Pussy more like. That's why we call you pussy's because you forgot how to fight, to stand up for what's right and rally the troops for battle when injustice smashes waves on your shore.
The spirit of Skadi is one we respect and encourage. This sassenach heritage is anathema to their worth, to their might. It's blasphemous. Hlaðgerðr was an Amazon, just like this cute minx sleeping in my bed.
Adam's a right idiot. Our ancestral source single handedly challenged the hall of the gods and yet he erroneously believes they're the fairer sex. They can fight as well as any man, better even as they are magnificent tacticians, and one day it will cost him his life. A woman plots and plans to the minutest detail. When they wage war they are prepared for every eventuality and don't wax lyrical about the dangers.
Women may be soft and tempting, but in the heat of rage a woman will destroy you without a shred of remorse. As it should be.
As. It. Should. Be.
Blinking the graininess from my eyes, I flop into the chair adjacent the bed, resting my cheek on my fist, fawning at the gorgeous morsel causing chaos in my future.
If she's anything like the rest of her kin she'll deck me right off this chair the second she wakes, good thing I sleep like I have post traumatic stress disorder. I may doze, but she'll never catch me off my guard.
I must remember to ask her how she got so many scars.
Chapter 6
Then all the Powers strode to the seats of judgment,
The most holy gods council held together:
Who had the air all with evil envenomed
~ Völuspá
Deliah:
He's asleep and I sneakily sit up in bed, deep in stealth mode while I check out my surroundings.
Where's the exit?
It's so dim in here it is hard to see anything more than the man and the lamp illuminating him. His shirt has a dark stain down its front, a bandage on his wrist, and flecks on his basalt jeans.
Wrinkling my nose, the sour stench of vomit lingers in the room. He has a pointy nose and the knuckles pressed against his cheekbone are skinned. I guess he has a temper then?
Bel
la purrs louder than a tractor stuck in reverse, happy I'm awake, pouncing off Ewan's thighs and hopping onto the russet duvet covering my legs. She scoots to head-butt under my chin with feline affection.
Her movement jolts him awake and he dives out of the chair looking ready to impale the imaginary attacker with a hefty swat of his already clenched fist.
It's enough to send my lethargy into hiding under the bed while I have a silent panic attack. Instantaneously my heart is lurching and piking, my pulse so rapid that it bangs my breathing into distorted and shallow gasps.
“Are you okay?” he grumbles, dropping the attack stance and stepping closer to the end of the bed.
I shake my head, dizziness coming on strong while white spots dance frenetically around the room. Blinking away the imminent faint, I force myself to inhale deeply, counting double crocodiles until my heartbeat slows.
Warmth encases my thigh with his handhold and the bed dips so low I inadvertently tilt toward him when he sits next to me, “Talk to me. What the hell's happening?”
Leaning away, I hiss breathlessly, “You are minging.”
“That's because I haven't had the luxury of a shower yet. You were a greater priority than the state of my clothing, for which I only have you to thank. Do you usually ralf on strangers? It certainly makes you memorable.”
I give him 'the look'.
“How are you feeling?” he says, without the acerbic bite of his previous words.
“I dunno.” How am I feeling? Like a demolition ball caved my midsection in for me and left me with a mild hangover.
“You either tell me, or I'll have to see how you feel myself,” he says. The glimpse of pleasure now sparkling his tawny eyes makes me want to thump him.
“I feel shit. I need a strong bitter cup of coffee, to brush my teeth, take something to banish this damn headache, and a gun with hollow point bullets.”