The Valkyrie's Guardian

by Moriah Densley

  “You were nine.”

  “There was murder in your eyes.”

  “I had to moonlight at a beef processing plant to pay for it.”

  “You punched the fountain, I recall. You didn’t say a word to me, but you beheaded the little stone Hermes.”

  “Wait ‘til you see what I do to this S.O.B. for threatening my woman.”

  He watched her lean back against the headrest, smirking in satisfaction at his promise of violence. Bloodthirsty little creature. She was a good soldier, a fact Kyros didn’t want to consider. Cassie didn’t even realize it. Aside from her thorough hand-to-hand combat training — courtesy of himself and Kyros — she had sharp senses, a clear head in danger, and the ability to detach emotion from necessity. Not to mention supreme physical prowess. The best soldiers had those qualities drilled into them, but it came naturally to Cassie to be the ideal commando. That she was untried in battle made him no less certain.

  She felt lost, she rebelled, because she couldn’t find her place in the world. There was only one place for someone like her, if his suspicions proved correct. The first clue: her unnatural aggression and strength, which seemed to increase every day. He didn’t tell her, but he barely held himself back when sparring with her lately. The second clue was the electric edge to her energy, growing stronger as she matured. It had flared the moment she saw Boris at Lake Powell, a creepy skull-pounding, blood-frying energy.

  There had been a buzz of heat between them since she came home after dropping out of her residency last year, and that was sexual attraction. The electric energy was something else. He would have assumed it was an echo of Kyros’ electromagnetic kinesis, passed genetically. But Cassie’s energy was tied to her strength — a catalyst — and it wasn’t magnetic but electrical, as in lightning. If his theory proved wrong, it meant she was just one hell of a cranky mother bear. If he was right, however —

  “What are you hiding in your brain, Jack?”

  “Lustful, kinky thoughts. You wouldn’t approve.”

  “Try me.”

  “No way.” He made a random list, “If you saw what I’d do to you with cherries, nunchucks and a rubber band, you’d freak out.”

  Her brows furrowed, she didn’t get it. Neither did he.

  “Whatever, Jack. You’re plotting something dangerous, I know it.”

  “I’ll keep you safe, baby.”

  “I’m not worried about that. What concerns me is your one solution for every strategy: set yourself as bait.”

  He shrugged, it was true. He lacked the patience to stalk an enemy, and he preferred to bring the fight on his own terms. He always won, more or less, so it worked. She growled and struck his shoulder, numbing the nerve under his right deltoid.

  “One of these days you’re not going to come back in one piece, Jack, and if that doesn’t kill you I’ll do it myself.” Her voice hitched, belying her anger.

  “Can’t think of a better way to go, love.”

  “Damn you.”

  She had basically expressed undying devotion. Minutes ticked by in silence while sweet fire crackled between them. That was growing stronger too, felt like it would turn his chest inside out. Driving him crazy.

  Jack expected to always love her from a distance, but if Cassie had serious hopes, that was a problem. He steered with his knee and reached to cradle her face. “I love you too, lass, but we’re a lost cause. I thought you understood.”

  “Loud and clear.” She looked out her window so he wouldn’t see her wipe a tear. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t care.”

  She meant it. His heart turned over. Without thinking he blurted, “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

  “Then do it, Jack. Pull over now and show me how it’s done. Use your nunchucks if it makes you happy.”

  “No.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, a gesture he still inspired in her.

  Even though she meant her offer to call his bluff, his brain was on board. His mouth would be on hers the moment he carried her out of the car. With only himself and the trees as audience, she would do a slow striptease then squeal as he tackled her. She was definitely the type to make him chase her then let him overpower her. That was easy to imagine too. He would pin her hands over her head and keep her warm until the stars blurred and she screamed his name. Then she would act sleepy and giggle at everything he said while her hands stroked him all over. He would whisper something in her ear that made her smile then cry, and she would say yes. A midnight visit to the chaplain on base would seal the deal.

  Jack shook his head to clear it, disappointed to see the steering wheel under his hands instead of her bare shoulders.

  “So you’ve been leading me on?”

  “No. I was honest with you before we came here. I also explained why you should let everyone think I’m your boyfriend.”

  She raised her chin and tapped fingers on her knee. It made him nervous since he was doing his damnedest not to fidget, and the chill wafting from her angry mood didn’t help. “You’re a great actor.”

  The sound of her voice in anger made him shiver. “None of it was an act, and I have always told you the truth. I love you. But I can’t be with you.”

  “But you’ll flirt and tease.”

  “It’s all I’ve got.”

  “No wonder you were popular at the club. I was curious why those women greeted you like you’re Casanova. Always keep ’em hungry for more, right?”

  What could he possibly say that wouldn’t land him in deeper trouble? I said I don’t father bastards, not that I never mess around — No, good thing his mind was still sealed.

  “So what are you going to do, Jack?”

  “Same thing I’ve always done. Take care of you when you need it and distract myself when you don’t.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” She said it so coolly, he almost didn’t believe the pain he heard behind it.

  He wouldn’t lie to her or feed her some touchy-feely line from an inspirational poster. They’d come full circle on the issue of her not fitting in the human world. She’d sure as hell tried.

  “Good question.”

  • • •

  She hadn’t dreamt it — her phone was ringing. Cassie rolled over in the bed which smelled maddeningly of Jack despite the fresh sheets. The display on the phone screen blurred until her eyes adjusted to the glow. Seven-thirteen A.M. She’d not even been asleep an hour. She didn’t recognize the number, but the 619 area code meant it was local.

  “Hello?” she croaked.

  “Thundercat? Chief Hanson.” He sighed — in relief? “Where are you?”

  “Jack’s house. My shift ended at six, but I can come back in if — ”

  “No. Stay there. Where’s MacGunn?”

  Already Jack stood in the doorway, the hallway light illuminating his crown of bedraggled hair.

  “He’s here.”

  “Put him on.” Chief sounded businesslike, but she recognized the urgency in his voice. Jack used the same falsely calm tone of voice when he kept a lid on his panic.

  Jack took the phone, and she heard his whiskers scrape the plastic. “MacGunn. Ah, no. It was destroyed last night. I’ll replace it today — ”

  Last night Jack had shown her the remnants of his phone, a near-miss with the sniper. Chief had probably tried to call Jack first and worried when he got no answer.

  “Aye, sir … no, sir.” Jack turned and sat on the edge of the bed, reminding her everyone on base thought they were sleeping together. If only.

  Slammed by a surge of longing, she placated herself by deciding it was best he slept in the other room, certain she couldn’t tolerate his snoring. Daylight filtered through the blinds, gilding the contours of his bare back, and Cassie forgot all about his snori
ng. Sitting so near him, she could imagine his steel-velvet warmth enveloping her, and she wanted it.

  Jack nodded her way, snapping her out of the daydream. “What was your bunkmate’s name?”

  “Hathaway. Melissa Hathaway.” She felt the blood drain from her face. Oh no — what had happened to the other medic on base? “Why? Is she okay?”

  Jack repeated the name to Chief, listened, then asked if Captain Russo was aware of the situation. Cassie wanted to break something or scream until Jack nudged her while conversing with Chief, Hathaway was attacked this morning around oh-six-hundred hours, by an orderly. Sounds like another brainwash victim. Russo will handle it.

  Jack hung up, the fog in Cassie’s brain finally cleared, and she registered the impact of the situation: The attack had been meant for her. She and Melissa Hathaway looked a bit alike, close enough for an attacker to mistake them in the dark.

  “How badly is she hurt?”

  Jack snorted. “Apparently Hathaway is a black belt in judo — she beat the tar out the poor guy. He’s missing a few teeth, but they think he’s saying he doesn’t remember anything.”

  “It’s not funny, Jack. And I’m not okay with people getting hurt. Or careers ruined. This is our problem, not the Navy’s.”

  Jack dropped the phone on the dresser, leaning over her lap and giving her a noseful of his grassy-leather-cologne smell she’d been inhaling through the pillow. “The military has allied both directly and unofficially with Kyros for over a hundred years. And I can guarantee you Kyros has done more for Uncle Sam than vice versa. So this is the Navy’s fight, in a way. And Captain Russo knows about the brainwashing. He’s pissed, but he’ll handle it.”

  “Well, this can’t go on. What should we do?”

  “Dunno yet. And I hate not knowing.”

  Jack seemed to notice his proximity to her, a wave of heat flared between them, and he shot from the bed with reflexes that didn’t belong to a sleepy man. He paused in the doorway, his breath a little faster. Cassie didn’t know what she’d expected, but she missed him. She liked his weight on the mattress beside her, and the way he smelled — sexy.

  He made a sound like a strangled groan. Had she been broadcasting?

  Before she could say anything, he walked away. Escaped, more like.

  • • •

  The last night of Hell Week surrendered to dawn. It meant Jack’s last graveyard shift ended and the surviving cadets would graduate from BUD/S. Nothing else from the sniper, and Team Three got orders to go wheels-up at 2100 hours. Jack didn’t even know where, because he wasn’t going. Hard to get invited when the CO hates your guts. Still ticked about his office and the attack on the medic. The worst part was watching the men pack their gear and rib each other, laughing through the adrenaline rush and anxiety. While his gear gathered dust in his locker. That happened a lot lately.

  Jack didn’t mind being an instructor. He liked it. But he was gradually being separated from the team. First he’d gone out on a lot of detachments — ops Kyros spearheaded through Naval Command — and then he’d been assigned as a trainer. Everyone knew it as the Navy’s way of putting old battle horses to pasture. If he pissed off anyone higher up the chain of command, he’d find himself wearing a clean uniform every day and pushing paper around a desk. He’d stab his eyes out first.

  Time for a new cover. On record he was almost too old to be a SEAL operator, even as a contract agent. Maybe he’d try his luck in CIA fieldwork. The Company didn’t ask questions — not if Kyros jingled the high-ranking officials he no doubt kept in his pocket. Maybe Kyros could fix something for Jack to work on. Someplace where his flaming Scottish head wouldn’t stick out like a torch. Doing something that exhausted his energy.

  Even if he had to herd goats in Mongolia he’d do it, because he had to get away from Cassie’s siren call. She’d finally done his haircut, with him sitting on his hands the whole time. They seemed to have a mind of their own, and he was as stupid as a bug flying right into the zapper. Last night they’d played music until they fell asleep, her elegant fingers working over her guitar, the mellow sexy chords vibrating in his chest. The way she watched him with softened eyes while he played his pipes, breathing in time with him … it was just hot. At home she cooked enormous portions of his favorite dishes, which stole his heart all over again. Watching her flit around his kitchen wearing an apron, humming like a tame little housewife addled his brain and set the rest of him on fire. She was killing him.

  She’d been a big hit on Wednesday, leading their two A.M. PT run. She was a natural motivator. Her sweet little backside in those tiny shorts, swaying back and forth worked like hypnosis, temptation on a stick. It was his duty to improve morale amongst the troops. Jack had delivered with a capital D. What had surprised him was the verse Cassie added to the running cadence. She managed to insult every inferior branch of the armed forces and boast the virility of sailors. It rhymed, and so all the cadets fell madly in love with her. Not surprisingly, they all finished with passing scores. Hooyah.

  Word spread fast. Cassie also got to stretch her long legs with his squad on Thursday and Friday’s PT. They changed their cadence too:

  SEAL Team Three is in the hood,

  And PT never looked so good.

  Sound off, One! Two!

  Sound off, Perfect Ten!

  Sound off — Bow-wow, ow-ow! Ah-wooh!

  Wolf howling interrupted the traditional count at the end. They all thought they were wicked hilarious. And Cassie ‘Thundercat’ was immortalized. She didn’t know it, but they would still be singing it after they were all long gone.

  Cassie did a decent job acting winded at the end of the fourteen miles, as though the SEALs’ six m.p.h. pace taxed her. Jack enjoyed seeing Chief and Pops sucking air, struggling to keep up with a girl. Then Jack kept her out of the weight room, to her disappointment. How would he explain her thousand-pound bench-press?

  Nothing he and Cassie could do in public would satisfy their mutual need to work off excess energy, but Jack couldn’t stand sparring with her anymore. Not since everything about it felt erotic now. Of course he was too stupid not to make out with her, and she always crossed the line. When she grabbed him by the dog tags and pulled him in for a rowdy kiss, he was a goner.

  He’d survived these past few years imagining her wide-eyed and innocent. Turned out she was hungry and a little bit dirty — not the least bit shy. Last night she had pulled herself up off the couch by the front of his pants, hooking her hands in the waistband and sliding herself against him like he was a giant ice cream cone that needed licking. She made him want to howl at the moon.

  Luck worked against him too, since he could scent her hormone fluctuation that signaled the ovulatory phase, as Kyros called the miserable phenomenon. All Jack knew was that she smelled like heaven, and it revved him like a stallion. The past year Kyros had taken over guard duty and Jack went away the three days a month it affected him, but this time there was no escaping the drugging effect she had on him. By Monday he would be a wreck. He couldn’t afford to lose control.

  Which is why he had to wrap things up here and turn her over to Kyros for a while. That’s why he needed to get to the bottom of this damned problem with Merodach’s ghost.

  Only minutes later Jack wondered if the gods were listening, and wished they hadn’t.

  Chapter 11

  “I’m not trying to impress you or anything … but I’m Batman!”

  —Jack MacGunn, King of the Bad Pick-Up Line

  Cassie filed the last of the paperwork and decided she adored the Navy. Suspected compound fracture of the femur? No, only muscle inflammation, she reported, and the chief’s office stamped it CLASSIFIED. Terminal oxygen poisoning from faulty Draeger diving rig? Only a low red blood cell count. CLASSIFIED. Third-degree burns and ligament damage to the knee? Just an allergic reaction to latex. Al
so CLASSIFIED, along with her omitted record of shrapnel extraction. Thanks to Jack’s extra-sentient CO, Cassie healed the humans her way and nobody called the Ghostbusters. The soldiers only cared they didn’t get the dreaded SFJ — medical retirement — on their records, so they didn’t ask questions either. A little morphine and they were good to go.

  Yesterday they had brought in a parachute malfunction victim. They called it “dirt poisoning,” and she didn’t find it very funny. He was dead. There was nothing she could do. I’m a doctor, not a necromancer, she told the hopeful medics. Cassie put on her ER face and went through the procedures and paperwork. There was no crying in the Navy, but once it was over she hid in the stairwell and bawled her eyes out. Nineteen, never earned his SEAL trident, never married, only began to live, now dead. It always affected her, and she never forgot the ones she couldn’t help.

  Chief Hanson had watched her handle the oxygen poisoning patient last night, a Team operator, not a BUD/S candidate. He stood silently in the corner until everyone else left. “Want to be a SEAL?”

  “Wrong plumbing,” Cassie shot over her shoulder, wondering what on earth he meant. Females weren’t allowed in the SEALs, of course.

  “There’s a way. How bad do you want it?”

  “I saw G. I. Jane. Didn’t go so well for Demi Moore, so I don’t have high hopes.”

  “Go through CIA recruiting. Be a field agent. Then a contract agent. Everything is classified, and the SEALs can hire you on attachment as a specialist.” He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “It’s not official. Most of it is so classified I have to deny you even exist. But in every way that counts, you’d be on Team Three.”

  Wow, he was serious. Cool! was her initial reaction. Then, wariness. Still, Chief watched her with eagle eyes. He didn’t mind the long stretches of silence. He seemed to hear her thoughts, perceived her hunger to do something that mattered. He knew she thrived on high-stakes situations and he recognized her grit. Uncanny discernment for a non-extra-sentient.

  “I doubt the boys want pigtails on the team.” She looked him in the eye and he met her stare with laser intensity. Hard to believe this shrewd interrogator was the same man from the cafeteria prank.