The Valkyrie's Guardian

by Moriah Densley

  Cassie woke later on a pallet, covered by a wool blanket infused with the scent of her rescuer. That smell was branded in her memory too — the essence of a new life, of home. From that time forward she would recognize Jack by his scent even before she caught sight of him. It always soothed her the same time it conjured a sense of wild energy and adventure. It was her first awareness of a man, more accurately, of masculinity in all its complexities.

  She remembered sitting up and taking in the rustic sight of a log fire burning in the hearth, of homespun rugs covering the rough-hewn wooden floor. A sound wafted from another room, and she had to concentrate to identify it. Music — strange tones, rising and falling in patterns foreign to her ears.

  Cassie followed the silvery vibrations as though beckoned. The source proved to be a woodsy, reedy voice that filled the air with tangible resonance. How could an instrument make a sound like a human voice, a mythical place, and a painful memory all at once?

  Jack’s hair was lighter and longer then, it hung in unruly waves over his face as he leaned into the music. He wore torn and dirty camo fatigue pants, and she still recalled the pungent smoke smell from the burned spots in the fabric and his singed hair. The largest arms she’d ever seen cradled a bizarre instrument. She watched his right elbow lift and press against his side in a ponderous rhythm, and she recognized the apparatus as a sort of bellows. Long filigreed tubes lay across his lap. His fingers slid and shook over a sort of flute held diagonally across his chest. She watched, mesmerized as the contraption produced delicious music. The same hands which had wrought violence in combat also worked with gentle skill over the delicate instrument.

  She blinked, confused by the tears swimming in her eyes. The mournful ghostly music filling the room called to her. She felt utterly safe. Cassie remembered it clearly, because it had changed her. Just as his scent brought her home, his music meant safety.

  Creeping closer, she wanted to take in the sound directly from its source. Cassie sat cross-legged before him and closed her eyes, letting the mellow tones hum in her chest and chase away her thoughts.

  “All right there, lass?” His accent was thicker then, as he had recently left his home and joined Kyros, a story she still didn’t know much of because it was ugly for Jack.

  “Where is mother? Aunt Isabelle?” She shook her head, afraid of bad news.

  “Sorry, lass, I don’ know. My orders were to find you and get away. We’ll ask the others when they come in. Will ye wait here with me then?”

  “Very well.” She craned her neck to study the dirt-smeared face of her rescuer, seeing the pity in his expression but too young to comprehend the slim odds her family had survived the hordes of attackers and raging house fire. The next morning when the squad of Network agents regrouped, she discovered herself the last living Noyon. She would never forget how Jack knelt at her feet and begged forgiveness for failing her.

  But that first day with Jack wasn’t about tragedy, it was about heroism. To her six-year-old imagination, he was a fey warrior prince. He wore the harsh expression of a soldier who had both given and cheated death, but she wouldn’t identify that hale, sad facet of his demeanor until she matured. She saw both strength and conflict in him, a paradox that appealed to her. And he was huge. Cassie had to turn her head to take in all of him. She couldn’t imagine any man could possibly be larger or stronger than Jack.

  He answered all her questions with a plain-spoken honesty probably inappropriate for a child. It wasn’t in his nature to be deceitful, much less diplomatic. Later he would be her salvation, since Jack was the only one among Kyros’ Network agents who ever told her what was going on.

  While they waited for Kyros to join them at the safehouse, Jack cheered her by playing dance reels on his pipes. He tolerated her curiosity, let her try to pump the bellows and poke her fingers inside the holes of the flute-thing he called a chanter. Her attempts produced sounds an animal would only make if stuck in a fence, and Jack didn’t even try to tell her it was a good attempt. He laughed and made fun.

  Cassie had stilled at the sound, the first time she heard his husky burnt-sugar laughter. Both masculine and boyish. Unabashedly delighted. It was its own kind of music, contagious, and she wanted him to do it again. Years later it became the sound of seduction. She grew into a woman, aware of desire to the sound of Jack’s laughter.

  That first time she had also reacted in what would become a pattern for them: he teased her, and she got angry. She pouted and shoved the bundle of drone pipes in his lap. He ducked back and shouted, “Hey!” Jack returned her scowl and scolded, “Mitts off the pipes, whelp. You break these and I’ll take it out on your ar — uh, backside.”

  She’d been hurt, and for a few awful moments the shrine she’d already built for him in her mind toppled. She’d been a bratty little girl, admittedly, so it was entirely in character when she shoved her foot forward to smack his knee. “Couldn’t sound any worse broken,” she nodded to the pipes.

  She thought he was genuine when his face fell in an expression of devastation. “Cruel lass. Ye wound me.” He leaned forward, jutting his nose inches from hers. “I don’ care if it’s a steamin’ pile of shite. If it belongs to me, little runt, you respect it. I’ll not have ye breakin’ my stuff.”

  Cassie cocked her head, feeling powerful to have gotten such a reaction from him. “Then you had better watch out yourself. I do as I please.”

  “Do ye?”

  “Always.”

  He reached over, and with his eerie lightning-fast reflexes, he squeezed the sides of her knee with his thumb and forefinger. It stunned the nerves there and made her jump. Most undignified, when she was trying to be aloof.

  “And so do I, lass. Beware yourself.”

  There was no call for her outrage, but she had never been treated in such a manner. She clambered to her feet and charged him. He caught her and wrestled her into a ball of flailing limbs. She struggled, he let her loose, and their first wrestling match turned into a game at some point. With Jack busy guarding the pipes in his lap, Cassie had the advantage. She’d never been played with, never been challenged or taken to task like that.

  He held her pinned on the rug, three of her limbs trussed in one bear paw of a hand while her loose arm darted jabs at him —

  “What is going on?” The bass voice deep like an echo but smooth like a bell made Cassie and Jack freeze. “MacGunn, what is this?”

  “Uh, just keeping the little brat under control. No kidding Kyros, she’s a hellcat. Good luck with that, mate.”

  Jack released her, and Cassie rolled to her knees, staring at the newcomer whose frame filled the doorway. He was dark and handsome, well-built but not nearly as big as Jack and far more elegant. Like the illustrations of Camelot’s knights in her storybooks. The same warrior mien as Jack, with old eyes — ancient eyes that frightened her at first. The man went down on one knee, staring at her with an unguarded, stricken expression.

  He breathed an oath in a language she didn’t understand. Slowly his hand rested on the side of her face, and his eyes searched hers for a long moment. “There is a God,” he whispered. “You look so much like her, I can hardly believe it.”

  “Who do I look like?”

  The man blinked once, twice at the sound of her voice. “A very dear, brave woman I once knew.” He glanced sideways at Jack, who nodded and sat back. She finally noticed that Kyros spoke to her in French, whereas the man with the Scottish accent made her speak English.

  My name is Kyros. You have already met Jack.

  She sucked in a breath, stunned that yet another was like her, could speak without words.

  Can you hear me?

  Yes.

  Very good. Are you injured? Were you hurt at all? She shook her head no, and he closed his eyes briefly, a gesture of relief. What is your name, chére?

  Cassiopei
a Andromeda Noyon, monsieur, she answered with the deference she’d been trained to use with her elders. She didn’t know how to behave toward this man yet, but he radiated power and wisdom, which to her six-year-old self was intimidating.

  You have no idea how pleased I am to meet you, Cassiopeia. He patted the ground for her to sit. You’ve had quite a fright this evening haven’t you? I am sorry for that. We weren’t expecting so much trouble tonight, but it’s lucky I brought Jack along, isn’t it?

  Oh, yes, she agreed, wide-eyed.

  I should take a look at Jack now, he’s always getting himself beat up. Why don’t you relax and I’ll tell you a long story. It has your family in it. Your ninth-great-grandmother.

  Kyros knelt nearby, and as if on cue, Jack tugged his shirt off and tucked his arms behind his head as he lay back on the floor. She held her breath, watching a bright red spot soak through the bandage high on his right shoulder. Cassie had forgotten he’d been shot, since he hadn’t given any indication of being in pain. He’d wrestled her on the rug, after all.

  Kyros peeled back the bandage, Jack grunted, and Cassie gasped when she saw the wound. It scared her, despite all else she’d taken in stride. Her bottom lip trembled and she started to cry, she couldn’t help it. Blood oozed from the circular wound, black and wet in the dim light. In a panic she shoved her hand over the hole, unable to bear the evidence of vulnerability in her hero.

  She bent her head over him and concentrated, praying she could manage the healing. She’d only mended cuts and burns on people before, and a stomach ulcer, but that was for a dog, and it hadn’t survived her efforts. Jack was bleeding, he was badly hurt, and she knew what happened to people who got hurt: they died.

  Her hands shook, so she closed her eyes, trying to calm herself enough to help Jack. She connected with his mind without realizing it was only possible because he allowed it. She inserted herself inside his senses and was struck by the overwhelming vitality screaming through his veins, hammering in colossal waves of energy, pumping from the noisiest heart she’d ever heard. Most people’s bodies thrummed in pleasant waves like those that lapped on the beach. Jack’s life force dwarfed hers. She paused, daunted as she would be by the sight of a tidal wave towering overhead.

  The sharp throbbing of his pain gave her resolve. She felt it sympathetically, burning with raw-nerved fire. She followed his blood, careful to soothe the nerves she brushed along the way. This man who experienced life on such a larger scale also had a magnified sense of pain. What seemed like dull throbbing to her was a jagged searing that radiated from the wound and rode his nerves. From his thoughts she understood he’d disguised it from her before because he didn’t want to scare her.

  Cassie didn’t know she’d pushed too hard until he shifted beneath her, making her hands slide in the blood. She sent him a silent apology and concentrated on the damaged tissue. First she halted the blood flow and mended his veins, an exhausting feat against the force of his pulse. After that he was easier to heal than Aunt Isabelle or anyone else, because he was like her, and his body responded when she stimulated the regeneration process in his tissues. She whimpered, working through the wound that went clear through his shoulder. The skin on his back was mangled, much worse than the precise hole near his collarbone.

  She fought a long battle, stemming back the blood flow while repairing the tissue, and finally she knew it would work. She had saved him — Jack wouldn’t die. Already the edges of the wound held together, and the repaired sections of blood vessel withstood the pressure of his pulse. She wished she could take away the pain, but she didn’t know how. She could only be gentle with the nerve endings she touched, careful not to make it worse.

  Her eyelids felt heavy. The deafening drum-drum of his heart, so loud in her mind steadily drained her energy. She still hadn’t worked through all the layers of his skin. She wiped away the last of the blood and felt the bumpy texture of a scar. She was still trying to smooth it even as a wave of exhaustion overcame her and she dropped her head onto Jack’s chest. His thundering pulse receded from her head, the noise just a physical sensation she felt through the skin of his chest on her cheek. She could do no more — she’d lost the connection.

  “Well, now,” she heard Kyros say to Jack. “That was interesting.”

  “The lass is definitely yours, Kyros,” said the sand-rubbed velvet voice she’d already come to love. “Time will tell what sort of trouble that brings.”

  Chapter 16

  “This is the key to my Porsche, this one is to my penthouse.

  And here is the key to my heart.”

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

  Cassie woke in the middle of Jack’s king-size bed to the sound of shouting.

  “Theft! The act of stealing. The wrongful taking and carrying away of the personal property of another. Larceny!”

  “Hey Cheese, take it easy. You still have thirty-seven left. That’s fifty-four percent. And you have another batch in the oven. Of course, I will have to take that into account.”

  Cassie wandered into the kitchen, covering a yawn. Jack chewed and shrugged, lounging on a bar stool. His hair was wet from showering, and a thin white T-shirt stretched over his chest like a second skin, damp and transparent in the most interesting places. His woodsy clean scent mingled with a delectable smell that filled the condo, something creamy and smoky baking. The kitchen was an unholy mess of dishes, wrappers, and spills.

  The boy they’d rescued glared menacingly at Jack, but his eyes sparkled with underlying amusement. He waved his hands covered with oven mitts and wore Jack’s apron which sported the lettering: Kiss the Cook … if you want dinner. Remove the apron if you want dessert. Probably a gift from an ex-girlfriend, even more bizarre to see a little kid wearing it.

  “Personal service corporations are subject to a flat tax of thirty-five percent regardless of their income,” he replied indignantly, and Cassie wondered what the boy meant to do, wielding oven mitts against Jack.

  “Eh, but you’re not a corporation, are you Cheese?” Jack popped another of whatever it was in his mouth and spoke around it, “What you have is a sole proprietorship, little guy. Self-employment tax for you. And consider this — ” He ate another while the boy scoffed in outrage, “Advance payment on your fourth quarter taxes. These are really good, Cheese. You’ve got serious talent.”

  The boy beamed and recited in a blur, “This savory vegetarian hors d’oeuvre features herbed feta cheese that melts and mingles with whipped egg whites, which moistens the pastry made from whole-grain flour. Adding diced mushrooms and fresh oregano will give it that Mediterranean flair, a perfect pairing with the spinach meatballs featured in the last segment.”

  Cassie forgot what she came to say and simply appreciated the moment. Jack had figured out how to communicate with the boy. Cheese — a horrid nickname she simply wouldn’t allow — was incapable of voicing his thoughts in his own words. She could imagine a variety of psychological reasons for that. The kid expressed himself by repeating related information cataloged in his mind. Apparently he had a photographic memory.

  He memorized a cooking show from T.V. then went into the kitchen and made the food. It seemed best to just let the little devil have at it, since it distracted him from trying to dismantle my subwoofer.

  Cassie glanced around the living room attached to the dining area and kitchen. Either an earthquake had struck, or Jack babysitting had been a disaster.

  You have no idea, Cass. Do you think we could put him in some sort of cage? Maybe on a leash or something, because I seriously don’t think I can handle this.

  Your kid will be worse.

  I know. Shoot me now.

  Your bachelor pad needs work anyway. Think I’ll add a few doilies, okay?

  She wandered closer to Jack and leaned against his chest. He rested his chin on her head and stuck his
hands in the front pockets of her jeans. Cassie watched the boy, who paced anxiously in front of the oven while the timer counted down from twelve seconds. When it beeped, the boy jumped and cheered. She watched him arrange bite-sized quiche on a plate with a precision indicating OCD. He’d fit right in, since Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder was the least of the weirdness most extra-sentients struggled with.

  The boy presented her a steaming mini-quiche on an oven mitt. The blended cheese smell hit her full force and she swallowed a wave of nausea.

  Oh, sorry Cass. Already?

  It’s the goat cheese. Her stomach lurched, and she swallowed to subdue the bitter tang in her throat. The boy’s sweet brown eyes peered through his shaggy hair. He waited eagerly. She had no choice. She prayed she wouldn’t retch on the kitchen floor and reached for the perfectly browned piece.

  Jack saved her. He snatched it away, popped it up in the air and caught it with his upturned mouth. He chomped and pointed at the boy, “Hmm. And now you learned about Darwinism. Survival of the fittest.”

  Cassie played along. She turned in his arms and swatted him on the shoulder. “Poorly done, Jack. Stealing food from a pregnant lady. You ought to be punished.”

  The boy rattled off text from Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, distracted from wanting Cassie to sample his masterpiece.

  Right in front of the kid, Jack grabbed her backside and pulled her against him, locking them together from groin to shoulder. “Oh yeah, baby. Punish me.” He spanked her hard then rubbed his hand to cup her rear. “I’d like nothin’ more, sugar.” He growled this in her ear then nipped her earlobe.

  Cassie shoved against his chest. “Jack! Stop it.” The kid is watching!

  He gripped his arms tighter and puffed out his chest to fill her hands with his pecs.

  If only they were alone … It felt like they’d flown past the next two stages in life, with a kid cutting in on their alone time before they’d even had a honeymoon.