“I have seen it done to others. They tried to steal mine but it didn’t work.”
“It protected itself.” Anya clutched her head. She had known that her magic was different but the thought of it learning on its own…taking on its own.
“Do not be afraid, little one. Its touch does not harm or feed off another unless you wish it. It is a greeting. The old ones used to know each other by touch. Our forms might change but out power will always feel the same.”
As he spoke, his power flowed along her skin, moving like warm fingers over her body. The Groenn Skaer moved his hand up her leg in a languid stroke. Magic was pulsing through the ground, seeping into Anya. The drums were in her head again, mixing its rhythms with the beating of her heart, the water rushing in the streams and the life growing all around her. She felt the connections he’d spoken of and she was now a part of it, a dot of light like a dew drop in a spider web. The Groenn Skaer moved his long body slowly up hers like the brush of a big cat.
“You feel it,” his deep voice reverberated through him. “Feel the life, Ilya’s blood. Let go of your control.”
His eyes hovered above her; warm and endless, silently assuring that everything would be well. Very slowly, Anya let down every wall that she had ever built, dismantled every protection and shield that kept her magic in check.
The Groenn Skaer gathered her close and sat up, pulling her onto his lap. Her hands gripped his shoulders as power and emotion flooded out of her, into him and the forest and back again until they were one perfect symbiotic entity. He kissed her tears as she clung to him. The power flowing through her was so strong that when he entered her she could barely gasp. The words he murmured did not register as their magic and bodies came together in a ritual as primeval as time. Anya was liquid light and heat that filled the cavern in a burning, blinding inferno before moving out to awaken the forest for spring.
***
The sun was rising and Yvan’s back was aching in pain. His right side was bruised from neck to hip from being tossed into the stone statue hours beforehand. Izrayl and Hamish had joined him and Aramis to wait for the forest to let them in.
She will be well. We would feel it if she was in any harm, the firebird whispered into Yvan’s mind. It wasn’t like him to assure Yvan of anything, so he didn’t reply.
An hour ago, they felt a pulse of power shake the ground, but when Yvan had tried to force his way into the forest once more, he couldn’t get a toe in. Aramis had tried but even as one of the Álfr, it had ignored his efforts. They had tried to contact the Twins but it was futile.
Yvan stood leaning against a post, the cool stone easing the throbbing in his back. Hamish trotted past sniffing curiously in his dingo form. Izrayl was due to come back to report and Aramis had withdrawn into a sullen silence.
Snapping branches and a rustling of leaves pulled Yvan from his daydreams. A head of fair hair caught the morning’s first rays and Anya appeared on the edge of the forest. The Elemental was with her, immensely tall and imposing. Yvan watched him unravel one of his braids and give Anya the piece of rolled up leather that had been woven into it. He picked her up and kissed her long and passionately.
Yvan took a step forward but Aramis gripped his arm and stopped him. “Wait!”
The forest lord lowered Anya once more and she stepped through the trees. She wore a short kilt of grey fur, a band of it covering her breasts. Her hair was wild and snarled with twigs, leaves and small blossoms. Izrayl’s hunches rose and he morphed back into his human form, shaking himself. “Something is wrong with her, Yvan…,” he muttered. Hamish moved in front of them, dead alert. They were watching Anya carefully. She walked toward them, her body swaying with a natural confidence she normally lacked. There was blood on her hands, drops smeared on her legs and the edges of her mouth.
A whimpering sound emanated from Izrayl and he morphed again, taking tentative steps towards her. Hamish joined him, walking circles around her, small submissive sounds coming from them.
“The power of the forest is still riding her,” Aramis whispered, his eyes glued to Anya and the magic that was spilling from her. “Anya, can you hear me?” She ignored him completely, not a flicker of recognition on her face. “Anya, it’s Aramis. You must let the forest go.”
Anger washed over her face, making her feral. “No. Peace here.”
“Yvan, say something. She’s always listened to you. If she doesn’t let the magic go soon, she will lose herself all together.” Aramis’s tone was calm but Yvan could see the panic in his eyes. Yvan felt the firebird’s heat roll over his skin and he knew that he had no choice. Fire licked up his arms and down his body. Anya’s eyes that were not really Anya’s flickered with uncertainty.
“Fire is an unpredictable force,” Yvan said calmly, his voice taking on strains of the firebird. “Nothing exists that fire cannot destroy. Let the girl go or I promise you will feel the heat of my flames. I will burn you to the ground until all that remains is the ash of your children. I will burn you until the seeds in the earth are destroyed with no hope of rejuvenation. I will sow salt in all that remains of you.”
“You make idle threats,” Anya replied blankly.
“I’m not making a threat.” Balls of flame built in Yvan’s hands and he walked to the forest edge. “I have no quarrel with you, but if you don’t release her, I will destroy you.”
“Very well,” Anya sighed. The coldness melted from her eyes until only confusion remained. Anya sank to her knees beside Izrayl. He licked her arm curiously, the whine in his throat growing as he transformed.
“What is it, Izrayl?” Aramis demanded.
“She smells of wolf,” he replied dazedly. “She was a wolf. There is wildness and old magic and blood and sex.”
“Sounds like a busy night,” Hamish looked down at Anya’s astonished face. She studied her hands as if she’d never seen them before, the rolled piece of leather clutched too tightly in her left palm.
“Yvan?” her voice small and confused but her own again. She looked lost and disorientated, suffering massive magical drain. Magic was not something he could help her with. She’d done exactly what Aramis had feared and had performed a ritual with the Groenn Skaer. Yvan’s hands clenched at his side, trying to keep his anger and disappointment in check. He turned to the pale, concerned Álfr next to him.
“You can handle this one. You are her guardian, after all.”
“I don’t think she wants me.” Yvan tried to look at her and found he couldn’t.
“That’s your problem.” No one moved to stop him as he hobbled from the garden, flames falling from his fingertips.
Chapter Eight - The Divine Spear
Mychal was in the library, tucked into a secluded and dusty alcove. A pile of books was placed next to him but he wasn’t reading. He was sitting on the window seat, overlooking the garden below him, his knees pressed tightly to his chest.
For Aleksandra’s sake, Mychal had been trying to mingle with the others. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them because he did. It was that everyone was constantly so loud. Even when they weren’t talking, their emotional energy would press tightly around him until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. While among monks and priests with their contemplative and reflective minds, Mychal had always been the most troubled. He’d been the one that was the constant bound up mass of angry energy. Now he was getting firsthand knowledge of what Vadim must have been going through. The thought of Vadim sent a sharp stab of grief in his heart. Mychal knew he couldn’t attend any of the funerals, the police as well as Vasilli had been looking for him, but the guilt he carried for not saying goodbye troubled him. He pressed a hand to his chest to try to relieve the pain and pressure building there.
“Gabriel,” he whispered to the quietness around him, “steady my resolutions, renew my courage, comfort and console me in the problems, trials and sufferings of daily living, as you consoled our Saviour in his agony.” The tension in him eased and when he looked up, a man was
watching him. He wore his golden hair long, like most of the Álfr, and had large golden eyes.
“Who is it that you pray to?” he asked softly.
“Gabriel, one of the Archangels,” Mychal said. He forced his knees from his chest slowly. He didn’t like to look vulnerable and the tall man had caught him unawares. Usually, he felt when someone was near but the stranger hadn’t even registered.
“And this Gabriel, he helps?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt to ask.”
“You aren’t entirely human.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I didn’t know the Hvítrvirđar still came to this world to mate with the human women.”
“I’m not nephilim,” Mychal defended. “Nephilim are abominations.”
“Then what are you?”
“I don’t know. Something…else.”
“I believe you. Your light is so unusual.” He waved a hand in the air.
“In what way?” Mychal asked cautiously. He knew that Ruthann could see auras, but he didn’t like that the other Álfr could spot it too. The golden man walked closer to him, studying him carefully.
“It’s unusual in its intensity and its duality. There is strong gold, streaked in violet. There is red there too. You are a warrior. There is darkness, deep anger. You exist in a constant state of war within yourself. Death is drawn to you. It seeks you out. Tries to kill your light.” He shuddered and his golden eyes refocussed. “I- I am sorry.”
“Don’t let it worry you. There is nothing you have said that I didn’t already know about myself.”
“I’m pleased that I didn’t offend you. I’m Ásgeirr.” Mychal took the long hand that was offered to him. It was soft but it held hidden strength. Clearly, reading people’s auras and studying in libraries wasn’t his only talent.
“Mychal, what weapon do you specialise in?”
“I’m surprised you ask,” Ásgeirr laughed, “but since you did, it is the spear.”
“Is that how you were named?”
“That is how I earned my name. The Divine Spear. It sounds very dramatic in the human tongue. I’m surprised you can pick up our language so easily.”
“It’s not that complicated. It’s very close to old Norse. It makes sense that natives of Álfheim would speak a variant or higher form of Norse.”
“There are very few outsiders that know that Álfheim actually exists. You’re a very unusual, learned man.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to study.”
“I can see that,” Ásgeirr pointed to the books. “Light reading?”
“I wanted to see what the Álfr had to say about demons marks.” Despite Aleksandra’s reassurances, Mychal still hadn’t given up on the hope that he could find a way to remove the marks on her. His area of expertise was high risk and he couldn’t guarantee that he would always be around to protect her.
“You’ll not find knowledge of the Blakkrvirđar in the open sections of the library. Understand, Mychal, we are the Ljósálfar. We do not keep darkness around us.”
“It’s a little naïve to ignore that there is darkness though.”
“We do not ignore it. We choose to dwell in the light. You’ll not be able to access the knowledge we have on the Blakkrvirđar on your own, but I will go with you if it’s something you are determined to study.”
“I am. Not for myself, for my friend. I know I’m damned and there isn’t any magic in the world that will change that.”
“That’s not true, Mychal. You are not damned. You are divided. Your greatest blessing is paired with the greatest of curses. You will learn to be comfortable in the divide within time. I see your pain. You do not know your full purpose. This is a time of testing. You will not remain in this place for much longer, I feel.” Ásgeirr rubbed his forehead.
“You’re prophetic?” Mychal asked, recognising the symptoms. Vadim would drift off much the same, mid conversation and then suffer nausea and headaches afterward.
“I see things that others do not. I usually have much better control over it. You don’t appear to be upset by it.”
“My father was prophetic. I know it can come unbidden.”
“You truly have been the most surprising find in this library today,” Ásgeirr laughed, shaking his golden head. Mychal smiled back. He liked this strange Álfr. He blamed Aleksandra’s influence, making him soft, but something familiar about Ásgeirr made it easier.
“I have been called worse things than surprising.”
“I can imagine. Forgive me. I’ll stop interrupting your studies.”
“I wasn’t getting very far.”
“I will show you the Blakkrvirđar books tomorrow if you wish. I need to seek permission first.”
“I would appreciate any help,” Mychal replied. He hesitated before asking, “You wouldn’t happen to teach people how to use a spear by any chance?”
“You don’t strike me as someone who wouldn’t know how to use one.”
“I know basics but my weapon of choice has always been a sword or a hand gun. Spear training would be useful and who better to teach me than the Divine Spear himself?”
“I see enough in you to know that you aren’t one to often ask for help so I’d be happy to teach you, but I should warn you, I’m a hard teacher.”
“I am hard to teach.”
“Then we should suit each other fine. Meet me in the amphitheatre near the forest in an hour,” Ásgeirr said as he turned to leave. “Bring energy.”
Mychal left the library and walked briskly back to his room. He needed to change into workout clothing and something in his mind told him he’d best warm up. Aleksandra crashed into him as they both tried to use the door at once.
“God, Mychal, you scared me,” she squealed. He picked her up and lifted her out of his way.
“I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry.”
“I can see that. Where’s the fire?” She followed him into their bedroom while he started to shed his clothes.
“I’ve training with one of the Álfr.”
“Made a new friend already? I’m surprised.”
“I met him in the library. He’s going to teach me how to use a spear.” He pulled on a singlet and bent to kiss her cheek.
“Be careful. If he’s anything like Søren, he means to draw blood and your blood is precious to me.” He ran his thumb lightly between her eyebrows to push away her frown.
“It’s training. Stop worrying about me so much.”
“I can’t help it,” she mumbled. “You attract too much trouble.”
Mychal headed outside and into the day light. It was unseasonably warm for the time of year. The meteorologists were making all sorts of predictions, the activists were blaming global warming but everyone else was pleasantly surprised by an early spring. The only people who weren’t concerned were those living with the Álfr. They knew the cause of the heat wave was thanks to Anya’s midnight adventure in the forest four days ago.
Ásgeirr was standing under the trees, stretching slowly like a lethal cat. His hair was tied in one thick braid down to his waist. He was wearing loose fitting white trousers and no shoes. As Mychal drew nearer, he saw the scars. Ásgeirr’s white skin was a jigsaw of them.
“I didn’t think that the Álfr had enough wars to warrant so many wounds,” Mychal said when Ásgeirr caught him staring.
“I’m very old, I’ve seen many wars. I’m sure you have many of your own.” Ásgeirr was looking at him expectantly so Mychal shrugged and pulled off his singlet. “I see now why you want the Blakkrvirđar books so badly. You really should be dead to be marked so deeply by them.”
“I know,” said Mychal self-consciously, “I was healed.”
“By your friend Gabriel?”
“Or one of his kind.”
“Then you must be very important, very special, to warrant such attention from the Hvítrvirđar.”
“Or they are saving my life to kill me in some extravagant way later.”
“Do
n’t be so cynical. You’re protected. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to live this long, let alone hunt the Blakkrvirđar so efficiently. You must be very quick.”
“Well, yes I…” Mychal managed before he was knocked to the ground. Ásgeirr was standing in the same spot, smiling.
“Not quick enough, it would seem.” Mychal’s leg swiped out but Ásgeirr moved out of reach. Mychal was on his feet and quickly dodging a blow aimed for his head. Mychal swung, kicked, ducked, and moved, but Ásgeirr always seemed to move at the last instant. Mychal, fierce demon slayer, could not lay a finger on him.
“So this…is what…it must feel like for the others to fight…me,” he wheezed after fifteen straight minutes of pure frustration. He had spent most of that time on the ground.
“Dear boy, you’re being a little optimistic there.”
“I don’t understand. Søren and I train and I thought he was good.”
“He’s good, but I am better.”
“But you have so many scars.”
“How do you suppose I learned to be faster?”
“You must’ve had an excellent teacher.” Ásgeirr’s eyes flooded with instant pain and regret.
“Yes, I did.”
“You miss him.”
“Very much, but he is long gone.” Ásgeirr folded his arms casually before continuing. “Do you wish to know why you can’t lay a finger on me, Mychal?”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s because you are angry.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Not at me, you aren’t, but you are angry. You hold it deep within yourself. The only time you know peace is when you are killing.”
Mychal’s fist was fast but Ásgeirr grabbed the end of his long braid, twisted it around Mychal’s arm like a rope and used it to throw him. Mychal hit a tree, his back and shoulders cracking on impact, and collapsed on the grass. When Mychal finally opened his eyes, Ásgeirr was standing over him, a hand offered. Mychal took it and was hauled to his feet.
Rise of the Firebird Page 10