by Helen Adams
Alice gave me an old-fashioned look. I turned back to the kettle, hiding a grin, and dumped the boxes on the table.
I came back from lunch on time. Bang on time. Not a minute early, not a minute late. I wasn’t going to give Mina a single thing.
“You up to anything tonight?” Alice asked.
“Going to see my mum.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“Nah. Thanks for asking, though.”
She touched my shoulder – a fleeting gesture that meant more than words – and we got back to work.
At the end of the day I changed back into trainers and grabbed my gear. I heard Lorl’s sleepy chirp from my sports bag and knew that she’d climbed into my locker for (another) quick kip before we went home. Locks didn’t bother taufrkyn. They could probably get into a bank vault, if they had enough time and incentive. My crappy locker? Not a problem.
I left the library and headed out. There was a big church in the middle of town – old, probably medieval – and it had a fair-sized cemetery. When I got to the church I took the narrow path around the outside until I found myself among the tombstones.
On a sunny day this was a nice place to visit. Odd to think that about a cemetery, but it was true; the church had its own green space, with lush grass and sturdy trees. People laid brightly coloured flowers in front of gravestones. Sometimes, if I sat on a bench, I could hear the gentle drone of bees.
Today, in the middle of November, it was cold and dreary. Not wet – no rain for a while now – but dreary nonetheless. I picked my way among the dying grass and stopped at a particular stone. Small, black marble, tasteful gold lettering.
Elise McArthur
Beloved Wife and Mother
I didn’t bring flowers. I’d never known my mother – she’d killed herself when I was five months old – so what was the point? I didn’t know what flowers she’d liked. Dad could have told me, but he wasn’t around either.
So instead I talked. I spoke to the stone, occasionally touching it, talking about my day.
I knew this wasn’t her. But I liked to think that somewhere, somehow, she could still hear.
I took the bus home. I couldn’t afford a car, and with my temper there was a real possibility that I’d get into a road-rage incident. Probation had ended a long time ago… but old habits, right? So I took the bus and steered clear of booze. I didn’t even smoke.
What I did do – with great enthusiasm – was beat seven kinds of shit out of the dojo equipment. And if I sometimes imagined Mina’s face on a punching bag, well… the only things I ever hurt were my knuckles.
I always got an evening off when Raz had to work late. He shared the duty with his two eldest boys – neither of whom knew that he was a berserker – and tonight it was his turn. Tomorrow he’d finish at a sensible time and we’d slope off to the dojo.
Before I hopped on the bus Lorl took off after a wild flock. I had no idea what she got up to, but sometimes she’d hunt me a ‘present’. It usually had a minimum of six legs and ended up in my bed. Or, on one memorable occasion that I never wanted to think about again, my underwear drawer.
I got off the bus and shivered, despite a coat. The weather forecasters predicted snow in a week. We didn’t often get snow this far south.
The streetlamps had already been on for an hour or so. I walked between patches of orange and white light. My trainers kicked up loose gravel on the pavement. Who’s that walking over my bridge? Your friendly neighbourhood berserker, that’s who.
It was a five-minute walk from the bus stop to my flat. Most of it was open streets and paths, but the last section was a wide alley between my block of flats and a row of garages. The lighting was sporadic, creating uneven pools of shadow.
I wasn’t afraid of being attacked. I could take care of myself. Which was why, when I heard lumbering footsteps, I reacted.
TWO
Two figures stomped into the alley at either end, blocking out most of the light. These weren’t teenaged trolls, who I could intimidate, smack about and send home to their parents. These were real monsters. They were big and I was trapped.
I didn’t waste time looking. With a practised flick my sports bag disappeared behind a row of wheelie bins. I nudged my duffel – a hard nudge in just the right spot – and felt the click-clunk of a spring releasing the sword, a falchion, within. I reached back to grab the newly-emerged hilt. The duffel rolled off my shoulder and I kicked it out of the way.
The manoeuvre only took seconds, but it was long enough for the bulky creatures to advance deeper into the dim alley. They were human shaped, but the resemblance ended there; in the almost-light I made out skin the colour of old, dry earth. No features, no hair. No clothes. Sexless monsters with fists the size of my head.
Firmly believing that it was better to give than to receive, I charged the nearest. As I weaved past my shoulder scraped the brick wall, and instinct made me duck a blow that would have smashed my skull. I whipped my sword up, the metal gleaming as it moved through the flickering beam of a security lamp.
The blade sliced my target’s back. The bastard didn’t bleed. Well… crap. I’d read about creatures like this in Harpy’s Bestiary; written in the Middle Ages, the book was a berserker’s ‘Who’s Who’ of targets. These were clay golems, and the only way to kill them was to chop off their heads.
Golem One charged with meaty arms outstretched. I sidestepped and dropped as Golem Two swung its fists at my head. It ruffled my hair but made no contact. Adrenaline screamed through my system.
I surged into the light like a leviathan from the abyss. I drew back and swung both arms in a massive sideways slash.
The golem turned. The falchion took it in the throat, hacking through its neck. I yanked the blade clear and dropped, rolling beneath another attack from those flailing fists.
Its head dangled off the stump of its neck, only connected by a few scraps of fleshy gristle. I made a grab for it and heaved. The golem collapsed, thudding as it fell. One down, one to go. Movement told me that One had recovered from its wild charge, and now it charged again.
If it smashed into me I’d be dead.
I hurled the severed head at the oncoming golem. It struck the thing’s smooth chest and bounced off – no damage there – but it was just enough to knock it off balance. It staggered and I swung, using the distraction to attack. The golem toppled.
This was why I worked out. This was why I kept up martial arts lessons and pushed my endurance during daily running sessions. Life beyond the aura was a fast, brutal, fragile thing.
The sound of enthusiastic applause covered my harsh breathing. I whirled, automatically bringing my sword up into a defensive position. Now what?
“Bravo!” a man exclaimed from the mouth of the alley. Oh fuck. “What delightful entertainment!”
The man flicked his fingers out and bright illumination flared from the dim security lights. When I saw the litter of golem body parts I tensed; they’d all turn to goop and dissolve, but it would take hours. Somebody could walk through this newly-lit alley at any second.
My unwelcome guest was called Lukas. He wasn’t human, though in a suit that spoke of money and excellent taste he certainly looked the part; he was a vaengrjarl, a dragon shapeshifter. It was an old Viking word that meant (loosely) ‘psychopathic flying lizard’. I knew from experience that his biology and mine were similar enough to insert Flap A into Slot B, and he didn’t need to use his aura to disguise himself – he already had a human skin and it would win awards.
As if that wasn’t enough, he was a prince. He had a sense of entitlement and the ancestry to back it up. We’d met three years ago, through mutual interests – an elf problem up in London – and he was one of the few people who knew the truth about my prison sentence.
And oh, yeah, we’d had sex.
It had been… I still got shivery thinking about it, which was why I’d tried so hard to forget. Especially as he’d ruined everything by rolling over and asking m
e to have kids with him. I’d got out of there as if my arse had been on fire.
Since then he’d left me alone. I’d never questioned why, thinking – hoping – that I’d never see him again. I should have known better. My luck had just run out.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded, keeping my sword up.
I tried to slap a filter on my tongue. Lukas was magically powerful enough to lay waste to half the country; he could rip me apart as an afterthought. I didn’t think he would, but it wouldn’t kill me to be polite.
Right. Polite Daphne. I was fucked.
“Is that any way to greet an old lover?” he asked, reproachful. “The father of your future children?”
His accent was soft and sexy. Scandinavian – Norwegian, Swedish, I’d never been able to work it out – but muted after years spent overseas. His ancient stare, delivered from level grey eyes, travelled down a straight nose. He looked to be in his late thirties. But even if I added a couple of centuries to that, I’d still be off the mark.
“I’d rather have kids with a troll,” I shuddered. He’d made it clear that he wanted nothing more than my womb and an open pair of legs. He’d offered me money, comfort, luxury. Love and marriage hadn’t been part of that offer.
“You’d let their filthy claws touch you?” Lukas scowled, striding closer. He ignored the dismembered golem parts, green light sparking deep in his eyes. Remember the phrase ‘green-eyed with jealousy’? Well, this is where it came from. My innate sense of self-preservation was flashing a clear warning. Unfortunately for me, I was never very good at listening to warnings.
“Sure. If it got you out of my hair.”
Shut. Your. Mouth! Dear God, I had a death wish. My muscles were starting to ache, but I didn’t dare lower my sword.
“Then I’d be forced to rip his arms off and beat him to death with them,” he said, stopping a foot beyond the tip of my blade. The light died in his eyes and I knew that he’d calmed down. Phew.
Then I blew it by saying, “Maybe I’d just move on to his brother.”
Ugh. I really did have a death wish. He had sex appeal in spades, but the idea of getting intimate with him again… it was revolting. At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself. I’d learned the hard way that he didn’t have more than a flicker of humanity.
But my comment didn’t seem to have annoyed him. He just shook his head, radiating innocent disappointment.
“You’re being ridiculous. Women like you beat trolls to a bloody pulp. You don’t date them.”
True. But it was also true that a vaengrjarl like Lukas wouldn’t choose a woman like me to carry his kids. He might pick an exotic witch queen, or a tough necromancer chick, but an ex-con berserker? At the time, he’d mouthed some crap about strong women and fierce protective instincts. I hadn’t believed that line then and I didn’t believe it now.
I heard footsteps at one end of the alley. Someone was coming. Shit, there was no time to clean up the mess –
Lukas solved the problem with a casual whistle. I felt the warm prickle of magic along my spine, and then the body parts vanished. A wave of his hand made the footsteps falter and recede.
I was grateful for his intervention. But at the same time I was pissed at his casual display of power. And when I was annoyed, my mouth stepped in before I could engage my brain.
“I asked you once. What are you doing here?”
Green fire exploded across his eyes. “Vaengrjarl go where they will.”
His kind demanded respect, but I was struggling just to keep a civil tongue in my head. Everything about him rubbed me up the wrong way. I scowled and said nothing. What the hell was he doing here?
“I came to give you a warning.” He doused the fire. Good. “Though it seems I may be too late.”
Finally I lowered my sword, though I held it loose and ready. The muscles in my arm were still tense and trembling. Lukas was a pain in the arse – a dangerous pain in the arse – but he did play by certain rules. He could be a decent bloke… dragon…. if there was some benefit to him. I’d be an idiot not to pay attention.
“You know who sent these?” I asked, indicating the mess around us. Golem wrangling was warlock magic; they were magical constructs, shaped from primal magic and given life.
Unfortunately for me, there were more than a few warlocks in town. They hadn’t caused trouble for years – at least, none that I knew about. I’d been foolish to believe that it could last.
I didn’t bother to ask how Lukas had come by this information. Vaengrjarl thought ‘secretive’ was a way of life, not just a suggestion.
“No.” He regarded me with a level gaze, though I sensed something behind his eyes.
“Oh.” He either knew, or had a fairly good idea. “All right, then. If that’s all…”
“I do know one other thing…”
Bastard. He had me dangling on a hook.
“I’d be grateful to hear whatever information you have.” There. Professional.
“How grateful?”
“Enough to say ‘thank you’,” I replied. Not just flick you the finger and walk away.
“Shame. Here I was, hoping I could barter another few hours of passion.”
If he kept that shit up I was going to puke.
“Please tell me whatever snippet of information you have,” I said, dry. “See, I threw the ‘please’ in for free.”
“You drive a hard bargain.” He was grinning. “What has begun as a few pleasantries will end when I have sired your children.”
Smile, smile…
Fuck that. “Cut the crap. What do you know?”
“You’re not the only berserker at risk.” His humour faded. “Now say thank you.”
I grabbed my bags and left him standing in the alley.
My blouse had come un-tucked during the fight. I shoved it back into my skirt. Surprise, surprise, the library’s dress code made zero allowance for combat, and with the fight over I was cold again. I zipped up my coat.
The only other berserker in town was Raz, my mentor. If he was even at risk of an attack, I’d follow it up – I’d give him a ring as soon as I got in, grab something to eat, then head over. In a fight a single berserker was bad news. Two, you’d need a horde to take down. Together we’d find out who was behind the golems.
There was no way in this life or the next that I’d ask Lukas to investigate. He wanted one thing from me, something I would never – could never – give him. No, Raz and I would learn what we needed to know the old-fashioned way, by asking lots of people lots of questions.
But it would be tedious, and time-consuming, and I’d probably have to punch someone.
As I approached my block of flats, I had one of those random thoughts that always seems to come out of nowhere: - it was time, past time in fact, that I named my sword. It was a berserker tradition, probably a throwback from the good old Viking days. Your sword kept you alive. It was only natural that it should have a name. Trouble was, I’d had the falchion a few years now, and I just could not think of the right name. What did you call something that looked as if a sabre and a machete had spawned an ugly hell-child?
It was a nasty sword. Other weapons were designed for speed and finesse; mine was designed to hack the living shit out of things. There was nothing decorative about it – just a wide, single-edged blade. The deep impression of my fingers marred the leather-wrapped hilt.
The right name will come along, Raz always said. These things can’t be rushed. Your weapon will last a lifetime – your lifetime – and a name will come.
I pulled open the main door. The glass was cracked again, fractured and splintered, and someone had scrawled a giant cock and balls in marker pen. That door had only been replaced two weeks ago. If I caught the little shits who’d done this, I was going to bash their heads against a wall. Perfect crime, right? No yob would ever admit that he’d been beaten up by a woman.
The lift was taking forever. I jabbed the button again. Five minutes l
ater I decided that the lift had died.
A hike up twenty flights was nothing after a fight with golems and a run-in with a vaengrjarl prince. I just had to convince my aching muscles.
Thanks to my berserker’s stamina, I wasn’t winded when I finally reached the top, though my legs were beginning to burn. I paced down the corridor, unlocked my front door and stepped inside. Force of habit made me latch the security chain.
Finally, home. My flat was small and pokey and the front door opened into the living room… actually it was the living room, kitchen and dining room combined, but I’d done my best to partition the areas.
I’d managed to scrounge a couple of tins of half-used paint from the tip, and I’d used them on alternate walls – two were the pale gold of sand, a constant reminder of a much longed-for exotic beach holiday, and the others were deep ochre. A wide window, blind half-raised, sat in the middle of one golden wall.
The worn black leather sofa I’d found in a charity shop, along with the white table and two dining chairs. Battered when I’d bought them, I’d taken the time to sand them down and repaint them.
Cracked and broken tiles made the kitchen functional at best. Electric light spilled in through a window above the sink, illuminating an aging cooker, beat-up microwave and an ancient fridge-freezer. But they all worked. I kept the surfaces clean and washed up after myself.
The kitchen and dining area were separated from the living room by an old folding Chinese silk screen, one of my most prized possessions. The silk was faded and stained in places, but the picture was still clear – beautiful birds, extravagant tail feathers spread wide, preening themselves in splendid glory.
On the far side of the flat a beaded curtain concealed my cupboard of a bedroom from view. The bathroom was right next door. Cheap laminate floor spread from wall to wall, softened with the occasional second-hand rug.