But at that very moment, one of the White House’s front double doors slammed open and, as if summoned by the mention of her name, Camille came sweeping out.
Rafes never cursed out loud. That was usually the first thing to go with media training. But inside…Rafes swore, low and vicious, as the she-wolf he’d proposed to the night before strode down the stairs of the wraparound porch, her stiletto heels hitting the stone steps with precise plinks.
She’d been added to all his security codes as soon as the engagement was announced, and since the house was only manned by robots and a small kitchen staff specially designed by his brother Nago’s company, there’d been no forward-thinking human force to keep her out…or keep her from confronting him on The Wolf House lawn.
As he waved his previously unused security force forward for a second time that day, he had to wonder if Georgina hadn’t set all of this up, just to teach him a lesson about insisting on a mere two-person security detail.
Sadly, Camille reached them before Craig and Arik did.
“Is this her? Is this the Myrna bitch who stole you from me?” Camille demanded when she reached the two of them, her eyes burning bright with anger. In that moment, she neither looked nor sounded like the elegant princess he’d asked to marry him.
“Yes, I am the Myrna bitch of whom you speak? How should I call you?” Myrna answered in a tone so innocent that Rafes instantly knew her mother must have never gotten around to the cuss words part of their English lessons.
“I’m Camille. President Nightwolf’s fiancée—at least until you came along.”
Myrna’s face fell. “Oh, I understand now. Camille was your intended, the one you made promises to before the gate delivered me upon you,” she said to Rafes.
Thank God, Craig and Arik chose that moment to reach them.
“Okay, time to go now Camille. Let’s not make a scene,” Rafes said, instead of answering Myrna.
“No, I want to see her. I want to see the backwards bitch who ruined my life,” Camille spat out, glaring at the guards she’d previously gone out of her way to be courteous to, especially when they were in public.
Rafes went deadly still, the beast inside of him demanding to tear out this unwanted she-wolf’s throat for daring to call his mate that derogatory word, not once, but twice.
“No, let her be,” Myrna said, putting her body between Camille and the guards. “She has true right to her anger. I have done her grave dishonor. And I must make this right. Rafes, please tell your guards to stand back.”
Rafes looked around, noticing all the people now openly staring outside The Wolf House’s iron fence. Only a sucker would bet against none of them having hit record on their bio-eyes by now. “Here’s not the place to sort this out, Myrna,” he said, teeth gritted.
“It’s the only proper place I can see,” Myrna insisted, as if Rafes, not she, were the one who didn’t properly understand this situation.
Then, before Rafes could answer, she kicked her shoes off and declared in a voice even louder than the one she’d used on the construction workers that morning, “I, Myrna daughter of Fenris, have dishonored this woman, Camille, intended of Rafesson. For this, must I give Camille resolution. And so will Camille and I fight. To the death.”
Camille’s self-righteous expression faded, morphing to confusion. “Wait…what?” she asked.
Right before Myrna lunged and wrestled her to the ground.
11
Myrna
She’d done the wrong thing. Again. This became clear to Myrna shortly after she did engage Camille in challenge fight.
In her village if a female wolf had approached another in such a way, they would have fought to the death, shifting to wolves if their humans couldn’t manage to kill each other with their bare hands. And indeed would Myrna have won this fight.
The woman who’d given her challenge knew so little about the ways of the warrior, she did but bat at her when Myrna attacked. And she didn’t even shift to her wolf, after Myrna wrapped her fingers tight around her neck.
But just as her challenger’s eyes began to roll, Rafesson pulled her off the she-wolf, with such harsh words Myrna soon understood she had been sorely mistaken about the intentions of his former intended.
Indeed, did the tall and thin she-wolf choke and cry pitifully once given release.
“What the hell, you crazy bitch!” she rasped at Myrna, before screaming at Rafesson, “Seriously, this is who you’re planning to replace me with? This ghetto cavewoman? Your numbers are going to plummet, and after you lose the election, I won’t just tell my brother it’s okay to sell the gate to Damianos Drákon, I’ll make sure he does just that.”
Myrna had no idea what these words meant, but they must have been important somehow. For her fated mate became very, very vexed with her after he all but dragged her into the house.
“What were you thinking? Are you out of your mind?” he asked. Not yelling, but his voice was so cold, it felt like getting hit with an icy wind.
And he gave her no chance to answer his query before calling out, “Craig, take her to her room. I can’t even look at her right now. She’s a disaster. This is a disaster.”
“Fenrir mine, I am so very sorry—” she’d begun to say, but he turned and walked away before she could get the rest of her regret out.
And then the one he had called Craig told her she must come with him. And this time there seemed to be no room for argument on her part. She would not stay with her fated mate, but be taken away from him, by his own command. As if she were one of the longhouse servants. Easily dismissed. A heavy weight settled low in her belly.
And thus did she find herself inside a room with shiny white iridescent walls, feeling even worse than when her father had so mightily scolded after she changed her mind about wedding the Jelling Prince.
The shiny living quarter was called a “guestroom,” according to Craig. It was large enough to house three generations of North Wolves easily, but apparently, families did not sleep together in such a manner in this time. This room would be hers and hers alone, and according to Craig, she would not be allowed into her fated mate’s living quarters, though they took up the entirety of the house’s third floor.
She might have been thrilled at the prospect of having such a space to herself. Might have spent the entire night exploring the walls, the toilet, which did flush, and the fireless heat which came from somewhere mysterious since the room’s hearth contained no kindling or logs.
But the memory of what had just passed on the house’s green hung too heavy in her thoughts for her to do more than simply release her waters into the toilet without nary an extra jiggle of the pretty handle, which looked like shining silver but did not burn when she touched it.
Maybe everyone in her village had been right about her. Forget fated mates. While her brothers had somehow outgrown and outlived their Ever the Man and Ever the Wolf village names, she seemed truly destined to remain Myrna Ever the Maid.
Awkward and unappealing. Unable to hold a man’s interest, even if that man be her fated mate.
Not bothering to remove the dress the mother of Rafesson had given her, she crawled into bed, even more miserable and lonely than she’d been before she met her fated mate.
Her dreams that night were dark. The Jelling Prince offered her a necklace of the finest amber, but when she bent her neck to receive it, he snatched it away, calling out so loud that even the birds above might hear, “How could you think one such as I could ever want you?”
Then he and the rest of the villagers laughed and laughed, so hard they could barely stand.
“Myrna, the morning tide is upon us. Myrna, the morning tide is upon us…”
Myrna came awake with a start. Then gasped and sat up when she saw the spirit, standing in the middle of her room.
Strangely, the magical being appeared almost exactly like one of the women from her village might have. It had a square jaw, a prominent brow ridge, and red hair braided in a
n attractive style that would have garnered a true woman many compliments on feast day. It also wore a hangerok dress, and its feet were shod in simple leather togs, as opposed to the narrow clogs with thin sticks on the bottoms that Rafesson’s formerly intended had worn last night.
If not for the fact that this being was so translucent, Myrna could see through it to the walls on the other side of the room, Myrna’s heart might have leapt with joy at the sight of someone so familiar. But as it was, she looked around for good weapon, wondering how the Húsvættir, or house spirit, as it might have been called in her mother’s language, had found her in this place and time.
“Do not be alarmed, Myrna,” the house spirit said when Myrna grabbed a large book with a picture of this very house upon its cover from the little table beside the bed, then leapt to her feet with it raised above her head. “I come to you as a friend.”
Upon hearing her voice, Myrna lowered the book. For she spoke in Old Norse, and “How do you know my name, Húsvættir?”
“I apologize for any upset I have given to you. I was only untranslatable word to assist you last night.”
Myrna squinted. “Unknown word?” she repeated.
“Yes, I have been untranslatable word by a machine blacksmith to speak Old Norse. But this language is very old, and there are many words that do not translate. For this reason, is it very hard to explain to you what I am in your language. But I am not a Húsvættir. I live in the walls. And this image is not me but a representative of me. I am part of a machine inside the walls of this house.”
Myrna squinted, but then she asked, “Are you the computer of whom my mother did speak?”
“Yes, I am part of the computer family.” The machine woman spoke the word the same as Myrna did, as if computer were a foreign word. “May I have your permission to use Modern English words in further explanations?”
“Yes,” Myrna agreed. “Naturally you have this permission.”
“Thank you, Myrna,” the computer woman answered. “For the purpose of user comfort, I can be called Astrid. I am a hologram. An image projected from the emitters inside the walls. You are in a smart house. This means everything in the house is run by a special program designed by Nago Nightwolf, the brother of our fenrir, President Nightwolf.”
“Oh, I know of Nago,” Myrna replied. “How fares he?”
The Astrid hologram stilled as if thinking. Then she said, “According to today’s WolfNet report he will compete in a challenge fight for the hand of the princess of Mississippi. Without more data, I cannot give good guess to how he fares.”
So, they did still have challenge fights in this time! Myrna digested that piece of information, wondering then why her fated mate had responded so negatively last night? Did he still love this Camille? Did he regret choosing Myrna over someone so refined?
“I am here to assist you with whatever you might require,” the Astrid hologram told her, breaking into her confused thoughts.
It did not take Myrna long to realize just how much she truly did need the Astrid hologram’s assistance. Nothing was simple in this house. Instead of bathing in a cold lake, she stepped into a small glass room to clean herself. The room had neither knobs nor handles, but an unexpectedly warm spray rained down on her as soon as she placed foot upon its somehow heated stone floor. After a few moments, the wall lit up blue, and Astrid’s voice asked in her father’s tongue, “Would you like soap for your hair today or only your body?”
“Both,” Myrna answered her voice wonderous at the offer.
“Please hold your hands below the nozzle.”
Nozzle… nozzle…nozzle…Myrna assumed this must be the thin piece of steel extending from the wall. She was right. A lovely smelling clear substance spilled into her hands, which she worked through as much of her hair as she could, so about a quarter of it, before apologetically asking for more.
“May I have more?” she asked the Astrid wall.
“Naturally,” Astrid answered.
And without much effort at all more hair soap poured from the nozzle.
She thought of her mother who did labor so to make a special hair and body soap and what she called conditioner from wood ash, water, animal fats, plant oils and salt. For this reason, often did Chloe complain about the entire bar it took to clean her daughter’s long thick and woolen hair. However, the Astrid wall seemed to think nothing of giving her more hair soap every time she asked, which was often. It had been weeks since she’d washed her hair, and in truth, she wouldn’t have bothered taking it out of the two braids her mother most often left it in if not for boredom while sitting around the hideout cave.
But with Astrid’s help, washing her hair was a relatively simple and comfortable affair. The water was so warm she felt she could stay under its spray forever, and Astrid even provided as much conditioner as she needed to detangle her back-length hair, waiting patiently without talk of how much eggs, vinegar, and hazelnut oil had gone into this detangling session.
However, the absence of her usually cheerful mother’s grousing brought Myrna no happiness this morn. As easy as washing her hair had been for the first time in her entire life, afterwards she found herself missing Chloe so. And that yearning for her mother stayed with her, even after following Astrid’s instruction to press upon one of the smart walls to reveal a stack of towels. Towels, according to the Astrid computer, were a glorious Turkish invention from a few eras previous, that had since caught on worldwide.
The future, as it turned out, was much more easy and comfortable than her mother could have ever described.
However, Myrna found herself wishing for the past. To talk her troubles over with her mother as she’d done after turning down the Jelling Prince.
She’s a disaster…
“Astrid…” she said instead. “Could you tell me please what the word disaster means?” she asked as she stepped from the glass room.
“Disaster…a sudden happening that causes great damage or loss of life,” the Astrid hologram immediately answered. “For example, an accident or a catastrophe like blizzard or famine.”
Myrna blinked hard a knife-like pain twisting through her. So that was what her fated mate thought of her as he sent her away.
“Your wardrobe has not yet been programmed, so I have provided you with a basic selection of clothing,” the Astrid hologram informed her when she walked back into the main bedroom to find her in the exact same place Myrna had left her. As she talked, another wall whispered open. “There are a pair of pants for you in the top drawer on your right-hand side. They are called leggings and have been a popular wardrobe choice for women throughout this era.
“Thank you,” Myrna said, dropping the towel and taking out the leggings. But as she pulled them on she choked up with the realization that she had somehow repelled Rafesson so much that he thought her the same as a blizzard or famine—
“BY THE FENRIR WOLF, what are these magical stockings made of!?” she demanded of the Astrid hologram, all thoughts of Rafesson’s ire suddenly gone from her head.
For until the moment she slid on the pants that Astrid did call leggings, Myrna had fully understood her mother’s decision to give up her own land and time period for her father’s. For what else could compare to a great love such as theirs?
Leggings, that was what!
Soft as lamb’s wool and warm as fur, yet not itchy or overbearing, and she could move as easily in these pants as if she had nothing on at all. Myrna could hardly believe such a magical item of clothing existed and moreover was deemed perfectly acceptable for females to wear.
She danced about the room, leaping and lunging to see if this fantasy material could really fit so true. And then Astrid suggested she should also put on something called a top, which brought her even greater merriment.
The top, she found just as glorious. Like the dress of Alisha. it somehow wrapped and cupped her breasts, keeping her bosom firmly in one place. It was just as soft as the magical leggings, and even had a pocket sew
n inside of it to hold something called comm rings. According to Astrid, not only did the clothing conform for a more flattering fit, but did they also absorb all bodily fluids, like sweat and even a natural amount of her waters.
Myrna might have gone on that way forever, trying on more basics and basking in the wonder Astrid called nanite-infused fabrics. However, Astrid cut off suddenly in the middle of an explanation about how these fabrics would keep Myrna warm or cool and even color change if she so wished it—
“Incoming Message: President Nightwolf requests that you join him downstairs. Location: Main Office. Time: Presently. Incoming Message: President Nightwolf requests that you join him downstairs. Location: Main Office. Time: Presently.”
Unfortunately, the Astrid hologram could not leave the room, for security reasons, it explained, along with something about protecting against information thieves by making each room its own secured system.
Myrna understood little of the Astrid’s computer’s explanation, only that when she made her way to the stairwell, she was as her mother might call it, on her own. The stairs she climbed down were made of wood and were covered in some form of tapestry she hadn't noticed this night past, so miserable had she been when Craig gave her escort to her room.
But this morn, she gaped at the floor tapestry, having never sighted anything like it. And not for the first time, Myrna wished she had been allowed to go with her father on his many adventures and travels to other lands and villages. Had Olafr and FJ found this new world so very strange and alien upon their arrival? She could only suppose, and wonder if upon this meeting Rafesson would send her to her brothers, no longer holding the desire to be fated to a disaster such as she.
She walked through the first door she came to, only to find, not Rafesson but an old woman eating at a heavy wooden table.
The woman was dark of skin and had a strong broad build that had she been younger, would have inspired many farmers to offer her mateship to have such an able bodied she-wolf laboring by their side. She ate from a large bowl made not of earthenware, but of a shiny white pottery, the likes of which Myrna had never seen. The substance on her spoon looked like the millet porridge her mother did make for the morning meal when she was busy. Except the dried fruit in this woman’s bowl was darkly colored. Not the pieces of walnut and dried apples her mother did use.
The Brothers Nightwolf Complete Trilogy: A Sci-Fi Shifter Paranormal Romance Box Set Page 50