by Poppet
“You impaled your high heel right in my fucking foot!”
“You fuck with your foot? I'm going to need a diagram.”
“What do you want?” he snaps in that impatient drawl.
“Er... I can't get confrontational in the dark,” I mumble, losing courage.
“I bet you're plenty confrontational in the dark.” Gripping my arm in the 'master is not pleased' grind, he marches me deeper into the darkness, muttering, “Dressed like that only reinforces the image.”
“What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?” I argue, wishing he'd slow down already.
He laughs, and it's cold, “Sweetie, it looks like you're either going to put me over your knee, or beg me to put you over mine.”
“Oh go get knotted–”
“Did you leave any beer in the vat when you finished sucking it dry? Ulfhednar head is white and frothy, just the way you like it.”
“I did not–”
“You're more baked than clay and you're going to be just as dehydrated come sunup. What the hell were you thinking?” he chastises, hauling me into a grotto ready to raise the dead. Candles and steam haunt the room like old lovers getting nostalgic.
“What the hell was I thinking?” Now you've done it mister twat. “I was thinking you require trepanning so you can deflate your fucking ego.”
He turns to scowl down at me, his chest embroidered with white scars which map bridges over his extreme musculature. I'm trying very hard not to gawk, but bleedin' heck, he looks like an action man who grew up on a uranium farm, except of course for the tortured gaze he pegs me with when he folds his arms and bursts veins out in wild rivulets. They ridge in the flickering candlelight, shadowing his bulk with a net of strength.
What was he doing here exactly, in just his baggies?
Fuck! Was he expecting his date to show up and I walked in where I'm not welcome?
Second guessing the drunken wisdom of facing off with this man, my ears are humming when he berates me, “You have to be ready for war tomorrow. You clearly can't hold your liquor and now you're going to be useless to me come morning.”
“I'm not your bitch so why don't you just back off! It was a homecoming celebration where I felt welcome for once, and then you have to piss on my parade like the fucking lord of the tempest.”
“What do you want with me?” he says, his tone so quiet that it's threatening.
“I.. came to... uhm, call you out. To confront you. Why don't you like me? I don't even know you, yet you look at me like I screwed up your life and you have vengeance on your mind.”
This was a bad idea. I'm inebriated, I can hardly walk on my own two feet and for some ungodly reason I chose now to corner the most dangerous man in these caves. This is not my finest hour.
“Because you have screwed up my life. Now get out unless you intend to prepare with me.”
Screwing up my eyes with my sarcastic face on, I cock my head, “Excuse me? How the hell did I screw up your life?”
“For shit's sake, you're one of those old bags who badgers until your men are broken, aintcha? Would you like me to clasp your hand and just get it done?” Stepping closer to me, unfolding his massive arms, he leers down to glare at me nose to nose, “Be warned woman, if you make me miserable I will return the hardship.”
“Clasp my hand? Is this about the handshake? You're the one who shakes hands like I rubbed feces all over my palm. It was Ewan's idea, not mine. Why don't you take your immature grudge and stick it up your arse.”
Smokey thundercloud irises peer into mine interminably, the tension getting so dense I want to scream with frustration.
“I will not bond with you,” he hisses, as if he just planted the biggest insult of the century on my big toe.
“I didn't come here for you to 'bond with me'. Grief! And in case you assume all women drool at you, we know you're gay. You don't fool me and you won't fool anyone else. If you have such a stiffy for Ewan why don't you just tell him and get it over and done with.”
“I am not gay–”
“Yes, you clearly are. For crying in a tornado Gunn, we're not living in the dark ages, there's no shame in it.”
In a blink I'm viced in giant hands, his grip crushing my skull when he rams his mouth on mine and he gives me the most pathetic Hollywood lip mash ever not caught on camera. I bet he practices by kissing his pillow when he thinks no one will catch him.
Shoving, stomping, I finally get the stupid wanker to let go. Now I'm short on breath, and much to my chagrin a little turned on. “You kiss like a ten year old,” I sneer, wiping my mouth.
Boom! The ego rips out of the insulted hulk and he lifts me up before I can say 'whose your aunty', crammed against the uneven wall and have a hot tongue rummaging around in my mouth for loose change.
But... oh god... no don't do that... the world eddies in a ninety-degree plummet when he sucks me into his mouth and nibbles the tip of my tongue, my butt cheeks fitting perfectly into his hands as if I'm Tinkerbell and not the abnormal anomaly of the female race, and his chest is crushing my boobs in their push-up bra. It provokes my dormant wild child who loves it a little crazy. I wasn't drawn to murderers without a damn fine reason. Nothing fucks you harder than hate, and I love it when it hurts a little, sometimes I love it when it hurts a lot.
He's doing a bang up job of agitating my lunatic hormones.
Nibbling, sucking, licking, frenzied lip sex swirls desire right down to the heat he has pushing up against me. Squeezing my eyes shut I'm trying like Kali to resist, to not be turned on, to not enjoy it, but my pulse refuses to remain impassive, pumping crazy-juice up and down every one of my veins, forcing me to the precipice of digging in my hold, to explore the shoulders poised in front of me, blocking me in like a damn barricade.
Just as suddenly he releases me, boring through me with a gloating stare, his smirk triumphant.
“I'm not gay, Deliah,” he says thickly. “I simply refuse to shake hands with a woman who can't fight like the Úlfhéðnar of Lewis. My family come from that Isle and I will not handfast down. I have standards and you don't meet them.”
Is he wiccan? He's implying marriage here! He's out of his musclebound mind!
“Handfast?! Whoa cowboy, rein in that overactive ego of yours. And for the record you can kiss and bonk as many girls as you like, it still doesn't prove you're not gay. You hate me because Ewan has taken me under his wing and I'm so close to his bedroom I've stunted your midnight fuckfest.”
Anger burns hot patches into both of his cheeks, giving his pale face a touch of color, the candlelight painting the rest of his canvas with the warmth of a masterpiece. It smoothes his skin with a gilding of temptation.
“You want to know how you've fucked up my life? I don't need a woman. I don't need the fucking hassle of worrying about some stupid cow who can't tie her own shoelaces without losing her balance. I don't need the baggage distracting me when I head out on the battlefield, and I don't have the fucking inclination to cover your arse and my own. I do not want this. You go back and tell Ewan that! Tell him to take you as I don't need a delinquent for a dependent. I am impervious to fire and steel, and I am impervious to you, so piss off. And Deliah, the next time you bring a childish tantrum into my sanctuary I will put you over my knee and spank your bottom until it's so swollen you won't be able to sit for a week.”
Ending the discussion he turns his back on me, stomping rippling width to the centre of his séance ring, and sitting down in the middle of the steam and flickering flames, assuming a zen pose.
Stoically ignoring me, he just sits there while I try to find my voice, an argument, a way to comprehend all the stupid crap he just spewed at me. None of this makes sense.
Sidling around to stare at his silhouette because I'm still feeling argumentative, I watch while steam adheres to his hair and eyelashes, glistening him with a polished sheen as he subjects himself to some kind of purification ritual.
His eyes are closed and I do believe he's effec
tively shut me out of his mind and thoughts.
“I still think you have the hots for Ewan,” I mumble, deflated, feeling shitty even though I don't know why. “And for the record fuckwit, I've only been here a day. Unreasonable much?”
Despondently I walk away, my heels clomping loudly as I move through his chambers with a large dose of misery for company.
Handfast?
I wonder if Ewan's still awake? I think it's time I interrogated the puppet master.
Chapter 15
All the earth's offspring must empty the homesteads,
When furiously smiteth Midgard's defender
~ Völuspá
Gunn:
When her footfalls fade, I slump, holding my head in my hands, staring my desperation into the floor hoping Skadi will alleviate my suffering.
God damn it. Shit for balls and brains.
Inhaling a shaky breath, I wriggle, easing my tight nuts out of a pinch, willing the boner to fuck off.
*
Deliah:
Tapping softly on the screen just inside his rooms, I am pleased to see the crystals are still glowing their placid welcome inside the dark corners of his volcanic cavern.
“You can come in, sweetheart,” calls to me.
Rolling my eyes, I enter the open plan living space of the don.
Ewan's lying on his side on his bed playing catnip mouse with Bella, his relaxed smile vanishing when his eyes narrow at me, “What happened?”
Diving off the bed faster than lightning earthing, he's in front of me gripping my arms, “Who upset you?”
“It's nothing,” I grumble, winching my arm out of his hold, “Listen, we need to talk.”
“That's my line,” he smiles, gesturing to the chairs in front of the hearth where a dying fire simmers tangerine embers. Letting him lead me over to the cozy nook, he says as we sit down, “You look nice. You should wear spikes more often.”
“Ha, yeah right.”
He gives me a 'pursed lip pointy nose twitch' perceptive stare, “It's Gunn, isn't it? Ignore him Deliah, he's fighting with himself, not with you.”
“And why is that, Ewan? Why is he under the misguided impression I want to handfast with him?”
“That all depends on what you read in the mist?”
Becoming decidedly grumpy, my buzz subsiding rapidly, I twist in my chair to face him, “It didn't mention anything about handfasting.”
“We all get our own guidance from the mist, it's as personal as it is diverse,” he says, picking at the stitching on the arm of his chair. “Gunn's foretells a handfasting with you, but you have a choice as Gunn isn't the only eagle portended the opportunity to handfast with you. The gods guide us through their mistical writings, but ultimately the choice is yours. They simply point out the best matches for you. Gunn is taking it to heart as a sealed fate which is why he's being so obstinate.”
Arching my eyebrows at him, I lean closer, trying to see into his averted eyes, “Who else was chosen by the 'gods'?”
Does he truly believe in all this oracle shit?
Looking up, meeting my gaze, he gives me a frugal smile, “What will be will be, it's not my place to hand over the names of your perfect partners.”
It's now that I notice his palm pulsing yellow light again.
“Why does your hand do that?”
“It's the energy of the clan leader. Only leaders have the light in their palm,” he says. “I'm sorry Gunn offended you.”
“He didn't offend me, he behaved like a bully trying to get under my skin and failing miserably. Is he gay?”
*
Gunn:
Blasted woman! I can't concentrate now and have so much anger to work off I may as well just go after the fucking Ravens.
There's no point in waiting for morning when she's hungover and delicate. She's a hindrance on this mission.
Pissed off I stand from my vision caim, moving to my bedroom, pulling on combat trousers and boots. Hefting the skin around my shoulders, I plant my sword between my shoulder blades and make my way through the catacombs.
I'll inform Ewan out of respect. Nothing more, nothing less.
Bloody handfasting with a woman who hasn't been training for longer than two days in our clan. What the hell is he thinking?
Entering his chamber with habitual stealth, I overhear her remark.
Ewan bursts out laughing, saying, “Oh hell no. What on earth gave you that impression?”
“He just seems, I dunno ... like he is trying too hard to hate me. When someone works that hard at making you feel unwelcome it's because they feel threatened, and you're the only reason I can fathom for him being so bitterly defensive as to be vindictive toward me. If he wanted you it's not like I'd get in his way or anything. I'm not a threat.”
Her voice is drowsy from drink, warm and risqué. Threaten me indeed. Ha!
“Liah, Gunn is a good man. You've just caught him at a stressful time, his animosity shouldn't be taken personally. Give him the benefit of the doubt poppet, and you'll see he's as solid as he is fierce. Way back in the day we use to tease him by calling him McFierceson. It suits him, don't you agree?”
Enough.
Clearing my throat, I step out of the shadows, “Ewan, I'm not waiting for your precocious princess to get her beauty sleep. I'm going after the Ravens now.”
She pounces out of her chair as if I attached a live wire to the back of her head. Guilt wrestles her expression for a moment and the glimpse of fear in her eyes gives me satisfaction. Pulling herself upright she tilts her chin, pocketing her thumbs and giving me a defiant stare. Cute chin, strong with a faint cleft.
She shouldn't wear skinny jeans and high heels, no sir, not in this place. I'm tempted to prove to her just how ungay I am while she looks like such a willowy drink of sexy. Then she'll have a proper reason to run from me.
Ewan stands, glancing at the dozing cat and then back at me, his eyes heating, “Let's check their status before you go marching out there ready to commit voluntary manslaughter to get away from Deliah.”
*
Macala:
“Don't fucking touch me!”
Splaying my hands helplessly, I don't know how else to apologize. “Come on elksling, please calm down.”
Sleet is falling in a deluge of cutting razors and the ground trembles, falling mountain shaking the sky in peals of detonating rumbles.
Búri, what have I done? She's in so much pain she's leveling the mountain range, the læraðr taking too long to alleviate her suffering. “Em, baby, you're going to crush us. You're destroying the habitats of creatures who've done no harm to you.”
She's pale and sweating profusely, her teeth clenched in a grimace of agony, hissing accusation, “I'm a fledgling. There are ways to teach and then there are ways to teach. You are so fired!”
Every shiver from the cold evicts another scream from her and it's rupturing my heart into pieces. I can feel what she's experiencing and I'm trying my damnedest to harness my harii courage and not expose it to her.
Clenching my fist as a new spike of agony lances down my legs, I hobble to the fire, adding more kindling, wishing she would push the clouds away. She has the power, not me. In fact I'm of the opinion that it's her pain that's unleashed this storm, exasperating the dilemma.
*
Deliah:
Ewan's woken Alweada to accompany Gunn, and my fantastic evening has made me persona non grata around here. I'm getting fed up with the capricious attitudes.
Being a member of this clandestine operation suits me. It serves my purpose as I hadn't found a home yet, and didn't know where to settle where I'd be safe. This crowd opened their doors, gave me solutions to my problems, and made me feel like a pertinent member of their sect.
I don't have to worry about housecleaning, working, groceries, or even clothing. Everything is supplied, and they're teaching me skills I've been wanting to learn but hadn't yet had the opportunity to acquire. It gives me the space I need to find my
equilibrium, to be a better me, and now it's all gone to shit because of this man's stupid ego.
“Pull up the Asgard imagery,” orders Ewan, marching around his enormous desk in command central.
Feeling like a spare part I sit in the cluster of chairs in the corner, out of the way, while the men run around like we're at war. I don't understand half of what's going on, so look back at Gunn dressed like a savage out of a superhero comic. What a weirdo.
Feeling my gaze on him, he looks my way, scouring me with malice. “What?”
He spits it out as if itching for a confrontation.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
It never hurt to ask, right?
“We wear bear skins in battle. I am proudly Ulfhednar.”
Oh yeah, thanks for clearing that up. How about giving me the English version of your riddle.
Ewan glances up from his conference with Alweada as they erect a black tray on the wall and connect crystals to it, saying, “Liah, I mentioned we are Norse Giants. Our clan are proudly Odin's elite task force, which is what the name Ulfhednar means. Nothing stops us, and even in death we have ways and means of completing the battle and felling the enemy. I'm sure you've seen pathetic renditions of Vikings dressed for battle? Modern scribes have the poodle by the dingleberry when they depict us wearing wolf skins. Not one of us would be able to wear something that ill fitting. Our nickname comes from the Norse word for bear, because our battle gear is a bear skin.”
“What's the nickname?” I ask.
“Berserkr, It means bear coat,” he gives me an encouraging wink.
That explains why Gunn looks like a character from Asterix and Obelix. All legs and weightlifter chest, proudly exposing his scars with a brown warm looking pelt acting as a cape.
Alweada smiles compassion at me, giving me his skew nose wrinkle, his green eyes soft and kind, “Our clan never wear horns. Our sister clan, the Ravens, wear pitch black, rising like mist out of the night, silent as shadows when they attack. We're the second rank, and we're the final word. Nothing can stop us, Deliah. We're fucking badass. It's hard to explain, it would be better if you simply witnessed us in action.”