Valkyrie Crowned

by Allyson Lindt

  “Creepier that they’re the right size.” Kirby fingered a lingerie label. “If there are uniforms in the other two drawers, I will try to kill myself again.” Her laugh fell short.

  Brit stared at her, not sure how to respond.

  “Kidding.” Kirby’s weak smile shifted to too bright in a heartbeat. “Do you think we have the full security package in this place?”

  “One assumes.” Brit agreed the suite probably had full-coverage cameras and mics.

  What was in the drawers wasn’t as important as what was eating at Kirby. It seemed unlikely she’d open up to Brit even under good circumstances, but here, with an audience...

  Then again, the here was probably the issue. If Brit hated being reminded of that last night the two of them spent together on campus, it had to be devouring Kirby.

  “I’m sorry.” Brit’s lungs squeezed tight, as she let the memory and guilt linger. “Nothing I can say feels sufficient. It was my decision—”

  “You were under duress.” Kirby’s tone was tighter than her casual dismissal.

  True. Mark had told Brit her life on campus would never get better if she didn’t sell out Kirby. He assured her Kirby would recover. But Brit’s life got worse, and that night, Kirby tried to end her own.

  For years, Brit thought Kirby succeeded. Brit had no idea Starkad had rescued her. Taken her away from all of this.

  Brit had been pressured, but she’d also been selfish. “I wish I could do that night—the next morning—over again.” Saying the words left her throat raw and the confession took a chunk of guilt with it. She’d rarely dared let herself think that, let alone admit it.

  “In a way, you can. How many people get that kind of second chance? Don’t sell me out in the morning.” There was no more fakeness in Kirby’s voice or expression. There was no more of any emotion.

  “Never again.” The assurance wasn’t enough. Could it ever be?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kirby

  Being here shouldn’t hurt like this, driving into her thoughts and gnawing at her soul. It had been years. Kirby should be able to shrug off the past like shedding a jacket.

  Instead, the past played out bright and vividly in her mind. The hurt. The betrayal. The doubt. The press of a cool razor against her wrists. The thick, dark red of the blood.

  Brit watched her with pained concern. It was genuine—Kirby knew that, after living in Brit’s head, as well as she knew what kind of duress Brit had been under back then.

  But the present overlapped with an intensely vivid memory of Brit sitting with a review board of gods, calling Kirby a monster. Accusing her of abusing her power. Shattering everything they had.

  “Kirby?” Brit kept her distance, and concern bled into her voice. She wasn’t wearing a mask anymore.

  Did seeing how she really felt make things better or worse?

  It was a struggle to keep these emotions below the surface. Kirby wanted to hug herself. Shiver until it all went away. Better—she wanted to be back home. Safe. Away from this bullshit. She met Brit’s gaze. “The attack I have, that allows me to inflict pain on someone else.” The one she’d tried to use on Vidar. A stupid move, because she felt what he felt.

  “I remember it.”

  Brit would. Kirby had used it right after she discovered who she was. After the memories of her past lives came back. “It’s the pain of every one of my deaths. I recognize them individually. Being shot by bullets. Arrows. I died of Tuberculosis once.” She dragged in a shuddering breath and forced herself to step outside her head. “And I remember how much my heart and body hurt, as I bled out on the shower floor. The shower that looked identical to that one.” She nodded to the bathroom.

  “Fuck.” Horror splashed across Brit’s face.

  Kirby couldn’t have conveyed a more appropriate emotion. “Starkad thinks he saved my life that night.” No one knew this. She hated to think about it, because of the emotions attached to that specific death. But being here, the memory was impossible to ignore.

  “I died before he got here. But I came back. If he hadn’t found me, I assume I would have awoken to exactly what Hel wanted—a Valkyrie she could manipulate and control.” Or maybe Starkad saved her in more ways than just taking her away from here. Maybe it was his showing up that brought her back.

  Brit crossed her arms with a shiver. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You could apologize again.” Kirby let her voice go flat.

  “I’m so—”

  “Don’t. Just... Please. I know you’re sorry. Hearing it again won’t make any of this easier to accept.” Kirby thought being in Brit’s head, feeling her remorse and her side of the story, had made things better. It certainly told Kirby that Brit was sincere. That she’d changed. But apparently it hadn’t healed all of Kirby’s thoughts about the past.

  “Then what? Anything.”

  Kirby needed to not feel this. Not now. When she was somewhere safe and could process, but not in this den of vipers. “Get me through tonight.” She needed new memories here. Or a distraction. Or something. “And don’t betray me in the morning.”

  Kirby kissed Brit hard. Desperately. Crushing their mouths together and pouring herself into the physical connection. If Kirby blocked out the past, this felt right. Incredible. The kind of kiss that she could lose herself in until it consumed her.

  They broke apart with a gasp, but didn’t pull away from each other. Brit glided her mouth to Kirby’s ear.

  “—audience?” Brit was breathless, the heat of her question falling softly against Kirby’s skin.

  Kirby didn’t give a fuck who watched. This wasn’t about their captors. “Do you think I care? Do you?”

  Brit shook her head. “I just want to be with you.”

  “So fucking obsessive and unhealthy.”

  “That I love you, or that you’re trying to fuck away the pain?” Brit didn’t pull away.

  “Do you want to stop?”

  “No.” Brit’s kiss was as intense and desperate as the Kirby’s racing thoughts.

  It was breath. It was life. It bordered on insanity and Kirby found it both harder and easier to remember how much she used to trust Brit.

  How much she still wanted to. Needed to.

  Kirby trailed her fingers down Brit’s sternum, never breaking the hungry kiss, and slipped under the waistband of Brit’s jeans. The fresh contact with skin cranked Kirby’s need higher. She pushed up the bottom of Brit’s shirt, wanting more of that physical connection.

  Brit grabbed her wrist. “Stop.” There was no force behind the word.

  Kirby pulled away, her mind a jumble of lust-clouded confusion. “What’s wrong?”

  Brit tugged her closer again, leaving millimeters between them, but not making contact beyond her grip. “This place fucked us both up. I don’t deny that. And dealing with the scars hurts like hell. I can’t even imagine...” She sighed. “I want to be with you, in every way, but I swore when I left that I’d never be someone’s outlet again. Not even yours.”

  “So that’s what Meatloaf meant,” Kirby said softly. The reference was easier than forcing her thoughts into line.

  Brit furrowed her brow. “What?”

  “Forget it. That part, anyway.” Kirby sank onto the edge of the bed. “And I get it.”

  “I’m sorr—”

  “No.” Kirby kept her tone firm. “Not for this you’re not. I am, though.” Reality was crashing in around her again, but not as hard as she’d expected. Through it all, she could see a light that hadn’t existed before. A reminder that the past shaped her, but didn’t define her. “I’m sorry.”

  Brit squeezed Kirby’s hand. “Ask anything else of me, and you can have it.”

  Kirby didn’t question that for an instant. After all they’d been through, the lies and betrayal and death... She believed Brit was being sincere.

  “Self destructive.” The word slipped softly past Kirby’s lips. It was better than a sob, and it was only meant for
Brit’s ears. Kirby didn’t care if the world wanted to watch her fuck, but TOM wasn’t getting in her head again.

  Brit pressed closer. “I wasn’t going to—”

  “It’s what Starkad called me.” So many times.

  Brit’s growl was low but threatening. Almost like a wolf’s.

  Kirby twisted her lips, to hide her sardonic smirk. “I know you think that after he took me away from here—the other here—he and I fucked non-stop, like the closeted lovers we must have been on campus.” Kirby wasn’t guessing. Brit had all but spoken those thoughts several times. “But we weren’t—either one of those things. He kept me at arm’s length for so long...” At least this part of the story didn’t hurt the way it used to. Kirby understood now that the circumstances had been unique.

  “After everything the two of you shared in the past?” Brit laced her fingers with Kirby’s and traced a thumb over the back of her knuckles. “I mean, Min told me a little when he was explaining your curse and how each time he fell in love with you. Min adores you intensely, by the way.”

  Kirby was aware. “Starkad thought he was doing me a favor by not loving me while I didn’t have my memories. And—fuck—it hurt at the time.” Why was she dumping all of this now? Here? To Brit?

  Because Brit needed to understand her. She couldn’t climb into Kirby’s head, but if she listened... If she heard...

  “You’ve forgiven him, though.” Brit’s question was a blend of hopeful and snide.

  Neat trick. “We worked through it. Since I regained my memories, I’ve spent a lot of time denying my pasts. I don’t want the actions of some other me to define who I am now. But the longer her—their, my—memories live in my head, the harder it is to distinguish this life from past emotions. I can see now why I loved Starkad. Gwydion. Min. And I don’t want to fight it anymore.”

  “What does that mean for us?” Brit asked.

  “You assume there’s an us.”

  “I hope. Possibly more than anything I’ve ever hoped for, including top sniper marks.” A hint of teasing slid into Brit’s voice.

  A smile slipped out without Kirby’s permission. “You have to be okay with me and them. They all are.” She’d never put that into words before. Not now or in the past. Min and Gwydion always treated it like a given—that they’d both be by her side—and she’d never lived long enough before to piece the same together with Starkad. “They’ve been here for centuries, and I won’t choose.”

  “I just want to be a part of your life. Not like a loyal puppy. Not the way I saw myself before, in your shadow. I want to be by your side.”

  Kirby hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear that. “We make a better team as equals.”

  Being in this clone of her childhood home, there was the one good memory rushing back. One that made it so much easier to remember the good with Brit.

  Until the trial, until Kirby was stripped of her rank, took her own life, she and Brit had been brilliant together. Always came out on top.

  But with furious and vengeful gods running rampant, and people believing Kirby was on her last life, the stakes were a lot higher if she and Brit failed this time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Starkad

  The orange sunrise peeked above the mountains, bathing the forest in a stunning wash of light. Sitting around here wasn’t doing Starkad any good. The longer he waited, injury growing worse each second, the worse the hike back to town would be.

  “I’ll go,” Fenrir said. “I just need an outside line, and I can bring someone back here to get you.”

  “If TOM comes back while you’re gone, I’m fucked.” Starkad hated that he couldn’t handle this on his own. “And if they hit you in the forest... Similar problem.”

  Fenrir sighed. “Fine. We’ll trek back together.”

  Conversation was sparse as they headed into the forest. The bodies were gone. Efficiency at its finest.

  There was no clear path, but Fenrir didn’t hesitate choosing his direction. Starkad wasn’t so steady. With his energy sapped and a steady thrum of pain making him stumble, even making it a meter was like crawling through molasses.

  He refused to be dead weight. He stumbled over fallen brush and wove through low-hanging trees. It was a chore, though.

  With dawn flowing from a faint glow to early-morning sunshine filtering through the leaves, it was easy to tell how much time had passed.

  This was taking too long. Starkad loathed feeling like deadweight.

  If he could access his wolf form, he’d heal faster. He’d have the strength in his legs to run. Losing his sensibility, going feral, seemed like a small price to pay for getting out of this quickly.

  Fenrir would—probably gleefully—stop him from hurting anyone if it came to it.

  The sunlight faded as they hit a thicker patch of trees. The underbrush grabbed at Starkad’s feet and legs, leaving long scratches through denim. His arm pulsed in agreement with the aches.

  He reached deep, past the pain, to grab his wolf. His body screamed in protest, and he stumbled. Mentally, he brushed something. He stumbled, and his wolf whimpered as it slipped out of his grasp.

  If he could just reach a little deeper and push past the distraction of pain, he could shift. He couldn’t do it while they walked, though. Both actions required too much attention.

  He and Fenrir continued forward.

  Starkad hit another buried root and stumbled again.

  “Let’s take a break.” Fenrir settled onto a nearby rock.

  “If you’re tired.” Starkad gave him a tight smile.

  Fenrir pulled his phone out, studied it, and shook his head. “Still no signal.”

  Of course not. Now probably wasn’t the time to rib Fenrir about not having inherited his father and sister’s ability to teleport.

  Instead, Starkad focused inward again. It was easier to reach for the wolf this time. He coaxed, like talking a terrified pup out from behind the couch. His body roared with protest, and the wolf receded.

  He had to push a little deeper, though.

  Just a little closer.

  Almost there.

  And then he grasped it by the nape of the neck. He shoved past the agony and yanked.

  The tug ripped free a scream of pain that became a howl.

  Pain.

  Hunger.

  Rage.

  Death.

  “Starkad?”

  Predator.

  Friend?

  Fenrir.

  “Follow,” friend-enemy commanded.

  Starkad chased.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kirby

  Kirby wasn’t surprised to be woken by a knock on the apartment door, but that didn’t stop her gut from lurching on a wave of flashback.

  “I’ll get it.” Brit squeezed her hand, and climbed from bed and yanked on some clothes.

  Kirby did the same. “No. We don’t do anything without each other while we’re here.”

  “Flip a coin for who takes point?”

  Kirby patted her empty pockets. “No coins. Rock, paper, scissors?”

  “You guys up?” Magnus’s call carried in from the living room.

  Right. They couldn’t have opened the door for their visitor if they wanted to—they’d been locked in for the night.

  “I have your back,” Brit said. “We’re up,” she called.

  Kirby forced her feet to move, one and the other, and repeat, without stalling, while Brit followed.

  Magnus stood in the kitchenette, three coffee cups in a carrier on the counter. “I wasn’t sure how Kirby likes her coffee. Build your own?” She pointed to a paper bag next to the drinks.

  Kirby’s mind froze. There were no campus police demanding she accompany them. No terse orders. But her brain chanted wait for it.

  “Chocolate?” Brit stepped around her, brushing the back of her hand.

  The barely-there touch was enough for Kirby to shake off the haze and stuff it away.

  Magnus slid on
e of the cups across the bar top. “Plus caramel and extra whipped cream. I do remember how you like it.”

  Brit grabbed the drink and took a long swallow.

  “It’s still hot.” Magnus winced.

  Brit shrugged. “I wanted the caffeine more than those taste buds. They’ll grow back in a few seconds.”

  Interesting approach, since Brit would feel the burn regardless.

  Then again, Kirby didn’t judge when it came to how people liked their pain. She joined them, and dumped copious amounts of sugar into her coffee. “No food? Is today’s plan to overload us with sugar and caffeine until we crash?”

  “The two of you were always capable of a sugar binge without help.” Magnus’s tone was playful. And she was right.

  “Fair point.” Brit nodded.

  Magnus sipped her drink more slowly. “I thought we’d go get breakfast. Catch up, away from prying eyes and cameras.”

  “If you’re there, you are the prying eyes,” Brit said.

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  “Tell me someone didn’t recreate that entire little town that the campus was next to.” Kirby wanted to be joking, but a slice of fear said this was all so surreal, her fear was possible.

  Magnus studied her. “No. Not that it matters, because we’re not going into town. What’s your favorite city for fun? Or for food, if the two are different for you.”

  So many of Kirby’s memories were attached to loss and grief, and it would be wrong to mar the truly bright favorites by sharing the moment or the place with anyone working with their captors.

  “Salt Lake City,” Brit said.

  Kirby and Magnus looked at her with disbelief.

  Magnus fiddled with her finger-ring. “That place is repressed as fuck.”

  “Not if you know where to look.” Not that Kirby’d had much time to explore, but she’d done her research before going in. “It’s also—”

  “Got fantastic cake shops, and I never really got to try any.” Brit looked at Kirby. She was trying to convey something in her expression. With her eyes.

  The only thing Kirby remembered about cake shops was the one where she’d tracked down Brit. The primary setting for Hel’s torturing Kirby, when she required Brit to shoot her over and over again in a dream-like world, to prove Brit’s loyalty.