by Amy Pennza
So much for cute plaid skirts and blazers with school patches on them.
On the floor were two pairs of boots—the kind that lace up the front like soldiers wear. I suppressed a groan.
My ankles were going to hate the academy.
There was no bathroom. That was probably down the hall somewhere. At least my tainted nymph blood meant I probably wouldn’t have to share it.
I went to the bed and flopped on my back. The ceiling was as ornate as the one in the hall. So there was that.
I turned my head toward the window. There was a simple desk and chair underneath it. If I climbed on the desk, I could look outside. From this high up, the view of the fjord was probably spectacular.
My stomach let out a long, low growl. I clapped my hand to my midsection and sat up. How long had it been since I’d eaten? I’d skipped breakfast, and my queasiness on the trip had prevented me from asking Harald to stop for lunch.
Not that he would have. He despised mingling with humans.
Still, if I’d known I was going to end up stranded in a dusty corner of the castle without so much as a water bottle, I would have pestered him to let me make a snack run.
A knock on the door shot through the room like a canon blast.
I bolted upright so fast my head swam.
The knock rang out again—a sharp rapping that seemed to vibrate my bones.
“I’m coming!” I stood and strode to the door, irritation buzzing through me. Before I could open it, the knock sounded again.
I yanked it open. “What is—” My anger melted like ice in the sun. “Uncle Ash?”
The tall man in the doorway grinned and tugged at one of the brown curls spilling over his forehead. “At your service, fair Elin.”
Happiness was like a firework shooting off in my chest. I laughed and jumped into his arms.
He caught me, then staggered back and let out a grunt. “Oof, you’ve put on weight.”
I balled my fist and punched him in the ribs.
He chuckled. “Pax, shieldmaiden. Let an old jester have his fun.” He hefted me higher in his arms, walked us into the room, and lowered me to the ground. Before I could speak, he dashed back to the hallway and scooped up a basket I hadn’t noticed when I opened the door.
“You brought food!” I rushed forward and grabbed it from him. The smell of fresh-baked bread and roasted chicken wafted under my nose. My stomach rumbled again.
Asher turned from closing the door. “Of course I brought food. Good stuff, too. Not the swill these berserkers serve.” He walked toward me, his arms outstretched.
I set the basket on the desk, then turned and stepped into his embrace.
He murmured something in a low, lilting tongue that sounded like music. For the briefest second, I thought I heard bells tinkling. After a moment, he held me away from him and let his leaf-green gaze roam over my face.
“Ah, Elin, you wear beauty like a crown.”
Spoken like a true satyr. I shook my head. “How did you get in here? Shouldn’t you be humping a tree or something?”
He dropped his hands from my arms and drew himself up in mock outrage. “I believe the correct term is tree hugging. That’s what the Americans call it, anyway.”
I folded my arms. “You’d know about that. I tried to call you like a hundred times! That woman you were living with in Los Angeles said she didn’t know where you were.”
This time, his grin was self-deprecating. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets, the rolled cuffs of his button-down shirt showing the edges of swirling blue Celtic tattoos on his wrists and forearms. “She kicked me out. For no reason, I might add. She should have thanked me, considering I gave her the best sex of her—”
“Asher.” I held up a hand.
“Ah, right.” He made a zipping motion across his mouth, then tossed an imaginary key over his shoulder. An assortment of necklaces adorned his neck—metal and leather chains of various lengths. Underneath, more dark blue tattoos decorated his chest and collarbones. With his artfully ripped jeans, tousled hair, and head-turning good looks, he could have come straight from a runway in Milan.
He was also barefoot.
“How did you get in here?” I asked again. “These people have swords.”
His form rippled. In a blink, the handsome man was gone. In his place stood a short, plump female with a wrinkled face and skin and hair the color of teak.
My breath seized in my chest, and a lump formed in my throat. I spun and looked toward the window. I had to swallow a couple times before I could speak. “Please don’t.”
Warm hands covered my shoulders and pulled me around. Asher tugged me against his chest. “Elin.” His voice was soft and filled with regret. The scent of pine and fresh rain filled the air. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize how much you still miss her.”
Stupid tears burned my eyes. “I . . . It didn’t occur to me that she might die.”
Asher’s chest lifted in a sigh. “Brownies aren’t like us, love.” He stroked my hair. “Even if we wish it were otherwise.”
I do. I clenched my jaw so the words wouldn’t burst from my mouth. It did no good to rail against something I couldn’t change. That’s what Asher had told me the night Fiona died. He’d walked into my bedroom without warning, dew threaded through his curls. Then he’d shooed the maids from the room, climbed on my bed, and enfolded me in a hug that smelled of sun and forest.
When I’d finally stopped crying around dawn, he smoothed his fingertips over my lids, taking away the puffiness.
“Why?” My voice had come out as a croak. “Why would she leave me?”
His eyes, usually dancing with merriment, had grown distant. A long silence had stretched, and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he’d spoken, his voice quiet. And sad. “I wish I knew, child. I wish I could tell you why lovely things die . . . or choose to leave us.”
And I’d known he was no longer talking about Fiona.
Now, I stepped out of his arms and wiped at my eyes. “I’m sorry.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Some berserker I am, crying on my first day at the academy.”
He went to my bed and plopped on it, bouncing a couple times. “You’ll do fine.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The door likes you.”
“Yeah, well, no one else does. They assigned me this room because I’m part nymph.”
“This room?” He looked around. “Oh no, they all look like this. You know how berserkers are with interior decorating. Very correctional facility chic.”
That buoyed my spirits, but only for a second. I shook my head. “The third-year who showed me around said they thought I’d be happier away from the others. He was very clear about why.”
Asher tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful. “You don’t have to do this whole academy thing, you know. You could always come live with me.”
I managed not to snort. “You spent six months living in a sandcastle in Greece.”
“Near a sandcastle. And I only did it because that mermaid needed help getting rid of her ex-boyfriend.” He let his eyes drift shut, like he was savoring a memory. “Mmmm, she was something. Made me wish I was a naiad for a while there.”
I cleared my throat.
He opened his eyes, and he had the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry. I’m just saying, why spend the next three years learning how to kill? Why not tap into your nymph side?”
“I’d be a horrible nymph.” Not to mention, I had no desire to flirt with every being I saw. There was a reason my mother’s people were called the “hookers of the Fae.” I couldn’t say that to Asher, though.
But he must have discerned my thoughts, because he gave me a shrewd look. “There’s more to being a nymph or satyr than sex, you know.”
I mimed putting my hands over my ears. “La, la, la. Not talking about this!”
“Elin.” He stood, his face abruptly serious.
Oh no. He was using his official uncle voice. I lowered my hands. “Is t
his the part where you lecture me about being judgmental?”
He folded his arms, exposing more of his tattoos. He also wore half a dozen beaded bracelets that would have made any Instagram influencer green with envy. Only Asher’s weren’t for show. As a dryad, he derived energy from trees and other living things in the forest. I’d seen him weep when the news showed a story of rainforests being burned to make way for farmland. Like the door, wooden jewelry still contained a spark of life. He could probably go without some type of plant or wood touching his skin, but it would be difficult for him to do so—sort of like a human walking through waist-high water. It could be done, but it was far easier to use a bridge.
Now, he shook his head in response to my question. “Not at all. Just reminding you that being Fae is nothing to be ashamed of.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just say it.”
Fine. “It’s just that you . . . You and”—the next words didn’t want to come, but I forced them out—“my mother . . .”
His eyes softened. “Yes?”
“You’re lesser Fae.” I rushed on before he could reply. “I mean, I don’t think of you that way, but there’s no getting around the fact that the rest of the Myth does. It’s not fair, and it’s definitely not right. You’re just as important as any major Fae. And who decided who’s a major or lesser Fae, anyway? It’s like human royalty. The whole system is just made-up nonsense so some people can feel more important than others. It’s ridiculous to—”
“Elin.” He held up his hands. Mirth danced in his eyes. “Take a breath before you pass out.”
“You’re not offended?”
His shoulders shook. “Not in the least. You think I haven’t heard all that before?”
Relief was like a warm river in my mind. I leaned against the desk. “Yes, I’m sure you have. It’s just that I’ve never really thought about it before. And then today . . .”
“Today you felt that discrimination yourself,” he finished.
“Yes.” A bubble of humorless laughter rose in my chest. “What’s stupid is I suck at being Fae almost as much as I suck at being a berserker.”
Asher tsked and drew closer. “Now, I know that’s not true.” He ran a light gaze over me. “How’s your glamour?”
Of course, he had to ask that. Only the Fae could change their appearance at will. It’s what allowed him to mimic Fiona. Even humans knew of Faerie’s ability to shapeshift. Children’s stories were filled with tales of changelings—Fae offspring swapped for human infants. Fiona always pinned such tricks on the major Fae, who reproduced sparingly and itched to increase their numbers. They couldn’t really steal children anymore, though. Not with social media. All it took was one seemingly human child manifesting strange powers or sprouting pointed ears, and all of the Myth would be exposed.
As far as I knew, no Fae had pulled a changeling stunt in over a century. Although, there were a couple of ageless celebrities that made me wonder . . .
Asher gave me an expectant look. “Well?”
I heaved a sigh. “As far as I can tell, my glamour is nonexistent.”
“That’s not possible. Caitríona’s glamour was her strongest magic.” He pronounced my mother’s name the Gaelic way, with a rolled R that conjured images of bonfires and the wild hunt.
He didn’t have to tell me about her skill. I’d seen how she mesmerized audiences on the catwalk. Videos of her modeling were hard to come by, since Harald had pressured her to stop working after they married.
“She could have had a brilliant career,” I told Asher, anger at Harald’s high-handedness rising in my gut.
“Maybe.” His smile held an edge of sadness that squeezed my heart. “But she couldn’t have done it forever. Eventually, people would have noticed she wasn’t aging.”
“But she could have made herself appear older. You’ve done that before.” More than once, he’d tricked my tutors into releasing me from my studies by knocking on the door, pretending to be an elderly neighbor or confused human who’d wandered onto the estate.
He inclined his head. “Sure. It takes effort, though. Holding a form for a long period of time is exhausting. Most Fae just disappear for a few decades until a new crop of humans are born.” He made a face. “It’s harder to do these days with cameras and the internet.”
I thought that over. “Maybe that explains why Odin has been AWOL all these years.” As one of the high Fae, he held mythical status even among Mythicals. No one really knew the extent of his powers. Like all high Fae, he’d been worshiped as a god by humans in past centuries. That kind of thing had an . . . interesting effect on magic.
“Could be. Maybe your King Magnus is with him.” Asher stroked his jaw. “Come to think of it, you berserkers are a little scarce in the leadership department.”
“The headmaster isn’t here, either.”
Asher raised an eyebrow. “Then who’s going to administer your oath?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t exactly give me a welcome packet when I arrived.” Out of nowhere, the wave of adrenaline I’d been riding drained away, and the weight of the past few hours rushed in.
Asher saw it right away. He came to me and put his hands on my shoulders, pulling me away from the desk. “Hey. Everything is going to be just fine, okay?”
I smiled—or at least attempted to. Judging from the worried look on his face, it wasn’t very convincing. I forced levity into my voice. “It’s not a big deal. I’m not in any rush to take a blood oath anyway.”
The worried look on his face deepened. “Are you sure it’s necessary? You’re a half-breed. We can’t be certain your immortality is linked to your berserker half.”
“It is. I’m aging.”
He scoffed. “How can you tell? You’re twenty-one years old.”
Good question. I opened my mouth to answer, then shut it. How did I know I was like Harald instead of my mother? I shook my head. “It’s just a feeling. I don’t know how to describe it. But I’m sure I’m right. Like it or not, I’m doomed to spend the next few decades working as a contract killer.”
“Not a killer, Elin. More like a”—he glanced up while he seemed to search for a different word—“magical detective.”
“Berserkers don’t solve crimes. We flat-out murder people.”
“Only when they need to be murdered.”
I started to protest, but he put a gentle finger over my lips. “No, hear me out. Mythicals live a long time, and not all of us are good. Worse, immortality can lead to boredom. When a Mythical is inclined toward evil, boredom and a long lifespan make dangerous bedfellows.” He stepped back. “The world is already a chaotic place. Imagine what it would be like without the noble guild of berserker assassins.”
He spun in a tight circle. When he faced me again, it wasn’t as Asher Greenleaf. Now, a taller, more muscular man stood in his place, his dark brown hair shaved on the sides and long on the top. His full beard was several shades darker than his hair, and his blue eyes had a dreamy quality to them—as if he spent a lot of time staring at a distant horizon. But it was the sword hilt peaking over his shoulder that made me recognize him.
King Magnus. I’d never seen him in person, but I didn’t need to. His sword, Eldurvæng, was as recognizable as the Dragon Tower. Berserker children played with replicas of it. Harald had a painting of it in his study.
The hilt was studded with a huge ruby, its center a swirling mix of blood red and gold rumored to have been set by Odin himself. I looked from the sword to Magnus’ face.
And, yowza, the berserker king was a hottie. A little solemn for my taste, but there was no denying his sex appeal. What could possibly make a man like that hide away from the world?
He spoke, his voice a deep rumble. “Being berserker doesn’t make you a killer, Elin. We are the ones who swing the sword of justice.”
A shiver went down my spine, making me want to stan
d a little straighter. Maybe throw my shoulders back. When he put it that way . . .
Except wait. This wasn’t King Magnus. It was my lothario uncle who’d once seduced an entire family of banshees—daughter, mother, and grandmother—all in the same week. “Thanks for the inspirational speech.” I made a little spinning motion with my finger. “Now turn back.”
King Magnus gave me a cheeky grin, which was weird. Then he made a deep bow. When he straightened, Asher had taken his place.
He shook himself like a dog might after a bath. “Eesh, he’s a tough one. Lots of, um, bulk. I might have to use him the next time I’m in the States for spring break.”
I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn’t make a comment about how inappropriate it was for a centuries-old forest Fae to fraternize with human college students. Mythicals didn’t play by the normal rules. In Asher’s case, there weren’t really any rules.
And that was why I could never embrace my nymph side. Not only did I lack glamour and the handful of other lesser Fae magics, I could never devote myself to an endless pursuit of pleasures of the flesh. While I didn’t consider myself a prude, I just couldn’t be okay with using my face and body to seduce anyone who crossed my path.
So that left me learning how to, as Asher put it, “swing the sword of justice” whenever a Mythical needed killing.
The only problem? I lacked control over my rage. According to my tutors, I had a great deal of raw power . . . but it was almost useless if I couldn’t learn how to channel it. Like a sports car with no driver, I would eventually crash—but not before I caused a lot of destruction first.
The Rage Lords would stop me before I got to that point. And “stop” was just a euphemism for death.
“I don’t like that look,” Asher said, moving closer.
“What look?”
“Defeat.” He reached me, then tugged on a lock of hair that had fallen over my shoulder. “It’s not like you to give up so easily.”
“I’m not giving up.” I glanced over his shoulder, at the narrow bed and stone walls around it. “But this is my last chance to prove myself.”
He smiled. “No pressure, right?”
He expected me to laugh, so I did. Except it emerged as a sort of weak half sob.