“Okay, okay...” Skyla waved him away. “Overprotective much, Dad?”
He scowled and blipped away without a word. My ears popped as an afterthought. “Ugh,” I said to Skyla. “I hate it when he does that.”
Back in our bedroom, Skyla finished fastening her sword sheath to her side, securing it tightly to her thigh using military-grade Velcro strapping. Calling her weapon a sword was a bit grandiose. “Great big knife” or “fancy machete” described it better. I’m sure there was some official name for it, but why did I need to know? I had fire, and that was weapon enough for me. Skyla wiped a rag over her blade and tossed the cloth into her suitcase. She silently slid the sword into its nylon scabbard, an anticlimactic gesture. “Yeah, I know. It’s not as cool as they make it sound in the movies.”
“Things rarely are.”
“Says the girl who can create CGI fire from thin air.”
“I didn’t say there were no exceptions. Now, do you have everything you need? Clean undies, a change of socks, a full charge on your cell phone in case you need to call me to come pick you up? Don’t go anywhere with any strange men. Don’t drink and drive—”
Skyla laughed and threw her arms around me. “You’re such a weirdo.”
I returned her hug. “You love me anyway?”
“Always. We’ll be back shortly. I’m going to keep a golem head for my collection.”
After the Valkyries left, I tried settling down in the living room with Thorin’s laptop, intending to research my theories about the existence of others like me, others with more knowledge and experience who could train me to develop my premonitions. But my muscles thrummed with a need to move, to act, to do something. I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that killing Nate equated to kicking a hornets’ nest filled with angry, volatile reciprocation, and what the Valkyries were about to do would only make it worse. Which is what you wanted, right?
I replayed all that had happened earlier in the day: the horror of Nate’s death and the cold efficiency of its execution—Embla’s remorseless commands and Amala’s unhesitant responses. Their detachment chilled me. Not that I minded Nate’s demise. Someone with higher moral standards might have protested the lack of proper judicial procedure, but those people had never transmuted into a star or stood face to face with the ruler of the underworld or awaited death in a glacial cave because of a bad case of sibling rivalry. Theories of jurisprudence more or less escaped the Aesir, and their revenge cycle was never ending.
I clicked around on a few Wikipedia pages and quickly found an article about a legendary, shamanic seeress in Norse paganism called a völva, who practiced an ancient oracular art called seiðr. But every time I tried to focus on the words, my mind drifted, and I found myself skimming without comprehension. After reading the same paragraph a couple of times without retaining any information, I shoved the laptop away, closed it, and rubbed my eyes. Not tonight. I’m not in the right mood for research.
I stood, crossed the room, and stopped before the glass wall overlooking the patio and private pool. The harsh desert sun had set, allowing for the birth of a clear, starry night. Lights under the pool’s surface cast a rippling glow on the landscaped courtyard. Something about that undulating light mirrored my mood, and it beckoned to me. I slid open the patio door and stepped into the chilly air.
My mind wandered untraceable paths that my consciousness declined to follow. Zoned out, unaware, oblivious, I never heard Thorin follow me outside, but he drew me back to reality when he said my name.
“Solina?”
I flinched and spun around to face him. He had changed into a long-sleeved shirt, blue like a southern sky. He wore his usual jeans and scuffed boots. Without thinking, without succumbing to the hesitation and doubt that always stopped me, I stepped closer and twisted two fingertips into the strands of pale hair trailing over his shoulder. He stiffened, and his breath stilled.
His hair was as soft as I thought it would be. Softer.
He caught my hand and held it over his heart. Confusion flittered over his face, but not the harsh kind that proceeded his condescension. If I had to guess his thoughts, based on the look in his eyes, I suspected he wondered what had come over me. What was this reaching out, when I was usually quick to pull away?
“What is it?” he asked, his voice husky and thick—even lower than its usual burly rumble. “What’s bothering you?”
“The waiting. The doing nothing. It’s killing me.” I tugged, and he released my hand. I breathed in, exhaled, and plastered a smile on my face. “I don’t want to think or worry about it anymore right now. I need a distraction.”
“You have any ideas?” Thorin asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe some fresh air. A walk or something.”
“Why don’t we go to dinner?”
“You don’t eat.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “I’ll make an exception.”
I glanced down at my attire: jeans, tunic shirt, scruffy boots. “I’m not dressed for dinner.”
He gestured at his own casual appearance. “Burgers?”
“What about Amala?” The Valkyrie sat in the living room, scrolling through movie channels.
He rolled a shoulder. “Let her order room service.”
After the day’s traumatic and trying events, maybe I deserved to let my walls down for a few hours. I’d earned the right to enjoy Thorin’s company and leave the baggage behind. “Burgers and a stroll down Las Vegas Boulevard like normal people?”
“Normal?” He smiled. “Us?”
“Hey, we can pretend, right?”
He took my hand and led me inside, and I didn’t resist or pull away. Just for a few hours. For a few precious hours, I will enjoy him and not worry about right or wrong, good or bad, eternity or mortality. I won’t worry about heartbreak or sadness or regret.
“Amala,” Thorin said as we entered the living room. “We’re going to grab dinner. You hold the fort until we get back, okay?”
Amala glanced at our clasped hands. She shrugged and turned to the TV. “Yeah, whatever.”
“Let me grab my jacket,” I said. “Then we’ll go.”
My aversion to catching a chill saved me. Otherwise, I would have been standing at the front door when it blew open. Three men in dark military-style clothing burst in, followed by another four or five of the stone men I’d last seen in a field somewhere outside Portland—the same stone men Skyla and the Valkyries were on their way to investigate and potentially terminate.
The first man drew a gun from his hip holster and pointed the barrel at us. Thorin grabbed my shoulder, shoved me into the bedroom, and barred the doorway with his massive frame. Amala must have taken her own action, because the intruder ordered her to stop. Then he fired.
Thorin brought out Mjölnir and threw the enormous hammer. I couldn’t see much from my position, but rock exploded, and rubble sprayed over his shoulder into the bedroom. “Get your fire ready,” he said.
“You don’t have to tell me.” I let my flames out, fisting two fireballs in my hands. I held the fire, not releasing it, but having it ready in an instant if I needed it. Another gunshot exploded, once, twice. I backed away from Thorin. He stepped into the living room and threw his hammer again. Furniture crashed. Amala yelled something.
