She’s loved Tīwaz forever, but has she betrayed him by finding love with another?
Paranormal Romance
Published December 2011
In a post-apocalyptic world where humans are a rarity of by-gone years and the monsters we once thought nothing but legends are the majority, Pruðr, the foster-daughter of Munn and Lyna, is not so different from the other villagers, if you overlook her ability to see the dead and her strange ways. It doesn’t help when the Norns mark her as one of the legendary Valkyrja and she is accused of kin-mating with her cousin who may or may not actually be related to her. Add to that an attraction she cannot deny, memories of a love that plagues her, and a killer that is stalking the Tribe, and life is becoming decided uncomfortable for her.

_________________________________

BUY NOW FROM:
Barnes & Noble | Smashwords | Amazon | Amazon UK

__________________________________

Chapter One

THE DAY WAS a day to match his mood. Bitter, overcast, and deadly. The sky above their heads loomed dark, the impending storm approached on a strong, icy wind, buffering them against the sheer cliff wall to their left, and threatening to dump them headlong into the rocky sea below.

Munn glanced down at the gray-black waves crashing against the cliff face, tearing into the hard stones, and carving shallow cave into the surface. For a moment, the temptation of the sea beckoned, promising release. For a moment he was tempted to slip into the cold embrace of the sea and let it accomplish what little else had: try its damnest to kill him.

But then Lyna’s tiny hand tightened around his and her footing slipped. She teetered dizzily over the sheer drop into the raging sea. He swept Lyna into his bear-like arms, carrying her gently and easily down the last stretch of the steep, uneven track snaking along the cliff, ignoring Lyna’s weak protests that she could walk.

Moving swiftly down the once well-maintained path of his youth, Munn leapt over a missing section, wincing at the sudden shriek and blunt human nails clawing into his flesh. He landed lightly on the other side of the ten foot gap no human could have crossed and became immobile. Lyna’s body trembled against his chest and laughter bubbled from her throat. The brittle edge and hysteria of it caused his heart pain. He hadn’t meant to frighten her.

“I’ll let no harm come to you, mate of my heart,” he whispered against her hair, rocking his body gently.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed against his throat, her hands moving over the scratches she’d made.

“Hush, raa’maðr.” He called her heartmate, even though he knew she was so much more to him. Lyna was his salvation, his redemption, his other half. His soul was bound to this tiny slip of a woman. His body was sworn to protect her against all danger. He would give his life to defend her. But she didn’t know all that.

“They are a small price for your safety.”

She looked up at him, her green eyes luminous with tears. “I felt your pain, Munn.”

He brushed his lips across her freckled nose in a tender gesture that belied his gruff, bear-like appearance. “I’m sorry, raa’maðr, so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

He would do anything to protect her from the pain she’d inflicted upon him, to shield her from the hurt of the world, but she was an empath of amazing skill, a healer of awesome power. She was an anomaly among mortals, even her own people, and she was more precious to him then even the quest he’d sworn to fulfill up his father’s deathbed 3,000 years ago.

He now had something worth living for, worth defending, worth loving. She was part of him now. His death would mean hers, and hers his. He would not lose his soulmate.

Munn had saved Lyna from death at the hands of her people months earlier. He’d taken the beaten, unconscious woman far away from her village and everything she’d ever know. He’d cared for her as she healed. He’d shown her worlds she’d never dreamed existed. And yet, after months of traveling together, she’d only recently given him a piece of what he’d craved from the start.

Although her ways were as different from his as his were from hers, she’d completed the first bonding mark by claiming him as his mate in the way of her people. She’d joined her body to his and given the protection of her body into his care. He would never betray that trust.

Setting Lyna on her feet, he nudged her toward their destination. Twenty feet ahead the path curved slightly and beyond that, the narrow ledge widen into a platform about two hundred and sixty feet by thirty feet. He cursed as they rounded the curve and the village he grown-up in was revealed.

Erosion had taken its toll, stealing what little land there had been, and tumbling the ruins from the ancient city into the sea below. Bypassing what few stone homes remained, he headed for the caves carved into the solid rock face.

“People actually lived in this desolate place,” Lyna whispered.

Munn glanced at her, grinning at her dubious tone. While she’d said nothing of her doubts, she’d had reservation about the state of his memory, not that he could blame her. This was another life. A life that had ended a long, long time before her people’s history had even begun. “Once.”

Crossing the moss covered stone, he rested his hand on the stump of a once proud ash tree. He remembered hiding from punishment in its branches and kissing his first love beneath the shade of its bough. He remembered a time when it rose into the sky and had stood the test of time, only to be destroyed in a battle to destroy the world.

Lyna joined him, her eyes not on the blackened stump, but on the darkening sky. By all appearances she looked to be a fragile human woman. Munn knew better, Lyna was a bottomless fountain of magic and strength and beauty that he had never seen in another mortal for hundreds of year. “We better take shelter, Munn. The storm fast approaches.”

“This way,” he said, taking her frozen hand into his and leading her toward the cave at the far end of the ledge. Although he knew exactly which cave he wanted, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing up at the runes chiseled into the stone above each entrance. Balder. Thor. Odin. Frigga. Frey. Ođr. Freyja.

HE HALTED BEFORE the entrance of Freyja’s temple. Lyna released his hand, falling to her knees. “Folkvangr,” she whispered, crossing her arms over her chest and bowing head. Her flaming red hair fell over her face but not before he saw the tears running tracks down her dirty face. “I didn’t believe it existed.”

Munn leaned down and pulled his companion to her feet. “It did once, but Ragnarok destroyed it all.”

He drew her reluctant form into the protection of the cave. The darkness closed around them and a deluge of power crashed over them, driving Lyna to the floor and Munn to his knees. Stinging needles stabbed into their flesh, slicing their skin. Lyna screamed.

Denying the desire to give voice to the devastating torture, Munn reached deep inside, and summoned the power of his ancient birthright. It built around him, a deafening roar that drowned out Lyna’s voice, and electrifying his body. Gathering it to him, he threw everything he had into the abyss, all the magic of a guardian and a Shifter poured into the void.

The power increased, incapacitating pain flowed over them, intensifying until nothing else existed. A presence touched his mind, lessening the agony that was his. It held him, studied him, and finally let him go. The world around them exploded. The web of power disappeared.

Stumbling to his feet, Munn reached down to the curled up form of Lyna, his hand caressing her arm. She flinched. “It’s alright. It’s gone.”

“What was that?” her muffled voice rasped from under her arm covering her face.

“Wards placed on the entry way. They shouldn’t have been here,” he replied, helping her to her feet. Lyna stumbled, leaning heavily on him for support. “Whoever placed them there, knows we’re here now.”

“How did you stop it, Munn? Are you a sorcerer?”

He shook his head. “I did nothing unnatural, my beloved.”

He knew it was both truth and lie. In ancient days a sorcerer was someone of great power that sought to harm others. Now it meant anyone who could control the elements or command magic. He was a creature of magic and could control both his own magic and the elements. By her definition, he was a sorcerer.

But he hadn’t necessarily lied either. It wasn’t him that freed them from the wards. He hadn’t the power or the strength. It was the god that rested in his place, the one they had come to free.

“Are you ready to move on?” Large green eyes stared up at him, the look plainly asking if he were insane. “We can’t go back that way, Lyna.”

They could both feel the prickle of magic as the shattered ward re-knit itself. The entrance was already closed to them. They needed to move on or be trapped in the ward until whoever had created it came to retrieve them.

She swallowed and nodded, although it was clear she wanted nothing more to do with this adventure. He couldn’t really blame her, this was more than she signed on for. This had become a perilous journey to a goal he could only hope was still there.

Lyna placed her hand and her trust in his hand. He lead the way through the darkness, he didn’t need to see to walk the halls he’d travelled a dozen times a day for nearly three millennia. He knew the way to Freyja’s fountain by heart.

Behind them the storm broke. The sky cried acidic tears, as if it knew what they were about to do. As if the world knew change was coming and that it was time for the gods to return life to a dying world. As if it mourned the coming of their salvation.

FOR A LONG time there was nothing.

No sensations.

No dreams.

No memories.

No self.

There was nothing to intrude upon her much needed slumber. Nothing to tell her how many years passed. Nothing to tell her if the world still existed. There was no duty to perform, no burden to carry, and no heart-rending emotions to feel. She was at peace. She was finally content.

And then there came a ripple, a presence in the vast nothingness of her existence, a sensation of dislocation. An infinitesimal change, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, that altered her world. It called to her. It submerged her in uproar of sensations: pain, terror, and need.

At first she recoiled from it, thinking it an echo of memory. She didn’t want to remember. But the creature didn’t fade, it persisted and grew stronger. It drew her into its world, a shadow world of his life.

They were mocking him, calling him human, as if it were a dirty name that he should be ashamed of. He took it all with a stoic type of silence that earned their wrath. They couldn’t have known that he’d escaped into a world inside his mind where they could not follow him. A world unlike anything she’d seen for a very long time, long before the humans learned to plant crops. Where had he seen such a place?

A fist struck him, his tiny body bouncing off the wall, falling to the ground. A woman’s shouts cut short. “You’re not my son!” His heart howled in grief that his voice refused to utter.

Time moved from one event to the next, sometimes she stood beside him as he sat for hours watching the animals move through the forest. Other times she watched as the village boys taunted and beat him bloody. Their small fists raining down upon his body, the toes of small feet dug into his side.

She glimpsed the nearly feral boy fighting for scraps with the village dogs, and protect his mother from a man ten times his size. She heard the breaking of bones, and winced as the human healer reset them with cracks and pops.

She tried to return to her slumber but there was no more rest for her. Memories moved within her, mixing with his reality.

At first the memories of her lost lover haunted her, moving with her through the centuries, but soon he faded and disappeared, replaced by fragmented and jumbled images, in no order or sequence. The boy with blond hair, blue eyes, and a quick, if elusive, smile. Images of hunting, of war, of flying through the air, of smoke filled skies, of open parire, of golden cloth and chains, of pain, of humans and otherkind living together, of her father and mother, of his mother and the man that raised him, of his friends, of traveling Hela’s realm to claim the Valkyr from her mother, of the first shift, and of the Valkyrja.

She saw people, shadowy and distant images with names attached. She knew these people once, had spoken and interacted with them, but now they were nothing more than dust and ashes.

Memory was a strange thing. It was the awareness of being. It was the moving of time, from one event to the next. It was substance in itself, like the boundless sea. It was extensive and subjective. It was the continuation of a life, suspended and apart, drifting in the waters of time. But memory wasn’t linear. It skipped around, a flash here, a blink there.

And yet, it was also his memories, his life. They intruded upon her. They wove a spell over her. They drew her back to him time after time. Into this constant stream of time and memory, there came a moment that shattered the idyll.

“Disgusting whelp!” the man raged over his broken and bloody body. The boy struggled to defend himself, to reach deep inside to the magic flowing through his veins. She frowned, studying the broken traces of ancient and powerful blood. He belonged to her people.

The wolves were closing in, circling. He was slipping away, slipping into the darkness, slipping into death.

NO!

She seized the fading light of his soul, jerking him from Hela’s lethal grasp, dragging him back into a life he was better off without. She held him, cooing soft the words of comfort, promises she was unsure that she could keep, healing him, strengthening him, watching over him as the sweet lassitude of sleep washed over him. She waited until his mother found him, promising that they would meet again, before taking her leave.

But there was no rest for her. A noise, a shock, and reality forced her to pay attention. A couple stood in Frigga’s entrance, trapped in a web of evil magic from an ancient enemy she thought long dead. Magic rose from the male, but it wasn’t enough for what he intended, or directed enough to disrupt the cage surrounding them.

She might have left them to her enemy and taken what little pleasure her strange life afforded her awhile longer, except she could not be so callous. She couldn’t leave them in the grasp of her enemy, to face his cruelty alone. She couldn’t allow them to suffer needlessly when she could save them. They’d come for her, and while she didn’t want to go with them, she wouldn’t punish them for their ignorance.

Extending her mind toward the couple, magic trickled over the ward, oozing over the surface, seeking a weakness in the metaphysical armor. She found it in the tiniest tendril of magic linking the ward to its power source. Tapping into that flaw, her magic surged through the small opening, attacking, tearing, and destroying the wards.

Using the natural energy of the crystalline-streaked rock walls to boost her strength, she sent bolt after searing bolt into the wards, and it shattered. But she wasn’t done. Hurling unadulterated power through the magical tendril to the man who sustained the ward, she broke the inquisitive mind with a cruel twist.

The brief glimpse of fur clad men and women in various stages of dress in a cave disappeared with the electrical impulses of the man brain as he died.  Ruthlessly, she fed upon the energy of his dark soul, restoring a portion of her depleted store of magic before retreating.

CRADLED AGAINST MUNN’S side, his breath fanning her icy cheek and his body radiating enough heat to still the trembling of her limbs, Lyna was never so glad to be in a cave. She disliked enclosed, dark spaces, but with the storm raging outside they were safer inside. She shivered as the residue magic of the ward slithered across her skin, seeking, wondered if they were truly safe or if that was just hopeful thinking.

Munn helped her along the tunnel, her human eyes unable to see in the dark. Not that it mattered all that much. She’d rather not see the next attack coming.

Stumbling over the rubble, Lyna lost contact with Munn. The stifling dark descended upon her. The thick, putrid, musty air wrapped her in a muffling blanket that smelled heavily of fear and death. They shouldn’t be here.

Her breath rasped through her suddenly dry throat. Her heartbeat thundered in ears. She shivered with the cold that permeated her soul. This wasn’t a place for the living. This was the home of a goddess. This was a place for the dead claimed by Freyja.

She fought the desire to run back to the entrance. That way was closed to her now. She had to go forward.

Hand outstretched, she took a single step, and her foot came down on something small and crunchy. The bones of a small animal, at least she hoped it was, because if it was human, it was the bones of a child and she couldn’t handle that thought. A hand closed around her arm.

Lyna shrieked and struck out blindly.  I don’t want to die! Not here! Not like this!

“Lyna!” Munn shouted. “Stop!”

She stilled instantly, her chest moving like a billows. “Don’t do that! You scared me, Munn.”

“I’m sorry, raa’mađr. I didn’t mean to.” He tucked her into his side. “This way.”

“Where are we going, Munn?

“To the heart of Folkvangr. Can’t you feel it calling us?”

She frowned and shook her head. She felt the Earth’s silent pleads, but…then she realized she could feel something. It was subtle, non-intrusive, a shadowy presence that studied her from a distance with curiosity. But it wasn’t calling them. It was warning them away.

Munn seemed so determined to awaken this god, but he didn’t want them there. Her skin prickled under the sharp censure. They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t be disturbing the god that sleep here. The people were not ready.

But the Earth is, Lyna responded instinctively. I can’t you hear Her pleads. She’s crying for relief. She’s begging you to end to her pain.

Healing could only be found in the hands of the one who lay in this place. For the Earth it was time for the God to awaken and bring relief.

I can’t help you, the sibilant voice slithered through her mind.

She drew back with a gasp, stumbling on the stones littering the floor. Munn’s large arms closed around her before she could fall, but not before her hand touched the stone walls. Men in shiny metal armor marched through the hall before her, disappearing when she pulled her hand away.

Just as I couldn’t help them…

Munn grasped her hand as Lyna moved forward, turning down a small southern tunnel. She attempted to calm her troubled mind by reminding herself that they were here for a reason, that nothing here would harm her, and that this cave was no different than any other she had visited in her life. That no monster hid in the dark. But she knew it was a lie.

The dark may not hold monsters, but it held memories. Dark and dangerous memories. Everything she touched in this place held a memory. Warriors and women in strange dress laughed. Children played. Creatures she had never seen before walked the brightly lit halls.

Entire lifetimes flashed through her mind. Vibrant, joyful people, dead in a blast of flames. Bodies sheared to bone. Screams echoing in the halls.

And through it all, the presence remained with her, a comfort that stole the horror of what she was seeing. They are at peace now…

Memories flowed through her, some of joy and others of blood. And upon a field, red with blood and littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, she saw Munn. He stood on a small hill overlooking the field, dressed in black armor, his helmet in his hand.

Lyna started, bumping into Munn. There had always been a part of her that refused to believe Munn was over thirty years old. He was a well-nourished man, taller than any she had ever seen, with broad shoulders and pure muscle. His raven black hair had not a strand of gray. He had all his teeth. This man couldn’t be over thirty years old, let alone a few thousand.

A stunning woman in golden armor joined him on the hill, her pale skin nearly glowing in the twilight. Freyja… the voice whispered, the tone reverent and bitter.

“Who are you?”

The voice didn’t answer her but Munn did. “Lyna?”

Fire flared to life beside her, and Lyna involuntarily let loose an alarmed yelp, slamming back into Munn. Blinded by the bright golden light, she sat in a fighting stance and listened for the slightest noise. White stars danced before her eyes and shadows pranced along the wall.

Never had she seen what lay before her. Threads of crystal and gold wove a path through the glass-like stone, magnifying the brightness of the light. Energy coursed through the veins like blood, lighting their path.

Long sharp teeth rose from the ground and dropped from the ceiling, like the maw of a hungry dragon, ready to swallow them whole. Struggling against her natural instincts to run and hide from the danger of their quest, she glanced over her shoulder at the entrance.

His wards are back in place and I have not the power to break them again, the voice whispered.

“Who is he?”

The presence faded from her mind, leaving her to make her own decisions. She could remain and face the man who’d made the horrible wards, or she could be like Munn. He didn’t hesitate. He walked into the unknown, ready to embrace his meeting with destiny. She could do no less. Taking a deep breath, her choice made, she stepped boldly forward. It was time to face the creature trapped within the confines of the tunnels. It was time to end the nightmare.

LYNA FOLLOWED MUNN through the maze of tunnels to the ceremonial chamber. The faint light shimmered and flickered across a pool of the bluest water he’d ever seen. The ceremonial chamber was flooded by the fountain that once stood at its center.

Frigga had given him precise instructions. He was to be here exactly three hundred and twenty years after Ragnorak, during the first months of spring in the North regions. She had said nothing of the salvation of their world lying beneath still, acidic water.

Lyna peeked around his shoulder, and then took the bundle of wood from his back, grunting under the weight, and busied herself beside the pool. Shortly, she had a fire started and a pot of nasty smelling stuff bubbling over it.

She put it aside and faced him. “Strip.”

“Excuse me.” He couldn’t have heard her right.

She looked up at him. “We don’t have a lot of time. Strip out of those clothes so I can rub this into your skin. It’ll provide some protection from the water.”

Face flushed, Munn did as she commanded, unable to meet Lyna’s eyes as layers of hide dropped to the ground. She folded his clothes and set them aside. She lifted the pot and moved toward him with the foul concoction. She didn’t say a word about the scars that crisscrossed every inch of his body as she rubbed the hot liquid into his skin.

“It won’t last long. You have to get what we came for and get out of the water or your skin will burn. Also, we have guests coming and I don’t want to be here when they arrive. You have less than an hour.”

“Is that all?” he grumbled, taking a deep breath and diving into the warm water.

His skin tingled as he moved toward the summons, swimming blindly through the water and wishing he had some goggles. He’d always hated them, but he’d never realized how helpful they were until this moment. The acid of the water could burn through the soft tissue of his eyeballs in seconds if he opened them.

His searching hands brushed over cloth-shrouded stone and chains. Following the links, he found the lock. How the cloth had withstood the years in this water was a mystery to him. Already his skin was hot.

Anchoring himself to the bottom, he fumbled with the chain around his neck, breaking Frigga’s key free and fitted it into the lock. It turned easily, freeing the century-old body from its watery tomb. He took hold of the shroud and pulled the cumbersome body from his prison and toward the surface.

His skin was on fire as he headed for the shore, dragging the shrouded body behind him. Lyna met him with a cloak in her hands. She wrapped it around his shoulders, chaffing and drying the acidic water from his skin, and lessening the burning. “Is it him?”

“I don’t know,” he gasped, pulling the body further onto the shore before helping her dry his skin. Scaly patches peeled off his body, leaving behind red weeping sores. “Something’s wrong, Lyna. This doesn’t feel right.”

She pushed him down beside the fire and pressed a cup of her healing tea into his hand. He didn’t protest. His body was already healing and the tea would speed the process.

Lyna drew her knife and headed for the shroud-wrapped body. “They are gods, Munn. Their ways are bound to be confusing to us,” she said, making quick work of the golden cords holding the shroud tightly closed.

He shook his head. She saw the gods as divine beings, different even than the supernatural beings that now filled her world. But she was wrong; the gods were powerful, but they were no different than other creatures. They could be killed.

She sat back and looked toward him. He could see the desire in her eyes to reveal the god beneath the cloth, but she left the honor to Munn. She didn’t have to. He’d seen Odin before. But he understood her fear.

Lifting the corner of the cloth, he started in shocked horror at the perfection of the woman. This couldn’t be. There had to be some mistake. Where was Odin?

CONSCIOUSNESS CAME TO her slowly; initially it was dull and hazy around the edges, but swiftly becoming focused, acute. Impulses became thoughts, thoughts became language. Words which had almost ceased to have any meaning to her suddenly became relevant again: cold, sharp, pain. Soon there were more words to locate the sensations. Hands, feet, fingers, toes. Her senses were bombarded with a thousand impressions…

Dragging air into unused lungs, pain rasped though her throat. Tears slid down her wet cheeks. Waves lapped at stone, echoing in the chamber, sounding loud in her ears.

Where was she? Where was Hela? How did she get here? Who was she?

Heat radiated against her left side, warming her chilled body. Someone was touching her, gentling her, rubbing her skin with a scratchy cloth. Voices murmured, louder in her ears than they should. She was so confused.

Self-awareness was the last to come, and with it came identity. She was Þrúðr, daughter of Thor, fosterling of Freyja, Queen of the Valkyr, subject to the rule of Odin, and unconsummated wife of…she flinched from the memory of a wound that had never healed.

Her heart ached at the thought of her eternal love. Where was he now? Did he miss her as much as she missed him?

Someone was lifting her, her weightless body sliding through the air. “Be careful with her,” a woman said, her voice slightly muffled.

“She’s not suppose to be here!” the man holding her argued, his voice loud in her ears.

“But she is, Munn. And we have to go now. They’re coming for her.”

_________________________________

Chapter Two

THE VILLAGE WASN’T what Þrúðr expected. Pressed up against the sheer cliff face, the huts were squat, dome-like structures made of long poles or metal struts from the buildings long destroyed by time. The walls were piled stones, bark, and animal skins decorated by horns and bones. But it was the smaller things that created an unease within her.

Fires burned outside the huts, but there were no women tending the pits. There were no children playing outside. There were no sounds of horses nickering or men talking. There were no dogs barking as the travelers neared or fighting for scraps. No one came out to greet them or demand they leave.

The hairs on Þrúðr’s neck prickled. Eyes were upon them, and they weren’t friendly. She stifled the urge to turn and face the hostile glares. They wouldn’t be here long, and when people learned they were traders, the unfriendliness of moments past would be forgotten. It was not uncommon in this time, and though she hated the first meeting, she enjoyed the attention of the children afterward. They always wanted to hear her stories and about her adventures in other lands.

A hut door fluttered, the occupant peering out at them as they passed, but when Þrúðr turned to look, the door closed. Þrúðr shivered and drew closer to Lyna. There was a sense of darkness, despair, and death in the air; a sense of evil surrounding this village.

Lyna’s hand closed over hers, squeezing once and releasing her. The message was clear; her emotions were showing. Þrúðr composed her features into the stoic mask she might present Odin with when he demanded something of her Valkyjr.

Her personal feelings about this place or Munn’s strange actions meant nothing. They would trade with this village and then they would move on to another village along his trade route. Soon she would be enjoying the temperate climate along the coast where everyone loved traders, even if they didn’t want them to stay for too long, while these people would be trapped in a blanket of snow and cold, starving from a lack of food.

Winter was coming to the Northlands, she could feel it in the air, and Munn’s attempts to find a kinsman was placing them in danger. They should be moving south before Lyna’s present state of pregnancy halted their progress altogether. She just hoped they didn’t get stuck here.

Munn stopped before the largest hut. The door opened and an elderly man dressed in the robes of Clan Chief stepped out of the hut. She briefly glimpsed the frightened gaze of a young woman holding two wide-eyed children before the flap hid them from view.

The man straightened and smiled, but it was a false and dangerous smile. This man would hesitate to slit their throats if it benefited him. “Greetings, what brings you to our lands so late in the season?”

“I’m looking for a kinsman. I believe he is in your village,” Munn said.

“Perhaps. His name?”

“Hunn.”

“There is a Hunn here, but it is a common name.”

Þrúðr sensed his lie. He was adept at deception, but not good enough. Munn’s stiff posture told her he wasn’t fooled by the Clan Chief either.

“Of course,” Munn said, inclining his head.

“Lanyi, get Hunn!”

Whoever Lanyi was, they obeyed without a word. The retreating feet beat a quick tattoo behind her. Lyna and Þrúðr waited in silence as Munn and the clan leader spoke of the weather farther North and what they had to trade with the villagers.

Þrúðr tried not to show her impatience or unease She could feel the presence of the villagers emerging from their huts, enclosing them in a circle of resentment. There was something very wrong with this place. She could no longer dismiss it as the normal suspicions of the villagers toward newcomers. There was an undercurrent of tension in the village, of violence just below the surface. One word from their leader, and they would fall upon the small group of traders like a pack of wolves, ripping them to pieces.

“Munn?” Þrúðr looked toward the older man who spoke as he entered the circle of hostile people. “What are you doing here? I thought you were…” He hesitated, his sharp eyes swinging toward Þrúðr, appraising her. “Are these your women?”

Þrúðr bristled at his tone and the implication. It was common in this time for men to form bonding relationships with numerous women, and although the question had been asked often enough over the last five months, it didn’t bother her that others had thought she might be part of such a relationship. However, Hunn’s tone held none of the respectful curiosity of the other men.

His appreciative perusal of her body showed a lack of respect and honor due a female. The lustful, possessive stare disgusted her. This male needed to be put in his place. And that would be nowhere near her pants which he was staring at so intently.

She growled, soft and low, drawing his attention. Meeting his gaze head on, she snarled a warning, her lip curling to reveal her sharp canines. Hunn’s smile faltered and he swallowed, looking toward Munn for an explanation. Hunn had thought her a submissive because she kept her eyes lowered. But like all the others who’d thought to dominate her, all it took was a flash of her teeth or a glimpse of her unnatural, amber-gold eyes to unnerve them.

She believed it was because on some unconscious level, both Shifter and Human could sense the disparity of her lie. They might pass it off as her being a hybrid Shifter-Human, a stranger and potential danger, but somewhere they knew she was not like them.

MORE THAN A few men had learned that she wasn’t easily dominated.

The perverse side of her nature enjoyed Hunn’s unease but the saner seiđr advised caution. She was inviting trouble and she had more than enough of that already. If she revealed herself as something other than human or shifter she would endanger Munn and Lyna. She needed to keep the Valkyrja under control.

But every day was harder. Every day the Valkyrja came closer to breaking free of her restraints. Every day since she waking, she had less and less control over the Valkyrja, and it worried her.

“Yes. Lyna is my mate,” Munn said. “We are seeking a place to stay until the child is born.”

Stay? He’d never mentioned staying! They were traders and she was along for the ride. What could have possibly changed to make Munn want to settle in one place for longer than a few days? Why this village? Why now?

“We can’t possibly take in an entire family!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“We have valuable skills to offer the village in exchange,” Munn cajoled.

“What could you offer us that would increase the food supply?” another asked.

“Lyna and Þrúðr are talented craftswomen–”

“Your mate is human?” Hunn interrupted.

“She is. She’s also a descendant of the Beansidh and a healer.”

“And your daughter?”

Munn didn’t correct his erroneous assumption. “She is unmated and can bring diversity to the bloodlines. She is also hunter in her own right.”

Þrúðr bit her tongue on the retort. She’d be damned before she became a broodmate to some pig of a man! She would choose her own mate when the time came.

She hated lies but knew their necessity. Munn knew when the time came, she would choose her mate. The Clan leader and Hunn didn’t.

Remember, she reminded herself. This is a Trade. You always build up your merchandise. Hide the flaws and make it look better than it really is.

This was the part Þrúðr liked about the life of a trader: negotiation. What did the village have and what could the trader provide? In this case, they could provide a lot. But would they be given the chance.

The strange glint in his eye as he evaluated Lyna caused a prickle of foreboding in Þrúðr. He looked at her as if she were a morsel of meat rather than a pregnant woman. She disliked Munn’s kinsman even more.

“We have enough hunters. Not enough game to hunt.”

“What of your gatherers?” Lyna asked. “The women and children left in this village can gather plants to supplement your winter supplies while the hunters are gone.”

“We aren’t animals!” a woman snarled from the crowd. “We don’t eat foliage!”

Lyna turned to the crowd, addressing the hackler. “If you’re a shifter, you’re half-human, and humans can survive on plants. But if you would rather watch your children sicken and die because of your pride, then so be it.”

“What is your skill, Munn?” Hunn asked, defusing the argument before it could go further.

“Metal-tipped spears that are lighter and penetrate the hide of animals better, going deeper and not shattering. Your hunt will be more successful.”

“Show me.”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

TYR WATCHED THE long, somber line of hunters make their way through the narrow mountain pass, slowing as they crossed the rocky terrain. His friend, Tor, brought up the rear, pulling the travois with the body of their fallen friend Pyni.

“What do you think, Tyr? Will Markein let us hunt?”

Tyr shrugged and looked at Bydar. The large Shifter stood at his side, chewing on a piece of jerky, the leather patch over his missing eye not doing much to hide the gaping hole from this angle. “I don’t know. And until I ask, I won’t know.”

Bydar slapped him on the back, almost sending him over the ledge to the rocks below. “Good luck. Markein doesn’t like you much.”

Tyr moved out of the giant’s reach with a nod. “I’ll be back.”

He loped down the animal track to the main path below, turning south toward the hunters. He easily picked Markein out of the crowd with his uncommonly white-blond hair, huge frame, and prominent limp. The hunters slowed to a stop as he came toward Markein.

“Is it safe ahead?” Markein asked.

Tyr sighed, and looked toward the back of the procession where the body of Pyni lay on the travois. He took a deep breath. His suggestion would be met with anger and disbelief, but they needed the meat. “There’s a herd of deer ahead of us, just below the ridge–”

“And you want to hunt them?” Markein asked, his voice calm and his face impassive. It was a bad sign. An emotional Markein was by far a safer Markein than an emotionless Markein.

“Yes. A few hunters only. We’ll catch up at the camp with enough meat to feed the village for a month. This hunt doesn’t have to be a failure—”

Markein struck him. Pain blasted across Tyr’s jaw and his feet left the ground. He landed hard, hitting his head on a boulder with a crack.

“A boy is dead!” Markein growled, towering over him. “You would dishonor him by hunting!”

Tyr didn’t cower. Even on the ground he faced the man’s wrath. “I would honor him by giving life to his family! We all need the meat! There is no better chance than now!”

Markein’s lip curled, the only sign of amusement on his face. “Take the Shifters with you.”

Tyr nodded and slowly stood. He didn’t order the Shifters to come. They knew their job. Tyr loped up the path and they followed Tyr toward the ridge.

Tor joined him. “You’re lucky. Markein looked ready to tear you limb from limb.”

“Not even. Markein likes me,” Tyr joked.

Tor snorted. “Like a rash. He has it out for you, my friend.”

Tyr grinned, rubbing his sore jaw. “Markein’s not that bad.”

They topped the ridge and Bydar glanced at them with a grin. “That was a bit of sport,” he rumbled. “It’s always amusing to watch Markein kick your ass.”

“He didn’t kick my ass!”

The giant laughed, punching him in the shoulder and nearly knocking Tyr off the narrow path. “Tell that to your mother when she gets a look at the fist-size bruise on your jaw. I’d pay to see the confrontation between her and Markein.”

Tor chuckled and crouched down to watch the grazing deer. “Kitra’s always been a protective she-wolf over you. I’m surprised she even lets you out of the village.”

Tyr’s smile faltered and he turned away; if they only knew the truth. It was no secret that Hunn had a vile temper and more often than not Tyr was the focus of his rage, a few people might have even guessed why, but few knew the truth. Few knew that Hunn wasn’t Tyr’s father and that the only reason Hunn had claimed Tyr as his son was to save face before the Tribe. Few knew that Hunn resented Kita and Tyr for what he saw as a betrayal and that every day of his life, Hunn let him know what he thought of Tyr. Few knew that Tyr’s hunting accident six months back, wasn’t an accident, Hunn had almost killed him for some infraction that hadn’t existed.  If not for his mother he would have died.

And as protective as Kitra was, she knew that despite the dangers of the hunt, Tyr was safer away from the village and Hunn. Because one day, Hunn would succeed in his attempts to kill Tyr.

“If you two are done gossiping, I’d like to hunt,” Kanyr said, sidling up beside them so he could look down on the herd. Tyr winced. He didn’t like the man. Kanyr rubbed everyone wrong, especially the human-Shifter hybrids. But he was strategically the best hunter. “I’d say most in fur; the rest with the spears to pick off the slow or wounded.”

Tyr nodded. It was a good strategic assessment, one he would have made. “Let’s go.”

He gave the other Shifters their orders and watched them fade into the brush with envy. The best thing about a pack of Shifters hunting was, like the wolves whose skins they could assume, the pack could hunt as a whole unit or individuals, taking out animal after animal with lethal efficiency. Lifting his spear, Tyr led the youngest and least shape strong of the Shifters down into the valley. As long as nothing else went wrong, this would be the biggest hunt of the year.

DUCKING THROUGH THE doorway, Þrúðr was surprised at the spacious interior of Hunn’s squat hut. Large wooden poles had been sunk deep into the ground then covered with animal skin, stuffed with grass, and overlaid with bark on the outside. There were twenty poles on the outer ring and four inner ones to hold up the animal-skin roof. The entire floor was dug down about three feet from the surrounding ground outside, leaving a small ledge all the way around the walls to place items on.

She could easily stand straight inside, which was uncommon with her tall frame. She always stood a head or two higher than anyone else, including Lyna, but not Munn. He was a giant among men. Hunn was the only other man she’d ever seen that stood anywhere close to Munn’s nearly seven-foot frame.

“Put your things over there.” Hunn’s woman pointed toward the right of the fire. “You’ll sleep with the other children.”

She nodded, skirting the fire burning in the center of the hut. Other children? The most she had ever interacted with other children was telling stories. Otherwise they stayed away from her. She always believed it was due to their keener senses.

People could always sense the difference in her. Some were more attuned to it than others. Over the years she’d noticed the sense-blind humans were the most sensitive. Their curious natures may steer them towards danger more often than not, however, even they knew to avoid her as they would a plague ridden village. Shifters were not so smart. They knew there was something not quite right about her, but their interest overrode their better judgment and would not be sated until they knew why. They wanted to know what made her different beside the obvious.

Þrúðr dropped her bedroll and pack beside the other two bedrolls and furs folded against the wall. On this side of the room, mostly toys and trinkets littered the shelf, and two bedrolls. She turned toward the woman. “Where should I place Munn and Lyna’s things?”

The woman didn’t look up from her pot and pointed toward the back of the hut. Þrúðr took Lyna and Munn’s things there. Then she stood, unsure of what to do.

Lyna and Munn were with the clan chief, Nord, and Hunn. Their demonstration worked just as Munn hoped. Nord had been impressed with the spear, and Munn’s small “family” was allowed to remain in the village for the winter, provided the food supply could be increased. Þrúðr had no doubts they would do just that. She’d never gone hungry a day in five months.

Munn was a superb hunter and Lyna was knowledgeable in edible plants. Despite the hackles of the crowd, plants enhanced food and its nutritional value. Less sickness could be found with villages that had implemented Lyna’s techniques for gathering and persevering food.

“Is there something I can do?” Þrúðr asked the woman.

She looked up from her pot with a snarl. “I’m not here to entertain you. Go away.”

Þrúðr blinked. The hostility rolling off the woman was considerable. The bitterness a festering wound. “That’s not what I meant. May I help you with something?”

It was the woman’s turn to look confused. Her countenance changed and it was then that Þrúðr realized that the woman wasn’t old. She was probably in her early thirties and still very lovely. Her anger and fatigue added so many years to her face and body.

“You want to work?”

Þrúðr wasn’t sure why that should be such a strange request to the woman, but maybe no one had ever made the offer of helping her. “Yes.”

“You can get some wood for the fire?” she snapped, regaining her composure. Although it was more a question than an order.

Þrúðr inclined her head respectfully and headed for the door which burst open to expel two screaming and kicking children. “Beast!” “Haerta!” “Half-breed!” “Wolf bitch!”

Þrúðr barely had time to move from their path, wincing as the female slugged her male companion and raced for the woman. “Lyok hit me!” she wailed.

Lyok shoved her out of the way. “Mayra, hit me first!”

The squabble disintegrated from there and the children rolled around on the floor like puppies, only more dangerous, for they were Shifters. The woman stood, grabbed each by the scruff of their necks and lifted them off the floor. Þrúðr cringed. Human necks weren’t meant for that.

“No more!” she snarled, her incisors lengthening, revealing the extent of her anger. “You will go with your kinswoman and collect wood for the fire. If she tells me you didn’t work, I’ll feed you to the Norns!” The children looked completely cowed as they were set on the ground and shoved toward Þrúðr. “Obey her as you would me!”

She returned to the fire, adding a few logs and meat to the pot. The children looked toward Þrúðr with belligerent rebellion in their eyes. She sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon.

_________________________________

Chapter Three

TYR AND THE others returned to camp late that night, each shifter carrying two butchered deer. Despite the success of the hunt, Markein awakened them all early, and as punishment for Tyr’s disrespect of the dead, he was forced to carry his load of butchered meat plus more for the family of Pyni and drag the travois with the dead body. He didn’t complain.

Checking the bindings over the body, he packed everything onto his back rather than putting it on the travois, and put every ounce of strength into the endeavor. He would not slow the other hunters down.

By mid-day, he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow and drink from his water skin before looking around. Most of the hunters were gone. The rest were heading for the cliffs that sheltered their village with a determination he envied. He was still an hour or more from home.

Lifting the travois, he caught sight of Markein watching him from the shadows of the trees, and nodded. He would get Pyni to the village. He would be resting with his ancestors in the caves by nightfall, not rotting in this cursed sun.

Pushing his nearly exhausted body harder, Tyr lengthened his gait. An hour later he crested the beaten path leading into the village. The wails of the grieving pierced the air, enveloping him in the sounds of mourning humans. Soon he was surrounded by villagers and the maiden priestesses. The preparers of the deceased. The escorts of the dead into the afterlife.

No one offered to take his load, and even if they had, Tyr would only have surrendered the body to his family. He dragged the travois all the way to Pyni’s home and laid the boy before his mother.

The stoic woman dropped to her knees and pulled back the edge of the robes Jyria had wrapped around Pyni with love and care reserved for family or lovers. The stench of rotting meat billowed from the robes. The gray bloated mass that had once been a human boy, stared vacantly up at her. She gasped and turned away, burying her face into the leg of her mate.

Tyr dropped the load of meat and bedding from his back, his knees buckling as he knelt across from her. Gently he drew the robes back over Pyni’s face. It was wrong to speak the name of the dead, but he wanted to give his mother some comfort. “He was a good hunter.”

“He is dead,” she snarled. The crescendo of grief heightened around them. “My son is dead!”

Tyr winced. What could he say to a mother’s grief? She would not want to know that they found Pyni outside the protected circle of watchmen. That it were Tyr and Tor that had found him face down in the river. She would not want to hear his doubts that this was more than a terrible accident. She would not want to know that a Shifter had befriended her son and protected Pyni from the teasing of the others.

She would want to know that her son was an honorable and good man. She would want to know that even Shifters grieved the lost of her son.

Rising wearily to his feet, Tyr threw back his head and howled. His voice was raw and tinged with grief at the loss of a friend. The haunting sound of a wolf in mourning shattered the wailing crescendo, silencing the humans. Others joined their voices to his. Tor. Markein. Jyria. Lamyr. Bydar. Mokete. Marsi. The keening cry of a woman that sounded so familiar he could have sworn he’d heard it before but knew that he didn’t recognize it and the strange deep male voice that masked hers.

They all mourned Pyni. They all showed the respect and honor of a fallen comrade. And for the first time in his memory, a human was mourned by Shifters

THE ARRIVAL OF the hunting party drew Þrúðr from her place of hiding and to the edges of the crowd. The happiness of meat was overshadowed by the wails of mourning. Gooseflesh rippled over her skin and she shivered.

She wanted to turn around and walk away, but her feet kept moving forward. The soul of the dead drew her. The villagers moved out of her way with disgruntled curses that she barely acknowledged as she pushed through them. Only the hand on her shoulder stopped her from walking into the cleared space around the family of the dead and the boy on the travois.

She looked up into Munn’s worried face.

Þrúðr tried to smile and assure him everything was all right. But the smile didn’t curl her lips and the words wouldn’t come. Everything wasn’t right and he knew it. His ability to read her was uncanny.

And then the howling began. The deep, resonating tone of the lead male rose and fell with his grief, drawing her gaze to a large shifter with damp white-blond hair. He stood before the family of the dead boy, his head thrown back. All she could see was his broad back, but the familiarity in his stance hurled her back in time to another man, another dead hunter. Her friend with a torch in his hand, standing over the funeral pyre of her husband Tīwaz, prepared to burn his body because she had not the strength to do it herself.

She shivered and forced the image away. She wasn’t ready to face that particular memory. She wasn’t prepared to spiral into that insanity. She focused instead on the boy.

His soul was still tied to this world and his body. He stood beside his mother and father, a sad smile on his ghostly face as he stared at the large shifter paying him tribute. It was clear the boy had respected him. Maybe they had been friends. More Shifters raised their voices to the sky and gave tribute to their fallen friend, their fellow hunter.

Þrúðr clamped her mouth shut on her own voice, struggling not to break the ties of the soul and body. She had questions only the boy could answer. But nature would not be denied. The boy turned toward her, eyes full of pain, and she was briefly drawn into his nightmare.

He was kneeling beside the stream, filling his water skin, when hands clasped his head, shoving his face beneath the water. He struggled, kicking and clawing at the hands holding him. It did no good. His lungs were screaming for air and burning with need to breath. He opened his mouth and water rushed in.

His death wasn’t natural. He’d been murdered.

She threw back her head, the high-pitched shriek pouring from her mouth, snapping the delicate thread and freeing the boy’s soul. Munn’s voice joined hers, drowning her out.

The dead boy touched the shoulder of the Shifter, ineffectually wiped at the tears on his mother’s face, laid his hand on his father’s arm, and inclined his head toward her before disappearing.

The howling ended and silence reigned for a moment. Then the priestesses moved, surrounding the body, and the procession headed away, escorting the boy to his final resting place. The Shifter didn’t move with the others. And neither did she.

He turned and their eyes met. The feeling of déjà vu hit her strong as the pale silver-blue eyes pierced her straight to her soul. It was as if she knew him, or had known him his entire life, but it was an impossibility she couldn’t understand. She was positive that they had never met, yet there was something about his Shifter that he drew her. Something unnamed and different.

It wasn’t his looks, for he would never be considered a handsome man. Some might call his features hawk-like, angular and sharp, giving him the severe look of a predator, but they reminded her more of the Nordic people of the early fourth century. She could almost see him standing on the bow of a dragon boat, sailing into the English harbor for a little pillaging.

He was also tall, like Munn and Hunn, but unlike their muscular build, he was whiplash lean with wiry strength and muscles that would have women of the twenty-first century drooling. His silver-blonde hair was almost white like an old man, although he was young, no more than 20. Most of it flowed freely down his back, except the two thick braids to keep it out of his face.

His face hardened with some unnamed emotion and he stared at her for several seconds longer. She found herself unable to hold his gaze. Was this how people felt when looking into her eyes? Unnerved?

She should have walked away then, but she couldn’t stop watching him. His movements were fluid as he removed one of the bundles of meat from the pile at his feet and moved toward the empty hut. He placed the bundle inside the door and then turned back with a look of defiance on his face.

Her flesh prickled and she knew they weren’t alone. Hunn had joined them. The Shifter walked toward them, dipping to retrieve his pack. She stepped closer to Munn as she glanced behind her at Hunn and his silent wife, Kitra. For the first time Kitra looked genuinely happy as she greeted the Shifter walking toward them with a smile.

“Tyr,” Hunn greeted the hunter. His voice dripped with venomous derision and barely concealed civility. “Was the hunt good enough to share with others?”

Þrúðr shivered. She had never thought a name could hold such malice, revulsion, and hostile aggressiveness in it.

“It was Pyni’s share.” Tyr untied a second bundle from his pack and held it out to Hunn, who didn’t touch it. “This is ours.”

“We have three more mouths to feed, Tyr.”

Tyr shrugged and glanced at Munn and Þrúðr. “Then I’ll request more from Huntmaster Markein. The hunt was successful enough. And there was extra.”

“Before you leave.” Hunn gripped her shoulder and pulled her closer to him. Þrúðr wanted to protest or pull away from him. She didn’t like being touched, especially if she didn’t invite the familiarity, and there was no way she would ever invite Hunn’s touch. Although he seemed to find an opportunity to touch her at every meeting, it was nothing inappropriate that she could complain about. “This is your cousin Þrúðr, and her father Munn. Your Aunt Lyna is with the Norns.”

The minute changes in Tyr’s face revealed that whatever message Hunn was trying to convey to him, he’d understood.

“Take your cousin with you,” Munn said. “Show her around the village.”

“Munn…” Hunn said, a hint of warning in his voice.

“She’ll be safe with Tyr, brother.”

Þrúðr winced at the silent battle of wills between the two men. Hunn made it very clear that he desired her, and Munn made it very clear that it would never happen. Þrúðr was not for Hunn; she would never be Hunn’s. For which she was eternally grateful.

Hunn grunted and shoved her toward Tyr. She stumbled and fell. Tyr caught her in his arms, drawing close to his hard body. Liquid heat flowed through her veins, warmth blossomed under her skin. Her belly fluttered and her skin tingled under his hand where it rested on her arm and the small of her back.

She dared to glance up into his eyes. The horror or disgust she was use to seeing in the eyes of humans and Shifters was strangely absent. Something shifted behind his gaze, a sense of recognition, although there was no way they had ever met. He was far too young.

His sharp face hardened more, if that was possible, as he looked back to Hunn. She straightened and he released her, his hand lingering at her waist. Whatever she might have said to Hunn, flew from her mind at Tyr’s nest words.

“Was that necessary, father?” Tyr growled, dropping the meat at Hunn’s feet. “It was nice meeting you, Munn.” He appeared neither angry at Hunn, although his words and tone hinted at it, nor pleased to meet his Uncle Munn, although the anger wasn’t there when he spoke to him. “Þrúðr, would you like to accompany me to the Huntmaster’s home?”

She nodded, following Tyr. She didn’t really want to head out alone with this hunter, but to thwart Hunn she’d follow her worst enemy. Besides, she felt somehow safe with Tyr.

EVEN THOUGH THEY met no one along the way, Þrúðr refused to walk at his side. Her stride was shorter than his, and he was forced to slow his pace, but not half as much as he would have if he walked beside Oinn or Tor. He tried slowing his pace even more so she could walk at his side, but she acted like any gentle bred, proper, unmarried woman in the company of a man who wasn’t courting her. She matched his pace, walking to his left and slightly behind him.

Tyr was tempted to say something, tease her about her submissive behavior, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Besides, he wasn’t sure what to say to Þrúðr or how to apologize for Hunn’s abhorrent behavior. Since she didn’t seem inclined to fill the silence with meaningless chatter like most women of his acquaintance, he thought silence was best.

They arrived at Markein’s hut on the farthest edges of the village before he realized the man wouldn’t be there. As master of the hunt, Markein would carry Pyni to rest in the cave with his ancestors. He wouldn’t return for some time.

Tyr glanced at Þrúðr, unsure of what he should do. He could do as Munn suggested and show her around the village, but he was sure she’d seen it already. Or he could return her to Hunn’s hut, but for some reason he didn’t want to do that either.

His ‘cousin’ interested him. She was a walking contradiction. She was almost as tall as him and definitely taller than most of the men and women in the village, yet she moved with fluid grace and confidence. She was silent, eyes downcast in a submissive gesture that might have irked him if he believed her spirit broken, but Þrúðr didn’t give him the same feeling his mother did. He’d felt the anger radiant through her tense muscles and seen the fire in her eyes when she turned on Hunn. She was prepared to fight a man that would crush her. And despite the hidden strength Þrúðr might possess, the twisted bastard wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

The look in Hunn’s eyes was lustful and cruel and possessive. He’d laid claim to Þrúðr and Hunn wouldn’t wait forever to take her. He’d probably enjoy breaking her spirit.

Tyr spent the walk trying to convince himself that it wasn’t his fight and he should leave well enough alone. He had enough trouble protecting his mother from Hunn’s brutality without taking responsibility for a stranger that was his kin by marriage. It hadn’t worked. She was Munn’s daughter, his kin, and therefore his responsibility.

“He’s not here,” Þrúðr said, breaking the silence. Her voice slid over him like golden honey, a soothing, husky inflection of a dialect he didn’t recognize. “Should we return to your father’s house?”

Tyr glanced at her, his sharp eyes drinking her in. She was an attractive woman with the same hard look as Munn, though softened by youth and possibly her mother’s looks. She had Munn’s dark hair, but when the sun struck it, the red and golden highlights flares to life like flames. Her skin was nothing like Munn’s swarthy skin. It was honeyed gold cream, soft and yielding.

If she hadn’t spoken, he might have gone on believing she was Munn’s daughter, but the inflection of her speech gave her away, which made him wondered at their deception. Or why he was so sure that she wasn’t Munn’s daughter.

He yawned. “You can if you wish, but I’d rather wait here for Markein to return. I’d rather not be in the same hut as a thwarted Hunn.”

She hesitated in the act of walking away, her posture stiffening considerably, giving away her thoughts. She’d expected him to be like Hunn, she expected him to try and force her into staying or try something inappropriate with her. He suppressed the flash of anger and the protective urge to grab her and run as far and fast as he could, and instead took a seat outside the hut. He hoped to all the gods above and below that this woman didn’t become another Kitra.

He smiled and patted the seat beside him. “You’re welcome to stay if you want. I’d like the company.”

She bit her full bottom lip and met his eyes as bold as any man, challenging him, testing him. He was shocked by the color of her eyes. He’d thought them brown but they were the golden amber eyes of a shifted predator, seeing everything.

“I promise not to bite,” he joked, recovering quickly from his momentary lapse in manners.

Her lips parted slightly, surprise widening her eyes, revealing the pointed ends of her fangs. Her eyes searched his face and he barely concealed his astonishment this time. She appeared to be on the verge of shifting, only the electrical charge in the air had nothing to do with a shifting female in heat. It was more primitive and dangerous to them both. And it shocked him to his core.

He was attracted to this woman. If it had been mere physical lust, he could have ignored it as he could a Shifter woman in heat. But it was more. His spirit was drawn to her, yearning for her, desiring a connection with her. It was a path he could never travel for both their sakes.

Her sharp eyes assessed his every reaction to her. “Why?”

For a moment he thought he might have spoke out load or given away his thoughts, and then realized he’d asked her to stay. “Well it’s rude to bite a stranger—”

She laughed, the musical sound tickling his senses. Did he just attempt to flirt with his “cousin?

“Because I thought you’d prefer a break from Hunn’s groping, but if you fancy that kind of attention, by all means return.” Tyr leaned back against the cold stone of the hut’s wall and prayed that his shock at her deliberate display hadn’t been plain on his face. “As for me, I’d rather stay.”

He hoped his nonchalant mood would set her at easy. He’d hate to alienate her further than she’d apparently already been. Besides, he wasn’t going to let her frighten him away with her outland ways. He might not be able to court her as was proper, but he could her friend.

ÞRÚÐR STARED AT Tyr, confused by his reaction, or lack of reaction. There’d been that second of surprise in the tilt of his head, the flare of his nostrils, and the widening of his eyes, but no horror at the unnaturalness of her smell or the color of her eyes. After the initial shock, he appeared to accept her differences or maybe even understand them somewhat, although he could be really good at hiding his emotions. Either way, she planned to walk way until he’d mentioned his father. She wasn’t sure what this son of Hunn had in mind, but the tint of anger and disgust in his voice when he spoke of Hunn made her think that he might be different then Hunn and his siblings.

She crossed the distance and sat beside him, far enough to make it plain that she didn’t want his attention but close enough that she hoped he’d speak to her. She had questions she hoped he had answers to. And she didn’t know who else she could ask.

“Tell me about the hunter, the one who died. Was he a friend of yours?”

Tyr’s head jerked and he stared at her. “It’s bad to speak of the dead.”

“Why? Is it not good to remember those who have passed from this world to the next? My people once mourned and celebrated the life and death of those we loved.”

He smiled and shrugged. His icy blue eyes were distant as he spoke, “This was his first hunt. The other picked on him because of his size, but he was eager to prove he was the best. He caught more small game than anyone else. Markein wouldn’t let him go with us on the hunt.”

“Why not?” she asked softly.

“He drew the short stick.” His eyes twinkled with mirth at the memory. “There are always a few who remain behind to begin the preparation of the meat. He was one of them.”

His pain calling her like a siren. It coiled around him, a black snake of hurt and sorrow. She reached out to him and pulled away, clenching her hand and suppressing the need in her to comfort him, to heal him. He wasn’t one of hers. His pain wasn’t hers to take from him. And she doubted the stoic hunter before her would appreciate it.

“What happened, Tyr?”

Guilt radiated from him. It swirled around the sorrow. It burrowed into the grief. Þrúðr slowly drew her knife. Holding it close against her leg and out of sight, she waited.

Could he have killed the boy? Her instincts said no, but they’d proven wrong before and it had coat Tīwaz his life on their wedding night. She shied away from the rising memories, ruthlessly shoving them back into their dark corner, and struggled to focus on Tyr. She wasn’t ready to discount Tyr as the murderer just yet.

“No one noticed Pyni missing until hours after we returned to camp. Markein sent out search parties, but in the dark it was impossible to find him. Even the Shifters’ had a hard time following his trail.”

Þrúðr studied this strange hunter’s aura as he spoke. His guilt appeared to be that of a friend second guessing their actions or lack of them.

“He must have tripped and hit his head, because…He drowned in two feet of water.” Tyr swallowed, tears glinting in his eyes. “I should have kept a better watch over him.”

“It’s not your fault. Hela took him,” Þrúðr said.

The words burned her throat. Hela took everyone. She stole the lives of old and young. She was devious and cruel.

Tyr’s aura didn’t change with her words. No flinch of guilt. No flash of pleasure. Nothing to show that he’d murdered Pyni. He might blame himself for Pyni’s death but she’d bet her life that Tyr wasn’t involved in his murder.

And that sediment could cost her her life.

“He liked you.” Tyr stirred, frowning, and she realized her mistake. “You sound like you were close,” she clarified and prayed he’d accept the misstep as just an error in tense. The last thing she needed was to be branded as a Seer or Norn. She didn’t want to explain that she saw and spoke to the dead, and sometimes even saw the events leading up to their deaths. She had enough problems.

“He was a good and honorable boy,” Tyr whispered, “He deserved the mourning howl of the pack.”

Þrúðr frowned. “So you don’t believe the same as your people?”

In the three days she’d lived in the village, the tension between the humans and shifters had been a tangible resentment that left the few half-breed children in the middle of the quiet conflict under a blanket of distrust. Neither party cared for the other. Tyr seemed to be the exception. His voice rang with truth. No lies or omission of truth.

Tyr searched her face. “Why don’t you just ask your question, Þrúðr?”

Perceptive of him. “What question?”

He stared at her with those strange silver eyes, like glints of ice. She looked away, embarrassed. He was a stranger and she was asking personal questions as if they had known each other for years. She needed to slow down. He wasn’t ready for the truth and she wasn’t ready to share the truth with him.

“Þrúðr?”

“I was just wondering what you thought of the humans?”

He sighed. The tension in his body said it all. He knew she lied. “I have nothing against them. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if they’d never come here. Humans and shifters were never meant to live together.”

“Because the humans are weak?”

He reached out to her, his movement slow and non-aggressive. His calloused fingers cupped her chin and turned her face toward him. She fought the impulse to jerk away or use the knife still gripped in her hand. She’d been at war for far too long. And he seemed to understand on some unconscious level that it would be very dangerous to force her or make sudden movements toward her.

“You don’t believe that any more than I do. Humans physically cannot compare to a shifter’s strength. We are baser in our desires and instinctual in our reactions. We are more bloodthirsty in the hunt, deadlier when defending our mates and offspring, and more sensual and sexual.” He released her face and she held his gaze. “But Humans are smarter and without them we’d still live in caves.”

“Would we?”

Unnerved by his direct gaze, she started to look away, but he caught her chin again. Electrical impulses shuddered through her. “You have beautiful eyes, Þrúðr. It’s a shame to hide them behind a submissive facade.”

Resisting the urge to reach up and brush away the strand of hair on his brow, she clenched her hand around the hilt of her knife, focusing on contours of the leather and sinew wrapped hilt.

His warm hands cupped her face. Her heart rate skyrocketed. Need, hot and urgent, flowed through her, shivering along every nerve and bringing her numb body to life. His face dipped closer, his mouth slightly open. Desire flared to life and for the first time in a long time, she felt alive.

Tyr’s hands dropped and he stood. “Markein is coming.”

_________________________________

BUY NOW FROM:
Barnes & Noble | Smashwords | Amazon | Amazon UK

__________________________________