Destined (Desolation #3)

© 2012 Ali Cross 

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

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Published by Novel Ninjutsu, P.O. Box 871, West Jordan, UT 84084

Edited by Jen Hendricks

Cover Art by Dustin Hansen

Cover Design by Dale Pease

Author’s Site:  
www.alicross.com

Other books by Ali Cross

BECOME

(book one of Desolation)

DESOLATE

(book two of Desolation)

This story has always been for you—

for the person who never thought they were good enough,

that there was no coming back from hell.

It’s never too late to choose, so no matter what happens,

don’t lose hope—you might just discover who you are destined to become.

      For at least a century I hang in the dark. My body turns to stone beneath the cold and endless expanse of space. But I can see. And my mind can think. 

I do a lot of both.

I spend the first forever screaming until my voice is raw—a totally pointless exercise considering no one can hear me. I spend the next forever trying to wrench my wrists free of the shackles that bind me to Ygdrasyll—another wasted effort. 

And then I try to convince the strange, rock-like creatures that live around me to set me free, but they only stare with dark, viscous eyes. Occasionally they bare their teeth and screech, but the sound is muted, almost absent—something for which I am glad. I don’t think I want to hear their cries.

They seem to dare each other to get close to me. To touch my fingers. My hair. I close my eyes and imagine myself somewhere else. Anywhere else.

At first, I wish for Asgard, for Michael’s embrace, for the perfect place, all sunshine and warmth—the exact opposite of my fate. Then I wish for what I had before all this began—my rooms in Father’s fortress of Hell. The constant sameness I hated with a passion would seem like heaven. Now I wish to be anything, anywhere, but here.

And yet, moment after moment, for years, centuries, eons—here is where I am. 

I imagined a shadow worn into the white stone path beneath my feet, from the constant pounding as I trudge along this same route. Every hour, for forever.

First to Heimdall. Then to Fahria. Then to Odin. 

Heimdall. Fahria. Odin.

Always it was the same.

I stopped in front of the wheelhouse and breathed deeply. My gaze traveled the height of the column beside me, upward to the lintel above my head. There is a frieze carved there—a depiction of Heimdall, arms outstretched, stars alighting on his fingertips, the nine worlds rotating around him. 

Gripping the hilt of the sword that rests at my hip, I stepped across the threshold and into the great god’s domain. In the middle of the deepest black of space, the wheelhouse shone like a beacon, the columns that mark the corners of its octagonal shape a potential doorway to the other eight worlds.

Heimdall stood across from me. Before him a portal glowed with all the colors of light—from where I stood it looked like a prism imbued with the golden glow of a sun. For Heimdall, it was a window into a world. It was knowledge.

I opened my mouth to speak, but his deep voice rumbled through the wheelhouse before I found my own voice.

“There is nothing.” I saw him in profile, saw his downcast eyes, felt his regret. But he didn’t look at me. The conversation was over. He knew I would be back and we would repeat what had become a sort of ritual for us both.

In the time immediately following Desi’s disappearance, I traveled to all the worlds—all save for Helheimer, to which I was forbidden entry. In every kingdom it was the same. Desi could not be found. I bowed my head, fighting the shame that clawed at my insides. If only . . .

As I turned on my heels to leave, my eyes rose to the lintel again. Heimdall is the greatest of us all. His power allows us to exist, allows the worlds to keep their orbit, allows Gardians to travel to Midgard.

And yet, even he could not help me.

Odin had not allowed me go to Helheimer. But now, as I marched to Valhalla, I doubted his wisdom, his warning. He foresaw that Hell would claim me, remake me in its image once more—and that I, as Gardian and Demon, both—would once again strive to bring Loki’s damnation to Midgard. But now I thought, if I could save Desi it would be worth it. She wouldn’t allow me to destroy Earth, I felt sure of it. I knew it would cause her pain—endless, torrential pain—but if she lived, if she was well and whole . . . Once she discovered the price I had paid to rescue her, she would never forgive me—never forgive herself. But did I have a choice?

Directly across from the Bridge rose the gold-and-white-stone steps of Valhalla, the warriors’ eternal rest—though no warrior actually rests there. As I approached I could hear the ring of steel on steel. A large, golden door barred the way. Figures in relief on the door’s surface shifted and changed, replaying the great warriors’ victories. Beyond the door, I heard voices rising with laughter, with friendly taunts that invited the sparring to greater intensity.

I raised my fist to knock, for none could enter without the invitation of a Valkyrie, the guardian warriors, but the door opened before my fist landed on its surface.

Fahria stood there, ever dressed for war. Her wheat-colored hair coiled at her neck, her golden winged helmet resting in the crook of her gauntleted arm. She smiled sadly, but said nothing. Her eyes said it all. 

I clenched my jaw and tightened the grip on my sword hilt.

Her eyes flicked to my weapon, then back to my face, her expression softening. “Would you like to fight?” 

Not, “There is no news.” Not, “We have discovered nothing.” 

Instead, “Come.”

For a moment I hesitated—I hadn’t yet spoken with Odin for . . . long enough that there could have been news. He might have heard something.

“Come,” Fahria insisted, stepping forward and taking my elbow in her hand. She led me into the great hall, past the groups that sparred around us and all the way to the far wall that opened into a glorious semi-circular courtyard where roses grew among the trees and sunlight filtered down in gentle fingers. Above the peak of the circular retaining wall that defined the courtyard, Desi’s spear, the Spear of Destiny, rotated within a force field of shining light. I tried not to look at it, tried not to remember Desi’s fierce beauty when she spun the weapon in her hands.