Immortal Need (2 page)

Destiny, as many humans hadn’t yet figured out, wasn’t hardwired. Free choice and free will had given them all they needed to change the world around them. Each decision altered the fabric of their lives like a ripple effect. Sevani had been meant for Valhalla, surrounded by beautiful Valkyries and Odin. Instead, he now resided in Folkvangr, Freya’s home, because of his one fateful decision. If he had known better, if he could just change the hands of time, he would have stayed his hand. But he could not, and now he was a warrior under Freya’s command. He would forever be cursed to do her bidding for the rest of his immortal life. One mistake, one death, and his life as he’d known it was over.

He shook his head, clearing his mind of the past. He needed to focus on the present. If he didn’t get to Tanya in time, she would die this night, and Freya would have her fun with him until his bones cracked under the pressure. That is not how he wanted to spend the next few years. So, he pushed his body faster, ignoring the seeping bullet wound and the grooves cut into his skin from ricocheting bullets. His blue-gray eyes scanned the house for Tanya’s petite form.

“I’ve got her,” Lei called.

Sevani streaked into the room. In Lei’s arms huddled the dark-haired Tanya, her face tight with pain, her lips pressed together so tightly they appeared white.

“Struck, but she’ll live. They got her in the thigh,” Lei explained hurriedly.

“Give her to me,” Sevani urged, sheathing his sword. He needed two hands to wield it and wouldn’t be able to carry Tanya out of here. He wouldn’t burden Lei with her and risk him being injured. Sevani palmed a knife. He was just as deadly accurate with it as he was with his sword. “We’ll drop her off at the police station and then get the hell home.”

Home for them was Folkvangr, a wide-open land of paradise on Earth. Freya had hidden the land in the Vanir Realm, away from prying eyes. The only beings that could cross its borders were the immortals, gods, and goddesses, and even they had to pass Alexander’s guard. Alexander could see for hundreds of miles with his cameras and hear a pin drop miles away with his sensors. He gave the Watchers time to prepare for whatever came their way. Folkvangr, which they usually called Hel—when Freya wasn’t listening, of course—produced for them everything they needed. With a mere thought they could have unlimited ammo, weapons, food, or supplies. The four had created a grand home for themselves, with all the modern, and old, conveniences available. The environment changed as the world around them changed.

Now their home had a large pool in the center covered by a glass ceiling so they could see the heavens. There were three floors, with the bottom floor being a world-class gym, the middle floor housing their kitchen, playrooms, and scouting rooms, and the upper floor their bedrooms. Their scouting rooms were as individual as the warriors. Empty of everything but a cushioned chair and a massive mirror attached to one wall, they served as the place they would see their next missions. Freya gave them a five-day warning of their charges’ possible deaths, and they used a couple of days to learn their charges’ movements, thoughts, and traits. They watched the enemies who would kill their charges, and planned.

Sevani had watched Tanya impassively. He hadn’t felt a thing when she’d cried over her husband, besides understanding. Her midnight hair curling around her shoulders, her pouty lips redder than a ruby, and eyes like chocolate, she was beautiful, but all he knew of beauty was green eyes and sable locks that felt like silk between his fingers. He hadn’t wanted a woman since Nila, and he wondered what it would be like as he watched Tanya. He wondered if the gods would ever gift him with a woman of his own, to correct the wrongs that were done. He swore that he would cherish her above all others, that he would place her before himself. He would do all the things that he hadn’t done in the minutes before Nila’s death. He would do everything that he should have done.

Then he thought Freya would never be so kind, and he would not be worthy. He was guilty of killing so many. His hands were covered in so much blood, he would never be able to wash it off. What woman would want him? What woman would tie her life to a man who would leave her every few weeks to save another woman, at risk to his life? A woman would look to him and see only death, see only obligation, and see only the coldness that he showed to anyone but his fellow warriors. His separation was as necessary to him as breathing. Valerie, Alexander, and Lei had lived with him for centuries, had dealt with his moods, his cutting tongue, his balled fists, and laughed, fought, or supported him through it all. He knew he could trust them more than anyone else in the world. They were his family, and a woman wouldn’t fit into that at all, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

But, maybe Freya is kinder than I thought she was.

“Let’s get out of here then,” Sevani answered, already heading out the door and not wanting to think any more about Freya, Folkvangr, or a woman he would never have. Lei followed quickly behind, oblivious to his musings, guarding Sevani’s back.

“Bring her back,” a voice hollered behind him, and everything in Sevani froze.

Lei, understanding, took Tanya from him once more and kept running from the house. Sevani turned slowly, death, he knew, written on his face as he grasped his knife tight in one hand and drew his sword with the other.

“Guillermo,” he whispered. For every mission he went on, there was an uncle, brother, male cousin, or father who wanted the woman he was supposed to protect dead. If the man never made himself known, he was allowed to live another day. If, however, he was idiot enough to show himself, Sevani was then just as obligated to slay him as he was to save his charge. This was Freya’s way of exacting revenge. Anyone who would dare to harm one of her warriors was to be put to death. He supposed he was just one of the unlucky ones.

“She is mine,” Guillermo sputtered, dark hair plastered to his skull from sweat, an AK-47 strapped over his shoulder and pointed at Sevani. His dark eyes were flat, emotionless as he fingered the trigger. He couldn’t have stood more than five foot seven, but he had an air of command around him that Sevani could appreciate. It probably helped that he was surrounded by ten guards.

Too bad he’s going to die.

“Not anymore,” was all Sevani said as he exploded into action. Each twirl of his body, each arc of his blades, was a deadly dance of both beauty and precision. Bullets clanked against the metal, sparking in the darkness around him as he moved. He never stopped. With single-minded intensity, he cut bodies down—an arm here, a leg there, a body cut in half. A head spun in front of him, almost in slow motion, the face frozen in a soundless scream as Sevani struck, stabbing into Guillermo’s throat, even as the man fired. Sevani’s chest was on fire—bullets penetrating skin, slicing veins and arteries, and piercing his lung, his breast plate shattering—but he pushed harder, swiping the blade to the left and severing Guillermo’s head from his shoulders. Surrounded by gore, body parts, and blood, Sevani knelt, warm liquid seeping onto his cargo pants as he fought for breath. The pain flared through his system, even as his body repaired itself, bones reknitting, veins becoming whole, and his skin stitching together. How he wished the healing didn’t hurt as much as receiving the wounds, but it did. He gasped and coughed up blood as his lungs emptied of the offending liquid before expanding with his next breath.

How he wished, again, that he hadn’t taken that life so very long ago, that he hadn’t shattered a pact with an ancient goddess who lusted after revenge as much as she lusted for gold, the same goddess who’d caused the war of the gods. How he wished his pleas had been heard. But they hadn’t, and Freya was not a forgiving goddess. Every day of his existence would be drenched in blood and death, until the end of time. That was his fate. Nothing could change that.

“Sevani.”

That voice, death and life at once. He didn’t look up, already knowing who was there. He could see her blond hair, blue eyes, white gown, and Brisingamen, her golden necklace that could shed light on even the darkness of Helheim, around her neck. She came to him whenever he completed his mission.

“You’ve done well. But your job is not yet done,” Freya said.

His head shot up, and he was momentarily blinded by her necklace. She fingered it, and the glow dimmed. His gaze met hers. She always gave them a few weeks between missions to heal and prepare. She could not hope to save all of her warriors, and some died as they were meant to and came to her side. This was the first time she had ever changed her ways in thousands of years.

“Why?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“It is not for you to ask why!” she cried, voice booming in the silence she created by freezing time while she spoke to him. “I am goddess here. You are nothing. Remember that, Watcher.”

“My apologies, Goddess, I forgot myself,” he gritted out. Humility was something he had to fight for in her presence. What he wanted instead was to cut her head from her neck. Of course, he couldn’t do that, but it was tempting.

“Better,” she said, mollified. “My warrior Ayah is in danger, and she is more important than any you’ve brought me before. You must not fail.”

“It will be as you say.”

“And, Warrior…?” Her cold eyes narrowed, and Sevani felt his heart clench.

“Yes, Goddess?”

“This woman you will not sully. She must be pure when she comes to me.”

“Goddess, I have never—”

“You are still talking,” she said.

She snapped her fingers, and his body jerked into the air. His hands flew up and slammed together as if he was bound. Freya flicked her fingers, and the fire started from deep inside. He felt like his organs were exploding, shifting, and melting until they soon leaked through his skin. He struggled for breath as his bones, starting from his feet, slowly eroded to ash. He watched, roaring his pain, as his skin melted away, his blood boiling and flowing like hot lava. This was death. This was agony. This was Freya. Again and again she mended his body only to burn it again.

“This one is mine. You had your chance. She carries Nila’s soul, but you cannot have her. She is not meant for you. This one…this one, you will protect until the day she will die. And she will, Watcher. In one week she will die, and she will be mine.”

Through the pain, Nila’s name rang out above everything else. Nila was alive, reborn, and Freya wanted her to die. She wanted him to protect her until the moment her correct death arrived. Seven days. Seven days to have his Nila and then she would die again. He roared in defiance, sure she would never be so cruel. She would never punish him like this. He would not be able to touch the woman he so loved, never be able to feel her body against his, or to hear his name screamed in passion as he rode her, see her golden flesh under his hands. Never again would he have her in his arms to hold and protect her. She was meant to die, to be stripped from him again, and he was going to have to watch, to stand by and let it happen—again! He could not. He would not.
No!
The roar shattered through him, but he had not the vocal cords to make a sound. He writhed and screamed, silently, as his body was knit back together, his chest heaving with each painful breath. He was being stripped bare and torn asunder by a vengeful goddess, one who held his fate, and the woman he loved, in her hands.

“Please,” he whispered, willing to beg, willing to do anything for a chance, just one more chance with Nila…one chance to make it all right.

Freya bent forward and cupped his face with soft hands, smiling. She brushed his hair away from his face carefully. “No. She will die. You will kill the man that is trying to kill her, and then you will take your blade, lift it high, and cleave her head from her shoulders. You, my Watcher, will be the one to give Nila back to me. The tortures you will face if you fail me will be like nothing you have ever known, and she will be by your side receiving the same. Either you kill her or I will make her eternity my playground until you do as I command. Now, go to her.”

Chapter Two

He was dead.

Ayah clenched her eyes as a heart-wrenching sob shuddered from her body. Gone, her father, Joseph, had finally taken his last breath as she held his hand, as she had done so many days before caring for him over the last five years. When her siblings and other family members had left to return to their lives, she stayed by his side. Although she was first away at college and then started working as an elementary school teacher, Ayah always came home to take care of her father. When she hadn’t been there, a hospice nurse had been.

When the doctors reported that her father suffered from a rare form of cancer, called amyloidosis and multiple myeloma, her world had crumbled. There hadn’t been much hope. He’d already entered stage four, and the doctors hadn’t understood how her father had lasted so long. Ayah knew. Her dad had always been stubborn. He never wanted to fail at anything, a trait she always admired in him. It was a trait the two shared. There had been no question of what she would do. She may have been his youngest child at only twenty-six, but she wanted to be there for him.

She hadn’t begrudged her brothers and sister time spent away from their father. She was understanding of their lives and that family responsibilities meant they couldn’t just move at a moment’s notice. Ayah was the only one without children or a spouse of her own. She’d put in her letter of resignation at her school and found employment near her father once he was stable. Caring for her father had become her life, and she never regretted a moment of it. She loved her father with everything in her and was determined to repay the man who’d always been behind her in any way she could. To be with him in those last moments had been both a blessing and a curse.

“Ayah?” Taylor, her older sister, called, stepping into their father’s room. She wore a neat black pantsuit, her black hair, brown eyes, skin like coffee and cream, and proud jaw so much like their father’s that Ayah felt new tears flow. “Come on, Stinker,” her sister crooned, coming to sit next to her and pull her into her arms.