The Bastard (2 page)

Gen hopped up beside him on the truck tailgate. Moonlight glinted with a copper-silver sheen off his dark red hair. The shaggy, shoulder-length cut, combined with his goatee, made the women swoon in bad-boy delight, a fact Gen never failed to exploit. His narrow blue-green eyes thinned even more as he studied the Civic.

“Who is she and do we need to kill her?”

Vike ground his teeth. “No one and no. Why aren’t you back at H2Q annoying Zale?”

“Because I’m here annoying you.”

The woman ended her call and shut the engine off. The sudden stillness pressed down on Vike and he felt the weight of Gen’s scrutiny. He nudged his jaw toward the car door opening. “She’s the head cook at Dawson’s Diner. I like her pancakes.”

“Pancakes?” Gen snickered. “You’re watching the cook because you like her
pancakes
? Is that a euphemism for tits and ass?”

His fist connected with Gen’s shoulder. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Oh God, you’ve got a fucking crush. I love it.”

“No, I don’t. She’s not my type.”

“I’ve seen the women you bang.
Breathing
is your type, and she looks like she’s moving air just fine to me.”

“She’s not the banging kind.” Vike looked away in self-disgust. Maybe he did have a crush. He just knew that her smile did something to his stomach; something warm and shivery that he’d all but forgotten existed in this fucked-up world. The cook seemed kind and sweet, teasing those around her and remembering the customers’ names so she could shout out a warm greeting when they came in. How long had it been since any woman greeted him as if he was more than a one-night stand? “She’s the marrying kind.”

All laughter bled from Gen’s face and understanding darkened his eyes. Commitment was a price none of the Forsaken could afford, no matter how healthy their bank accounts. “That shit can’t lead to anywhere but hurt. Come on, let’s Leap over to Amsterdam and score some pussy.”

Vike didn’t want pussy. He wanted… Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted. This was stupid. He didn’t even know her name, had never even spoken to her, and here he was at four-fucking-thirty in the morning watching her go into work and wishing for the impossible.

“I’m fine where I am.”

Gen shrugged but never moved. They watched the woman dig keys out of her purse as she walked across the lot, disappearing behind the building. A tingle exploded between Vike’s shoulder blades, his Forsaken Mark vibrating with the presence of evil.

Gen glared at the lot. “What is this shit?”

“Like I fucking know?”

They sprang from the tailgate, bodies thrumming. Eons of warfare coursed through Vike’s veins, surging to his muscles and heightening his senses. Gen slapped his right hand to his upper left arm. Vike did the same to his own. His weapons tattoo, the crossed axe and sword, hummed beneath his palm for a split second, his shirtsleeve no barrier to the magic. The axe handle became solid. The familiar grip and heft felt right in his hand, as if the axe had been born there.

Legend said it had. Close, but not quite.

With his curved Mongolian sword out, Gen disappeared as he Leaped. Vike focused, honing in on the evil. He Leaped, dematerializing through air to the parking lot below. A set of keys hung in the diner’s back door, light visible from a small crack around the frame. Adrenalin pumped through Vike’s blood. Darkness hugged most of the lot as he frantically searched.
Where is she?

There. At the edge of the lot, the woman fought off two attackers, kicking and biting. Her flowered handbag spilled junk on the asphalt. Vike’s hands tightened around his axe handle. These men were interested in something far more valuable than her purse. They weren’t men either, but Soul-Leeches.

She got in a good shot, an elbow to the face that sent one man staggering backward. She ran for the door and almost made it. A third man Leaped in and snagged her hair, jerking her to the ground. Ignoring her screaming and kicking, he dragged her into the shadow. The other two followed.

Vike whistled and the two men spun around. The muscular Hispanic man was maybe twenty-five physical years old but he grinned with malice too pure to be human. His forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. The second Soul-Leech simply whipped a small handgun from his waist. A flash of orange and a sharp crack split the night. Gen flew backward into a window, shattering the glass as an automatic alarm rang out.

The Hispanic opened fire, the bullets popping like firecrackers. Vike dove away cursing.
Fucking newbies
. Bullets couldn’t kill anyone here — except the woman — but they sure as hell made a lot of noise. The building alarm hadn’t helped any, nor had the woman screaming. Why didn’t they just take out an ad on Craigslist? He started a mental countdown, giving it three minutes until the first cop showed up.

Gen climbed from the broken window frame. Blood formed a circle on his shoulder but he let out a battle cry and charged. Vike jumped to his feet, spun the axe in his palms and headed toward the woman.

She sat on her knees, slack-jawed and still. Buttons littered the ground where the Leech had torn her shirt open. Blood dripped from her nose, trickling onto the swell of her breasts, staining her white bra. Her vacant gaze centered on Vike, but he doubted she could see him. A serpentine tongue brushed along her cheek, licking down her jaw to her neck. The Leech plastered his hand to her chest, his mesmerizing hiss carrying across the damp air, sucking her soul.

Air sang as Vike swung his heavy blade. The man howled, his back bowing and muscles splitting apart, but the malevolent connection didn’t break.

Vike didn’t dare swing again with the woman so close. Instead he used the axe handle to crack the back of the Leech’s skull. It knocked the hand from her chest and sent him falling into the woman. A sickening thud reverberated as her head struck the concrete wall.

The now-pissed off man charged him, a blue-black snake’s tongue darting out in anticipation. As furious as Vike was, it wasn’t even a challenge. His bone-handle dagger formed in his hand as he cupped his bicep. With a quick planting of the knife into the center of the Leech’s chest, the battle ended.

Vike’s hair fluttered in the sudden sucking wind then blew back in a flash of smoke as the Leech vanished. Black soul-dust rained onto the asphalt. A loud scuffle with curses ended with similar flashes behind him.

“To me,” Vike said, his chest heaving. Both weapons vanished, repainting themselves on his arm. He dug a leather pouch from his pocket, knelt and swept the few handfuls of soul-dust into it. The wail of a siren echoed in the distance and grew steadily louder.

“Here comes the cavalry. Better haul ass, Gen.”

“Vike.” Blood trickled from Gen’s mouth and dripped from the jagged piece of metal protruding from his chest. He coughed. “Got a splinter.”

Vike ran to Gen’s side, catching him before he face-planted the blacktop. The metal had pierced the Forsaken Mark on his back with a clean thrust. The improbability squeezed Vike’s belly. What were the odds? Nothing could stop a Forsaken except for decapitation or getting skewered through the palm-sized burn between their shoulder blades.

Gen grabbed Vike’s collar, his fist tightening not in pain, but in panic. “My box.”

His plea sent goose flesh along Vike’s skin. No matter how fearless you were, the end was always frightening. “I promise.”

Something bitter clawed at his chest. Selfishness, he guessed. They’d been Awoken at the same time, learned this new life together. Brother wasn’t a strong enough word for their bond.

“Rest. You deserve it.” Vike locked his jaw and stared into frantic eyes, refusing to let his friend suffer alone. “I’ll see you in Odin’s Hall.”

A snort blew a fine mist of red from Gen’s mouth. “No, Viking, I’ll see
you
in Tengri’s Meadow.”

“Fine. Save me a virgin or two, will you?”

Vike kept the link until the light in his eyes faded and Gen disintegrated into pale gray soul-dust. A burn scalded between his shoulder blades, his Forsaken Mark weeping when his eyes didn’t have time. He fished another pouch from his pocket, reverently scooping the powdery silt into it. “Sleep well, warrior.”

The sirens grew louder and a pale red hue flashed at the end of the street. He hurriedly packaged the two Leeches Gen had popped into more small bags. The flash of white skin turned his head toward the woman. Huddled on the ground, she gaped at him, blood streaming down her face. The sourness of death coated his tongue.

Damn, he hated killing women. But it wasn’t right to leave her an empty shell, condemning her to a non-existent life until her body gave out. It could be decades with modern medical intervention. That, to Vike, would be hell on Earth. Killing her was a favor.

He pocketed the pouches and strode toward her, reaching for his knife. He’d slit her throat. It was the fastest route, and in her present state she’d feel nothing. He, however, had a strange hurt inside. It took four steps before he recognized it as regret. How many centuries had it been since he felt that particular emotion? That he couldn’t recall left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Tiny gravel bit into his knee when he knelt before her. Her bloodless lips were parted and her unfocused eyes didn’t move, not even when his blade winked in the low light. Hair escaped her ponytail and hung over her bleeding face. This angle sucked. Using the dagger hilt, he tipped her head to the side exposing her jugular.

Her gaze sharpened and focused on his face. “I know you. Chocolate chip pancakes, extra whipped cream.”

The knife froze less than a quarter inch from her skin. She saw and remembered. The Leech hadn’t gotten a big enough bite out of her soul to leave her a vegetable. Relief was sweet on his tongue.

“To me,” he breathed, never breaking eye contact. The dagger at her throat vanished.

“Th-the guy you were with, where did he go? He was here. I saw him.”

She saw Gen? Shit
. She not only remembered, she was forming semi-coherent sentences. Ones that required an answer. “You saw a fist fight, that’s all. Just me and the assholes who tried to take your purse.”

“What happened to your axe?”

Double shit
.

“Look.” He peeled off his flannel and tugged up his tee shirt sleeve, showing her a large tattoo of an axe crossed with a sword, a shorter dagger between them. “That’s what you saw. You hit your head. You’re confused.”

Her hand trembled as she touched her wound. Her fingers came away bloody.

“Cover up.” He draped his shirt around her shoulders, shielding her chest. The chivalry was false. It gave him an excuse to touch her skin. But the touch nearly stalled his heart.

A buried hum thrummed his blood as her soul sang to his.

Far under his ribs, in that dark unfathomable region of his deepest self, his blood began to sing in answer. Electric sizzles danced along his skin. He wanted to whisk her away from all danger, cocoon her in safety. All those Awoken could sense these precious souls, but he’d never felt a soul-song as strong as hers, as pure and light. Even among the rare, she was unique.

Great Freyja’s tits, she’s Scion
.

Responsibility weighted his shoulders. No wonder she survived. A lowly Soul-Leech couldn’t take the soul of someone with the blood of angels in their veins. It took a full-blooded Minion to do that, a Scion that had been turned by evil and now served the darkest forces.

It was his duty as one of the Awoken to shield her, or kill her to keep her soul from falling into the wrong hands. A whisper echoed through his brain that it would be better if he did. She’d been Tasted. She might as well have a neon sign on her ass announcing free lunch to every Soul-Leech and Minion in the Western Hemisphere.

Forty days, forty little days, was all she needed. If he could keep her safe that long, she’d never be at risk again. The Immunity that would build in her blood was like a natural vaccine that would render her Tasted soul impervious to change.

“Thank you.”

Her soft whisper carried heavy gratitude. Slender fingers reached toward him and brushed his cheek. Tenderness was foreign, something he’d had long ago and hadn’t touched since. For a long breath, he didn’t move, just soaked in that gentle, reverent contact.

A more powerful urge rose, not to just protect her, but to stand guard while she slept, sweep the hair from her eyes, to lay riches at her feet. He wanted her to keep looking at him just like this, as if he were a god and all-powerful. He’d settle for hearing his name on her lips.

He pressed her hand tighter to his face and heat brewed in a place he hadn’t known was cold. Unfamiliar words filled his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

The sirens roared and flashing lights bathed across him. “Hands where we can see them!”

Fuck, outta time
. He couldn’t Leap out in front of witnesses. Vike laced his fingers behind his head. It was going to be a long-assed night.

Chapter Two

The cops questioned him for a long time, cuffing him and making him repeat the falsified story four times. It took the woman thanking him as they loaded her into the ambulance to get the police to remove the cuffs and really start listening. He handed over a counterfeit business card with his made-up name and the phony security company logo bearing a black palm print.

Frankly, he’d long ago given up caring what anyone called him. During his lifetime, he’d been called everything from “High King” to “you damned Viking bastard.” It depended on which end of his weapon the caller was as to what title he heard spoken behind his back or as he looked them in the eye to remove their head. A smirk itched along his mouth but he licked it away.
Bastard
was a title with which he was long familiar.

To the world today, he was Erik Ulfhedinn, private consultant for Black Handle Security. When his bogus driver’s license cleared the police checks, they stopped treating him like a criminal. Then it was paperwork and bullshit and pretending he wasn’t aching for his best friend while they crossed their Ts and dotted their Is.