Valkyrie Slumbering
Valkyrie Slumbering
Lilly VanHorn
Copyright 2013 Lilly VanHorn.
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First eBook Edition: March 2013
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Because of the dynamic nature of the internet, any web address or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
VanHorn, Lilly
Valkyrie Slumbering/Lilly VanHorn —1st ed.
p. cm.
[1. Fantasy—Fiction 2. Erotic—Fiction 3. Iceland—Fiction 4. Norse—Fiction ]
Stock imagery from Thinkstock. Cover design by
CP Design
Table of Contents
Long blond locks flying, I spin and thrust in a breathtaking dance that gives the illusion I am one with the sword I swing. I block, parry, and finish with a high leap and complete spin in the air to land with a dramatic flourish in a deep stance. Applause breaks out among the crowd as I bow low and do my best to once again look demure and harmless. Sweat tickles fine lines down between my breasts as it drips into my low bodice.
“Thank you,” I offer up in my most gracious tone as those from my audience place coins in the small bowl at my feet.
A grin pulls at my lips as I sheathe my sword to pick up the bowl and see the glitter of not only copper, but also silver within. With a content sigh, I tuck a lock of long straight hair the color of honey behind a pointed ear. Gasps sound around me, and people begin to whisper as they move away.
“… line of Alfhiem,” I hear.
A derisive snort follows it. “Hardly, half-elf at best.”
Grinding my teeth, I block out their voices. Even a moment is too much to forget myself. I tug the hair back over my ear, concealing it. As I empty the coins into my pouch and return the bowl to my pack, I notice a man from the audience lingering. Only one. Not much of a surprise considering the mistake I just made. Although, even after revealing what I am, the type I hunt would linger about. With only one drawn in, it appears I have chosen the wrong town.
The man is nearly six feet tall with a broad, muscular frame and dark blond hair cropped unusually short. Such dark hair sets him apart from the sea of wheat colored locks that are natural to my people. There is a certain allure to that darkness. Leather armor stretches tight across his chest, marking him as a warrior. Brilliant blue bracelets of knotwork circle his arms just above his biceps. No, not bracelets, I realize upon closer inspection, but tattoos. I’ve never seen their like.
The long sword across his back speaks of his refinement. His handsome features are accented by blue eyes as bright as sapphires. They are the kind of eyes a woman longs to see hovering over her in the night. My gaze catches on the delicate point of one ear that pushes through his hair. Alfhiem blood and not afraid to show it—that’s a rare and dangerous combination.
Something stirs deep inside, a reaction to his boldness, or attraction, I’m not sure which. He’s definitely not the type I hunt, but oh how I wish I was. Coming across another half-elf is a rare thing.
His smile is infectious as he walks up to me. I find myself returning it.
“Ye’re fantastic,” he says in a deep, admiring tone. His accent is so thick it comes out sounding more like ‘year fantastic’ but the brogue has a certain appeal I can’t deny. I’ve only ever heard the like once before from a slave brought back from a raid. The voice coupled with those lovely blue eyes makes muscles low in my body tighten, reminding me of how long it’s been since I’ve been with a man.
“Thank you. And you are?” I ask as I sling my pack over my shoulder. I try to convince myself that I’m just being polite, but honestly, it’s those eyes, and the way he fills out that armor in all the right places. That he is like me doesn’t hurt either. I’ve never met anyone like me.
“Grímur, but ye can call me Grím. Pleased to meet ye, lady. . .” He lets his voice trail off.
“Kyra,” I say, giving him my loveliest smile.
“Tis rare to see such fine swordsmanship. Ye make it into a beautiful dance,” he tells me. His accent is heavy on the r’s and the way he sort of rolls them sends a flush through me. And it doesn’t escape me that he leaves out the part about it being rare to see such swordsmanship from a
woman
. I’m not sure if that charms me or repulses me. I’ll wait to decide.
Keeping this up is a bad idea, but what else am I going to do? If my display didn’t attract anyone who can lead me to my prey, then there isn’t anyone here who can. “Well that’s what swordplay is, isn’t it? A dance?” I ask.
“True. Though many people only see the violence and not the art in it. So are ye on yer way to the contest?” he asks.
“Contest?”
He makes his way to a board covered in parchments, and I follow, compelled by a force that I try to tell myself is merely boredom. The gap between his leather back piece and breeches flashes skin and shows definition in all the right places. Yeah, boredom, sure, that’s it.
“Someone with yer skill I thought surely would be on their way there,” he says and points to a poster as we reach the board.
Written in fine calligraphy, in Icelandic with runes bordering the edges of the parchment, it reads:
King Hildur seeks seven warriors to undergo a secret quest.
Riches will be bestowed upon the winners of a contest of his majesty’s design, which will consist of a riding competition, swordfight, archery and hand-to-hand combat. Anonymity will be maintained.
The date the contest is to be held is written below the statement. It’s less than seven days from today. My breath catches loudly in my throat as a hand goes involuntarily to my breast. If anonymity is encouraged then that means the king is searching for vagabonds, thieves, and the like. Every lowlife who can swing a sword with any skill will be there. Respectable Vikings will steer clear. Which means the one I’m hunting is likely to be there.
“I take it ye didn’t know about it,” Grím says with a raised eyebrow.
Excitement flashes through me. This is exactly the kind of opportunity I’ve been looking for. Surely the one I’m hunting can’t resist this. It seems too good to be true.
Beside me Grím laughs and asks, “Are ye a’right?”
“Oh, yes,” I finally say before grasping his leather tunic and pulling him down for a kiss.
Fire dances across me as our lips brush. Though I meant to keep it brief, I’m drawn in like a moth. My lips urge his apart, and I thrust my tongue into his mouth. He tastes of molasses. Sparks spread into me as his tongue dances with mine, making me want to press against him and feel how hard that body really is. But I don’t. Instead I pull back.
Before he can recover, I turn on my heal and start to walk briskly away. His boots pad softly against the cobblestones as he jogs after me. Damn, I’ve done it now.
“I take it ye’re goin’ to compete?” he asks, a bit breathless, whether from keeping up with me or from my kiss, it’s hard to tell. Truth be told,
I’m
still a bit breathless from the kiss.
“Oh, yes,” I say with a half-laugh that sounds near hysterics, even to my own ears.
Surely he thinks I’m crazy. A woman going to a sword competition. Even Viking women don’t normally do such a thing. I’ve no time to explain it to him, and I don’t care to.
“Let me buy ye somethin’ to eat then,” Grím suggests as he grasps my hand, slowing down my pace. His hand encases mine completely. My first instinct is to yank away and be free of him, but I stop at the last moment. His grip is light, and though his hand is rough, callused from wielding a sword, it is gentle. In its own way, that is just as scintillating as his probing tongue was a moment ago.
What am I thinking? I can’t get distracted like this.
I turn to him. “I have to try to buy transport or a horse. There isn’t much time.”
I dump the contents of my money pouch into my hand. It is a very meager amount. My last victim was over a week ago, and he had only a few coppers on him.
“Looks like that might not do it,” he says.
“It has to. I have to get there,” I say. My voice is soft and urgent, revealing more of my desperation to this man than I mean to.
Grím straightens and closes my fingers tight around the few precious coins I hold. “Well then, I have two horses. Ye may ride with me,” he says as he bows his head low, his long lashes sweeping dramatically.
It is just as likely that he wants someone to warm his furs at night as it is that he truly wants to assist me. And Odin help me, that thought isn’t at all unpleasant. But distractions are dangerous. Regardless, horseless and nearly copperless as I am, I am in no position to refuse him. “I couldn’t impose upon you,” I insist, not wanting to seem too easy.
“Nonsense. We half-elves should stick together,” he insists.
