Authors: T. G. Ayer
And I wouldn't have had it any other way.
***
Silence settled into the kitchen, and only the soft susurration of our breathing and the chugs and clanks of the ancient refrigerator dared to disturb it. Aidan closed what little distance remained between our bodies and placed a hand on either side of me, closing me in but not touching me. Somehow, I don't recall how, air evaporated from my lungs, and we were less than a hair's breadth apart. I wanted more and feared more and desperately ached to get away.
My eyes shifted from his mesmerizing gaze, heat filling my face. I tried to leave the haven of his arms. But he wouldn't allow me to escape. My move to leave bared my neck and he took the opportunity to place his lips at the base of my throat just above the collarbone.
Was it even possible to sigh and moan at the same time? Sure it was; I'd just done that! He ran his warm, soft lips up to my chin and further up to meet my mouth in a heated, heady frenzy. My fingers entwined within his hair, pulling him closer just as his arms encircled me.
This was crazy.
And ridiculous.
And wonderful all at the same time.
Even the knowledge that the guy had a date the next night could not dampen my hunger for more of him.
A low buzzing disturbed us, pulling at the threads of craziness, tugging us back into the real world where death and cheerleaders reigned. Aidan tugged his phone out of his pocket and scanned the message. His jaw hardened and he switched the screen off and tucked it back.
"I've got to run." He planted a quick kiss on my temple and walked to the door. "Oh, and eat something will you? I haven't seen you take a bite all week. It's possible to die without food, you know."
As he left I didn't return his parting grin. I'd seen the message before he so quickly thrust his phone back in his pocket, and I bloody well knew the sender: Cherise. I was numb, head to toe and heart in the middle. The heat in my body gave way to icy needles, which pierced my muscles one stab at a time. In my mind's eye, the backlit text message gleamed:
I need to see you now. It's urgent. I'll be waiting
.
This time the heat filling my head remained as far from romantic as icebergs were from pots of jasmine tea. My chest simmered, a fusion of hurt and anger and self-disgust. How could I have possibly assumed Aidan was interested in me? The freak of North Wood High. No doubt he'd been filled in on all the gory details. We'd hardly spent much time together this week anyway. Besides, one little text from Cherise and he took off running. Straight into her willing, waiting arms.
Aidan was a player, like most boys.
My fingers gripped the sink edge. I tried to shut out the grumble of his engine as it disappeared down the street.
Stupid.
How could I have been so stupid? Did I lean on him too much because I still hurt from losing Joshua? Or because my heart had twisted itself up in a stupid knot just for him? He may have been a foster kid but he certainly was no different from the rest of the guys in Craven.
I picked up the discarded can of soda, staying my need to fling it across the room. Sure, it would make me feel better, but it would wake Ms. Custer. And the last thing I needed now was company. My heart was breaking and thankfully nobody could hear it crack into a million pathetic pieces.
Moving automatically, I washed the mug he'd left in the sink and placed it on the rack to dry. Switching the light off, I left the kitchen and walked through the dining room to the hall. My fingers reached for the switch to flick the light off when Aidan's pile of books caught my eye.
Stacked neatly at the end of the table, they were old and thick and serious-looking. I inched forward. Breaching his precious privacy was the least of my worries. My heart chilled each time a picture of Cherise and Aidan flashed into my head. She always got what she wanted anyway. How could I change that?
I peered over the stack of books. All the spines followed a common theme. Norse Mythology. Norse Archeology. Thunderbolt of Thor. The Myth of the Valkyrie.
One thick volume lay open, dotted with little Post-it notes, heavily underlined and highlighted. An unusual script leapt off the pages. Incredible. And illegible. Unlike anything I'd ever laid eyes on and yet . . . an air of the familiar permeated the letters on the aged paper. I couldn't read the ancient scribble. It was as familiar to me as a bunch of Egyptian hieroglyphs, but a sense of déjà vu lingered.
I flicked the page, mesmerized by the script, fascinated by the subject. No discovery of the ancient writings of the Norse had captured the imagination of the world yet. Not to my knowledge. But then we learned only the basics of their mythology in school.
Caught within a web of curiosity and fascination I sank into the chair and turned the pages, finding more intricate ancient writings, while in the margins hastily handwritten notes were clear, legible and recent.
I gasped in silence. Aidan was in the midst of translating the writing. Granted, it could have been the work of another brilliant researcher, but he'd just so recently been bent over these very books night after night. Homework perhaps? I shook my head. Nope, this was clearly more than just a class assignment. Must be for that job he'd mentioned. A writing pad sat beside the thick book, random scribblings filling every available space. This definitely counted as serious enough to keep him home the first Friday night of his stay in Craven.
I gritted my teeth. Sure, his commitment was obvious, but dedication to one's work did not guarantee spotless morals and integrity. I studied the letters, more to get my mind off Aidan, and as soon as I began, I forgot him, entranced by the strange letters.
The translations he'd made were easy to follow and soon I strung a few words into sentences. They were just a jumble, requiring further study to guarantee the closest possible translation, but my skin tingled, as if I could sense the real meaning thrumming between the lines, just waiting for me. As if I stood at a sea shore with my toes dipping into the warm waves as they flowed up the wet sand.
A car door slammed somewhere down the street and a bucket of cold reality washed over me. Aidan could return at any moment. The grumbling bike would announce him, but I could be caught. Such was the fortune of Bryn Halbrook.
Still, I turned another page and delved deeper into the translations, holding my breath as page after beautiful page told some misty story of a time long past. Excitement and nerves bubbled within me for Aidan. How amazing would it be to have this accolade?
Another page turned and a painting sprang at me: a Valkyrie, elegant in an ankle-length white dress, draped with chainmail, a deep red cloak, a bronze helmet. At the top right corner, a small etching revealed a much more basic drawing of this creature of myth.
A Valkyrie. The beautiful maiden who rides to Midgard to collect the bodies of Warriors fit to serve in Valhalla, brave and courageous Warriors who would fight for Odin in the Great War of Ragnarok.
The artist had retained only a small part of the Valkyrie's personality though, making more of her voluptuous body than her classical features. A few more pages showed a similar theme. Ancient drawings on which the old painters had modeled their renditions. Painters who'd lived and died at least five hundred years ago.
The next page sent me into shock.
I gasped, all the breath leaving my lungs in one incredible, horrified whoosh. The picture, painted in the style of Da Vinci, all soft hues and natural touches, held my gaze.
The woman stood, spine erect, chin up, a sword extending from her hand as if it were a part of her own body. Flanked by a horse whose white pelt glowed pearlescent. Behind her, a pair of beautiful red-bronze wings rose majestically above her shoulders. The curve of the wings provided a natural frame for a face that stilled the blood in my veins.
Post-its in various colors tagged the yellowed paper; hundreds of notes framed the margins and a name written in red and circled so deeply a small rip ran among the repeated lines of ink.
Brunhilde.
And even if it were not for the coincidence of the name, my ears would have still thrummed with the thunderous beat of my heart as I stared at the painting.
If I didn't know any better I would have sworn it was me.
Aidan didn't come back until the early hours of the morning. So I indulged my curiosity. I snuck back down again to get a second look, wishing I could make a copy of the picture. The best I could do was take a picture with my phone and scurry back to bed in relief.
I fell asleep looking at the screen of my phone and wondering at the mystery of it all.
On my way out of the room the next morning, my reflection stopped me in mid-stride. I leaned close, studying the contours of my face in the mirror. I turned on all the lights to be sure. Traced the lines of my nose and chin. The resemblance was eerie and scary.
I tried not to focus on the face of the Valkyrie, but that meant my mind circled on my Aidan problem.
For days I kept my silence, showing up late for breakfast each morning and sneaking away to my room whenever possible. On one such sneaking, Aidan's and Ms. Custer 's evening conversation filtered through the closed kitchen door and stopped me in my tracks. I could hear almost every word.
"How was your day, dear," my foster mom asked him. Or had she said "date"?
Aidan mumbled something and I strained my ears. ". . . too busy," he said.
My heart lurched. Aidan, to my amazement, hadn't gone out with Cherise! But I didn't dare hope. Who knew what other plans the happy couple had already made? There were many more Saturday nights to come and if I knew Cherise at all, I knew she never gave up when she wanted a guy.
Aidan spent the evenings and nights poring over his books. And scowling at me when I stalked past him, a cool and indifferent smile pasted on my face.
***
Sunday morning hovered like a calming mist over Craven. The house creaked and groaned as it warmed in the lukewarm fall sunshine. Ms. Custer had left early for church and the kids were enjoying a lazy morning.
Our foster mom was a deeply religious woman, and often I'd sit on the porch with a book open on my lap, listening to her glorious rich voice render divine church songs. Her voice and her songs had soul.
But with Aidan and my lack of appetite occupying my mind, not even the Divine melody could help ease my worries.
My room offered much needed comfort, as far away from Aidan as possible.
***
After a late breakfast of pancakes, Brody and Simon begged me to take them to the playground, and I relented. The desire for fresh air overpowered avoidance of a certain biker.
The wooden seat of the swing moved back and forth in the filtered sunshine. The boys leaped and hurled themselves from bars manufactured especially for the two human monkeys, giggling with such abandon. A smiled curved at my lips, where in the last week no smile had dared to dwell.
A hollow ache bounced at my temple, a side effect of my turmoil. The image of the Valkyrie twisted and turned over and over in my mind. Who was the woman in the painting? Was it just a coincidence?
The name. The face.
As far as I knew, my parents had no connection with archeology. But the Valkyrie's name was Brunhilde. The root of my birth name of Brynhildr. The painting itself dared me to deny what my eyes knew.
I shivered in icy trepidation.
It didn't help when a large shape moved into my sunlight.
I stiffened and looked away from the two brats to Aidan, who stood staring at the boys as they giggled and squabbled. He turned, his smile congenial, almost conversational, but I rose. My knees wobbled as I tried to dampen the tiny spurt of joy, which flared on seeing his face this morning. Damn my traitorous emotions.
"Since you’re here I can probably head back," I said. "Bring the boys with you." I stepped away.
"When was the last time you ate?" Aidan's words were quiet and serious and I stopped. A cold breeze sent frigid fingers down my collar and I pulled my jacket close. Close against the wind and his scrutiny.
"Why is that any of your business?" I stiffened, ready to flee to the safety of my room if he so much as stepped in my direction.
The smile on his face froze and fell away at my cool response. I should have felt guilty but the words of the text message scrolled across my eyes like a neon sign. He'd left me in the lurch in mid-conversation. No explanation. And worse were those guilty glances I'd caught ever since that night. Didn't take a rocket scientist to tell he was guilty. He had no idea I'd read the text message from Cherise. I had no intention of telling him. Why give him the satisfaction of knowing I was burning with embarrassment and jealousy? I'd played the fool and I refused to audition for the part again. Ever.
A boisterous shout from the boys on the monkey bars gave me an excuse to turn away from him. Not that I needed one. When I glanced back, he shrugged, still staring at my face. "You're not anorexic are you?" He shook his head and answered his own question. "No, no signs of weight loss or dehydration. You don't look like you're starving so where are you getting your nutrition from?"