Authors: Kristi Jones
"I'll
mark him.
When the time comes."
"Hm.
Perhaps I'll wait with you."
I shrugged,
feigning indifference.
"Nothing else going on in the war
today?"
"Funny,"
It said, jaws clenching. Its bleached blue eyes burned with something beyond
anger.
Beyond hatred.
I never had gotten used to it
—
the look in Death's eyes. No matter what form
It
took. It was other-worldly.
Reptilian.
Gunfire
rattled nearby, a threatening storm.
"Snipers,"
Death said, lifting
Its
head and sniffing the air. Moments
after the word left
Its
mouth, bullets hit the sandy
road at Its feet with muted thunder.
Death took
one in the chest.
It sank to
Its
knees. "Dammit."
"Not
so smart taking the form of the enemy," I said, unable to keep the triumph
out of my voice. It would take time for Death to find a new form, and
It
was powerless between vessels.
"I
don't choose sides, sister," Death said, the fire in
Its
eyes smoldering to a slow burn, "And neither should you."
Chapter Two
I looked
down at the soldier lying unconscious in my arms. I never should have
challenged Death.
I wrapped
my arms tightly around the man. He weighed almost nothing, and yet I felt the
outline of his muscled back against my forearms. I breathed in the scent of
him. He smelled of aftershave and unsoiled earth, gunpowder and sweet sweat.
The street
was now deserted, the American soldiers having moved off to hunt down the
snipers.
Maybe.
I had to
move quickly. The American soldiers might return, or a sniper might succeed
with the living where he or she had failed with Death.
Using my
wings in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, was out of the question.
I didn't want to be sighted.
After
surveying the empty street one last time, I used my left arm to lift my hero,
partially unfurling my left wing to act as a sort of shelf upon which he could
rest. I did my best to look like a struggling mortal helping a wounded comrade and
moved as quickly as possible back to the corner of shade under the abandoned
apartment building. He emitted a muffled groan, but he was too weak to
struggle. I left his weapon behind.
I tried to
think.
There was
no way for me to know for sure, but I feared that Death had his scent now. I
could take him back to Kandahar Airbase where the rest of the
ISAF
were encamped and leave him there. But Death was a
tracker. It could easily engineer a situation to result in death. If I wanted
him to live, I knew I couldn't take him back yet. Not without protection.
I was mesmerized
by his face
—
serene, almost beatific in the dying light. His strong chin
marked with a deep crevice, his skin browned by the sun but still supple. He
was a study in contrasts, something I could appreciate.
I myself am
a creature divided.
Doomed to stroll for eternity between
death and everlasting life.
Not mortal and yet not quite a goddess
either.
An under-goddess of the lowest order.
It is a
lonely life.
A life where gods and men hold all the power.
My
only real power lies in the gift of
choosing. A Valkyrie
’
s job is to choose a hero from among the gods' mortal
playthings. When I am ready, I will be forced to choose a mate from among the
heroes I
’
ve claimed. The gods will give us time to reproduce, and if
I am lucky, I will give birth to a girl child. My mate and I will have
twenty-one years on earth to raise her before she is consigned to her first
duty as a Valkyrie, the Death Duty, where she will walk with the dead for a
decade. After this, my mate will return to Valhalla, and I will return to work
on the battlefield, dreading the day when I must repeat the process all over
again.
The setting
sun took its warmth below the horizon, and the desert air began to cool. Long
black shadows threw rectangular shapes onto the pale heat-soaked earth. My hero
moaned. He would recover from the spell soon. I had to act fast.
Clutching
the soldier in my arms, I looked to the sky and unfurled my wings. Bulletproof,
of course. I am a creature built for the battlefield after all.
I gathered
my catch in my arms and took to the air, my hero held close against my
impenetrable body.
I had no
plan. I didn't know what I intended to do with him. All I knew was that I
wasn't ready to let him go.
****
We flew
west, away from the city of
Laskar
Gah
. I took him deep into the hard-packed arid Afghani
desert and found a rock outcropping encircling an area of sandy soil. It was a
good place to hide while I decided what to do next.
I laid the
mortal down and watched him sleep. His eyelids fluttered. His hands clenched
and released. He would regain consciousness soon. The spring evening was still
warm, and though we wouldn't need heat to get through the night, we would need
light, so I built a small fire.
Leaning
against the rocks, I watched him. I watched his eyelids dance.
Suddenly he
bolted upright, eyes wide, legs flailing. He looked down at his empty hands and
struggled to his knees.
"Where
am I?"
"We're
in the desert outside of Kandahar," I said, still leaning against the
rocks, wings tucked securely out of sight.
He blinked,
turned his head and scanned the area, as any trained soldier would do,
evaluating the situation, taking stock of the terrain and any available
weapons. He was probably also looking for an escape route.
"There's
nobody here but me," I said, hoping I sounded reassuring.
His eyes
moved to my uniform. Had he forgotten our encounter? It happened often enough. Some
mortals just can't accept what they see when confronted with the unexplainable.
They block it out. It always amazes me, this ability to pick and choose what to
believe, to mold reality to your own liking. We Valkyries have no such luxury.
"Listen,
I know you're scared..."
"I'm
not scared," he said, pulling himself to his feet. He was still weak from
the spell and shuffled his feet, throwing out his arms to steady himself. "I
might be a little freaked, but I'm not scared."
I smiled. I
couldn't help myself. He was so brave. Not because he wasn't afraid. I could
hear the quiver in his voice, smell the adrenaline in his blood, but he would
not let himself be dominated by the fear he felt. It was a unique quality,
whatever motion pictures might portray, and maddeningly attractive.
His green
eyes, now melted to a sparking topaz, drifted away from me, his eyebrows drawn
together.
I waited.
He
swallowed, and his body twitched. He swiped at his forehead and pulled his hand
away as if expecting to see blood. Again, it wasn't hard for me to read him. He
was afraid. He wanted to bolt, but held himself in check. I could see the
memory coming back to him.
"What
are you?"
"What
do you remember?" It was a dangerous question, but with Death out there
somewhere, waiting, I had to know.
"The
girl."
He rubbed his forehead again,
pressing his eyes with the heel of his hand. It was a quick movement, over in a
flash. He knew not to let an enemy out of his sight or to show fear. I should
have expected it, but the realization that he saw me as an enemy sank a stone
to the bottom of my heart.
"You
came between us," he said, his eyes traveling the length of my body. "She
shot you."
For the
first time in a long time, I felt self-conscious. Valkyries are, as a rule,
beautiful to mortal men. My skin is the color of liquid marble. My long black
hair, though held back in a knot at the nape of my neck, is thick and glossy. I
have lavender eyes, the color of a bruised sunset, and high cheekbones that
give me a sculpted, ancient beauty. Of course, we were made to be a vision of
loveliness, an oasis of beauty in a desert of destruction and death. I have no
vanity about my looks. They are a part of my job, a tool of my trade. But with
this soldier's eyes on me, I felt awkward for the first time. I felt like a new
Valkyrie taking her first bullet
—
embarrassed
and yet somehow triumphant.
"You're
not hurt," he said, confusion clouding his handsome features.
"No."
I did not know I was going to tell him the truth. I'd never done it before. I
always went with my standard story
—
you
hit your head, you don't remember. We were ambushed but the tanks, the machine
guns,
the Air Force rolled in and rescued us.
Not that I
had ever rescued a soldier before, but the battlefield is chaotic, and I've
taken my share of shrapnel and slugs. So I make excuses for the quickly healed
wounds and miraculous escapes.
Either
that,
or I tell them about Valhalla and mark them.
But this
man wasn't ready for Valhalla. He wasn't dead yet, for one thing.
I sucked in
a breath, tasting, smelling for any sign of Death, but the only scent I caught
was the ash from the fire, the sand, and the man crouching opposite me with
wary, fear-filled eyes.
"You
took a hit from an AK-47 at point blank range. You should be dead." He
stumbled backward. "Why aren't you dead?"
I stood up
slowly and put out a hand, hoping to stall his retreat. "This will be
difficult for you to believe, but I am not like you."
"Yeah,"
he said, giving a jittery laugh. "I already got that."
There was
no easy way to tell him, so I blurted it out. "I am a Valkyrie."
"A
what?"
Confusion crinkled his forehead. He
shuffled left. I moved right. We were dancing around the fire. He moved with
bent knees, arms wide, as if trying to corral a tiger. I kept my hands at my
sides, my head high.
"A
Valkyrie.
I am a servant of Odin."
"Who's
that?"
"Odin
is a powerful god. He has, I admit, fallen into obscurity in these modern times,
but he still reigns over a substantial number of immortals."
"Immortals?
You're telling me that you're immortal."
I clasped
my hands, drew myself up to my full, and rather intimidating, height and caught
his gaze. "You said it yourself. How many soldiers have you seen survive a
hit from an AK-47 at close range?"
I let the
question hang between us in the sand-saturated air.
The man
dropped his hands, his shoulders sagging. "Head injury," he muttered
to himself.
"Has to be."
He reached up, running
his fingers through his cropped hair, searching for a wound.
"You
are not injured."
He looked
so confused, so frightened. I stepped forward, unable to resist the urge to
envelope him in my arms, to try to allay his fears.
His head
snapped up, his eyes suddenly alert, guarded.
“
I
can explain.
”
“
No,
”
he said, then turned and ran, sending up clouds of sand
with each step.
I should
have expected it.
It was time
to show him who I was, to show him there was no escape. I took one running
leap. It was only a small show of power. I aimed my landing perfectly, coming
to rest not more than two feet in front of him, blocking his escape.
He locked
his legs and fell forward to keep from running into me full force.
"I'm
sorry," I said, speaking in sepulchral tones. "I don't want to
frighten you. But you must not leave. It isn't safe."
He shook
his head, but he met my gaze. "Are you real? I mean, am I losing my
mind?"
I moved
toward him, one careful step at a time.
His body
went rigid, but he held his ground. I reached up and touched his cheek. He
flinched against my caress, then stilled. His skin was hot to the touch and
oh-so-very-soft. He had smooth skin peppered with grains of sand, and the feel
of him, the vulnerable strength of his soft, mortal flesh, the tense muscles,
the
ephemeral physicality of him stilled my beating heart.
He wet his lips, full parted lips that called to something deep inside my
ancient soul, and for the first time in my long, long life, I wished I was a
simple mortal. I wished that I could press my lips against his, taste his
breath and take it into mine. I wished, against all reason, that I was not a
Valkyrie.
"What
is your name?"