That part of her life was ancient history. She’d managed to survive, and leaving well enough alone had served her well for a long time. Yet the fleeting shadow she’d glimpsed around the woman and the man’s rush out the door had triggered a protective instinct in Caroline which both frightened and reassured her.
She didn’t want to care about people any more. She’d cared too much before, and nearly died. But she didn’t want to end up like Creed, either, burying her emotions so deeply she became nothing more than a flesh-and-blood machine.
That assignment in Haiti had changed them both. Sometimes, when the night was long and memories refused to be banished, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if Creed had let her die.
No! They’d done what they’d done, and no amount of thinking could change it. She owed it to him, to herself, to make the best she could of the life she had now. Sighing, she stroked Beggar’s head and headed for the kitchen to fill the cat’s bowl.
* * * *
The woods were full of trees; those trees were full of birds. Yet the raven nestled alone in the vee of a hickory branch, given a wide berth by the others. Head tucked beneath his wing, inside the shape Odin gave him for this world, Rhori rested.
Before he could attempt human form again, he needed to rebuild the energy he’d spent trying to enter the building where the Valkyrie slept. Achieving a corporal state in this world was difficult; maintaining it was nearly impossible. Yet his connection to the Valkyrie in spirit form had caused only confusion and chaos and drained him further.
The warrior who protected Odin’s chosen was strong, both in his body and his soul. Rhori hadn’t been prepared. He wouldn’t underestimate his enemy again. As soon as he recovered, he would find the Valkyrie and her protector. He would study his enemy, and when they met in battle again, the warrior would die and the Valkyrie would be Odin’s. The doors of Valhalla would finally open for Rhori.
His glory would be greater than any other of the fallen warriors. He would find a way to keep the portal open so that Odin could conquer this world and these people. Rhori would sit beside him, sharing the glory as the others paid tribute.
Calming now as the woods quieted, he let go of his thoughts, the fading sun casting a golden gleam across the ebony feathers.
* * * *
Mick hit the brakes and slid into the parking lot of a rough-looking bar. He needed a shot of something strong. He needed to think. He needed to figure out if he was going to die before morning.
Dying young wasn’t part of his life plan. His goal was to get as rich as he could, as soon as he could, and crawl out of the underbelly of the world where the agency sent him. Once upon a time, he’d clung to the agency line and believed his work made a difference. Putting his ass on the line night after night let the ignorant sleep soundly in their beds, confident that imps and hellcats were fiction from warped creative geniuses.
Mick slammed the truck door shut and hit the lock button as he headed for the wooden door with a sign proclaiming firearms, knives or explosives were prohibited. He’d left his gun in the truck, but he carried a silver-bladed knife in his boot in case a badass vampire was checking out the buffet of humans inside. Tucked in his jeans pocket were two small tubes of blessed holy oil, personal protection if something from the dark side came slumming.
Walking to the only open bar stool, he scanned the room with narrowed eyes, taking in the various tattoos and piercings. Everyone seemed human.
When the mustachioed bartender walked up, he ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels and a tumbler. If it took a river of whiskey to wash away the taste of failure and humiliation, so be it. Mick filled the tumbler half full, put the glass to his lips and poured the amber liquid down his throat. He shivered as the bitter fluid hit his empty stomach. He was going to get drunk fast
She didn’t want to care about people any more. She’d cared too much before, and nearly died. But she didn’t want to end up like Creed, either, burying her emotions so deeply she became nothing more than a flesh-and-blood machine.
That assignment in Haiti had changed them both. Sometimes, when the night was long and memories refused to be banished, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if Creed had let her die.
No! They’d done what they’d done, and no amount of thinking could change it. She owed it to him, to herself, to make the best she could of the life she had now. Sighing, she stroked Beggar’s head and headed for the kitchen to fill the cat’s bowl.
* * * *
The woods were full of trees; those trees were full of birds. Yet the raven nestled alone in the vee of a hickory branch, given a wide berth by the others. Head tucked beneath his wing, inside the shape Odin gave him for this world, Rhori rested.
Before he could attempt human form again, he needed to rebuild the energy he’d spent trying to enter the building where the Valkyrie slept. Achieving a corporal state in this world was difficult; maintaining it was nearly impossible. Yet his connection to the Valkyrie in spirit form had caused only confusion and chaos and drained him further.
The warrior who protected Odin’s chosen was strong, both in his body and his soul. Rhori hadn’t been prepared. He wouldn’t underestimate his enemy again. As soon as he recovered, he would find the Valkyrie and her protector. He would study his enemy, and when they met in battle again, the warrior would die and the Valkyrie would be Odin’s. The doors of Valhalla would finally open for Rhori.
His glory would be greater than any other of the fallen warriors. He would find a way to keep the portal open so that Odin could conquer this world and these people. Rhori would sit beside him, sharing the glory as the others paid tribute.
Calming now as the woods quieted, he let go of his thoughts, the fading sun casting a golden gleam across the ebony feathers.
* * * *
Mick hit the brakes and slid into the parking lot of a rough-looking bar. He needed a shot of something strong. He needed to think. He needed to figure out if he was going to die before morning.
Dying young wasn’t part of his life plan. His goal was to get as rich as he could, as soon as he could, and crawl out of the underbelly of the world where the agency sent him. Once upon a time, he’d clung to the agency line and believed his work made a difference. Putting his ass on the line night after night let the ignorant sleep soundly in their beds, confident that imps and hellcats were fiction from warped creative geniuses.
Mick slammed the truck door shut and hit the lock button as he headed for the wooden door with a sign proclaiming firearms, knives or explosives were prohibited. He’d left his gun in the truck, but he carried a silver-bladed knife in his boot in case a badass vampire was checking out the buffet of humans inside. Tucked in his jeans pocket were two small tubes of blessed holy oil, personal protection if something from the dark side came slumming.
Walking to the only open bar stool, he scanned the room with narrowed eyes, taking in the various tattoos and piercings. Everyone seemed human.
When the mustachioed bartender walked up, he ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels and a tumbler. If it took a river of whiskey to wash away the taste of failure and humiliation, so be it. Mick filled the tumbler half full, put the glass to his lips and poured the amber liquid down his throat. He shivered as the bitter fluid hit his empty stomach. He was going to get drunk fast
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