Twice as High, page 4
“Is this how all authors do it and make the magic happen?”
“If you mean with a fifth of gin and yoga pants, sure.” She picked up her crystal tumbler off her desk and downed what was left of the liquid, only to turn and pour in some more.
“Uh, Leslie, if you continue like that, I think you’ll be doing less writing and more—”
“Incoherence? No, I’m trying to get into the flow. You know that place in your mind where all of the words just seem to fit perfectly together. It’s like a beautiful island of creativity, where the muse is playing in the surf, the sun is beaming perfectly, and happiness spices the air. It’s sort of like Christmas lights strung up in April. Just a dazzling warmth. This is where creativity is activated between the left and right brain, and that’s where the real magic happens.”
She was tipsy, the words just gushed from her lips, and usually when he popped in, he’d been able to exchange a few words before she told him about her book’s due date. Tonight was different, and he liked seeing her day, her real life.
“Did you eat something before you had all of that?”
“Why, are you going to come over and feed me?” She seductively licked her lips, and his gaze rested on her perfect pout.
“I wish I was closer, Leslie.”
“Me, too. It might make it so we stood a real chance of this being special.”
The one thing about alcohol was, that for some, it served as a truth serum. Things had not ended well between them a couple of weeks ago, but he hadn’t given up. It took a lot for him to hope for anything. After living for more than a millennium, he’d seen and lost so much.
He was adamant that Leslie wasn’t going to be added to that long list. “When things calm down, we need to plan that night in Edinburgh.”
“Are you asking me out on a date?”
He smiled, enjoying how she’d not blocked the idea of them going out.
“You are my American Queen, so—” Before he could continue that thought, a loud banging on his office door interrupted them.
“Looks like work is calling. We’ll chat again.” There was so much he wanted to say. Later. He’d explain everything when they had time.
Love was something strange. It required a sacrifice like he’d never had to offer.
“Alistair?” He heard Killian’s curt voice.
“One moment, Killian.”
In the study where he was alone, suddenly, he raised his eyes to stare at his grandmother gazing at the broad fire that lapped at the walls of the fireplace, barely contained, wild even, only to then become motionless. The clock stopped ticking. Freyja’s wheat-colored hair remained still, her body tense.
She’d paused time.
“What you are to face is what no one in the Order has had to do before you,” Freyja whispered and turned to him.
Instead of the usual composed look, her gaze was filled with mystery, her face covered in ash and marked with runic glyphs.
“Cast the stones, and you will see what is to come, Grandson. The double-edged sword that you must walk begins tonight. The rebellion starts and stirs discord among the pantheons. Even now, rumors abound of which god will rise to strike against the Order.”
“Why would they strike here?”
“As you are the holder of the sacred”—She turned over her hands, and in a ball of blue light, swirled an image to life—“The sacred geometry as gifted to the gods was infused in items placed in the sacraments of creation, meaning the power of ex nihilo, creation, is in those relics. When they are all combined, it is not only the possibility to create, but also to destroy that above and below.”
“Another Ragnarok? Death of the gods?”
“No, the resurrection of Ymir.”
Alistair leaned back in his seat and took it all in. The witches of old had been so grand in their sorcery, producing even great storms to cause ships to crash because of one enchanted droplet of pure ice and fire from Ginnungagap, the land of the gods’ twilight.
“Are you saying the gods' tools have all been dipped in this stuff?”
“It is one source of our great magic, a part of the Seidr way. And your seer will play a role in this. Protect her at all costs, for she is the only one who can lead them to each of the relics.”
“How would they know that one of the relics is here in the Order?”
“Because you have a mole, dear Grandson, one in your circle who shall betray you."
With that, Freyja snapped her fingers and again disappeared in wisps of smoke.
A knock sounded again on the door. The fire crackled to life once more, and the clock ticked.
His office door flew open and in stalked Killian.
“We have a problem.”
Chapter 5
Leslie
Tuesday
After grabbing a cup of hot water from the corner coffee shop, I practically skipped down Madison Avenue, along with the crowd of New Yorkers, passing by the numerous extravagant stores and their shop windows that practically screamed for my attention. Moneywise, things were going absolutely and amazingly well. Like I’d finally understood the Law of Attraction, and the universe was conveying its blessings on me. There was this sense of motivation and euphoria.
“You’re inquiring as to my well-being? If you keep asking, I might take it that you care.” His voice grew warm and intimate, and I liked it.
“Well, I don’t always act like a pimple on your backside.” A part of me truly longed for Alistair’s nearness. No matter how angry I got, cutting him out of my life wasn’t an option. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want to.
Over the last couple of weeks, I’d been working on adjusting. The thing about life was that change wasn’t instantaneous. I had to work on myself. Self-care, after all, entailed more than my getting a French manicure, but more that I’d chosen to love me—but also the life I’d built up by remaining in the comfort of my city with its loudness, bright lights, and melting pot. Happiness didn’t require me to lose myself to find someone to love me. Love wasn’t pie. It didn’t only have so many slices available.
Instead of taking my driver, I decided to window shop before my appointment at the museum, where Claudine had gotten me a behind-the-scenes look at a Vikings of Scotland and Scandinavian exhibit, all for book research. Of course, she’d meet me at the studio for the next talk show’s taping.
Life was shiny and brand new. Humming my tune, I dared think, I made it!
My phone pinged loudly.
“I hate to check in and leave, but I’ve an appointment to get to,” I said, hating to break the connection between us.
“Aye, I, too, should probably pay attention to what Killian is briefing me on.” He paused. I thought he’d surely gone. “Leslie.”
“Yes, Alistair.” I waited, absorbed in the moment of us. My heart thunked and thwacked in my chest. “You look lovely. So sorry I’m not there.”
“Don’t.” I took a deep breath. “This is my fault, too, but later. We can plan and talk about everything then.”
“You promise?”
“Now, Alistair MacLeod, are you trying to get an oath from me?” I put on my best historical romance accent.
His delightful belly laugh was all I got.
Easing my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, I glanced at the lit-up notification from my calendar: Professor Mason @ 12 p.m. meeting at Museum.
Making my way there, I entered the light and airy glass foyer, while men and women meandered. After checking in with the welcome desk, I quickly found Professor Mason, the curator, leading a group of college students. I quietly joined.
Claudine had found him online—the perfect way to find contacts, research, and specialist for scholarly subject matter—I’d confirmed after my cursory search. Lean, windblown hair, and wearing a tweed jacket, he was dressed for a TV show playing a librarian.
“With the trading between the different people groups, there was an intricate knowledge as to who had what. What caused the Vikings, or bay dwellers, pirates to attack England—does anyone know?”
A couple of the college students glanced up, saying nothing.
This was my chance to answer. “Silver.”
The curator nodded my way in recognition. “Yes, there was no land called Viking, and those who went ‘Viking’ went to raid for their own reasons.” He pointed at the sword of an unearthed Ulfberht from Denmark. “So, as we can see from this exhibit of what we believe to be from the Viking Danes, this subset of Vikings remained in conflict with other neighboring people groups. The quality of the Viking tools, such as this sword, still continues to mesmerize us, too.”
“I read somewhere, Professor, that the craftsmanship of this sword is akin to that from the Industrial Revolution. Considering that almost eight hundred years separated the Viking Age from the Industrial Revolution, I’d say the Vikings were well ahead of their time.”
Again, the curator nodded. “That is correct. It’s almost magical crucible steel.”
My ears perked up. Crucible steel could be quite fetching with its natural pattern on the swords’ blades. I rose on my tippy toes to get a better look.
“Destruction did not discern if one was of either religion or politics, as there was no united Viking kingdom or even ethnos. England became a target not only for its land for farming, but also for the silver, and some because of the young men finding a spouse, as well.”
Professor Mason explored the scholarly and esoteric meaning of runes, at least from everything I could find out about him online, or maybe even the runic magic.
There was nothing about him that one might have observed to say that he was in the occult, a magician maybe, a sorcerer even? When I downloaded his book—thank the gods for eBooks—it was an esoterica’s scholarly interpretation of rune magic. Maybe it was to encourage critical thinking, whereby one seeking knowledge didn’t just take his word for what the runes meant.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Autumn, my assistant, will continue leading your tour. Please excuse me,” Professor Mason said, made his way over to me, and stretched out his hand. “It is good to see you again, Leslie. I take it that the grimoire that I helped you translate has been helpful.”
The memory hit me like a barrage of bullets. I bit back my frown. Although the memory was foggy, it was still there—my contacting the professor to get help with translating my grimoire, the same grimoire that I’d stuck under my bed and hadn’t tried to open since my return from the Compound.
“Sorry we couldn’t make it work, but I did want to pick your brain on the Norse in Scotland, as it would be nice to have some historical truth to the romanticism in my novel.”
“Come, I’ve prepared something for you. Your assistant called in, reminding me of your love for the Norsemen. Of course, you know of the 793 invasion of the monastery, the Lindisfarne raid, but surely you could use some of the details from what is sure to be one of our most beloved exhibits: the Viking burial recovered from the Ardnamurchan peninsula. We know that the Norsemen did settle in Scotland, in places like Shetland.”
We headed toward the dark basement, exactly what one might expect for an esoteric research interview, but instead of sconces holding candles, warm overhead lighting made the passageway seem less dark.
“Sorry to take you through the bowels of hell.” He pushed on the thick wooden door to reveal an airy room, which housed floor-to-ceiling books. “This is my office and abode away from the questions of college students. Might I offer you something to drink?”
“Sure.” I turned to stare at the large black-and-white photo of the Rosetta Stone. “An Orkney?”
Over the years, I’d dug into the research as much as a layperson could, visiting libraries, speaking with experts, all of it just to get the information correct—even if from hours of research, only a paragraph of content made its way into the story. It was crucial to get those facts correct.
Thriller writers had to make sure their gun terminology was accurate, and historical romance writers needed to ensure that their data, world-building, and dare I say, politics were meticulous. There was nothing worse than to describe modern-day undies for a historical piece, even if it was fiction. The only way I could get around that was with time travel.
“Exactly, so does this move us toward the Norse-Scots, also called the Norse-Gaels?”
“Aye,” he said.
Those descendants of Norsemen and the Gaelic populations also meant a possible connection between the Norse and Celtic pantheons, then? I tucked that nugget away to draw on later.
“But what are these?” I moved over to what resembled a sword with the usual Elder Futhark runic inscription.
“Yes, that is something I wanted to show you. It isn’t Elder Futhark at all.”
I frowned at that news. I’d gotten pretty good at recognizing the different Norse runes—which included the Germanic Futhark or Old Futhark, as well as the Younger Futhark—but this one seemed odd as it went from left to right, and serpentine around from right to left.
“It’s boustrophedon writing, and no, not purely Germanic in origin at all. I believe it’s a derivative of a Greek variant.”
“Uh, say what now?” It was all Greek to me, to be honest, but was Professor Mason now confirming a link between the Greeks and the Norse?
“The script itself dates from the first century B.C.” He then pointed at the sword. “See that there close to the handle? The name spells po-se-da-o—that part is in Mycenaean Greek. Yes, Poseidon.”
The name “Poseidon” was combined with the Futhark runes on a Norse sword? This was making me dizzy. I knew the Norsemen to be seafarers, but wouldn’t their swords have its own Norse god of Njord on their weapons?
“But that is not what I wanted to show you. Your assistant Claudine asked about vampires.” He moved to his desk and flipped through the pages of an older book. “She was not interested in the comparative mythologies but said that you wished only to hear about the Norse vampire.”
I gulped. There were so many things I didn’t know about what vampires were or even this new reality. Instead, it was a combination of nitpicking on what I thought might be the correct way.
“This is not very academic, I’m sorry to say. Blood magic, a rare magic, is known throughout anthropology. Of course, the animal sacrifices helped with communication or even transportation into the afterlife, for example, but that of the human sacrifice was more to acquire the essence of the person; a reason that some would even go so far in cannibalism as to suck the marrow from the bones.”
That bit of knowledge made me shudder.
Just then, a jet-black cat winded its way between my ankles, rubbing against my half-boots.
“Seems like Saga, my little protector, likes you,” he said and continued to flip through as if searching for something.
“Saga?” That was an interesting name for a cat. “Not the usual name to choose out of the pet-name manual.” I chuckled.
“Well, if she were a pet, I’d agree, but Saga chooses who will be her caretaker.”
I reached down and scratched behind her ears and received a sweet purr as a reward.
“And trust me, she doesn’t take to everyone. She appeared at the museum only a few weeks ago, but belongs to no one, and everyone. As I said, she chooses her home and her owner. Why? Were you looking for a companion?”
As if on command, Saga leaned back on her hind legs and sat down, staring up at me with the most beautiful yellow cat eyes. Of course, then her tail rose and fell like she was tapping her foot, waiting for my response.
I waved my hands to say, “no,” and took a step back. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Saga walked toward me, and again, winded between my feet.
“Saga,” His voice lowered, “might not be a regular cat. Cats often operate as a totem and are said to invoke the magic of the goddess Freyja.”
My ears perked up at that. Everything and everyone seemed to be connected to Freyja. For a moment, I almost felt a warm breath on my neck.
“What does that mean?”
“I assume it means that she can help people like you in need. And with a cat for a totem, you’d pick up some of her skills, too.”
“Like what?” I tried so hard not to roll my eyes in annoyance. The last thing I needed to hear about were cats and their nine lives. If they were even connected with the gods, I should probably avoid them. Knowing the way things were headed, they’d, too, spout off how things between Alistair and me were going to just work out, and land on our feet.
“Protection. Cats are known to be quite protective of their families.”
“Um, okay…not sure I believe a stray cat can help me, though.”
“With all due respect, I don’t think Saga agrees with you.” Professor Mason continued to finger along a page until I practically heard the page snap. “Here it is.
“Once prehistoric, or at least the concept of the vampire was, but this is interesting. The Striges were considered bloodthirsty and sustained themselves on life-forces. The corpses of the dead helped to grow the folklore, as back then many didn’t understand decomposition. The villagers responded with vampire hunters. The important part here is the Striges, whom many consider to be real, and a governing body of the vampires in the supernatural world, with their council seated in Eastern Europe, alongside the unlikeable dwarves.”
“Sounds like the stuff of nightmares and epic fantasy,” I countered.
“Murder, actually. The dwarves took the most innocent of gods, slaughtered him, and created mead from his blood.”
“Kvasir?”
“Sadly, yes. With that, the folklore shows that the Mead of Poetry was harvested from Kvasir and then confiscated by Odin.”
“Well, thank you so much for your time. You’ve actually provided me with more to start digging into.” I stretched out my hand to shake his, and all the while, Saga meandered around me.
“Before you go, I wanted to give you this.” He passed me a mesh satchel of what appeared to be black rocks, and he paused midway, like a veil passed over his face. His once-full-bodied voice quivered and squeaked. “Of course, black salt. When using your grimoire, you will need it to keep whatever is in it contained. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you this before. There are levels of working with magic. Your intention is very important, as well.” He grabbed my wrist, holding me captive. “Now listen, child, as there is not much time before they come to gather you to their bosom. Death hates to be cheated.”
