Chapter 33
Clay led the way to the sofa, drinks in hand, as Erik claimed a red-orange armchair.
Erik’s ghillie brogues, laces wrapped high, bound his calves.
The tough leather could only partially obscure the web of scars running the length of his kilt-covered legs.
Erik didn’t hide them. Clay saw no ugliness, only the bodily cartography that charted the Viking’s history and every battle mark he’d earned.
“Barclay, Vivica is distant. I will agree.”
Erik’s statement broke Clay’s focus on his scars. “Is there a reason or maybe an excuse?”
“A reason is the factual basis of what happened. An excuse is an attempt to avoid blame or responsibility. While an explanation is a description of the circumstances. I offer you an explanation.”
“Semantics.”
“No, Barclay. Pragmatic function.”
Clay grinned and held out his hand, gesturing to Erik to continue.
“Vivica had an injury and never fully recovered from the trauma.”
A pang struck deep in Clay’s chest, and that surprised him. “Medical miracles in your time healed JC, Ensley, and Mark. Surely, whatever was wrong with her, your doctors could fix.”
“Some injuries are impossible to heal, even in my culture.”
Kaitlyn and Marcelle sandwiched Clay on the sofa. At the same time, Bastien reoriented the other red-orange chair, which allowed him to look directly at Erik while maintaining a view of everyone else.
Clay took a long fortifying drink before asking a question he didn’t want Erik to answer. But his investigative journalist skills and connection to Violet forced him to ask. “What was her injury that your culture couldn’t fix?”
Erik caved inward, seeming to dissolve into the chair. The truth clearly tortured him, and Clay clenched his jaw, bracing himself to hear it.
“My brother Sten caught a disease that attacked his brain and turned him into a violent psychopath. We tried to capture him and take him home, but he always managed to slip away. He caught Vivica, and she spent twenty-four hours with him before we rescued her. Except for cuts and rope burns on her wrists and ankles from twisting and pulling against the restraints, there were no other marks on her body, but she was never the same.”
Clay gagged. He knew what Sten was capable of and couldn’t imagine the mind games that asshole played with Violet.
“Are you okay?” Marcelle asked, lightly squeezing his arm while Bastien returned to the sideboard for the whisky bottle.
“I never thought I’d have any sympathy for Violet, but I do now.” Clay upturned his drink and then took a few deep breaths before holding out his glass for Bastien to refill. “From what I know of Sten, death is preferable to spending five minutes with him.”
“That’s why we hurried back?” Bastien asked. “To avoid him?”
“From where I was standing, I couldn’t tell if it was Erik or Sten.” Clay slowly sipped his drink. Then he asked Erik, “Why didn’t Violet retire? Is that not an option in your society?”
“Her sister, Verdandi, walked away, but Vivica was born the senior Elder and will die in that role. Our culture is a matriarchal and hierarchical society with female Elders at the top. And no one has authority over Vivica.”
Clay found that hard to believe. “She’s damaged. How can she govern?”
“She has advisors.”
“The last time I saw her, she was in Chicago entertaining Al Capone,” Clay said. “But that was after she went into a deep sleep for twenty-four hours.” Erik stared at him like a chess master studying the board, which didn’t faze Clay. “Is that how she escapes the memory of her trauma?”
“She seeks replenishment or, as you would say, recharging.”
“As robotic as she seems, I’d say recharging is an accurate description.”
There was sadness in Erik’s eyes. “I saw Vivica with Capone.”
“She can handle the gangster, and I’m sorry about what happened to her,” Clay said. “She’s obviously important to you. But you were important to others, and your disappearance left them disappointed and hurt. Most of all, Samantha and your children. Do you care about them at all?”
“Of course I do.”
Clay fixed Erik with a stare that put every ounce of his frustration on full display. “You had to know what you and Violet said in the cave would hurt everyone you profess to care about. You intentionally sabotaged all those relationships.”
“We did, yes,” Erik said, sounding detached, as if it meant nothing.
Clay slammed his crystal glass on the coffee table.
It didn’t just crack. It spiderwebbed against the wood, a physical manifestation of his shattering composure.
He didn’t retreat. He bolted for the protection of his journal, a familiar weight in his pocket, and tried to regroup.
The surge of anger quickly cooled to a flush of deep-seated embarrassment and disappointment in his lack of self-control.
His temper, if unchecked, could torpedo this crucial interview.
Bastien grabbed a fresh glass from the sideboard, filled it, and set it on the coffee table.
Clay gave him a nod of appreciation and tossed back the drink, his temper momentarily blunted.
“Where are you from? You wanted us to believe you and Violet were aliens, but I know you’re not.
You’re from the future, from an advanced civilization.
In the cave on MacKlenna Farm, you disappeared into a light, but that wasn’t real, either, was it? ”
“That was part of our plan.”
“Son of a bitch. I’m glad your children aren’t here.
I’m not sure they could control themselves.
” Hell. Clay wasn’t sure he could. He fell back against the sofa’s thick cushions as emotion welled within him.
This pressure was worse than what he’d experienced while investigating the cartel. Why was he the one here with Erik?
Just as he was feeling overwhelmed, he heard Elliott’s voice cut straight into his brain: “Ye are the best one among us for this moment. Do what ye do best.”
Clay didn’t know how it was possible to hear Elliott, but he did.
Was this an auditory hallucination or a vision?
Or could it even be a psychic link? Clay jerked upright and grabbed his sketchbook, desperate to find emotional distance and a better perspective through the steady scratching of pencil on paper.
“I hope you’ll answer a few questions in English instead of Erikspeak.”
“Do what you do best, Barclay.”
Clay’s head shot up. Did Erik put the thought in his head and then reinforce it by giving Clay the same verbal command? “Why are you answering my questions when you wouldn’t tell Elliott?”
“Vivica wanted you to have answers.”
Clay let out a short breath. “Why me?”
Erik didn’t hesitate. “You are the son of the most powerful person in our society. You have no equal.”
“I thought the Keeper would have no equal.”
“In this place—at this time—that is true.”
“But I’m in this place and time, so that makes no sense.”
“You are not the Keeper,” Erik said calmly. “You are Vivica’s son.”
Clay scratched his head. “What about Verdandi’s son, Robert, or Violet’s grandson?”
“If they have daughters, they will be in the line of succession, but as long as you are alive, they are not important.”
Clay stopped short. “But I’m not female.”
“That is true.” A pause. “But you will have a daughter one day.”
Clay’s jaw tightened. “Does your society expect us to come live there when Violet dies?” His voice hardened. “Because we won’t.”
“We do not expect that.”
“Why didn’t Violet have more children after she lost Alana? For that matter, why didn’t she protect her daughter? If she needed a female heir, why did she give up on her?”
Erik sat there still as a stone. No reaction, no comment. Nothing.
“Don’t you need a stable transition of power? A potential Elder and a spare, but there isn’t a spare now. Why?”
Still no reaction, no comment. Nothing.
Clay couldn’t connect the dots scattered in front of him.
The pieces refused to form a coherent picture.
Why hadn’t Violet protected Alana? Was she incapable, or simply unwilling?
If Alana had been Archibald’s daughter, would Violet’s loyalty have been stronger?
A cold realization settled in Clay’s gut.
The truth, he suspected, lay in bloodlines, in who was worthy of protection.
“When JC was with you for a year of healing, did you harvest his sperm?”
Still no reaction, no comment. Nothing.
“If there’s no female child to replace Violet, is the plan to use her egg and JC’s sperm to create the perfect heir from the perfect gene pool?”
Still no reaction, no comment. Nothing.
Clay had interviewed dozens of people who stonewalled every attempt to engage. He had never given up, and he wouldn’t start now.
“Elliott is already so pissed at you. When he hears this news, he’ll explode.” Clay drew a line from Elliott to the Elders, another line from himself to the Elders, and one from Robert and Rory to the Elders. “How many Elders are there?”
“Five.”
“What’s the difference between the Elders in your culture and the Elders at Jarlshof?”
“The Elders at Jarlshof were a convenience.”
Clay inked five formidable Viking Elders on a fresh page, then scrawled the word convenience beneath them. He’d have to circle back to that because a deluge of new questions flooded his mind, each begging to be explored.
“What about Malcolm Fraser? Was he ever your father?”
“No, but he went to Jarlshof and had twin sons. Sten and I took their identities.”
“I don’t even want to know how that happened.” Clay sketched Jarlshof with a big question mark. “You created an illusion in the cave and hoped we’d believe you were gone for good. Why?”
“We wanted you to believe we came from another planet, knowing you would never follow us. But if you knew we were from the future, you could travel forward in time, alter our history, and destroy our civilization.”
“From what I know, Elliott wouldn’t let anyone travel to the future.” Clay sketched Elliott again, placing him over Erik, without stopping to analyze why.