17. Helene #2
Besides, I’m an atheist. And Norse gods are like any other—they’re better relegated to books and movies and TV shows.
My heartbreak keeps me company tonight, and I glance to the window, the reflection of the lamp like flickering candleflames.
“She insisted there was more out there. But she was always running from something. Always divining answers in runes and cards and omens.” I stare at Audra again until the outlines of her face blur. “Not me.”
This kind of night, this kind of conversation, begs for a fire.
I shiver. “I feel gross.”
I’m still in the same jeans and black tank, the worn jersey spattered with gore. The troll’s death is painted on my skin in more than a coat of filth and grime.
“Go shower.” Wren rolls his shoulders and the matching spot in my body aches through the movement. “You’ve looked at the bathroom door five times. You’ll feel better after a boil. And please let me know if you need help.”
A hiccupping sob catches behind my teeth again. “What about Audra?”
“I’ll watch her.” Wren flashes a smile. His expression...there’s a certain peace in shared discomfort. “Go.”
He’s the kind of distraction to help me forget I’ve ever suffered.
Distractions come with strings I can’t afford.
I set my coffee aside and don’t look back.
Here, water never gets hot enough to boil, not unless I put a big soup pot on the stove. And then, I’m too scared to use the old tub. If I fill it with water plus my body weight, it will careen into the old drawing room turned Apartment A underneath me.
And trusting Wren to watch over Audra, leaving him alone in her, is probably a mistake.
The comfort of his presence has me shutting the bathroom door without locking it.
The first surge of the lukewarm water over my shoulders only grows the chill. It spreads through to my toes until I get used to the temperature of the shower and lean into the warmth.
Fuck today.
Fuck everything about it. Except making out in the bookstore. I enjoyed that.
It was my one highlight of the day before the whole thing devolved into bedlam and even the kisses had carried a frantic pulse of insanity.
Forest doesn’t know who he is, if I believe Wren. He doesn’t know me, either. But I’m supposed to know them?
I scrub the rosemary scented shampoo bar through my hair and let the suds filter away down the rust-stained drain.
No matter how hard I wash, the film of oddness from the day refuses to clean. It stays, as stubborn as I am, until I give up first and drop the soap.
Old squeaky handles catch before they shut the water valves and cut off the spray. Within minutes, my red hoodie is zipped halfway, yoga pants loose on my legs and damp hair secured in a messy bun, the strands fully intending to pull free.
Steam belches out behind me, and when I glance into the living room, Wren is still seated where I left him.
He lifts to his feet languidly. “All better?”
Not better. Never better. Only tolerable. I clench the edges of the hoodie together over my racing heart.
“Thanks for watching her.” She’s everything to me.
He cuts a short bow at the waist. “Want me to tuck you into bed?”
Something hot and demanding floods my abdomen. “I’m not going to bed. I’m too keyed up to sleep.”
“Executioners can take a lesson from your chairs. Off to the bedroom where my back won’t be so agonized.”
Before I get a peep out, Wren gathers Audra off the couch with a delicate reverence. Muscles clench, and the bold lines of the Perthro tattoo stand out against his creamy skin.
Bedroom. Bad idea.
The two mattresses squeezed into a single room used to embarrass me. Mom did a better job of taking care of us than I do. At least then we had two separate bedrooms most of the time.
She always slept on the couch, begging a bad back. She always made it a comfortable nest for herself.
Once we stayed in a place where my bedroom had butter yellow walls. The days of tacking up posters of my favorite musicians and actors, then taking them down, are long gone.
Audra’s bed is tucked between mine and the wall to make sure, if she rolls or seizes, I’m there. She won’t hurt herself. A shield of pillows protects her from hitting her head. But luxury?
Nonexistent.
It’s stark practicality.
Wren sets Audra on her bed and I wrap a blanket around her legs, propping a pillow behind her head.
Exhaustion sets in, and rather than tell Wren he’s safer in the living room, I sink against my own pillow fort. I draw another loosely knitted quilt to my chin when I shiver.
“This is the day that never ends,” I whisper.
And Wren only settles at my side. He stretches long legs out until his feet dangle over the bottom and balances his head on his hand, elbow hidden in the pillows.
“I like looking at you.” His voice is a caress.
“You shouldn’t. You should be horrified.”
And also embarrassed. Or smart.
“Of you? Never. I’ve seen too much.”
He traces my forehead with the pad of his thumb, his gaze warming when I remain motionless.
He hesitates. “Would you like to know how we first met?”
Will it help?
“Since it wasn’t when you were searching the shelves of Thorn & Candle today?” I ask.
This quiet moment is a luxury, too.
Damp strands fall into my face before he brushes them back.
“Thousands of years ago,” he starts like it’s a joke, “a young Fae male fell in love with a girl.”
“Aw, stop it.” But I don’t push him away.
“He was a cruel sort of male, some said. Detached to a fault. Lied as easily as breathing and never let himself want things.” Wren flops on his back with his hands balanced behind his head. “Blame it on his parents, everyone does.”
“And here comes the tragic backstory,” I say, voice light.
“Only in that it made the male deeply guarded.” His face screws into a scowl. “He hates feeling vulnerable. His family has always danced close to the throne without touching it. Perhaps that’s part of it. Politically savvy advisors, manipulators, kingmakers.”
His shadows thread between us, draping my forearms, lifting them overhead until I turn to face him.
“A manipulation of darkness. The male can disappear into them, weaponize them, or twist them into illusions. It’s a subtle magic. Psychological. He doesn’t blast power. He whispers it.”
A shiver travels through me.
“Tired of the court games, although he played them better than anyone else, he sought a change of scenery. Asgard. The golden playground of gods and one of many doors in the Nine Realms.”
It’s effortless to listen to him and sit there with him, much more than I thought it would be. His presence blocks out the driving rain outside and the aches settling in my muscles.
“He met her…” Wren’s eyes blur, go distant. “On the battlefield, with her sword lifted and her shield at the ready. He respected her, and for a man who kept everyone else at a distance, she was the variable he didn’t plan for or see coming. She made him want to get messy.”
I sigh. “I bet he hated that.” But. There’s always a but.
“He did hate it.” His voice says those days are long gone. Dusty but not forgotten. “He hated it as much as he hated seeing her in the middle of the violence. That selfish prick wanted to take her from the field and show her a life of peace.”
It’s crazy to hear and crazier to admit there’s an air of credibility in this story. Instincts have never steered me wrong before. Always kept us safe, enough.
So I either have to choose to believe the men are telling the truth or—
It’s insane, but then again, I was jumped by two trolls. So there is a scale for crazy now.
“My warrior goddess did not go with me,” Wren replies. “Neither did she go with her other two loves, although we each made pleas of her, in our own way.”
“You’ve switched to first person now.”
“It’s easier.” He shrugs.
My stomach knots. “All three of you, huh?”
“I never said it’s easy to learn to share. But our story ends as it always does, with death. Only for my love to transcend even death itself. Odin plucked her soul from the battlefield and forged her into a Valkyrie.”
I bite back a burn in my throat. “Warriors with winged horses, who take the souls of the fallen to Valhalla. Odin’s hall.”
“Yes, pretty monster. Yes.” Wren goes still. “Odin himself came down to claim her essence. Although she wished to go to Folkvangr, Freyja’s fields, she was offered a chance to become a Valkyrie. She could not refuse the call to serve. Or the opportunity to see her beloveds one more time.”
I don’t expect to remember a story I’ve never heard.
Wren’s narrative is familiar somehow. In a way I’m too scared to name. I stifle a yawn and fail.
“Rest now. There’s time for the past later.”
“Unless another troll shows up.”
How easy to let my eyes shut, to lean into Wren’s warmth and the dancing play of shadow and lamplight. How easy with Audra resting comfortably at my back and the three of us safe from the elements here.
“No worries. If another monster comes, then you’ll slay it.”
Wren’s voice tapers off, and the sleep I’ve avoided for hours finally rises to claim me, an inevitable force.
Like the AllFather.