Arctic Dawn (The Norse Chronicles Book 2) (2 page)

Chapter Three

“F
aster,” said Tre Hobbs, my sparring partner. He raised a padded strike shield to chest height. “You’ve got to bring up that left. It’s not about technique right now. It’s about speed.”

I sucked in a deep lungful of air and caught my breath. The krav maga gym smelled like sweat and stale body odor—the perfume of hard work, pain, and tenacity. I nodded. Tre nodded back and readied for my assault.

Hit, hit, hit—left, left, right. I pounded my fists against the pad. Hit, hit, hit—right, left, left. Tre had me focused on my left strike, working to strengthen my weaker arm.

“Good,” he said. “Much better. Now, let’s see that speed again but with a little more control.”

“Uh,” I said, voicing my exhaustion.

We had sparred off and on for nearly half an hour and spent the last few minutes on intense upper-body work. I had maybe one round left in me before my arms melted to Jell-O and my lungs self-combusted.

“One more time, Sabrina. You’re fighting for your life. Exhaustion means defeat.”

After weeks of steady eating, routine sleep, and a semiregular schedule, my fire had mostly rekindled, but that stint of powerlessness had showed me the danger of depending on the fire as my sole weapon. My supernatural abilities were depletable resources. When the flames were gone, my fists and fierceness remained. Damned if I wouldn’t learn how to use them.

Two intense weeks of training among the Valkyries had knocked off the dust and awoken my survivor instincts, but I was far from mastering proficiency in combat. My so-called fight against Skoll had enumerated my many inadequacies, and Hati’s incineration was the result not so much of skill but of blind and incoherent rage.

I welcomed any tool, any asset that increased my odds of survival—no waiting for others to save me, no more helpless human. Fists, fire, or cunning, I would stand firm and retain a position of strength, even among gods and monsters.

I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. Then I nodded but kept my eyes shut and waited for Tre’s assault. Tre used that technique, the blind attack, to hone my reaction time. “Your attacker won’t usually give you a warning,” he said the first time we had trained that way. “No ‘Here I come, better get ready’ speeches.”

Tre pounced, soundless and sudden, like a cat—one of the large panther varieties. He nearly knocked me off my feet when he shoved the strike pad against me, putting all his weight behind the assault. I stumbled and opened my eyes. Strike, strike, strike—left, left, right. Tre shifted toward me, and I struck again—right, left, left. The last hit fell short, and I faltered and fell to my knees.

“Oh,” I wheezed. “Oh, that’s done it. I’m just going to stay down for the night. Tell the staff to sweep around me when they close up.” To emphasize my meaning, I slumped to the floor.

Tre’s chuckle sounded like a grizzly growling. He reminded me of a large brown bear, minus all the fur. “I guess that’s enough for one night.”

“Maybe I should call in sick tomorrow. How can Nikka expect me to pull a beer tap or shake a martini?” I wagged a shoulder, and my arm slid to the floor. “See? Limp noodles.”

Still laughing, Tre shook his head and leaned over. He extended a hand to me. “You’ll leave a grease stain on the mat, and I’ll have to revoke your guest privileges.”

I snorted. “Okay, okay.”

Tony, the owner, kept his studio meticulously clean and threatened to kick out anyone who messed it up. It wouldn’t do for Tre to lose his membership because of me, and I couldn’t afford to train in that gym on my slim paycheck. Also, I tended to avoid membership forms—they asked too many personal questions.

I took Tre’s hand and let him tug me to my feet. “Can you meet me again tomorrow? I have to work, though, so it’ll have to be earlier in the afternoon.”

Tre’s brown eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “What are you? A robot? Take a break. You’ve been at this for a week straight. Those ghosts you’re trying to fight will still be there when you come back.”

I blushed. “That obvious, is it?”

Tre shrugged, and his massive shoulders strained against his T-shirt. “It’s just the way it is with these sort of things. Most women aren’t proactive about self-defense. In my experience, they are
re
active. They train to make up for the shortcomings they realized after it was too late.”

I crossed the room, grabbed a clean towel from the shelf, and dabbed at the sweat on my forehead and neck. “It’s not too late for me. But it was a near thing.” And that was the most I would say about it to Tre or to Nikka. Let them think what they would: abusive boyfriend, a random stranger attack. The possibilities were all as terrible and horrifying as anything that had happened to me in reality, but with the addition of that whole apocalyptic, end-of-the-world thing.
Yes, let’s don’t forget about that.

“If you want, I can ask one of the other members to work with us next time,” Tre said. “It’ll be good for you to change your opponents from time to time.”

What I really needed was a sparring partner who fought on four legs. Tre should have lent me a German shepherd from his PD’s K-9 unit. “Makes sense,” I said instead. “Maybe we’ll do that.”

“Need me to drop you off at home?” Tre asked. The sun had set an hour before, and I lived several blocks away. Usually, we met in the afternoons before my shift at the bar, but I’d had the day off, and Tre had met me after he got off work.

“If you don’t mind?”

Tre nodded. “Just let me grab my things.”

At home, in the relative safety of my apartment, I bolted the door, threw the latch, and went to the shower for a long, hot scrubbing. Afterward, I stood before the fogged-up mirror and studied my ghostly shadow. I reached to wipe away the condensation but stopped and pulled my hand back.
Nope, nothing to see here, folks
. Skin and bones, some bruises from krav maga, eyes that reflected the many disturbing things that had happened to me.

Shaking my head, I stepped away from the clouded mirror and hung up my towel. I shrugged on a loose T-shirt and slipped into a pair of raggedy old pajama bottoms. Faded yellow suns and moons dotted the worn blue flannel. My mother had given them to me for Christmas many years before. I doubted she knew the relevance, doubted she thought I’d be standing in California so many years later, laughing at the irony woven into a pair of drawstring pants.

I brushed my teeth, combed out my hair, and turned out the light. Streetlights bled through the window blinds, dimly lighting my way as I padded to the bed that shared the same space as my couch and most of my kitchen.
Welcome to efficiency living.
I eased onto my mattress, tucked my feet beneath me, and stretched out my hands, palms up. Closing my eyes, I sank inside myself. The font of my fire glowed steady and bright, a comforting thing, indeed. A little at a time, I let the flames loose, and hot flickering light filled my palms.

Ever since my transmutation, my control had improved, but I hadn’t tested it under emotional duress: wolf attacks, angry goddesses of the underworld, manipulative gods, the usual. When had those things become “the usual” in my life? If I was any good at lying low, I would never have to fight for my life again.

And Jesus and the devil might stroll arm in arm along a moonlit beach.

After my failure to find a lead on Skyla’s whereabouts at Oneida Lake, I had traveled to San Diego for several reasons. First, it was far away from home, and I had no connections to it. No one would have a reason to track me there. Additionally, I had found a hint in an older newspaper article from Skyla’s hometown in upstate New York. The article had briefly discussed her graduation from basic training. It had also mentioned her father, Sergeant Major Neron Ramirez, a retired Marine who had finished his career at Camp Pendleton. If Skyla were on the run, she might have come to San Diego looking for his help. So far, though, I had found no whisper of Skyla or Sergeant Major Ramirez.

Determined and unrelenting in my hunt, I had stayed in the city to recuperate and continue my search for Skyla in the safety of total anonymity. If and when I faced Helen and the gods again, I meant to do it as an equal, or as equal as possible, considering my mortality. I rolled my hand over, and the flames enveloped me from fingertips to elbows. No, I wouldn’t stay there forever. I missed having a place where I belonged, fit in, and had a purpose. This tatty little apartment, Stefanakis, Nina and Tre—they wouldn’t last. Superman had his Fortress of Solitude; Batman had his Batcave; Wonder Woman had Themyscira. Sure, they all had to leave their sanctuaries and go to the real world to fight the good fight. And so would I. But at the end of it all, if and when I succeeded against Helen and Skoll, I had no safe place to take off my mask and hang up my cape. Where would I park my invisible jet and hang my lasso of truth?

I meant to find that safe place, though. I meant to find a home in the new world and claim my right to it. And, if I was fortunate, I wouldn’t have to do it alone.

I released my fire and tucked it away, safe in its internal hidey-hole. My body whined, complaining about the rigors I had put it through.
Shut up
, I told it.
You hate me now, but you’ll thank me later
.

Snugged up under the covers, I reached over to my nightstand and flicked on my lamp. I tugged a dog-eared old spy thriller from beneath my pillow, where I had stashed it the night before. No romance novels for me.

I no longer had much sympathy for the damsel in distress.

All my recent turmoil had mixed my emotions into a toxic lather that seeped into my subconscious and distorted my dreams into strange and disturbing experiences. When I woke sometime before dawn, sweat had coated my sheets and pillows despite the cool nighttime temperatures.

The same dream had disturbed me for weeks: apples, a whole orchard—row upon row of shiny fruit, all golden, none red. In the dream, I picked a few and munched them as I strolled through rows of trees. The apple’s crisp flesh snapped and gave way under my teeth, and juices filled my mouth, sweeter and richer than any apple I had eaten before.

A flicker of movement glinted in the shadows between the trees. A distant light flashed—not a reflection, nothing manmade like a flashlight. The glow was warm and natural, the light of a fire. The tang of acrid smoke spoiled the air, and an intense heat baked away all moisture. Ash coated my skin and hair. Unable to resist the fire’s allure, I reached to touch the flames. Like a witch’s cat, fire was my familiar spirit. But in my dream, the blaze was not my ally. When I stroked them, the flames burned me. I drew back a hand, blackened to the bone.

I woke up gasping, strangling on a scream.

The vision probably meant something important, and my subconscious wanted me to pursue it. Without Skyla as my kickass Hermione, mythology research had fallen to me, and I had read everything I could get my hands on. I had developed a theory that my dream signified the legendary apples tended by the goddess Idun. In the legends, the Aesir gained all their eternal youth and longevity from Idun’s magical fruit. But my dream was too vague, or the legends were too limited—or some of both—to explain what portent these recent visions meant to convey. If fate wanted me to solve this latest puzzle, it would have to be a lot more direct.

Hot, annoyed, and frustrated, I gave up on going back to sleep. I slid out of bed, padded to the window, raised it, and crawled out onto my fire escape. The cool night air dried my sweat and erased lingering odors of smoke and fire.

I closed my eyes and leaned into the breeze, sending my stress out in a whoosh of breath, but the sharp caw of a protesting bird startled me from my moment of Zen. I yelped and recoiled from the railing where a huge black bird perched. It clacked its beak at me, and the streetlight reflected in its beady black eye.

“Shoo!” I threw my hands out, waving it away.

The bird cawed again, flapped its wings, and leapt from the railing. It rose toward the sky in a steep ascent before turning to plummet toward the ground. Instead of crashing in a feathery heap, the bird silently dissolved into the street’s shadows.

I backed against the brick wall behind me and pressed a hand over my racing heart. I inhaled several steady, deep breaths and waited for my composure to return.

“What the hell?” I asked, but no one answered.

Curiosity towed me back to the fire escape’s edge. I peered into the alley, looking for signs of the crow. For a moment, the whole world was still and silent. Then a man-shaped shadow separated from the darkness. The figure ambled to the end of the alleyway, turned onto the sidewalk, and passed out of view.