Guardians of the Portals (38 page)

Instead, she stood and walked to the cabinet and pulled his shaving cream and razor out.

"Would you do me a favor?" He nodded
yes
so she continued, "Would you shave for me?"

"I thought you liked it like this." He rubbed at his jaw, eyebrows raised.

She gave him a wry smile. "That was before I got a brush burn."

She pointed to an area of irritation on her cheek and giggled at his pained, "Oh gods."

"It's okay. Honest. I just don't want to wake up in the morning looking like this all over."

He felt his face flame hot as his guts melted at the promise. He turned to the sink and prepared the lather. She came up behind him and slipped his towel off his hips. Whispering, "Do you mind if I watch?" she stood on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder at their joint reflections.

He dropped the razor, mouth agape. A titian-haired beauty stood behind him, her full breasts pressed into his bare back. Nudging him aside so she could see better in the mirror, she frowned and concentrated, making small adjustments to the transformation, forms sliding and melting to coalesce into subtler shapes. Her eyes changed from pale blue to iridescent green, the nose narrowed and tilted up, the lips plumped and the chin redefined to a square jaw-line. She looked every bit the Amazon and nothing like Caitlin.

She huffed, low and throaty, "Huh, guess it worked after all."

Wolf asked weakly, "What worked?"

"We shared powers somehow. That's how it's supposed to go down. We're bonded so we enhance each other's energies, or whatever it is we've got."

He turned around and murmured, "Sweet Freyja," as he gazed at the vision pirouetting for his benefit.

"Y-you shifted."

"No shit, Dick Tracy. Do you like?"

He recognized the sucking sound of quicksand and sidestepped the question with one of his own. "Why didn't I...?"

Caitlin laughed and pointed to his crotch. "I think you did, lover. Now hurry up and shave. I don't know how long this is gonna last." She skipped out of the bathroom and headed down the hall toward his small bedroom.

Man-whore. It was interesting that the gods picked
that
trait to accentuate. As he lathered his face, he wondered what would happen if—when—he made love to the avatar. The link stirred, restless to be on with it. He took his time, using careful strokes, half afraid he'd cut his own throat with a hand that trembled and twitched, almost in synch with the pulsing link. He rinsed the razor and set it aside.

Staring at his reflection, he asked, "Why me?"

"That's an interesting question, son."

Wolf spun on his heel, ready to strike. An older man, compact and fit, with a buzz cut and a Glock trained on his midsection lounged against the door jamb. There was something about him that seemed familiar, though he was certain he'd never met him before. He spoke softly with a faint Southern twang.

"Who the fuck are you?" Wolf spit out.

"Well, that's not the real question, is it?" The stranger smiled and said, "The
real
question is... who the hell are
you
? And why are you fucking my daughter?"

––––––––

C
aitlin fumbled with the switch on the small reading lamp next to her warrior's bed. She smiled as she contemplated the new term for the no-name man—'warrior', or
kriger
as Eirik had called certain of his men. He'd not used that term for Trey, even though the demon-devil had surely fulfilled that function.

Demon. Or was it Devil? He'd been called by both names. She hadn't been the only one to recognize the essential nature of the man who still held a piece of her heart and her undying hatred.

These men had such complicated relationships, decades' worth, in and outside of history. It made her head spin.

Revenge stirred fitfully, nudging aside her idle musings. She wandered over to the full length mirror braced against the far wall, half hidden behind a dresser. She wriggled it free and angled the long rectangle to catch the light from the lamp. Stepping back, she evaluated her latest canvas. This template pleased her, as it had been her first full transformation. Why she'd chosen the 'Xena Warrior Princess' look out of all the possibilities amused and befuddled her.

She tweaked the image, rounding hips, narrowing waist, giggling as strips of leather crisscrossed and sloughed away.

She trailed a finger across the wavy surface and intoned, "Magic Mirror, I dub thee."

Twirling and preening, she committed every tiny detail to muscle memory, an imprint, a shortcut key for her brain, or whatever controlled the process.

Revenge prodded,
What's he doing in there?

The woman masquerading as Caitlin wondered,
Which one does he want?

The young girl moaned,
Why can't he love the real me?

As much as it rankled, there was no denying his obvious interest in the 'new and improved'. Hell, if she were a man, she'd be slobbering over the full-figured vision, every warrior's wet dream, or so she imagined.

Turning away from the mirror, she muttered, "Shit, what do I know from wet dreams?"

Revenge poked, hard. Something was up. The tether jerked spasmodically. Odd how she never noticed that before. It seemed keyed to emotions and events. Her secret companion certainly took note. Perhaps she should also.

She circled the bed, calling "Kriger," trying it out as an endearment, soft and tentative. Silence.

"Wolf!" Louder, modulated, authoritative. That felt better. Truer to the template.

She'd have to modify the subtle bits, things an actor might need. Delivery, tone, letting the personality nestle in the voice. She had to be more than a marionette. She'd be full-featured, a complete package—perfect, down to the smallest details.

That might give the man-whore something to think about.
Where had that come from? Man-whore?
Not her thought. The tether yanked at her gut, once. Hard.

"Wolf, hon?" That slipped out, the love-struck girl and the heart-sick woman, united in premonition and concern.

Revenge urged,
Not like that
.

"Wha—? Oh."

She crossed to the small closet. He'd left the door ajar. Atypical for someone who came across as obsessive, tuned to the smallest details. He'd been in a hurry. The hangers were shoved to the left, one askew, jammed against the interior wall so hard it had gouged and imbedded into the surface. She pawed through the shirts, some military stiff, the rest soft flannel casual, outdoorsy and functional. He favored dark colors, smooth earth browns and russet plaids, deep olive greens. His color choices never registered when he'd been the man without a name, passing through her life a giant wearing an invisibility cloak.

She pulled a plain burgundy corduroy shirt out of the far reaches of the closet and held it up. Frayed about the collar, with the tiny buttons missing, it had the look of well-worn and well-loved. Light shone through the fabric, brighter in some areas where the fibers had worn smooth and thin. The right elbow was threadbare, only a few strands of cotton remaining. Was he left-handed, using the right elbow to brace as he whittled his tiny carvings with the left? She couldn't recall. Such minutiae. Why should they matter?

His favorite shirt, hidden away, protected.
This one
.

Caitlin slipped the shirt on. "Oh shit, it fits."

She'd forgotten her 'new and improved' dimensions. She muttered, "No wonder he put it in the back. It's shrunk." She giggled softly, "Didn't want to throw it away, did you, big man?"

That thought gave her pause. She'd not figured him for being the sentimental type, though it shouldn't be a surprise. He'd been nothing but gentle, treating her like the finest porcelain. Even now she felt his feather touches on her spine as he'd held her close, comforting her and soothing the grief away. How could she convince her body that the memory of his soft caresses belonged to another, not to this red-haired giantess?

Annoyed, she quickly buttoned the shirt and turned to the dresser in search of something to clothe her lower extremities. Revenge prodded, more insistent. She'd forego her natural curiosity. First drawer—underwear. It was an unspoken rule. She'd had her eyes closed when he'd disrobed in the bathroom. Had he gone commando? Now was not the time to find out.

She reached for the third drawer but it caught and resisted the pull. The dresser was old, garage-sale vintage. Whoever had outfitted the bedrooms had gone with inexpensive and recycled. A quick yank rewarded her with a small stack of pull-on fleece work-out shorts, each with stringed ties in the elastic band. For all his size, he was narrow-waisted, carrying his mass in his chest and arms. The shorts would fit well enough. She grabbed the nondescript gray fleece and pulled it on. A pair of lightweight, dark gray wool socks lay on the desk chair next to the dresser. He'd gone for heavier and discarded these. They would do her just fine.

Prevaricating. That's what her mom would say when her offspring chose to enter teenage time warps whenever the unpleasant or unaccustomed beckoned. Caitlin's mom. Not Xena's. It was time to confront the man and find out which demon ruled her life.

Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the mirror with satisfaction and said, "Let's get this show on the road," and strode down the hall toward the bathroom. The light shone through the open doorway, leaving an oblong shape reflecting off the smooth dark pine flooring. Revenge whispered caution so she approached quietly though there was little need as the socks cushioned any noise she might make on the bare wood. Her progress would echo below, in the kitchen, with telltale shuffling, always a background melody that all had remarked and ignored.

Mouthing
Wolf
as she peered around the door jamb, she confronted an empty bathroom. She tip-toed in, wishing for a weapon and not knowing why. The man's razor lay in the sink, still bearing lather. The hand towel perched on the left-hand edge and small beads of water still clung to the porcelain surface and the linoleum floor at the base of the sink.

He would not leave the bathroom in this state. Something was wrong and she didn't need her imaginary friend or the tether to confirm it. She peered in the hamper and pawed through the pile—her clothing, not his. The 'I've got a bad feeling' vibe hit hard. The link throbbed with a steady hum. He was close and they had company. And if they were downstairs, they would know she was up and about. There was little need for quiet.

On a hunch she raced back to Wolf's bedroom and pawed through the closet. The upper shelf contained only neatly folded sweaters. The rest of the dresser drawers were sparsely occupied with clothing. Frantic now, she knelt on the floor and looked under the bed. A long, narrow wood box and two smaller rectangular boxes lay concealed by the bed skirting. She pulled one of the smaller boxes out and stared with annoyance at the sturdy lock. The key. She needed the key.

Feeling along the edge of the metal bed frame, she found a small container tucked into the "L"-shape at the head of the bed—a magnetic box for keys. With trembling fingers she opened the lock, saying a small prayer of thanks that her warrior hadn't opted for a more elaborate security system. Grasping the S&W .357, she quickly checked the magazine.

"Shit. Ammo. Where's the fucking ammo?"

The dresser drawers lay tilted open. She gave the interiors a quick swipe as she surveyed the small bedroom. There were few hidey-hole places, unless he'd gone clever and hidden stuff under the floorboards. Somehow that seemed unnecessary and too time-consuming. She felt along the shelf in the closet, dislodging sweaters. Even with her height, it was a reach to get to the rear.

"Ah, ha. There you are." She pulled a clip from the foam lined box and inserted it into the magazine. "Time to rock and roll."

****

"W
hat's she gonna be packing, son?"

"I'm not your damn son."

"Fair enough. I'd still like to know what kind of arsenal you've got up there."

"Nothing. You've got my shotgun."

"Uh-huh. Well, don't sound like nothing, boy. She'll know better." He chuckled softly. "Hear that? She's in the closet."

Wolf muttered, "Shit," at the characteristic 'click', the sound transmitted and amplified through the floor boards. They could track her every move. He hoped she'd realize that fact before heading down the stairs.

Jake prodded the taller man to sit straighter, his hands cuffed behind his back. "I'd rather she see you first. Give her pause."

Both men stared at the stairwell, waiting.

Jake muttered, "What's your name anyways?"

"Liuthr."

"Liuthr. Ah, yes. You're the one they call 'Wolf'."

"How do you...?"

"Ssh. She's coming. Be real still, Wolf." Jake pressed the Glock against the back of the giant's head. "I'd take it kindly if we didn't have to hurt my girl." He leaned to whisper into the warrior's ear, "You I don't care so much about."

The men watched Caitlin stalk down the stairs, one step at a time, her backed braced against the wall, the S&W .357 sweeping the open area in smooth, practiced arcs.

Jake said, "Watch and learn, boy."

Both men tensed as the Amazon hove into view. She looked strong and competent and completely at ease with the lethal weapon. Jake wondered if his girl would be capable of a killing shot. His gut told him yes, his heart yearned for a different answer.

The flickering light from the wood stove backlit the men. Wolf, tall and massive, sat on the coffee table, while he, smaller and more compact, sheltered behind the giant's form.

Jake's heart thudded in his chest. He'd thought his girl dead. That's what they'd been told and he knew even Gunnarr believed it. He'd never have recognized her but for the familiar template she'd used once before, so many months ago when they'd instigated the ill-advised raid on Greyfalcon headquarters. He'd died a little each day since, every one another nail in his coffin until he'd become like Trey—a dead man walking, his final act on this earth to save his son before the young man self-destructed.