Valkyrie's Conquest. Sharon Ashwood
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Such loss and heartbreak! With a gasp, she gave one last pull, collecting the soul before its touch overwhelmed her.
The soul came away easily, though it struggled to escape the moment her sword severed the shining tether that bound spirit to body. Tyra panted hard from the rush of conflicting, unfamiliar emotions.
“What have you done?” Bron demanded. “I don’t see anything.”
“Just wait and watch.” A jumble of shyness and confusion galloped through Tyra, leaving her skin hot as if it had burned in the sun. It was embarrassing, as if she had drunk one too many horns of honey wine. Still, she felt a pang as the desire, fear and longing slipped through her grasp, leaving only a fractured memory behind. Her eyes stung and she closed them, and in a beat the awkwardness had passed. She was back to what she had been before—a soulless creature with only the barest shreds of feeling to trouble her heart.
And then only her work remained. The soul became visible slowly, emerging first as a faint outline of the man, as if someone had sketched him in glowing pencil. Then the outline filled in, a bit at a time, to become as dark and solid as the body on the ground, except now his uniform was whole and clean. Bron murmured a long string of words she didn’t know, but the wonder in them was clear.
The whole time, Tyra clasped the soul’s hand, holding him close to her side. She liked to think her firm hold gave her charges a comforting anchor in those first few moments of their new lives. Or maybe it was just her need to understand. Humans were extraordinary beings, with spirits that granted them eternity. Despite her powers, if she were slain, or if the Allfather cast her aside, she would simply cease to exist.
Once the man was solid, she turned to him. “I have come for you, Gregory Macdonald, to take you to Valhalla, the Allfather’s mead hall. It is time for you to claim your seat in the host of fallen heroes, to drink and sing songs of glory and to fight alongside my father’s warriors.”
Macdonald was staring down at his own body and swearing with all the force of abject terror. “I was stabbed,” he said, his voice hollow. “Clawed.”
“You were killed by demons,” Tyra corrected him.
“Demons?” the man repeated slowly, goggling at her in confusion.
Bron just looked angry. “Why are demons roaming loose in the city?”
“This place was not always a city,” Tyra explained. “For thousands of years, the warriors of Odin Allfather have battled the armies of the dark god, and much of the war has happened right here.”
“Say what?” Macdonald asked.
Bron frowned. “Why have I never heard of this before now?”
Tyra shook her head. “The dragons have ever kept to their own affairs.”
“You might have written,” Bron said reasonably. “Fate of the world and all that.”
“It is a matter for gods and heroes,” Tyra replied.
“And yet you take casualties to add to your father’s army,” said the dragon. “It seems to be a matter for humankind as well.”
“Dragons?” said Macdonald. “Just asking.”
Tyra gave both men a quelling glance. “We only take the souls of mighty warriors. There are rules both sides have agreed to. The hellspawn cannot use weapons other than sword and spear. And they cannot disturb the Valkyries in their work.”
“And the demons obey these rules?” Bron’s voice declared his doubt.
Tyra wavered. She might have said that they had, until recently. The war was changing in subtle ways that worried her and that Odin Allfather would not admit to. More dead. Bolder demons. The age of the gods was over and the balance of power was shifting. But she wasn’t about to complain to a random dragon, however much he had compelled her notice.
Which he should never have done. She wanted nothing more than distance between them.
“The rules are as iron,” she said in a voice equally hard. “And they do not include dragons.”
Bron’s amber eyes narrowed. “As you wish.”
That gaze was as hot as the lick of dragon fire. Tyra shuddered. “Go in peace, Bron of the Flameborn. Keep to your own affairs.”
And with that, she unfurled her wings and launched into the air, setting course for Valhalla with the soul in tow. She looked down only once. Bron stood in the parking lot, arms folded and with his face tilted up, watching her go.
With disturbing clarity, Tyra remembered wanting him. There had been a rush of longing, a desire to comb her fingers through that thick, dark hair and to feel his lips against hers. To touch skin to skin, as no Valkyrie ever would. The fleeting desire had been so acute, she could remember every detail.
Almost as if it wasn’t a memory at all.
“Are you going to kidnap the babe, or allow someone else to hold her?” Sigrid asked Tyra in her imperious way. As the eldest and strongest of the Valkyries, Sigrid was senior to them all, and never let them forget it. “This is a naming ceremony. We’re here to bless the child with womanly strength, not melt into a puddle.”
“One moment.” Tyra held the little girl, bewitched by the contrast between her sword-calloused hands and the baby’s tiny fingers. Nestled in the soft woolen blanket, the child was barely an armful. It was hard to imagine everyone, even the mighty Thor, had started out so small. The thought made her heart flutter oddly.
The ritual itself was over and the house of the goddess Freya was crowded with women. They stood in groups or reclined on cushions, drinking honeyed wine and nibbling on nuts and fruit as they gossiped. Their hostess was everything the Valkyries were not. She was curved and womanly, a beauty skilled in the rites of pleasure and fertility. Her home was beautiful and welcoming, even if there were a few too many cats.
“Tyra?” This time Sigrid’s voice was tinged with impatience.
Knowing argument was pointless, Tyra passed the baby over to its mother. The woman—one of Freya’s favorite handmaidens—bowed her thanks to the Valkyries and retreated, leaving the two warrior women alone at the fringe of the crowd. The ceremony was over, the baby blessed, and their duty done.
Tyra rubbed her arms, which felt cold and empty without the soft little bundle. Although Odin encouraged the Valkyries to attend such celebrations, it was only to cement their role in Asgard’s society. Their duties would never allow them to have children of their own. As creatures without souls, motherhood was nothing they should have desired, anyhow.
Yet Tyra’s gaze followed the baby as it was passed around the group. Restless, she turned away, knowing she did not fit with these women chattering about milk teeth and swaddling clothes. Home and family were not her domain, and yet today they tugged at her in unreasonable ways. She had felt this ache ever since she had gathered that last soul, as if the waves of emotion brought on by touching it had never entirely faded.
Or had it been meeting the dragon? Bron’s dark, towering presence flashed through her memory like lightning, bringing a tingle to her flesh that was both heat and chill. He was tall and broad, fit for wielding a battle ax or broadsword, but he moved with grace and speed. Dragons were creatures of flight, and those hard muscles were honed to lean perfection. She had wanted to touch every line and ridge of him, as if memorizing his form was the most important task in the universe. His children would be strong, and the act of creating them…
Tyra shook herself, suddenly needing air to cool the flush rising to her skin. Holding babies in the house of a love goddess was clearly a bad idea.
Sigrid had drifted away to inspect the food. That was just as well, since Tyra wanted a moment to gather her wits. With a quick goodbye to her hostess and the new mother, Tyra left. Pride kept her