Addictive Nightshade (8 page)

“Will I keep growing?” I ask, wishing I wouldn't keep putting my foot in it.

He looks up again, his surveillance pausing a moment too long on my chest, “Affirmative. You'll stabilize after a few days. That's why you need your strength right now.”

Holding my stare with his fathomless eyes ringed with fake fire, he smiles, morphing his strong face into charming, “Are you ready to meet the clan yet, or do you think you still need a bit of adjustment privacy?”

“
Er, too soon,” I nod emphatically. “Worry steals my appetite.”

Let's just put that out there right now.

I look down, picking up my mug.

“
Trust me, nothing will suppress your appetite.” He purrs it, the way he licked my earlobe with my name back at the F.F. It heats my insides and does insane things with my ability to focus. Unable to look at him I grip my mug tighter, fogging up at the suggestion in his tone.

God, the F.F. feels like a lifetime ago.

How am I going to 'train' when every time he talks to me I turn into a side order of mushy peas?

“
Em,” he hums so low even the wood of the table vibrates, clinking the cutlery.

Summoned with temptation I look directly into his eyes.

“Please stop fretting, I promise I'll never let harm come to you, especially not by my hand.”

I nod, attraction squeezing my throat, making conversation impossible.

Impulsively he reaches up, holding my chin in his long fingers, belatedly seeming a little shocked at himself . “Your eyes are gorgeous today.”

That unglues my voice and I feel shrill, “My eyes? Why? What happened to my eyes?”

He leans closer, staring into me, saying intimately, “They're incredible, the gray has turned into a slice of firmament, sparkling like imprisoned cosmos. You're a frail sacrament, the storm within you has come out of hibernation and it's... beautiful.”

“
Jeez Mac, you're a soppy one.”

He scowls at me, pulling back and releasing his hold, sitting straight, “Soppy? Has no man ever told you how gorgeous you are?”

“I wish. The best Guy ever did was tell me I look 'nice'.”

“
You know what Guy's missing?” he snaps, anger tarnishing his tone.

“
A heart?” I laugh with bitter deprecation.

“
A concussion.”

It's so brutally sincere, said with such ferocity cast into his face that I burst out laughing.

“I'll be sure to give him one the next time I see him,” I smile, the tension alleviated.

“
Not if I beat you to it,” he winks, shoveling a cracker into his mouth without even needing to bite it in halves like I do.

I watch his mouth, the full lips spread by the motion, the way his square chin wiggles and deepens the barely visible cleft. He looks noble and altogether too sexy. All angles and spikes which totally matches his statuesque body. I could stare at him for hours.

“You're okay, Mac,” I nod, following suit and silencing my runaway tongue with coffee.

“
You're better than okay, Em.”

Grinning stupidly at each other I hold up my mug, “A toast to eating as friends.”

He returns the gesture, saying, “Skal,” then sips his java while staring sharply at me over the rim. He's hiding a secret today. He keeps looking at me with such intensity that I wonder if I should be worried.

Exchanging his coffee for my hand, he lifts it and gives my knuckles a brief kiss, “Stop worrying. If I was a rogue I'd not be this patient, and if we are anything it is patient.”

“You're a romantic sap,” I tease again, loving that he's strong enough to rip my clothes off but can hold my hand like it's a fragile eggshell.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight together, “Please stop thinking about me taking your clothes off. Every time you do I'm back in that bathroom looking at legs so long they belong on a unicorn filly.”

“Not my rack?” I tease boldly, impressed that he has a thing for legs like I do.

His eyes open, the left disproportionately bright again, “Lady, if you value your virtue you'll change the subject.” He kisses my hand again, twisting it to look at the mark, running his thumb across it before release, saying firmly, “Eat! It stops you from talking about cleavage and legs.”

My insides are melting. How did his thumb stroke make me instantly horny?

Pointing an accusing finger at me, he says in a deep voice, “Don't think about the bathroom incident or I'll have to hand you over to Arghin for training, because all you do is distract me.”

Laughing, I kick him under the table before retracting my legs to prop my heels onto my chair, “Ha! That's the price you pay for kidnapping women from their homes.”

He opens his mouth to retort, then snaps it closed, smiling, shaking his head and selecting a cracker, shoving three into his mouth so his cheeks distend, obviously determined to stop himself from flirtatious repartee.

Or just maybe I hit the only raw nerve he has.

Lifting my feet closer to my ass I close my eyes too, wishing there was a magic potion to halt stampeding libido.

“You know what I think?” intrudes his voice.

“
What?” I say, keeping my eyes closed.

“
We should celebrate tonight. This has been entirely too serious for you and it makes you tense. After Arghin and me help sort out your quarters I say we introduce you to Akevitt.”

“
What is ackafit?” he's managed to coax me from my isolation and I open my eyes, simultaneously dropping my legs and swinging them idly under my highchair.

“
Water of life, the drink of Scandinavia.”

“
What's it made from?”

“
Potato.” He laughs hard, shrugging, “What can I say? We're resourceful.”

“
I dunno, I don't think I fancy drinking potato smoothies.”

“
No elskling, it is a liqueur we classify as brennevin, which means burning wine. Akevitt is crystal clear and flavored with anise. It tastes like Yule in a glass, distilled through amber. When we feed you potatoes they're deep purple, naturally almost black.”  Shrugging again, the movement causing his chest muscles to dip and pout under his shirt, he smirks, “We are harii, the warriors in black, you'd expect us to favor the dark potato.”

“
You're just excited because you hope I can't hold my liquor.”

“
Nonsense, you can't persecute a guy for wanting to share your own culture with you.” This time he kicks
me
under the table and I'm grateful he's not wearing shoes, “Plus it's nothing new for me to have to carry you around. You need a party Emma, a real one. I'll let you in on a secret, in the old words we called yule, jøl. To jøl means to have a good time, and as it was yesterday I think we all need to kick back and let our hair down.”

“
Yoll?” I check I say it right.

He nods, “Yes babes, you need to jøl the T'ach'aa way. A jøller is a party animal.”

Ha! Next he'll be offering to teach me the raven dance.

This time I sense the tension oozing out of him when his eye flares. He looks at the mark on his hand, then into my eyes, tightening my lungs when he absently rubs the sigil on his palm, twisting my womb into an involuntary spasm, turning me on.

It's diabolical that mark is.

“
You're too astute sometimes,” he says, his natural croon coming out strained.

“
Why?”

“
The raven dance is slang in our world for coupling.”

“
Oh!” My palm is tingling and I copy him, rubbing the black triangle on my hand. It's completely healed now and is fascinating in its intricacy.

Tracing it, his groan breaks my focus. His veins are popping out and he looks like he's in pain.

“Mac?”

He holds up a hand, “I'm fine.” He readjusts his slouch, looking all business now, “Finish eating, we need to start this day.”

The atmosphere is different and I have an awful hunch it's my doing.

Now what did I do?

Chapter 12

Emma:

After grabbing essentials from my supplies I've brushed my teeth, neatened my hair and tied it up, and am now wandering the catacombs with my guide.

The tunnels are high and rough, everywhere illuminated by crystals, some he says is lit with their old technology of energy which he calls glasir.

Smiling with indulgence he continues while we walk the long corridor, “We found it endlessly amusing when movies came out with swords of light because in Asgard all the swords have that ability.”

“
Oh yeah?” I don't think George Lucas will appreciate you claiming the spotlight for that ingenuity darling.

“
It's true,” he says authoritatively. “It's recorded as such in the
Skáldskaparmál
.”

“
Ah huh,” I nod, absorbing sights and sounds while he tries to convince me Asgard is teaming with light sabers.

“
At the beginning of
Skáldskaparmál an account is given of
Ægir
visiting the gods in Asgard and shimmering swords are brought out and used as their sole source of light as they drink.”

“
Okay,” I shrug, seriously not caring. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

“
Because the modern man peddles the holy for entertainment. Asgard is real, Valhalla is real, all of it is based in fact but because of the passage of time instead of teaching children truth they're taught propaganda and how to recite wars and bloodshed. Children are not taught hope, but despair. And when the truth is finally revealed it's called science fiction.”

We're walking across a central dome with a myriad of tunnels leading off it and it hits me for the first time that this is a hidden city. Holy cow!

People move around conducting their own business, mostly normal looking folk who nod while surveying me with inquisitive expressions.

I nod back, beginning to feel like a curiosity.

“How come it's not cold in here?” I mumble, self-conscious, but wondering why we're barefoot on hard stone which should be chilling and isn't.

“
It's a fallacy that stone is cold. Stone not exposed to the elements retains residual heat,” he explains, holding his arm in front of me to prevent me from walking into the room we're headed for. “Close your eyes.”

Shaking my head, laughing, I close them, waiting for the next big surprise.

His arm moves behind me, pulling me forward around my waist when suddenly my feet hit cold and smushy. It gives me a skin crawling case of jeeblies. The sensation on my naked soles is so cool it feels wet. Wriggling my toes on something soft and moist it is both elicit and repulsive.

“
What do you smell?” he asks quietly.

“
Peppermint.” It's so strong it's stinging my nose.

“
Open your eyes.”

Snapping them open I'm spellbound. Awed at the endless acreage in the depths of a mountain, filled from end to end with medium sized trees. Wow!

“Under your feet is the ground-cover of pennyroyal mint. It's briskly icy and wherever you walk in here you don't smell the apples, you smell the heaven you're walking on.”

Dropping to my haunches I run my hand over the fey carpet. It's incredible. It looks nothing like mint but is instead a spongy layer of thick green tiny leaves knitting together in such a bright green it's vibrant.

Sitting on the arctic lawn of verdant comfort I look down the avenues of redly golden leaves. It doesn't look real, as if someone came in here with a can of Christmas spray paint and went ballistic.

“
Welcome to Glæsisvellir.”

“
Huh?” I look up at him, noticing the thousands of crystals imbedded in the cavern's ceiling. They emit warm light which instills the indoor meadow with a cosy and comforting ambiance, making it seem intimate when it's vacuous.

“
It translates from Odainsaker, which means
deathless acre
. Here we grow the glasir, the trees which produce the golden l
æraðr.
In Asgard they grow outside the doors of Valhalla.”

“
The deathless acre?” I parrot, still a little awestruck and not retaining information.

“
Yes, Em. Everyone who eats from these trees becomes young and healthy, no one who regularly consumes l
æraðr will die.”

“
Does no one get old here?”

A grief stricken shadow glances across his face, “Our lifespan is usually eight hundred years and we do adopt the signs of maturity such as the silver hair and bulk, but sometimes
Jötunn choose to get old and die. Sometimes living becomes a hardship and they leave to go back home. It's a sure sign someone's had enough when they refuse to drink the elixir of Asgard. Going without it after a certain age results in aging so rapid it's alarming.”

“
Go home?”

If they can just go home why the hell do they stay here?

He sits heavily next to me, folding long limbs, “Emma, last night...” He clears his throat and I detect heavy emotion chewing on him. “... The wild hunt comes through once a year. Anyone who wants to leave can go home with the hunt. No death is necessary, but it's always hard to say goodbye to your kin.”

“
Why do you stay? Why doesn't everyone go home?” I ask, anxiety at his change in demeanor gnawing at me.

“
Because people like you need us. The lost must be found before we can all escape and go home.”

His left eye is shining brightly through the black lens and I sense the intensity coming off him. We're a calling. Saving us from humanity's chains is what they live for.

I gesture to the orchard, “This is incredible.”

That gets him to smile and he stands again, both of us smelling strongly of uncut peppermint, offering his hand to pull me to my feet.

Accepting the help, he asks as I stand, “Would you like to meet Gudmund?”

“
Who's Gudmund?”

“
He takes care of this orchard and the growing of our crops. Down the sides you'll find the berries and vegetables.”

“
Sure,” I nod, sensing he needs the distraction.

As if loitering for an invitation a man so enormous he's taller than the trees steps onto the path in the avenue ahead of us, smiling welcome as he strides long tree trunk legs our way.

“Ah, here he is now.” Gudmund stops next to Macala, thumping his shoulder so hard it catapults him two steps away from me, forcing him to turn to make introductions, “Gudmund this is Emma, my Raven mate. Emma, this is Gudmund, our green thumbed genius.”

I watch my hand vanish into his huge paw as if I'm the size of a flower fairy. “Good to greet,” he rumbles.

I attempt to shake his hand but it's a dismal failure, trying not to gape at his twin shining eyes and pale hair so platinum it looks like blond streaked silver. It's worn short and bushy, wild, like him. He pulls me in and rustles dry lips across my cheek, intimidating the heck out of me.

I'm glad I'm not the seamstress for this crowd because you could fit three of me in just one leg of his jeans.

“Nice to meet you,” I reply, my neck getting tight from the angle required to look into his face.

They really are giants. No screwing around, the real deal.

“Where fare you?” Gudmund asks Mac.

“
The gym. I need to gauge her karsk.”

The big man smiles, splitting his face into welcome, aiming his attention at me, “Make him sweat.” Giving me a wink he nods farewell and vanishes like a sprite between the trees again.

“How come we're so small?” I whisper.

“
We're half human, that - and we keep growing for decades. The mature men all look like Gudmund.”

“
So you're like... young?” I ask him, absently stroking a ripe apple the size of my head on the tree next to us.

Wow, the leaves are really auriferous. The spine and veins are red, but metallic. Absolutely beautiful.

“Young is relative when you're measuring by centuries,” says Mac, capturing my hand in his and tugging me with him to walk to the end of the looooong pasture.

“
And I'm going to keep growing?” I ask.

Shit, how will I ever find anything to wear?

Pausing with me, his smirk is enticing, “You will grow in spurts like the rest of us. Right now you'll grow for three days. Then you'll wear the same sized clothing for about two years before the next growth spurt.”

He cuddles me spontaneously, squeezing an arm around my shoulder and jostling me, “Don't worry squirt, we'll find you clothes in the room next to the gym.”

“I hate that you always know what I'm thinking.”

Releasing me he taps a blunt finger next to his left eye, “The all seeing eye, it's a gift and a curse. Now come...”

My hand is held fast again and he forces me to walk swiftly across the Arcadian arbor. I'm like a kid in Santa's workshop. Everything is so exquisite I can't stop reaching out to touch, caressing apples, smooth bark, boughs, leaves, as we meander across the best kept secret of the modern world.

Looking back at the vast realm of apples I see now why Avalon was so special. The apples have an aura about them, each tree glowing with a subtle halo of vibrant energy.

Emerging through the next connecting tunnel we're in another huge room, this one a hangar of gym equipment, wooden sauna looking boxes that look like mammoth crates, two deep pools with diving boards, and an entire area set out with aged-mustard mats.

It smells musty yet the light in here is brighter. Staring up at the ceiling way up there I note the crystals are bigger. I wish I could take photos. This feels fleeting as a dream. I never want to wake and leave this enchanting empire.

Leading me directly to the mats he indicates the gap in the surrounding dividing screens, “The bathrooms are through there if you need a break.” Turning he points to fountains mounted on the wall, “Fluid replacement comes from there.” Facing me again he adopts a karate stance which just hammers my heart into my throat, “Are you ready?”

“
No,” I blurt.

I'll never be ready!

He smiles, it's gentle and sweet, “Chillax elskling. I just need to see your moves.”

“
I don't have any moves! I'm a bookaholic not a samurai warrior.”

Drumming his chest with both hands he insists, “Come on, just try to land a punch on my chest. Anything, just attempt to make contact.”

Leaning close with his shoulders he taps my upper arm antagonistically, “Come on Em, you must have anger you need to work off.”

That just makes me think of Guy eloping with Desiree. Annoyed, I slap his poking hand off my arm. Stepping in I try elbow him in the ribs the way we were taught in ladies self-defense, but he sidesteps.

“Faster. Push for break.”

I try everything, kicking at his knees, foot-sweeps, channeling Bruce Lee to the best of my ability, thinking of every Jackie Chan and Jet Li movie I've ever seen. I dig deeper for Stratham and Willis, imagining myself fighting for my life in the Congo. All for naught.

Eventually I'm hot and sweaty and I have to keep pulling my pants up because they're a hundred sizes too big for me.

He makes the timeout T, “Let's get you threads.”

I'm mildly insulted that he isn't even breathing hard. Trailing him across the room we walk into a warehouse of supplies. He sweeps his arm at the racks and racks of apparel, “Help yourself. I'll wait here for you.”

“
What must I get?” I demand, unaccustomed to being told to raid storage without a limit or supervision.

“
Whatever fits, whatever turns you on, whatever babes. Just go hunting and find your smile while you're at it.”

Oookay then.

Turning back to the endless world of choice I go jaunting off, amazed at the period clothing, wondering if they ever put on plays or anything? Nah, to them it's recent history. They probably remember Rome's gladiators by name. Hell, they probably
were
Rome's invincible muscle men, I wouldn't be surprised to be introduced to Spartacus at dinner tonight.

Finding the gym section I grab built in support tank tops and yoga pants, holding them up against me to gauge my new size.

I hope they have underwear in here.

Maybe I need to wear skirts until I stop growing, then I can go shopping in a proper store and not feel guilty.

With tons of selections I finally head back to my warden.

His grin twists his face into cute. He's got the young rebel vibe about him even if he's two hundred and sixteen. Very cavalier and rascal. He's the guy you'd expect to own a bike without registration, the guy who smokes weed at the drive-in, the guy who always slides his hand up under your skirt when he leans in for a kiss... that guy. The one with scars from playing stupid games with knives and fire, and a private tattoo in his groin that only the chosen get to see.