Valkyrie Reborn Read online

  An hour of dying on Level One because she couldn’t get Brit’s smug face out of her head convinced her to do something else. She shut the system down.

  Maybe a shower would help her relax. She stripped down, and stepped under the hot jets. One of her favorite things about hotels had always been the unlimited hot water.

  Water poured over her, beating heat into her skin and washing away the morning’s grime. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cool tile, to lose herself in the contrasting temperatures.

  “She took advantage of me.” Brit’s voice flashed in her thoughts, as loud and vivid as if the other woman was standing next to her.

  Kirby’s gut churned, and bile rose in her throat.

  “She used her position of power. I couldn’t say no. What was I supposed to do?”

  Kirby bit the side of her fist, to smother a frustrated scream.

  “I don’t love her. She’s a fucking monster. I’m terrified every time I’m alone with her.”

  Kirby wasn’t any of those things.

  Unless I am.

  This voice was her own. And it was a lying fucking bitch.

  Just because I don’t like it doesn’t make it a lie. They raised me to be a killer. I’m the best. I don’t have any moral high ground.

  She was tracking down all of TOM’s other killers. Why did she exempt herself? No. She refused to slide into that pit. The voice that lived in that darkness could stay tucked away in the dark corner of her soul. Kirby had fought hard to keep it at bay. Starkad helped.

  He doesn’t want me either.

  That was different. And if she asked him to be here for this, he would be. Walk out of her room and a few doors down, to him. Ask him to help her stay grounded. He’d do that without hesitation.

  But he won’t fuck me.

  She wouldn’t emotionally blackmail her way into his bed. And she wouldn’t let him see her backslide like this.

  Because I’m weak. Because I can’t deal with what life handed me. Because I use excuse after excuse, to pretend I deserve a life.

  Kirby recognized the lies. A tiny part of her tried to scream don’t listen, but the other voice was louder. She had razors in her suitcase. She was only supposed to use her electric razor.

  It wasn’t as though Starkad would spank her if he found out. And at this point, his I’m very disappointed in you would be an extra reason to hate herself. Besides, Kirby wasn’t going to use them.

  Then why do I keep them?

  She wouldn’t kill herself, or anything so drastic. A few tiny cuts along her chest, where they’d hurt like hell but not interfere with her work, and she could shock herself out of her own head.

  Kirby knotted her fingers in her wet hair, and another scream bubbled up in her throat. The last thing she needed was someone coming to check on a shouting woman. She clenched her jaw, swallowing the frustration and squeezing her eyes shut until tears leaked out the sides.

  I have to do something. I need the pain to stop.

  She pressed her palms to the shower wall and leaned her weight into them. She couldn’t see the pale white scars on her wrists, but she knew they were there. She kept the cutting scars hidden, but the failed suicide marks were there to remind her. To make sure she never forgot how low she sank after Brit...

  Kirby choked on a sob.

  Kirby needed to get out of here and surround herself. Maybe people-watch. Being in public would force her to stay on alert. She hoped.

  She finished showering, then dried off and yanked a sundress on. She was getting laid, and she needed something that was easy to get in and out of. She shouldn’t head out as herself. A wig was the last thing she wanted to put on. The blue cap with the three crowns sat harmlessly on the nightstand—one of the few things in the room that didn’t call to her tortured past. It was a horrid accessory for her outfit. She didn’t give a fuck.

  I’m so pathetic.

  She whimpered through clenched teeth. She yanked on the hat, grabbed her room key and a fresh set of ID from the lining of her suitcase, and headed down to the hotel bar.

  It was three in the afternoon. The bartender and a waitress were the only people here. That didn’t mean Kirby could let her guard down, and she was grateful for that. She picked a table in the back corner, away from any windows and with a clear view of all the entrances.

  The waitress stood at the bar, one foot hooked on the rung running around the bottom, and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. She was eating up the bartender’s story about how he’d been near the explosion this morning.

  “Oh my God. I would have died, I’d be so scared.” Her tone was exaggerated.

  So was the bulge in his slacks—sock stuffed down there, for sure. Kirby shouldn’t have been able to see it from here, but somehow he’d managed to raise himself high enough to look casual about showing it off.

  She turned her attention to the TV. This morning’s incident made national news. Wonderful. Seeing fifty gazillion cell-phone recaps of the madness was exactly what she needed. Not. As soon as she saw, Police haven’t identified any suspects at this time, she turned her attention from the closed captions.

  Since both she and Brit had survived, either TOM or Urd would have a scapegoat in place in a few days. They’d attach this to someone else, who’d been recently arrested. Both groups kept tabs on a frighteningly high number of people. There were pre-built solutions in place, for any incident like this.

  This wasn’t the distraction Kirby hoped for. I could head back to my room. I just need a little relief. It’s not like it’s a big deal.

  She grabbed the drink menu instead, and stared at the bizarrely named options. At least half of them were alcohol free. Which was good. Alcohol hindered her reactions. A sugar addiction would be a nice change from her relationship with pain. She ordered a Tahitian Coffee. The first sip made her wince. Lime and cold brew weren’t meant to be together. But once the flavors settled on her tongue, she downed the rest of it quickly.

  What next? Focusing on the ridiculous flavor combinations was the perfect distraction. Mango Mule... that was tempting. It probably didn’t live up to lime and coffee, though. She had expectations now.

  I don’t want this. Who am I fooling? I want to be alone. There’s a much faster way to get my fix.

  Her skin begged for that sharp, fast slice of steel. The release that came with it. The euphoria of pain when she cut her skin.

  The soul-devouring self-loathing that came after—Kirby needed more of that. A giant pit to sink into. She didn’t even know if she was being sarcastic.

  Starkad would help.

  He doesn’t want to put up with my shit. He’s sick of me, throwing myself at him. He helps me out of some misguided sense of obligation—

  That wasn’t true. He was kind. He’s cruel. He brought pleasure. Through pain. Which was exactly what she needed right now.

  If she closed her eyes, she could feel the sting of his belt on her skin. Hear his deep growl in her ear. He could offer a welcome release.

  Too bad I burned that bridge.

  And there was no one in the bar, let alone someone worth hooking up with. Bartender with the sock-cock didn’t count.

  “I like your hat.” The familiar voice startled her.

  She jerked her head up to find the man who’d rescued her from the police standing next to her table. He was as breathtaking now as he had been a few hours ago. Strawberry blond hair that brushed his ears, piercing green eyes that reflected a sadness she felt in her bones, and smile that made her heart skip. How did he approach without her knowing? Even distracted, she should have seen him. Her blood ran like ice through her veins, shoving aside the burst of attraction.

  “For as long as you’ve been staring at that drink menu, has it revealed the secrets of the universe to you?” he asked.

  Her pulse hammered in her ears, and her skin was cold. She needed to go now. Every inch of her body screamed leave. The flutter in her chest said stay.

  Wh
at the fuck? She was self-destructive, but not on that level. She stood.

  He grabbed her wrist.

  Instinct kicked in. She needed to twist free. Knee him in the balls. Walk away before she drew more attention.

  She couldn’t wrench from his grip. His fingers were like a steel vice.

  Kinda hot.

  Not the time. If she cut through the back halls, she could duck in the women’s room. If he hesitated at all to follow her, it would give her time to slip out. If that didn’t make him take pause, she was cornered.

  Which way could she run? Front desk? Sock-cock bartender?

  “This is usually the part where you tell your brain to shut the fuck up, and listen to what your heart and body want.” He sounded like he was discussing mild weather.

  Usually? Everything about this was wrong. Except that her heart was still begging her to stay. On each rapid-fire beat, to the point it was drilling into her thoughts. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go.

  “Let go of me, or I’ll scream. How well does the trick you played on the cops work if people already think you’re the bad guy?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  How did she know that had been a trick of his, or how it worked this morning? She wasn’t sure, but it was one thing her mind and body agreed on. He could only influence certain people, in certain states of mind. Was it something she’d learned in school?

  He dropped her wrist. “If you leave, I won’t give you answers.”

  “I’m calling your bluff—that’s not the way to get me to stay.” Except she was still here. “If you have to bribe me with information, I don’t have a way to know if you’re lying.”

  “You’d know, and I’m not bribing you or blackmailing you or trying to trick you. However, I do refuse to shout at your retreating back.”

  If Kirby wasn’t going to walk away—the only thing she should be considering—she should at least use the voice commands programmed into her phone, to let Starkad know she was in trouble. “And if I stay, you’ll spoon-feed me half-truths that are vague and unhelpful, and each time I ask for more, you’ll have another requirement for me to meet?”

  He frowned. “You watch too many cop movies. How about I hand you my wallet?”

  “Not sure what good that’s going to do.” Curiosity was winning out. Probably because it was tainted with a heavy dose of self-destruction. I wanted a hookup. He’s hot.

  And now her mind was filled with images of her, wrapping her legs around his waist. Feeling his hot breath on her neck. On her pussy.

  Seriously. What the fuck was wrong with her? Starkad would say her problem was recklessness plus self-destruction, mixed with a heavy dose of horniness. And once again, he’d be right.

  “Will your ID have your real name on it?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t. It has the name I’ve been using for the last... little while. But it also has my credit cards and room key, so I’m highly inconvenienced if you take my wallet and leave.”

  “Who are you?” She shouldn’t care.

  He gestured to the chairs. “Sit, and I’ll tell you.”

  “Nope. That’s a condition. I met the stay and listen one. Give me something in return. Besides a wallet with someone else’s name on everything.”

  “My name is Gwydion. I’m—”

  “A Welsh trickster god.” Her mouth spit out the words before her brain caught up. As trickster gods went, she very much preferred this one’s history over Loki’s. “Gwydion is also a god of art and a local hero.” That was why she was familiar with how he’d fooled the cops earlier. He was on the curriculum when she was growing up, because TOM hated him. Bonus point in his favor, and a reason to give him a couple more minutes.

  No part of her argued he might be lying. It wasn’t common knowledge that gods walked among people, so for him to pick an obscure one, who just happened to be capable of what he’d done earlier, and hope she would believe such a ludicrous story... If he was lying, his thought process was still fascinating.

  She sat.

  Besides, if he kept being charming and reasonable, she could fuck him, and if he turned out to be a vengeful god, at least she’d die fighting. “If you’re going to kill me, what are the odds you’ll make it fast?”

  He searched her face, sadness heavy in his green eyes.

  Her heart cracked at the sight. Why?

  “I’m not going to kill you.” He sounded sincere. He could be lying anyway, especially since he looked like he’d wanted to say something else.

  Chapter Twelve

  Now - Gwydion

  I’d give my heart and soul and power and entire existence, to keep you from dying again. That was what Gwydion wanted to say. I’m not going to kill you, sounded far less obsessive.

  Though, revealing his true name and nature was far easier this life than it had been in others. Perhaps letting Starkad raise her among gods wasn’t all bad. This was also the first time she’d ever gotten the pronunciation of Gwydion’s name right on the first try. Like Gideon, but with a soft w after the g.

  In each of her lives, something was different about her. Her experiences shaped who she became, until—if—she remembered her pasts. But this Kirby... He recognized her body, but not her attitude. He’d never said that before.

  That didn’t make him want her any less. Desire snaked over his skin, humming with memories. And he wanted to know what had hurt her in this life. The whispers of pain in her eyes were new. Her reluctance to hear Gwydion out was new. And with her on edge like this, introducing her to Min was a bad idea. She was always on her guard when she first met Min. His all-consuming passion for her was intimidating from the outside looking in.

  Not that Gwydion would be able to call him off.

  “Why did you help me this morning?” Kirby asked.

  Gwydion took the chair across from her. He hadn’t seen her pull the trigger. He wasn’t supposed to know who she was or what she was involved in. He was also incapable of lying to her. “I was walking through town, I saw an explosion, and I was curious. I followed it. The thing about being a god is that life rarely holds surprises. Flash-bang grenade in the middle of Salt Lake City, during morning rush hour? That’s surprising.”

  “How do you know what kind of explosion it was?” Her back was ramrod straight, and her gaze was fixed on his face.

  If he were a god of passion, or a berserker with a mildly heightened sense of smell, he might know if her body was as aroused as his. Every inch of his skin burned with a need to refresh the past. He hated fighting the desire to crush his mouth to hers. “Another thing about being as old as I am—I’ve seen a lot of people die. A lot of them because they did stupid things, but not all. Most of the gods say fuck it. I can’t look the other way.”

  “Kind of you. Not relevant, but possibly endearing.”

  He gave her a dry smile. “So whenever my fragile little heart can tolerate it, I’m an army doctor. Last enlistment was the Gulf War.” Where he’d met Kirby in her most recent life. Those memories were potent. Less than thirty years had passed. Barely a heartbeat. And he’d had so many glorious months with her. “I’ve been on the front line for centuries. I know what a warzone looks like, urban or otherwise.”

  She raised her eyebrows. If this was the woman he knew, she believed him. He wished he could say that was true here.

  “I told you I’d give you answers,” he said.

  “But you also avoided my first question. Why did you help me?”

  He had to measure his words. “That cop was an asshole. You obviously weren’t the owner of that AUG, and taking their attention off you, letting you walk away, meant they could focus on the real suspects.”

  She narrowed her eyes. She’d heard the half-truth. He braced himself for her to walk away for the second time today.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Min said from behind Gwydion.

  Well, fuck. Kirby was going to bolt now, for sure.

  KIRBY

  Kirby was going a new flavor of n
uts. She must be. She came down here to ignore the mental voices. To talk herself out of going after Brit without prep or intel. To keep herself from cutting...

  And now she was staring at this stranger—a fucking god, which made him untrustworthy by nature—and fantasizing about screwing him in fifty different ways. When he said army doctor, she had the most vivid, intense flash of him taking her on an exam table. She swore she could feel the latex gloves on her skin.

  If she was going to go insane, this was a far more pleasant way than the path her mind was on earlier. She should listen to her instinct. Fucking was a good way to reset the brain. They even taught that in school.

  Nope. She was still insane.

  Then someone else approached. She’d seen the tall, broad-shouldered, ebony-skinned man enter the dining room. A new impulse teased her—the desire to climb into his lap and drag her fingertips over his buzzed hair, until he claimed her. He set off every alarm in her skull. Her body, on the other hand, hummed ever louder with arousal, and all either man had done was look at her.

  Like she was the most precious thing in the universe.

  “Are you a god too?” she asked the new arrival. How did she know that? If it was true, what did gods want with her?

  What do gods always want? To use me.

  “I am.” He extended his hand. “Min.”

  She didn’t know this one. He must not register on TOM’s threat- or ally-scale. “Karen.” At least she had the presence of mind to not give them her real name. When she gripped his hand, fissures of desire sped over and through her veins.

  She swallowed a whimper. She was everything Starkad accused her of. Reckless. Self-destructive. She didn’t care. Not at this moment. If they were gods, they could snap her without hesitation.

  Or they could break her in the most delicious way possible. She couldn’t drink. She could fuck. Ride that high of endorphins. Her life might not depend on it, but her sanity did. Not that they’d offered, but it was early.

  Kirby toed out the chair nearest Min.