Keeper of the Veihl

By April Rankin

Roahn is a man possessed. Literally. Aside from being the last Keeper of the Veihl and a berserker, he has a burning need for vengeance against the man who murdered his family centuries ago. But when he meets Kat, a woman who has no idea who or what she really is, Roahn begins to wonder if there is something more to live for.

Katlyn Evans has been on the run for years. Until she meets Roahn, she had no idea why she was being hunted or even who was hunting her. Now that she's entwined into the strange new world of the Veihl, Kat realizes that their paths are becoming entwined.

Will they be able to save one another when the past returns to haunt them? Can Roahn give up his thirst for revenge in favor of a love worth fighting for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: April Rankin
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310400322

April Rankin

April was born and raised in a small town in Southern Mississippi, and is a wife, mother, instructional designer, and daydreamer. She writes short erotica, contemporary romance, and paranormal romance. When she's not at her computer, April enjoys reading, botany, messy science experiments, and lengthy bubble baths. Feel free to find her on Facebook!

Book preview

Prologue

Roahn

Gallia Celtica, 372 B.C.

The fog lifts from my brain slowly, as if awakening from a deep sleep. I stare around in horror at what we’ve done. Seven men slaughtered an entire village. We’d dealt death to innocent men, women, and yes, even children.

My sword falls from my hands, clatters to the ground. This is the last straw. I knew my father, the king of our people, had become darker of late. His demands growing more and more sickening to me and my men.

My brain is hazy, the memories of our trek here somewhat obscure, which leaves me to believe that he’d somehow manipulated our actions in order for us to do his bidding without complaint.

Had the small child not leapt out into the street to save her mother, I would have killed her. I’d almost killed them both, barely stopping the descent of my sword in time.

My men stand behind me, six warriors gifted with mercenary skills that branded us the best. Darq blinks, shaking his head as if to dislodge thoughts that are not his own.

We’ve done wrong! I yell. This was yet another of his tricks.

I am uneasy about this, Phox says.

As am I, Colm adds, moving to my side. Something doesn’t sit right.

He’s never dealt us such trickery before. I can feel his influence in my head, trying to control my actions, Darq adds.

I nod, agreeing with them all. Is this another sign that my father’s madness is becoming worse?

Only then did the carnage around us register to them, as if they were unwilling to believe it before.

Gods. We did this. We stole everything from them, Darq says, dropping to his knees in the blood-soaked mud.

Never before have we taken the lives of women outside of battle, and under no circumstances would we slice the throat of an innocent child. But the proof is there, in the corpses that litter the streets. In the child that stands defiantly before me, protecting her mother.

We’d been honorable men, fighting only when needed and not for sport. We’ve been to war countless times, and never have we slain children like this. Never children.

Houses burn, the smoke billowing up to create a cloud of darkness above us, an omen that the gods no longer favor us, that they are displeased with our actions this day.

Guilt settles in my bones like knives. We kill only in the face of our own survival. These people were not my enemies.

The little girl glares at me accusingly, tears tracking dirty streaks down her cheeks.

I back away, horrified at what we’ve done.

The little girl stands, anger sparking in her eyes.

You’re all monsters! Leave us be! The mother shouts, reaching for her daughter’s hand to pull her back.

The Old Ones will curse you. They know what you’ve done, the child states.

At her words, I feel a chill creep up my spine, settling deep in my soul.

There are no words to make this right. I’ve erred. I took lives in the name of a king whose sadistic madness is more twisted than the demons in the Underworld. My sword is as coated in innocent blood as my body.

For the first time in my life, I wear it with shame. Every crimson drop on my skin is a badge of guilt.

Scores of people slaughtered by my king, my own father. I was merely the weapon with which he blindly struck.

Let’s go, I order.

My men mount up as if the hounds of hell nip at their heels.

The gods have no mercy for men like you! the little girl screams, her shrill, innocent voice cutting through me like a dagger.

I climb atop my mount, toss her a bag of coins and turn my back, trying to shut out what I’ve done.

Your coin is worthless here! It won’t buy back my father, my grandmother. The gods will make you pay. Odin looks on you with shame this day.

I kick my horse, wanting to flee the village and my crimes. Wanting to erase the memory and my guilt by leaving it behind.

Roahn, Darq says once we’ve exited the village. Your father…

I know, I snap. None of us are comfortable with the fact that he was powerful enough to control us. As king, we followed his orders, but this, this was something else entirely. This was a betrayal of his people. No longer is he fit to lead us. He betrayed us.

We should have seen it. His requests have become unusual of late, Phox says, a frown crinkling his face.

Let us return home. We will deal with the matter there.

For eight days, we travel east, heading home to our mountain. My men are as uneasy as I. The girl’s words ring in my ears in sleep, haunting me, making me set a brutal pace to return home.

I dread looking at my wife, of telling her the deeds I’ve committed. She’s a good lass, soon to be mother of our child. She will see my guilt as soon as she lays eyes on my face. There is no keeping it from her. I’m ashamed of my actions.

My father has gone too far. I will confront him, demand he step down and let another take his place as king. Not me. I’m not worthy of that right after the blood I’ve spilled this day.

Something is wrong, Faeng announces less than a day from the side of our mountain.

Rayne nods in agreement and looks to me with hard eyes. He hardly ever speaks, but if he agrees with Faeng, then something is definitely wrong.

Those two have some sort of uncanny instinct that foretells of death. Never have they been wrong.

Be on guard, I instruct.

All eyes become wary, watching our surroundings as we pass through the forest at the foothills of the mountain. Eyes even search the sky, as if waiting for the gods to strike us dead, just as the little girl threatened.

We break through the trees after noon, the air chilling dramatically to welcome us home.

My eyes find the peaks between which our home lies and my heart drops.

Smoky fingers reach towards the sky from between those peaks.

The village! Darq shouts, kicking his horse into a feverish race up the mountain.

The others follow, as do I, frantically trying to make it home to defeat whichever enemy has dared strike at our home.

I don’t allow my fears to surface. I ride with cold-hearted intent, pushing my mount faster, harder.

At the edge of the village, Darq stops and dismounts, looking around in horror.

The others follow suit, eyes taking in the destruction or our home.

Though many of the houses were made of stone, they are now scorched and crumbled.

Kallen, Darq shouts, seeking the woman he recently began to court. We’d laughed at his frustration when the female had given him a difficult chase. Now, none of us smile. He takes off running in the direction of her house.

Feeling the same fear clog my throat, I kick my horse, turning it towards the house I’d built with my bare hands further up the ridge.

With my heart pounding, I cut through the trees then stop in my tracks.

No longer is my home there. It has been destroyed, every stone scarred by smoke, the roof caved in.

I find my feet, scrambling down, running towards it, towards the hope that my wife and son survived. Moire is smart, she knows how to hide, how to fight like a mother bear against any enemy that deems it wise to hurt her.

But this. This is something different altogether. There are no signs that an army has swept through our village, no weapons strewn about as is common of battle.

I shove rocks from my path, turning from the house to the forest behind it. Moire wouldn’t have stayed in there. She would have ran into the woods, towards the stream where there are caves and alcoves to hide. She wouldn’t have stayed to fight if she thought it was a losing battle.

Her trail is evident. Broken grass, branches, and twigs point me towards her.

I search every place I can, following her trail from our destroyed home towards the river and around. Instead of heading to the caves, the trail curves back into the village. Cursing, I follow, surprised she chose to return to our ravaged home.

My heart sinks. She wouldn’t be foolish enough to go in there. I refuse to believe that I will find the remains of two lifeless bodies in there, two piles of bones seared to ash.

Breathing heavily with the panic threatening to tear me apart, I begin to dig through the rubble, scorching my hands on debris that is still burning.

The smoke threatens to choke me, fear clouding my breaths and hope becoming a diminishing light in my soul. I dig faster, determined to see if there is a chance they are still alive, to see if they’re buried under the remains of our lives.

Darq bellows my name, drawing me from my frenzy. Again, he calls, his voice filled with anger and outrage and desperation.

I turn from my task, hearing what he leaves unspoken.

Sprinting, I head towards the center of our village, towards his repeated bellows.

What I find brings me to my knees, stabs my heart.

Everyone, slaughtered.

Blood runs in rivers across the ground, gathered in what looks like ancient runes that call to the darkness. A stone altar that hadn’t existed before we left now sits in the center, grooves carved into the stone to collect the blood of whomever was sacrificed atop it.

And on it lay my wife, still alive. Barely.

As my men check for survivors, I rush to her side, disbelief warring with rage.

Moire, please love, I’m here now. Gathering her into my arms, I glance over her body, looking for injuries. It’s hard to tell, her entire body is coated in blood, both dried and fresh. Her pregnant belly tightens and she lets out a moan.

Roahn…the babe…coming, she says with gasps, choking on her own blood.

Faeng! I yell, calling for the only one of us who has any experience in healing. Yes, we’d all been taught the druid arts, but he excelled with healing rituals and had even birthed a horse when his favorite mare was in labor. Faeng! Help her!

I lay her gently back on the stone altar but she clings to me with weak arms. Not…here. Too much…death.

Instead, I carry her away from the altar, find a spot that doesn’t reek of death and lean her gently back against my chest.

Faeng appears above me, his brows lifting in surprise that she’s still alive.

The babe is coming, I explain.

His mouth tightens into a grim line but he nods, kneeling at her feet, coaxing her legs apart.

She moans weakly as Faeng does what he needs to, rolling her skirts above her belly to expose her lower body.

His eyes meet mine in horror.

I almost retch at the atrocity. She’d been stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen, leaking blood and fluids where they pierced her womb.

Moire, who did this? My teeth are clenched so tightly, I swear my jaw will break. Any man who could mutilate a woman and her unborn child like this deserves a special spot in the deepest pits of Tartarus.

Her mouth opens on a silent scream as her back bows from another pain.

Damn it, who did this?! I yell.

Your…father, she replies, her voice barely more than a croak.

A cold hatred washes over me. His madness had grown. No longer is he my father, but a monster capable of such evil.

She screams silently again, her body tensing in my arms until she can again breathe. Sacrificed us…for power…of the gods. Dark…power, she gasps.

Who aided him? I have to know. I need the names of those who helped our king destroy his own people in such a massacre. I will return the favor.

Her head rolls limply to the side in negation. No one.

Another pain captures her and her eyes gloss over, no longer focusing on her surroundings or me.

Moire! Don’t you fucking die on me! Stay strong!

Faeng works as fast as he can, pressing on her stomach to help her push my unborn child out.

Tears threaten as I watch, my heart aching for her, my helplessness to take her pain away slaying me.

Always..love you, she whispers. Her head slides to the side, her chest stops shuddering.

I shake her, unwilling to let her go. Tears flow freely down my cheeks and I don’t care that my men watch with saddened expressions. Moire, come back! Don’t leave me!

Faeng withdraws his dagger, and immediately cuts into her lower belly, trying to save my child.

Despite his intentions, it sickens me to see him cutting into my wife like he has so many enemies.

I press on her chest, trying to keep her heart beating, trying to keep her alive just a little longer, but she doesn’t respond. I bow my head to her neck, weeping loudly, grief ripping a hole in my chest.

Moments later, a hand on my shoulder wrenches my head up. I look into Faeng’s eyes, see the sorrow there as he shakes his head. My child didn’t survive.

He hands me a tiny creature covered in blood and gore. And to me, he is beautiful. A son, as I’d thought. A tiny being that had no chance to live before it was stolen from him.

I see the wounds on him, the gash in his neck where the blade had pierced through Moire’s body into his, one in his belly, and another across his legs.

There, with my entire family in my arms, I feel cold rage infuse me.

My men are just as shaken as me. Darq is on his knees on the ground, arms thrown back as he yells in frustration and misery. Colm kneels beside him, tears falling down his face unabashedly. Like mine, his family didn’t survive.

Phox clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to hold on to what little control over his emotions he has left.

Six faces all reflect the desolation I feel. They know we’ve been betrayed by our own king. They feel the same helplessness, grief, and anger I do.

My head falls back as I scream, railing at the gods. Is this punishment for our crimes? We destroyed their families so you took ours!

That was not punishment for your actions.

We all look up to the new voice. A man stands there, radiating power. It cloaks him with an infinite aura that presses against us like a physical thing.

What do you want? I ask, unable to keep my voice without emotion. We’ve paid for our crimes now. Leave us be.

He clicks his tongue at me like he would a naughty child. Mortals. So dramatic, so frail. As I said, we had nothing to do with this. You have yet to even begin to atone for your sins.

Look around! We slayed innocents and our people paid the price. Blood for blood! Can’t he see that everything we’ve loved has been taken from us? We have nothing left to lose.

No. This was a sacrifice of an entirely different kind. One that drew forth dark power unlike any we’ve felt before. I am here to give you your sentence for the blood you’ve spilled, not offer my condolences on what you’ve already lost.

I gently lay my son across my wife’s chest and get unsteadily to my feet, already mourning the loss of their warmth in my arms. Then do so. Strike us dead so that this pain will end.

The man laughs sharply. Do you know nothing of us? We do not wish for your deaths. It is too final, too barbaric for even us. No. Such warriors as you shall be rewarded for your strength.

Rewarded? The little girl had promised us that we’d pay for the murders of her village, not be rewarded for it. I don’t understand. My men move to stand behind me.

We want nothing the gods have to give, Darq informs him, taking the words from me before I can say them.

He’s right. There’s nothing they could give that would fill the hole in my chest.

The man before us looks around, his eyes falling on the piles of corpses without emotion. Burn your dead. Send them into the afterlife as they deserve, and I will return.

With that, he vanishes, taking the smothering power with him.

I want nothing they have to give, Darq says again.

With a nod, I agree. My eyes land on my wife and child, again filling with tears. Galen? I ask, my throat choked with tears. Had my younger brother been murdered by our father as well?

Missing, Phox says. As is the king.

I wonder if he took my brother with him. Galen was often at his side. Why would he do so instead of murdering him like he had all of the others? Had Galen been involved? No. I refuse to think it. My brother had his own demons, but he’d fought them, learned to resist the dark urges. My father hadn’t.

Prepare the dead. I want this done by nightfall.

Six heads nod and turn to go gather the bodies of their loved ones.

I have to shut down the pain, close off the grief, bury it all deep inside of me in order to clean the bodies of my tiny family. With each new wound revealed on my wife’s body, I suffer a cold rage.

My father will die by my hands. A slow, painful death. I swear it.

By nightfall, Faeng has built a large pyre for our families. With so many dead, they will be the only ones with the place of honor. The others will burn around them, in piles of corpses that had deserved better than this.

Moire and my child are wrapped in white blankets, as is Colm’s wife and twin daughters. Rayne gently lays his mother alongside our dead, and Sabar follows suit with both of his parents, his wife, and younger sister.

I look at Darq. Kallen?

She isn’t here, he says. I can feel the tiny amount of hope he has, the optimism that she somehow survived and was able to flee.

You’ll find her, I reply.

His lips tighten but he nods.

We set what few offerings we have across their chests. I’d found flowers for Moire, her favorite that bloomed only for one month each year. For my son, I lay a tiny wooden horse that I’d carved myself across his tiny bundled form.

Colm follows suit, setting a necklace across his wife, and two hand-made dolls over his daughters. Rayne adds branches to his mother’s corpse. Sabar gives flowers to his mother, his favorite dagger to his father, the medallion he always wore to his wife, and a ring to his sister.

Then each of us scatters every coin we have onto the pyre, payment for the guidance they would receive into the afterlife.

Together, we gather the bodies of others, lay them around the pyre in piles. So many dead. Life, gone. My hatred deepens.

When finished, the sun has set and darkness draws around us like a blanket of misery enfolding us in its arms. Each of us light a torch.

Phox steps forward and says the ritual words, offering everything we hold dear into the arms of the gods, beseeching them to care for our loved ones in death as we were unable to in life, begging for places of honor among those who have passed before them.

With a heavy heart, I light the wood beneath my wife and son. The flames lick over them greedily, taking them from our world into the next. The others follow suit, until it blazes like an inferno and reflects the same heat as the rage burning within me.

We find him, I say. We will have vengeance. They will have peace.

We stand in a line, watching our lives crumble to ash. After the fires have died, we will use that ash to tattoo our skin, to wear our loved ones as a badge of honor, take them with us as we find the king and enact our revenge.

By morning, the pyres are only a smoldering pile of rubble. Nothing remains of our past.

We gather the ashes, mix them with dyes of the colors we choose to ink into our flesh. For the entire day, we work, carving memories along our skin. Giving our dead the honor of becoming a permanent part of our lives. It takes hours, but the pain helps bleed some semblance of cold aloofness into me.

I choose crimson and black. Darq tattoos the symbol of grief over my shoulder, swooping down to my chest and around to dip below my waist. Vengeance is inked onto my back. Death is painted into the skin of my abdomen. My brothers in arms, the seven of us, have become brothers in death as well. I add that to my ribs, the symbols of each one of them.

Each of us wears our emotions, promises of revenge, and the stain of death for the world to see. Every symbol on our skin blends with the others we have, those that offer us protection from dark power when doing our druid rituals.

No longer are we blank canvasses for the world to paint as it sees fit. We have purpose, rage, grief. We will fight until the very last of us dies.

Darq stands, his own tattoos glaring blue from his body. Phox, green. Faeng, violet. Each one of us chose a different color. And black, the color for hatred and grief.

We feel his power before we see him.

Your gifts await, warriors.

We want nothing you have to give us, I snarl.

One bushy brow lifts on his forehead. You would refuse gifts that would make you more powerful? That would aid you against your father?

Don’t call him that! He is no longer a part of me, I yell at him.

But you want vengeance, do you not?

My fists clench as I imagine squeezing the life from the king. Yes.

The god opens his arms. Then accept our gifts. He is powerful now, inhabited by a Prime, hosting one of the oldest and most powerful creatures on earth. You won’t defeat him as you are.

And yet your gifts will give us what we need to do so? I ask, doubting it.

He shakes his head. No. But they will give you a chance. Strength. Power. Immortality.

Why would we want to live forever? We’ve already lost everything worth living for!

Oh, you could still die. It just makes it much harder for you to do so. That is the power your king took. He will live forever if he isn’t stopped. His cruelty will know no limits, his evil will corrupt and poison others. We are offering the means to stop him. To have your revenge.

I study the faces around me. Fury. A thirst for blood. Darq nods at me. What are these gifts?

Instead of answering, we are brought to our knees with debilitating pain. I hear the roars of my men echo my own. Agony sears my blood, snaps my bones, and incinerates my flesh. Something takes up root inside of me, something stronger than I, more powerful. It feels like an eternity as my body contorts and convulses but ends just as sudden as it began.

All seven of us lay on the ground, gasping, covered in sweat.

You are now Berserkers, creatures worthy of your skills. You have a duty to the Veihl, one in which you will carry out every century in order to keep the walls between the realms up, the god says with a smirk, staring down at us as if we aren’t worthy of facing him standing.

What have you done to us? Phox yells, struggling to his feet to rush at the man.

He easily sidesteps, letting Phox sprawl face-first to the ground. I’ve given you life. I’ve given you the means by which you can now fight the man responsible for taking everything from you. In return, you have one task. Should you fail, you will be sent to Tartarus, where you will never again see the light of day.

With that, he vanishes, leaving us to wonder what sort of monsters we’ve become.

1

Kat

Present day.

I killed three men this morning. Granted, it was either them or me. And I promise, my sense of self-preservation thanks me.

I mean, really. They should have thought twice about waking me up at the butt-crack of dawn when I was holed up in a seedy inn that threatened lice and every kind of STD known to man. Maybe even a few that were undiscovered as of yet.

Hell, I’d used a whole roll of toilet paper to line the toilet seat just so I’d have about a twenty percent chance that my ass wouldn’t end up with a rash.

Heh. I could see it now. Kicking ass and taking names with an itchy rump roast. Surely that would throw off my aim.

I kick my bike into another gear and hit the throttle, soaring down the road like it had my name stamped in permanent tattoo across it’s curves. My eyes catch on some unsightly splatter at the edge of the ditch. For fuck’s sake, how many bloody pieces of road kill can I take in one day? I barely contain an involuntary shudder as I deftly guide my bike around the maimed remains of whatever creature dared to cross the street.

I almost chuckle to myself. To get to the other side. There was no doubt that it would never know greener grass. Oh, God. I’m going insane, laughing at a time like this. I suppose the stress and fear is finally getting to me.

My name is Katlyn Evans. I prefer Kat, not Kathy or Katie. Two years ago, my mother was murdered. Now, I'm still on the run from her killers, travelling the world with what money I inherited after her death.

We weren’t rich, but my grandmother was. I never really understood the phrase old money. How can money be old when the government changes the bills every few years?

Anyway, Gran set aside huge investments and trusts for my mom, which she inherited when Gran died seven years ago. My mom didn't have to work, but she enjoyed her part-time job as a child therapist and used that income to pay my way into college.

Thinking about everything I've lost sends a pang of regret and grief through my chest.

We’d been fine! We lived in a nice beach house in Florida, had everything that we could ever want or need. I commuted daily to the University, loving my studies in zoology and marine biology. I had friends, a social life, nice car, a boyfriend.

Until they found her.

I still don't know who they are. All I know is that my mom came home one evening in a panic, told me to pack everything I could as quickly as possible, and that we were leaving because some very dangerous men had found us and would hurt us without qualms.

Later that night, I sat on a plane, trying to get answers from her, but for the first time, my mother had been stubbornly silent. We carried cash that she’d removed from every account she owned, never leaving a paper trail for anything. I was nineteen then.

For months, we lived out of cheap hotel rooms, sometimes spending the night in the car. Everything we had was piled haphazardly into luggage in the trunk, as well as a few items like photos and trinkets that my mom couldn't bear to part with.

For five long years, we ran, never staying long in any single place, always on the move.

Until they found us a few years ago. And it’d been my fault.

I’d begged my mom not to run again. We’d been in Ireland for only a few weeks and I loved it. Mom said it was because Ireland was the