Valkyrie Playbook

By Elise Abram

Sixteen-year-old Hilda has thought she was living with a mental illness for most of her life, but all of that changes when she meets Tyler, who claims to be einherjar, one of Viking god Odin's warriors.

 

Tyler tries to convince Hilda that she's a valkyrie, a supernatural, Norse being, responsible for culling the dead who are worthy of fighting alongside Odin and his wife, Freya, in the end of days battle of Ragnarök.

 

Hilda has a hard time believing Tyler's story at first, but when he helps her astral project to Sessrúmnir, Freya's domain in the afterworld, she realizes she has a role to play in the fate of the planet.

 

Can she prevent the world from suffering its catastrophic fate once Ragnarök has begun?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: EMSA Publishing
• Release date: Jun 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781988843537

Elise Abram

Elise is a retired high school teacher of English and Computer Studies, former archaeologist, and current author, editor, freelance writer, avid reader of literary and science fiction, and student of the human condition. She has been writing for as long as she can remember. Over the years, writing has become as essential to her as eating, sleeping, or breathing.  Elise is best known as an urban fantasy and young adult novelist, but her writing interests are diverse. She has published everything from science fiction, horror and the paranormal, and contemporary fiction and police procedurals for all ages. She has also published five children’s picture books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sacred geometry_0095 — Stock Vector

That Which Shows the Way

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So, I'm sitting at this duck pond in my neighbourhood. It abuts onto a side road, and it's kind of nice. There's a lot of greenery, a boardwalk, and a bunch of benches. I go there when I want to be alone. On this particular day, it's really cold, like, near-zero, but with a wind chill that knocks it down a few degrees. The day's super-overcast, making it seem like dusk, but that only adds to the likelihood I'll be left alone. It's late enough in the season that the leaves have gone from the trees, and I can see houses in the distance that I wouldn't be able to in, say, spring or summer. Did I say houses? I mean mansions. There are rumours that Anne Murray and Barbara Streisand have homes in this area, and I have to believe it. I mean, no less than four of my parents' houses could fit into one of those babies and still have room left for an indoor pool or some other extravagance.

It's cold out, like, really cold, but I have a super warm parka coat, felt scarf, and Sherpa-lined hat and gloves. I also have a thermos of coffee, my tablet, my favourite playlist, a set of earphones, and a classic book queued on my Kindle reader app. I even cut a hole in the right glove's index finger so I can swipe pages on my tablet.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: Get thee to the nearest Starbucks, but I'm good here. There's enough cloud cover that I don't need to squint to read my book, and if my nose gets cold, I just have to pull my scarf up to cover my face.

There are ducks in the pond—actual ducks.

Maybe they're geese.

I can't tell the difference.

The pond hasn't frozen yet, thanks to global warming, and the ducks are as happy as...well...ducks in water. 

I look at the wildlife and sigh.

Ducks.

Geese are territorial bastards. They'd most certainly have ventured out of the water and onto the boardwalk to inspect me by now, but these guys are content to swim around in the water and leave me be.

I wish I'd brought some bread crumbs.

I pop the lid of my thermos and take a sip of my coffee. It's actually more like a latte. Regular coffee tastes like dirty dishwater to me, no matter how I doctor it, so I've taken to drinking lattes. This one has a scoop of this salted caramel latte powder that gives it just the right amount of sweetness.

Anyway, I take a drink from my thermos and practically yelp at how hot it still is but manage to swallow it. It warms my insides on the way down.

I open the tablet cover, turn it on, and this guy arrives at the pond as I’m waiting for it to boot.

It figures. And on the one day I wanted to be alone to find my Zen.

There are about a half-dozen benches on this side of the pond. Wouldn't you know it? He decides to sit on mine.

All the benches around all the duck ponds in all the area, and he has to sit on mine.

And I've never even seen Casablanca.  

My tablet boots, and I open my Kindle app. It's this blue screen with a person sitting under a tree, reading a book. What I wouldn't give to be that person. Instead, I have to wait for my app to load. It gets boring after a few seconds, so I look up at the ducks.

The guy gets comfortable. He pops up the lapels on his coat. It's so thin, you'd think he wasn't from around here, that he didn't know anything about Canadian winters. He doesn't have a scarf, and he's not wearing gloves or boots. He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets and scooches himself over half a bum-space closer to me.

What are you reading? he asks.

My stranger-danger alarm goes off, and I wonder if it would be rude to just pick up and go to that Starbucks you suggested earlier, but I don't. I was here first, and I can be just as territorial as those asshole geese.

John LeCarré, I tell him. "The Spy Who Came in from the Cold."

A classic.

You've read it?

I have seen the movie.

Oh.

I look down at my tablet to see that the app's ready, click on the Read Now button beside the cover icon and try to concentrate. It's hard to focus with a stranger trying to read over your shoulder, but I'm good at tuning the world out, as you know, given my neighbour's proclivity for head-banging music, my parents' fighting, and my need to win scholarships to cover a downtown apartment next year for uni along with any and all tuition. I try to tune him out, I really do, but he's a persistent creeper who refuses to drop the conversation.

You have read it before, I take it?

I have.

How many times?

Three or four.

I pop the lid on my thermos, take another long, hot dram, and try to read, but I can't find my focus, and the words seem to jumble on the page.

What is it about?

You saw the movie.

I have. He turns his body and hitches a leg up onto the bench so he faces me. I want to know why I should read the book instead of watching the movie.

I press my lips together and sigh before turning my head to face him. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude—

It is my experience that that is something people say right before they are going to be exactly that.

Look: I don't know you, and quite frankly, I don't want to know you. All I want to do is sit here, drink my coffee, and read my book. So, if you don't mind...

Wow! That is not rude. That is downright scurrilous.

I have no idea what that word means.

I'm sorry, but I believe in directness, and right now, you're disrupting my Zen, so...

I have a message for you.

I've reburied by face in my Kindle app, but I chance a look up at him through the corner of my eye.

Ah! I have piqued your curiosity.

Don't engage. Go back to your book and read.

How could you possibly have a message for me?

Watch it, Hild—curiosity did kill the cat. Even though in your current game of what feels like cat and mouse, you're the mouse.

Here. He hands me a business card.

There is, indeed, a message on the flip side: Ω.

What's—

I look up from the card to see he's gone. Disappeared. Like he was never even there.

Chapter 2

friendship.jpg

The Welcome One; Friendship

––––––––

What is it? Greta asks.

It's an omega, I tell her.

Duh, I know that. What does it mean?

I shrug. Beats me.

And you've never seen this guy before?

I shake my head. Nope.

Andrea asks, Was he cute? She's a little oversexed.

Some people described Ted Bundy as being cute, Andrea, Greta admonishes.

I actually didn't notice. I was trying to read at the time.

Out in the cold. At the duck pond.

Yes, out in the cold at the duck pond—can we please move on from the fact of where this took place, Greta? It's weird, right?

Andrea snatches the card from my hand to examine it. Have you looked up the company on the front?

I have. It's a print shop—

What, like with printing presses? Andrea asks.

No, dummy, Greta answers being harsh. Like with photocopiers and laser printers and stuff.

Did you go there?

Why would she possibly go there, Andy? This guy's obviously some kind of psycho, or he would've given her space at the pond.

Maybe he works there, smartypants, Andrea retorts. Or maybe he goes there to...you know, print stuff. She pauses briefly to rearrange her position in her seat. All I'm saying is there's gotta be a reason why he has that particular card in his possession.

Maybe he's mental, Greta offers. Crazy stalker people don't need a reason to do anything other than that they're crazy.

Okay, first of all, I say, affecting a didactic tone, mental isn't PC, and he's not a stalker. He's just some crazy, misguided soul out for some fresh air who happened upon another human being and decided to make contact.

So, decidedly not mental or a stalker, but maybe still crazy? Greta sums.

Maybe. I look at the omega on the back of the card again. Why this? Why omega?

Have you looked it up yet? Andrea asks.

I have. Beyond being a Greek letter, I have no clue as to what it might mean.

Of course, she has, Greta says. I have a reputation as being the brainy one in the group, the only one in our trio who's going on to traditional higher education. Andrea and Greta are going to business school instead of college or university. Greta wants to be a medical secretary and Andrea flip-flops between medical and legal. Both of them will probably make gobs more money than I will working part-time at The Gap over the next four years.

I sigh.

"And...? Andrea prompts.

Omega is the last letter in the Greek alphabet. It has a value of eight-hundred and is sometimes referred to as 'the big O—

As in orgasm? Andrea interjects. "The guy was propositioning you, after all."

And you can fantasize about it tonight, when you're trying to give yourself an omega, Andy. Greta again. She has a bit of a mean streak when it comes to Andrea and her sexed-up sense of humour. Go on, Hild, she tells me.

I give Andrea a sympathetic look before saying, Because it's the last letter of the alphabet, it's come to symbolize the end of a development of some kind, like a project, or the end of the world—

Christ, Andrea whispers in awe.

It also has a bunch of other meanings in science, math, astrology, and other disciplines.

We should call the police, Andrea suggests.

And tell them what? Greta asks.

It's obviously a threat—

It's a Greek letter, Andy.

It's a dumb, practical joke, I tell them.

What part of what you told us was the joke? Greta asks.

I shrug. He left because I didn't bite. He never got to the punch line because I wasn't interested in playing.

The fact that a strange man approached you on a park bench should be cause enough for alarm. We should tell the police there's a stalker in the park. Andrea's like a dog with a bone. Once she fixates on an idea, there's no talking her out of its validity.

How might that phone call go? Greta continues, taunting. Hello, Officer? Yes, a man approached me in the park, gave me his business card, and walked off. I want to file assault charges on this nameless guy.

He was wearing a trench coat, Greta, and we all know what that means.

But he didn't expose himself or do anything else to me.

I think you should check out the print shop, Andrea says.

I already did.

Not online. In-person.

I think you should drop it, Greta says. If he was a stalker and left because you didn't take the bait, as you said, and he works there, you could be putting yourself in harm's way.

You're right, I say, tearing up the card. You guys hungry? Want to order a pizza?

Chapter 3

mystery.jpg

Fate, Destiny, Mystery

––––––––

Rather than throw the pieces of the card in the garbage, I pocket them and tape the card back together later.

Omega.

What does it mean?

Is it an invitation?

Would the guy at the print shop know what it means?

Is it all a huge elaborate goof some random guy used in a lame attempt to pick me up?

I go to my Philosophy and The Simpsons course (yes, that's a real, credit-bearing course), but I can't focus and leave early.

Exactly thirty-seven minutes later, I'm standing outside AAAA Best Print Shop on Queen Street in Toronto's west end. It looks scary old. Its name most likely hearkens back to the days of the Yellow Pages, when naming something Quadruple-A would mean it would be listed near the top of all printers whose names began with an A. Having the second word begin with a B seems redundant by comparison.

The front of the shop is no more than a glass door with a large, bay window out front. All windows are thick with dust, giving the inside a foggy cast. The wood between the panels of the bay window had been forest green at one point, but they are so weather-worn, there is more of the underlying wood showing than not. There's a layer of white paint between the wood and green façade, but whether it's primer or the original colour of the storefront, I can't tell. The decal decrying the store's name is also worn to the point where it's barely legible.

You'd say the store looked shady, and then you'd grab my elbow, pull me away, and we'd go for ice cream at the Sweet Jesus down the street. But you're not here with me, so I go in against both of our better judgments. A set of bells above the door chimes to announce what feels like my descent down Alice's rabbit hole. 

The inside of the store is surprisingly modern. There's a man behind the counter at the far end who looks almost as old as the storefront. He's wearing a cotton, knee-length apron that's the same colour as the paint outside. The man looks up when he hears the bells and smiles. Good afternoon, he says, way too cheerily. Maybe he's just glad to finally see a customer. Given the store's exterior, I don't imagine they get many walk-ins.

How might I help you?

Here goes nothing.

I approach the counter and show him the card. This is yours, right?

He pulls his glasses down from his forehead and nods. A-yup. That's one of mine. He gives a chuckle. It looks like it's been through the wringer. He holds his hand out. May I?

I give him the card. He caresses the tape as if his touch has the power to heal the card. When he flips it over, he looks gut-punched. Where did you get this? He looks up and seems more frightened than anything else.

You recognize the symbol?

Of course, I recognize it. It's an omega. The last letter of the Greek alphabet.

What does it mean?

He shrugs and drops the card on the counter between us as if it were on fire. Beats me.

I mean to you. What does it mean to you?

The man pauses as if contemplating his next move. N-nothing, he says.

You'll excuse me, but your reaction says it does.

The telephone on the desk rings. It literally rings, like an old-fashioned phone. When I look down at it, that's exactly what I see: a black, melamine, telephone. The buttons on its face spoil the imagery; I wouldn't have been surprised to see a dial.    

The man smiles awkwardly, sounds a self-deprecating chuckle, and answers the phone. There's a pause before he says, Yes, sir. Right away, and hangs up.

Go through that door, past the document printers, and through the double doors at the back.

You'd tell me not to go, that this is some kind of front for human trafficking, that the guy on the bench at the duck pond was their recruiter.

He's not the kingpin, I'd counter. He'd addressed whoever was on the phone as sir, indicating he's nothing more than a cog in a grander machine.

You'd say that even cogs can be dangerous if you get caught in them.

The printer must sense my apprehension because he says, I'll buzz you in, seconds before a buzzer sounds.

––––––––

The machinery in the back room is shiny, electronic, and massive. There are three of what the man had called document printers going, but there are no other employees that I can see. You'd suggest they might be on break.

Oh, how I wish you were actually here with me to talk me out of this. I know I’m putting myself in harm's way, but I can't seem to stop myself.  I hope curiosity never killed anything larger than the odd cat as I push my way through the double doors at the back of the print room.

No sooner have the doors closed behind me than a woman approaches me. She has bright blonde hair tied back in a bun, orange-toned lipstick, and skin that's whiter than white. Her sweater is what my mom would call a poor-boy, ribbed and skin-tight, showing off her flat stomach and rather large breasts. Her skirt is pencil-thin, and I wonder how she's able to sit in it. The Boss will see you now, she tells me in a squeaky voice tinged with a New York accent. Her near-stiletto heels clack down the hall.

She opens a door and ushers me in. The Boss is imposing, even though he's sitting behind a desk. He stands, unfolding more than six feet, and offers me his hand. He's broad-shouldered and slightly overweight. His face is long and jowly. His hair is thinning, receding, and pale-coloured. I understand you're an Omega, he says, and I can't place his accent.

You'd tell me to run.

I'd say, In for a penny, in for a pound.

You'd tell me not to be stupid. And run, you'd reiterate.

I have this card, I tell him. A gust of air whooshes through the door behind me, and I flinch.

No need to be frightened, he says with a grin that's more frightening than comforting. I'd like to make you a business proposition.

A business proposition.

That's right.

The door behind me opens again. I turn to see his secretary's head in the crack between the door and the jamb.

Can I get you anything? Coffee? A soda? Something stronger?

Ingesting something prepared out of my sight by an absolute stranger? I don't need you to tell me that's more than fifty shades of wrong.

You're sure? he asks when I shake my head.

I nod. Thank you.

The Boss shoos the secretary away with a flick of his hand.

Now, where were we? He shuffles the paper on the desk in front of him as if he'll find the answer buried there. Oh, yes—a business proposition. He leaves the paper in a heap and looks up at me. Are you game?

Well...that depends.

On what? He steeples his hands in front of his face.

On what the hell is going on here.

The Boss recoils as if slapped. I don't understand.

Look, I say, standing up, I don't mean to offend, but this guy stops me on the street and gives me his card. I'm just trying to figure out what it all means.

It means you've been chosen.

Chosen for what?

To engage in a business proposition.

I'm sorry, I say, making my way toward the door.

I should've brought you with me. I should've made you stand watch outside the door. I should've at least told you—told anyone—where I was going, made a check-in, and had someone ready to call for backup if I missed the rendezvous.