Forbidden

By Clair Conway

Elaborate schemes set in motion over a millennium ago are coming to fruition.

Nemhain, youngest of the Morrigan, is pregnant. Incensed when Thor, the god of thunder, refuses to publicly acknowledge their dalliance, the Celtic sorceress confronts Odin and the other ruling gods of Asgard to foretell the destruction of their pantheon by her as yet unborn child.

That his empire might survive, Marduk, the Babylonian god of gods, creates a multitude of warriors to battle on his behalf against the invading Sumerians. Two thousand years later, his descendants are preparing to celebrate the impending marriage of the king’s eldest son.

Amun Ra, titular head of the Egyptian pantheon, appears before Paxton, king of the fire demons, to announce that his mate, Kindra, is with child.

As the gods plot, the nexus of their intrigue is a teenager by the name of David Peterson. His life, and those closest to him, will be thrown into turmoil.

And it all starts with a glass of orange juice . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796044904

Clair Conway

Clair Conway graduated from Arizona State University with a degree in secondary education. After teaching high school English in New Mexico for more than ten years, she decided to explore new horizons by taking a position in the medical field. Her greatest pleasure, next to her three West Highland White Terriers, is creating new worlds and adventure through the magic of the written word from her home in Denver, Colorado. Also available for readers, Surrender and Reclaim, books 1 and 2 in The Anderiker series.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Odin sat on his throne, a magnificent edifice of solid gold inset with sparkling jewels, and stared at the others ensconced upon less grandiose chairs arranged on either side of the royal dais. To his left, Thor fingered Mjölnir, the mythical hammer only he could lift and stoically returned Odin’s look with one of his own. The goddess Freya was no less sanguine, impassively smoothing an all but invisible wrinkle in her gossamer gown as she observed the proceedings from her seat next to the God of Thunder. Loki the Trickster had a mischievously leering grin on his face, as though his place at Odin’s right hand put him of a mind to render one of his infamous pranks on some unwitting victim. Sif, the eternally bound mate of Thor, sat rigidly in her chair next to Loki and fumed at the perceived slight of being relegated to this spot instead of a place next to her husband.

Odin’s voice imperiously boomed. Who called for this tribune of the gods?

A woman dressed in flowing black robes approached. She cradled a baby in her arms, the cherubic pink face peering out from the folds of a white blanket whose brilliance was only surpassed by the short woman’s long, blonde hair. Two other females followed in her wake also dressed in black cloaks and possessed the same golden colored tresses. All that differed was their height; one was regally tall while the other carried her slightly smaller frame with dignity.

I have, the woman replied. Nemhain, third-born of the Morrigan.

Odin snorted derisively. The Morrigan, foretellers of scourge and desolation, had naught to say but that which had little chance of boding well for him. Collectively, these three sisters, Badb, Macha, and Nemhain, were as welcome to Asgard as a horde of fleas bedeviling Fenrir, the wolf-son of Loki. Speak then, Odin sighed in resignation.

Nemhain lifted the infant in her arms. This is my child, whom I have named Roald.

Odin made no move to accept the proffered bundle. And what interest would I have with the spawn of the Morrigan?

He is my firstborn. Nemhain mounted the steps. More importantly, he is your grandson. She lifted Roald to eye level. By all rights, he deserves your royal acknowledgment.

Odin jumped to his feet and stared in disbelief. My grandson? With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from Roald and fixed Nemhain with a regal glower. "How. . . how can this be?"

Thor is his father.

What? Sif screeched. A maelstrom of wind materialized, raging across the dais and there were more than a few eyes slitted against the hurricane force tempest. "Thor? What is she talking about?"

Good wife, Thor stammered, covering his unease with a casual wave of a hand. Pay no heed to a prattling witch. ’Tis the Morrigan who speaks, and is it not common knowledge how they do nothing but stir up useless trouble?

Still thy lying tongue, oh faithless one. Sif hissed and turned her attention to Nemhain. "What proof do you have that my husband—she spat out the word, as though ridding her mouth of some foul morsel—is the father of this demonspawn?"

You have only to look at the child, Nemhain replied, unperturbed at the thinly veiled insult. Is Roald not the spitting image of his father?

Sif glared at the baby. Were red hair and strong jaw evidence of a birthright, he—she pointed at Thor, squirming in his chair—would be named as father to nearly half the warriors on Asgard. Even more if you count those from other realms.

Nemhain’s eyes blazed with righteous fire that anyone would doubt her claim. I say Thor is the father.

And I say you lie, Sif retorted. Where is your proof?

How dare you! Badb, the tallest, elder sister leapt forward. My sister’s word is proof enough!

Sif, my precious. Thor moved across the dais and took his fuming wife’s hand, flattening the palm of the other against his chest. I have done nothing unjust, and you therefore have no cause to believe a word they speak.

Odin’s gaze swiveled between Thor and his alleged progeny. Wouldst thou falsify the Morrigan’s plea that you might remain in your wife’s good graces?

Thor thumped his chest with a clenched fist. May I die a thousand deaths if I speak with a faithless tongue. The air crackled, and he glared at the Morrigan as though daring them to challenge his claim.

To dismiss the harbingers of destruction as prevaricators would indeed be foolish. Odin mused. Are you—

Thor cut him off. Enough of this, Father. He turned to face Nemhain. Take your lies, your bastard child, and return to Helheim from whence you came, he snarled.

An angry flush blossomed on Nemhain’s face and neck, the only outward sign of her consternation. If that is your wish—she fixed Thor with a defiant stare—"then I say thusly … you will regret this day. Nemhain cradled Roald close to her chest. As for the lot of you, her voice became shrill, and she glared at the other gods. Roald is destined to become a god the likes of which you’ve never seen. Repent ye this denial of him or thy doom is all but certain!" In the next instant, the sisters vanished, leaving only the wind swirling Odin’s robes to mark their passing.

For two days, Odin wrestled with the idea of Thor’s renounced indiscretion and found himself incapable of dismissing the matter. Descending into Helheim, a realm of residents banished from the glory that is Asgard, Odin stood in front of an unpretentious cottage. He stared at the house, wondering why the sisters would live in a cheerless place like this when they had their choice of any of the Nine Realms to call home. Mounting the stone steps, Odin pounded on the ramshackle door. I would speak with you, Nemhain, he announced peremptorily. Attend me!

What brings the great Odin to our humble home? Macha’s thin, reedy voice answered.

Odin smothered his irritation. Tell Nemhain I seek an audience with her.

Leather hinges squeaked as the door swung open. Please then, come in, Macha said, stepping aside for the High King of Asgard. You honor us with your presence, sire.

Odin grunted an acknowledgment and stepped over the threshold into the murky, ill-lit sitting room. At the fireplace, Badb stirred a cauldron, fumes rising from the rank potion bubbling within, and a half-dozen snakes slithered every which way across the floor. Clutching a tattered shawl around her shoulders, Nemhain appeared in the far doorway and scowled at Odin. "What do you want?" she hissed.

To talk … about the child, Odin said. Spying a wooden stool on the flagstones near the fireplace, he cocked his head. May I?

Who am I to keep the greatest of all gods from doing as he pleases? Nemhain sneered.

A wooden spoon clattered in the cauldron. Sister, be reasonable now, Badb said calmly. Give Odin a chance to explain his presence before we cast him out on his pompous arse.

Much gratitude, Badb. Odin made no attempt to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

Nemhain rolled her eyes. Fine then, sit if you so desire.

Odin brushed aside the black cat curled contentedly atop the stool, ignoring the angry hiss from the displaced familiar. This bastard child—

Nemhain angrily cut him off. How dare you! she snapped. His name is Roald!

Quite right, Odin replied, properly abashed. Roald is truly Thor’s son?

He is.

And you can validate this … with more than just your word?

Yes, Nemhain curtly replied.

I would see this proof.

My word is all the proof you need.

Odin and Nemhain locked eyes, and the fire beneath Badb’s cauldron snapped and crackled with the same energy that passed between them. Nemhain, Odin finally said. Let us put aside this matter of the child’s birthright. Tell me, what led to your need to call forth a tribunal? Could you not present me with my blood in a less— Odin faltered, striving to put word to his jumbled thoughts. A more dignified fashion?

Thor left me no choice when he refused to acknowledge Roald, Nemhain replied stubbornly.

Why not come to me in private? An audience in my chambers?

And have you deny me, deny Roald, in secret?

Odin looked confused. I would think secrecy preferable to that of a public denial by Thor, Loki, and the others.

Ah. Nemhain looked smug. But a tribunal forced your hand, did it not?

How’s that?

You’re here, aren’t you? The mighty Odin searching for answers, prostrate before the goddess Nott that his sleepless nights might have surcease.

"Thor’s indiscretion has not caused me to petition the goddess of night for assistance, Odin said archly, ignoring Nemhain’s triumphant smile at his implied acceptance of Roald’s parentage. I come from Asgard to Helheim that I might know the details surrounding the child’s origin."

Macha, Nemhain said. Present unto Odin a chronicle of Roald.

As you wish, Macha murmured. Soundlessly floating across the sitting room, she sank to her knees on the flagstones before Odin’s footstool, and her eyes were like black pools that Odin found impossible to resist. Staring into the limpid orbs, he felt himself falling into their liquid depths, and the Morrigan’s dreary sitting room blurred and changed …

Under the cloudless sky of Midgard, two naked bodies embraced upon a patch of emerald grass. Nemhain shivered as Thor caressed her round belly. Your son is destined to be the god of war, she sighed dreamily. The greatest of all deities to be called such.

That cannot be, Thor objected.

Oh? Why is that?

I am the best.

Nemhain giggled. Such arrogance.

’Tis not arrogance, Thor scoffed, sitting up. ’Tis the truth.

Nemhain struggled to push herself upright, awkwardly rolling her bloated body to one side. "Are you doubting the word of Fate?"

Come now, Nemhain, Thor replied. We both know this bastard child will never be acknowledged as a god. He sighed heavily with a morose shake of his head.

Nemhain’s eyes flared. "You call your own flesh a bastard?"

I can never admit the life growing within you is mine.

How dare you! Dark, angry clouds filled the skies over the hills of Midgard. You professed your love for me time and again!

If I confessed to love, it was undoubtedly the ecstasy that moved me to such endearments.

You … you swine! Nemhain shrieked. Lightning crackled, a bolt shattering the tree under which they argued.

Cease your enchantments, Nemhain, Thor said, nervously eyeing the smoking trunk. Even you must see this union for what it is. Thor reached for her, but she batted his hands away, and he licked his lips at the sight of her pendulous breasts swaying invitingly. Come to me, my love, he beseeched. I promise our son will be cared for.

Nemhain’s cheeks glistened with a flood of tears. Your words mean nothing if he is raised anywhere but Asgard!

But— Thor’s attempts to soothe Nemhain were suddenly interrupted by a sepulchral voice filling the air.

Thor! Sif called. "Thor!"

Trying to ignore his wife’s plaintive summon, Thor took Nemhain’s hand. Worry not, my love. His lips brushed across the palm of her hand. I shall return on the morrow and share with you the birth of our son.

Nemhain jerked sullenly away. Do not bother. In the next instant, she was gone to Helheim …

The soot-covered ceiling of the Morrigan’s sitting room replaced the skies of Midgard, and Macha rose from her spot on the flagstones in front of Odin. I apologize for my son’s behavior, he said, crestfallen.

It is not you from whom an apology must come, Nemhain replied.

Nonetheless. Odin scratched his chin. Tell me, why is it you insist the bast— he bit off the indiscreet appellation. Why must Roald be raised in Asgard?

I would think the answer obvious.

Do not trifle with me, Nemhain, Odin said darkly. What is it you want?

Roald is destined to be the greatest god of war you or any other has ever seen. No pantheon on any realm will have the power to resist his conquering rampages.

So? Odin said skeptically.

Are you so blind as all that? Nemhain shook her head. Do you not see the troublesome complications strewn across the future if Roald cannot call Asgard home?

I’m not so gifted in predestination as the three of you, Odin said. What are you trying to tell me?

In no uncertain terms, know you this … Destiny has proclaimed Roald to be the ever-anticipated killer of gods. If your grandson be taken to Asgard and raised in the tradition of warriors and Valkyrie, he shall learn purity, honor, and humility rather than the iniquity, covetousness, and deviltry of Helheim.

Odin jolted as though struck by one of his own lightning bolts. No world, no realm, nothing would be safe, were he to grow into a pawn of the evil that rules Helheim! Odin gave Nemhain a speculative look. You realize of course, he’ll not be readily accepted in the halls of Asgard.

Your love and acknowledgement are all my child will need. As for the rest, the spurning he receives will strengthen him all the more.

CHAPTER 1

614 AD

The massive oak doors ponderously swung open, and a brawny figure strode purposefully into the Great Hall of Asgard. Finely wrought chain mail did little to obscure a mighty chest and soft deerskin pants strained to contain bulging, powerful legs. A single, thick braid of reddish-blond hair fell down his back. You summoned me? Roald inquired, dropping respectfully to one knee.

Of a truth, I did, Odin replied and rose from Hlidskjalf, the massive throne from which he oversaw all Nine Realms. Approach me, Grandson, for I have important matters to discuss. Roald mounted the dais and fell into Odin’s heartfelt embrace.

It has been too long, Grandfather.

Thank you for coming so quickly.

Your request sounded urgent. Roald sprawled into the chair on Odin’s left, the one reserved for his father, Thor. Has something grievous occurred?

This morning, the soul of Prince Kenway arrived in Valhalla, Odin said without preamble, a trace of sadness in his voice.

Edric the Great? Leader of the Cruithne?

Odin nodded. One and the same.

How—

Odin raised a hand. How, when, why … none of that matters. What is of primary concern to the war waging on Earth is ensuring the legend that is this hero continues to live on.

Roald looked confused. How can that be if his soul has already entered into Valhalla?

Another will take his place.

Impossible, Roald answered. Centuries would pass before another gained the reputation of Kenway.

A trusted aide survived the battle that killed the prince. If he were to assume Edric the Great’s identity, I think it possible for him to lead the Celts to victory.

That would be a blessing, Roald mused. A blessing indeed.

Victory is all but assured for the Cruithne within a score of years, but only if they believe the hero Kenway is leading them, Odin explained.

So then, you wish me to go to Earth and empower this human?

Odin shook his head. You mustn’t use your god-powers. Such interference would have serious repercussions.

You always say such, Grandfather, Roald retorted. "How frustrating it is to be the God of War yet never given a chance to war!"

Odin pulled on his beard. True as that may be, you must tread a cautious step. Your involvement in this battle between humans could very well destroy us all. The gods to whom the humans pay obeisance would defend their realm, and our pantheon would have no choice but to join in battle too. The result would be the destruction of gods and humans alike.

You have cautioned me, Roald slapped an open palm against his thigh. I tell you; it’s maddening!

Roald, you are a conqueror of empires, the god-killer, Odin said reassuringly. You must only use the full potential of your powers in aiding the greater good.

As you wish, Roald capitulated. What then is my duty in regard to Earth and the humans there?

Go in the guise of a mortal and convince the people that this human is Edric the Great. Odin put a hand on Roald’s shoulder. You need not a god’s strength to persuade.

And it came to pass that Roald descended to Earth. Clothing his 7’5 frame in a badly patched tunic and a pair of ragged pants, he still towered over the other townsfolk and felt more than a few curious stares as he shuffled down the village street. A moment, friend, he asked a passerby. Can you tell me where they keep the injured Cruithne soldier?"

Rheumy eyes blinked, and the old man pointed a gnarled finger. It is said the Lady Fiona cares for him in yonder castle.

Yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? The ancient relic tugged his forelock before continuing on his way, and Roald took a moment to consider the situation. You owe it to yourself to at least set eyes upon the man about to become the most revered of all warriors. With resolve he did not entirely feel, Roald nevertheless lifted the heavy knocker on the castle gate and announced his presence.

Minutes passed, giving Roald the opinion that the inhabitants were either deaf or ignoring him when the massive gate ponderously creaked open, and the wrinkled face of an old woman peered out suspiciously. She craned her neck at an impossible angle to glare into the eyes of the giant standing there. Yes? she croaked.

Good day, Mother. Do I have the honor of speaking with the Lady Fiona?

For all the misfortune that has come upon us, I am Daria, the woman of the house. Fiona is my granddaughter. A suspicious look ended the pleasantries. What is it that you want?

Roald stood to his full height and puffed out his not inconsiderable chest. I am Roald. And save for the man you tend within these walls, the last of the Cruithne.

Daria snorted. So?

I would see my comrade while he still lives.

Cruithne, you say?

Aye.

You must think me a simpleton to accept you at your word! Daria eyed Roald’s tattered tunic. You wear no vest … where then is your insignia?

Despite the woman’s peevish attitude, Roald applauded her caution. I go about in the rags of a commoner so as not to risk the safety of the man I was told you had welcomed into your home. He bent down and whispered conspiratorially. I believe him to be Edric the Great.

Lady Fiona’s grandmother’s eyes widened. Faith, if only, she muttered with a sharply indrawn breath. The great Prince? Here? Roald nodded sagely. And yet … and yet— the old woman stammered. Daria looked Roald up and down. I shall require more proof than the word of a stranger. A handsome stranger in truth, but still, I’ll not let you set one foot inside my house until you put me at my ease. You might be who you say. The old woman’s face hardened with a crafty expression. Then again, you may be the one who made the attempt upon his life.

I cannot but admire such precautions, and verily, I would do the same. Roald fumbled with the lacings of his shirt, and Daria realized he was about to bare his chest. In the moments before his tunic fell open, Roald magically emblazoned the mark of the Triskele over his heart. Save for Edric the Great, all Cruithne are branded as such, he announced and displayed the validation.

The sight of the Triskele brand on Roald’s chest brought a thrill to Daria’s heart. Good heavens! she gasped. Cruithne! Why did you not say as such? Come then, inside with you, m’lord. She hurriedly stepped aside and closed the gate behind him. If truth be told, I’ve taken to believing this past fortnight that Fiona’s patient might be Prince Kenway. Daria lifted a flaming torch from a sconce on the wall. This way.

Roald followed the old woman through the castle. Candles flickered in alcoves, casting long, dark shadows that danced and wavered as they passed. Flagstones beneath their feet rocked and creaked, and more than once, Roald had to duck his head to avoid a low-hanging archway. Who else calls this place home? he asked.

’Tis only me and my granddaughters, Daria replied over her shoulder. Fiona and her eight sisters. She stumbled and Roald heard something skitter away. And these damnable cats, of course.

No male lives here? Roald questioned.

No, and more’s the pity, Daria answered. She lifted the latch on an iron-studded door and pulled it open. Mind your step, m’lord. These steps are slippery, and your fall will like as not find you on a cot next to your comrade with a cracked skull … if you survive, that is. Roald grunted and followed her down the long, winding staircase. Taking each of the steps in turn was an effort in futility; too small for his feet, and as Daria had warned, slick and treacherous. Roald settled on turning and stepping sidewise, forced to brace himself against the wall for support.

The dark tunnel of the staircase seemed to go on forever. For his part, Roald uttered a terse prayer of thanksgiving that Daria didn’t seem interested in conversation, concentrating as she was in avoiding the all too frequent wet patches on the steps. The torch bounced up and down as she shifted from one side of the stairway to the other, and Roald did his best to match Daria’s cautious path. While he didn’t fear the predicted cracked skull from a fall, he had no illusions as to Daria’s survival if he were to sweep her off her feet as he tumbled past her.

Down, down they went, and Roald was about to comment on the depths to which they travelled when the gloom seemed to lighten in front of Daria. In the next instant, her torch vanished as she rounded a sharp turn, and when Roald followed, the low, arched staircase broadened into a dripping tunnel. Daria thrust the torch into a barrel of water, extinguishing the flame before motioning Roald forward. Fiona and your Cruithne are here.

Here was a vast and solemn place lit by two dozen candles and as many torches. Shelves of scrolls and books lined the walls with all manner of pots and jugs scattered amidst crucibles of every size imaginable. A tall, spindle-legged table in one corner set apart from benches and lumber-topped trestles. What is this place? Roald’s voice was low.

Fiona’s father did his work here, was the simple reply. My Jasmine’s mate, Braiden.

It was Roald’s turn to gasp in surprise. The wizard Braiden resides here?

No longer, she said. He was … taken from us. There was no mistaking the grief in her voice.

Roald was aghast at the unexpected news. Braiden, distinguished Druid priest, sorcerer of the gods, dead? How could this be? Whatever else he accomplished on Earth this day, Braiden’s entrance into Valhalla would needs be investigated once he returned to Asgard. For the time being, other, more pressing matters had to be resolved. Show me the fallen Cruithne.

This way.

Across Braiden’s workshop and through a doorway concealed behind a tapestry, Roald followed Daria into a small room simply furnished with a straw covered cot and a low, three-legged stool. A figure bent over the cot straightened, and Roald was confronted by a female with lush, auburn hair. What do you want? she snapped, flashing a pair of catlike emerald eyes

Fiona, this is Roald, Daria explained. A Cruithne like yon soldier. She pointed. He’s come to pay respects to a comrade.

His injuries, Roald asked. They are serious?

Aye, but he will live, Fiona said coolly, and Roald could not help but notice how protectively she hovered over the cot. I learned the healing arts from my father.

The daughters of Braiden would be healers of the most extraordinary sort, Roald mused. Aloud, he sought to reassure Fiona of his intentions. Whatever you need to nurse this man to health, you have only to ask.

His easy tone and gentle words brushed aside whatever objections Fiona retained, and she stepped aside to give Roald his first look at the man destined to become Edric Kenway. The man was sleeping, but even in slumber, there was no denying the regal bearing of Iram Vaughn. A shock of dark hair covered one side of a chiseled countenance, and his chin bristled from the lack of a razor. Roald noted with satisfaction the numerous scars meandering across the shoulders and arms, muscular as any god of Asgard. Truly, a warrior to be reckoned with!

Grandma thinks he is Prince Kenway, Fiona said in a hushed voice. But he says differently.

She is correct to think such a thing. Roald stepped forward. May I?

Of course, Fiona answered. He was awake and asking for water only a short time ago.

Good, good. Roald leaned over, his hand on Iram’s chest. Be at ease and trust me, he said in a quiet voice, pitched only for the sleeping man’s ear. "Henceforth, you are Edric the Great. As Roald spoke, the Cruithne brand under his hand disappeared. It is your destiny, and only you can embrace this. Roald rose from the cot and gently took Fiona’s hand. I take my leave now, m’lady, but if summoned, I shall come at once."

You honor us, m’lord. Fiona tried to hide her surprise that he hadn’t demanded Edric be taken elsewhere.

Nay, the honor is mine, Roald demurred. Your act of kindness shall be remembered unto the halls of Asgard.

Leaving the two women gaping in astonishment, Roald hurried from the room to make his way upstairs. Standing at the bottom of the steep staircase, he sighed in consternation at the sight of so many steps so ill-suited to his feet. Only a moment’s hesitation preceded the obvious solution, flash to the topmost step, and he congratulated himself before opening the door into the upper reaches of Braiden’s keep—

—and slamming into somebody who squealed in a most feminine manner. Roald hesitantly poked his head around the door and there on the floor, sprawled amid the wreckage of shattered pottery, was a waif of a girl, pushing a thick coil of mahogany hair out of her face.

Roald’s heart skipped a beat. Dear Odin, she’s beautiful! His knees trembled when the loveliest topaz eyes he’d ever seen bedeviled him, and he nearly joined her on the floor.

What … who? came a melodic voice, the envy of any choir of angels, captivating him with a confused entreaty.

What have I done? My apologies! Here, take my hand! Roald reached for her and when the soft and warm fingers curled into his calloused palm, Roald wondered how this female’s hands might feel dancing over his naked body. He shook his head to dispel the lecherous image, but in the next instant, the memory of his mother’s warning concerning his betrothal to one of Freya’s Valkyries came to mind.

Do not hasten into marriage, Roald. Sift as you will the countless thousands of unworthy females throwing themselves at your feet. In time, the one special enough for you to call wife will make herself known.

How do you know Annora is not the one?

I’m more than just your mother, or have you forgotten?

No, I haven’t. But you still haven’t said how I will ever know which one is the right one?

When you find her at your feet, it will be thus because she fell.

The poignancy of the moment struck Roald. Here, precisely as his mother had predicted, was a woman who literally fell and stirred his soul like no other had done before! I didn’t hurt you, did I? There was the barest hint of a quiver in his voice.

No … well, perhaps my pride. She giggled, and Roald was certain he’d never heard anything sweeter. In truth, I fared better than Mother’s flowerpots.

I feared the worst when I saw you on the ground. What’s your name, lass?

Nanette, the girl answered, contemplating the giant of a man helping her to her feet. Dear Freya! He’s enormous, taller than any man I’ve ever seen! And handsome. Is the sun brilliant? The sea deep? Just look at those muscles bulging beneath his clothes! Nanette wondered how it might feel to unbraid the mass of strawberry-blond hair hanging down this man’s back and run her fingers through the silken tresses. And that face! As near to a god as a man, what with those chiseled features and the alluring brown eyes of a newborn fawn. Nanette swallowed hard. Who … who are you?

Your husband.

Nanette gaped. M’lord?

I don’t believe I stuttered.

No, but … m-my husband? Nanette looked bewildered. An honorable man does not presume himself upon a maiden such as I.

Presume, bah. Roald smiled. I speak only truth.

Ah, I see. The conversation was bordering on the ludicrous. He was amazingly handsome but really, to be his wife?

Roald dropped to one knee. In three days, I shall take you to my homeland, and we shall be wed. He took Nanette’s hand and placed a chaste kiss upon her palm.

Indeed? Nanette sniffed. I’ll have you know I don’t recall agreeing to marriage and as to that—she jerked her hand out of Roald’s grasp—you’re a fool if you think I would even consider marrying a man whose proposal consisted of knocking me on my backside!

Roald was taken aback. Who was the fool here but a girl refusing the hand of a god? That wry thought brought him up short. She doesn’t know you’re a god, does she now? And lacking the passage of a few days, he would nonetheless change her mind. Look at me. He spread his arms. How can you deny my qualities to be a good husband? I’m strong. He flexed a bicep. More than able to protect you from danger. I’m handsome. When he smiled, his eyes sparkled. You will be the envy of fair maidens far and wide. Roald cupped his manhood, and Nanette gasped. Best of all, I’m virile enough to give you dozens of wee bonny bairns.

Nanette blinked. "Of all the high-handed, self-centered … and … and disgusting things to say! From her smoldering eyes to the hands on her hips, she was the very picture of righteous indignation. Even if you were a gift from Freya and the last man alive, I’d not marry the likes of you!" With that, she tossed her head and left a thoroughly dumbfounded God of War in her wake.

Calm down, Nanette, Fiona said, trying to soothe her overwrought sister. It couldn’t have been all that bad.

Oh, but it was! Nanette was still smoldering. He was charming at the first, but—

But what?

He didn’t even offer his name.

He is Roald, a Cruithne in Prince Edric’s army.

"Oh, so he told you that, did he? Nanette fumed. He didn’t have the courtesy to tell me, yet all but ordered me to be his wife."

I doubt it was an order.

Nanette’s arms crossed over her chest. "He … he … he called himself handsome!"

And he is, very handsome, I’d say.

Well yes, but who says that about themselves?

A man who’s trying to convince a woman he’s worthy.

But—

But nothing, you silly girl. Fiona gave her younger sister a bemused look. If that was the worst of what he said, you should be grateful.

Oh no! Nanette squealed. He didn’t stop there … there’s more. He said he was strong and flexed his muscles.

Mmmm. Fiona smiled dreamily. I would like to have seen that. I daresay the likes of him had a fine set.

"Stop it, Fi. It was … it was … well, just so … conceited. Nanette pouted. He was all so puffed up and proud as a peacock." The image of a preening Roald very nearly caused Nanette to swoon, but recalling the encounter brought a sense of loathing impossible to ignore, and the feeling passed. She’d always wanted her betrothed to sweep her off her feet, not browbeaten by a rogue, devilishly handsome or not.

I always said you needed a strong man, Fiona sniggered. You’re scared of your own shadow. What better husband to have than a Cruithne warrior of undying fortitude?

Are you agreeing with him? Nanette sounded peevish. You’re my sister! You’re supposed to be on my side.

I am on your side. Fiona was unabashed. And when I see the perfect mate for my sister, I have to say as much.

But he grabbed … he grabbed—

He grabbed what?

He said he was … was virile, and he grabbed— Unable to finish her sentence, Nanette mimicked Roald’s cupping motion.

Fiona burst out laughing. Is that what this is all about? She shook her head. Sister mine, for a woman of almost a score, you have much to learn about the ways of a man seeking a wife.

I do not, was Nanette’s indignant reply.

Really? Fiona’s eyes sparkled with amusement. Tell the truth, sister. You had no issue with this strong and handsome man wanting you for a wife until he made a very manly gesture. And it wasn’t that he wasn’t going to tell you his name, but rather, that you ran away before he could tell you.

Well … that was … I mean— Nanette glared at Fiona. What was he thinking by doing such a thing?

He was thinking to impress you, Fiona replied, not unkindly. And thank the gods he’ll be back to look in on the prince. You can make your apologies when he does.

Nanette looked horrified. Oh no, I couldn’t!

You, my dear sister—Fiona fixed Nanette with a stern look—will not pass on this opportunity to give Roald a chance. If not for yourself, then for the sake of a family that no longer has the protection of a male.

Nanette almost felt ashamed. Fiona spoke the truth. With their father gone, the household had no security, and she and Fiona were the only two of marrying age who could remedy the situation. I suppose you’re right, she relented. I refuse to apologize, but I will give him another chance.

"By the love of Freya, you should hope he gives you a second chance!"

Nanette absently brushed her hair and replayed her meeting with the brash Cruithne soldier. Maybe her sister was right, she ought not to have been so rude and walked away. But whose fault was that, really? Her father was the only man she’d ever known, and he’d displayed a quiet reserve so unlike the bold, demanding manner of Roald.

The harm is already done, Nanette angrily muttered to herself, switching the brush to her other hand. It’s been two days; he’s not coming back.

Who are you talking to?

What? Her grandmother’s voice startled Nanette, and she guiltily leapt to her feet. I didn’t hear you come in. What did you say?

I heard you talking. Daria looked curiously around Nanette’s bedroom. Do you have a visitor I should know about?

No, Gran’ma.

Then who—

Nanette looked embarrassed. That soldier … I mean, he was so—

Ahh, brooding over the Cruithne, are you?

I suppose so, Nanette said glumly. Oh, Gran’ma, what have I done?

Daria shuffled across the room and diffidently plucked the brush from Nanette’s unresisting hand. Worry not, child. A visitor awaits you in the great room.

Nanette squealed. Roald?

She collected Nanette’s gleaming hair in one hand and tied it with a ribbon from the table. I shouldn’t wonder.

Nanette stole a glance around the hallway corner, and her heart thumped wildly. Anyone else might have commented on the sight of a man squirming uncomfortably on a chair wholly inadequate to the task of supporting such an enormous frame, but all Nanette saw was a strong, handsome, and undeniably virile male, like a king, awaiting his queen, the craggy face lit by a ray of sunshine slanting through an open window. Throwing back her shoulders, Nanette smoothed her dress and stepped into the great hall.

From the corner of his eye, Roald spotted movement, and he jumped to his feet. Ah gods, more beautiful than I remembered! Nanette. Her name, like music from the first songbird of spring rolled off his tongue. Come to me. He held out a hand. Greet me as a proper wife-to-be should.

The reverent way he spoke her name caused a weakness in Nanette’s knees, but she was determined to have none of this foolish male posturing. If Roald wished to become her husband, he would court her properly, or not at all. Her eyes narrowed. I’ll do nothing of the such.

Roald’s hand dropped to his side. Why did you come hence if not to give your hand to me? Your sister and grandmother have given their blessing.

Keeping herself at arms’ length, Nanette warily circled Roald. I’m not like them, you know. Neither practical nor spontaneous, and nobody will ever accuse me of being well read. She stood in front of the window, and Roald had to squint to see her amid the brilliant sunshine. In fact, I’m a timid prude whose experience in the ways of love is nonexistent.

Roald looked at a loss for words. Perhaps you would prefer to hear me say—

Nanette surprised Roald by sitting down and gently placing her forefinger on his lips. Hush now and listen to me. She smiled to rob her words of offense. "To say that I will be your wife, describing yourself as strong and virile, and to imply how other girls will be jealous of me— Nanette shook her head. Other women, like Fiona, might swoon to hear such things, but as I said, I am not like her. She patted Roald’s arm. Now do you understand?"

To his credit, Roald didn’t dismiss Nanette’s objection out of hand. You present me with ideas I have never encountered before. He raised an eyebrow. Are you telling me you don’t want a strong male, a man who takes command? Roald playfully, albeit with consummate care, pinched Nanette’s arm. Look at you … can you even lift a claymore above your head? He flexed his biceps. Like me?

Nanette clucked her tongue. Oh, you poor, muscle-bound fool.

Roald’s face flushed red. I would have you know—

Nanette’s finger hushed him again. The man of my dreams, the male I want for a husband, doesn’t jest about whether I can lift a sword, but helps me, teaches me, and applauds my efforts.

I will not treat a woman like a soldier! Roald looked stubborn. My wife will never have need to defend herself!

That isn’t at all what I’m trying to say.

Then explain more, for your meaning confuses me.

Your name.

What of it?

You never told me your name … only that I was to be your wife, Nanette said softly. I know nothing about you save the way you see yourself and how you are—she blushed furiously—able to have children.

Roald smiled at the way Nanette’s rosy cheeks glowed in the sunlight, and it was as though a towering thundercloud dissipated from his muddled thinking. What he considered to be the behavior of a charming rogue, she found offensive! Dearest Odin, I thought only of myself … that I found the one for me. I didn’t so much as offer her my name. ’Tis no wonder she rejects me! Nanette—he took to one knee in front of her. If you will let me, I shall try again.

Go on.

I was so taken by your beauty that I acted the fool. If you will but ask my name again.

You needn’t bother with that. Nanette felt a little silly for even bring that up. Fiona told me.

Nevertheless, Roald said with no little sense of desperation. The situation demands it. We are starting anew, are we not?

I guess we are, Nanette conceded. She sat up straight in her chair. Might I inquire as to your name, good sir?

I am Roald. He proudly thumped his chest. And very happy to make your acquaintance, m’lady. He fixed her with an adoring stare until she looked away in embarrassment.

Now what? she asked hesitantly.

Whatever you wish. Ask me questions, tell me of your life. Roald gave her a mischievous grin. You may even kiss me if you so desire.

Er, I don’t— Nanette stammered amid another bout of blushing. Um. She picked at her dress and made a mostly successful effort to avoid looking at Roald’s lips. Fiona said you are Cruithne, that you fight for us against the Christian invaders.

That is what I told your sister.

Nanette thought it strange how he answered. Are you not as you said?

Roald gestured to a bench across the room. The afternoon sun is hot. Will you not join me where we can be more comfortable?

Roald offered Nanette his hand, and she readily took it. Yes, this is what I want. Caring, considerate, gentle.

Roald spoke carefully, precisely. Although it is of the upmost importance that I wish for the Christians to retreat from these lands, it is not because I am Cruithne. He pressed her open palm over his chest to show he spoke with heartfelt urgency. My feelings in this are because I am Roald of Asgard, son of Thor, grandson of Odin.

Nanette gaped in disbelief and jumped to her feet. You … you—

Roald went on as though she had not spoken. I came here that Edric the Great might live on.

You came—

From Asgard, yes.

But— Nanette floundered. That means—

Yes, Roald nodded. I am a God.

The room swirled and a mist seemed to descend on Nanette. She swayed, and her knees would have collapsed but for Roald moving quickly to support her. Not to worry, lass, he whispered. I’ve got you where I want you … forever. His radiant smile only made Nanette’s heart beat faster.

You must think me an empty-headed fool the way I spoke to you, she said in a hushed voice.

Roald was the very picture of gallantry. Not at all. He tucked a finger under Nanette’s chin, lifting her downcast face. Now, what say you to becoming my wife?

A flood of questions ran through Nanette, and she was all but speechless. Why me? she finally asked.

Roald resumed his place on the bench, keeping Nanette in his arms. One look at you and my heart beat as it never had before. The sound of your voice sooths me like a chorus of angels. The feel of your hand touching me makes the blood rushing through my veins hot with desire. How could I not want you mated to me for all eternity?

But, Nanette said weakly. But—

But nothing. Roald cupped her cheek to bring her face close. Say yes, my lovely dryad. Say yes and make me the happiest god to have ever called Asgard home.

Nanette’s head was swimming with so many feelings she couldn’t corral a single thought. Who denied a god what he wanted … and survived the refusal? Why am I wasting time on such thoughts? I wanted him as my husband even before I knew he was a god. Her cheeks pink with hot blood, she whispered, Yes.

Roald pressed his mouth to hers. He started slowly, lingering before parting his lips and caressing her with his tongue. It was obvious to him that she’d never been kissed, and the knowledge made him all the more felicitous. Just do what I do, he whispered. When Nanette opened her mouth, Roald gently caressed her with his tongue.

The kiss was everything, and more, that Nanette could have wished for. Roald’s lips were soft as silk, tasted sweeter than honey, and the way his fingers stroked her hair left her breathless. Oh Roald, she moaned against his lips, but the delicious interlude was shattered when he abruptly pulled away.

Nanette’s eyes snapped open. W-why— She looked confused. Why did you stop?

I do not trust myself. Roald kissed her harder, more fervently. And my female would seek to have our vows exchanged before I continue. He carefully set Nanette on her feet. Go now and gather your sisters and grandmother. She shot him an uncertain look, and he smiled. Surely, you must desire them present at your wedding.

CHAPTER 2

Freya! Roald’s booming voice echoed throughout the palace of Asgard. Freya!

Loki irritably put down his flagon of mead. Stop your squalling, bastard. Born of the union between a Frost Giantess and a nameless god who caught her fancy one blustery winter night, Loki publicly bore his illegitimacy with ill-grace despite Odin graciously adopting him within days of his birth. Privately, however, Loki reveled in his status as the son of the king of Gods. You’ll not find her here.

Roald paid no heed to the thinly veiled insult. It wasn’t the first, and he retained no illusions as to whether it would be the last. Loki was his uncle after all, and Odin had expressly forbidden Roald to use his powers upon the true bastard. Do you know where she is?

Haven’t seen her in days. Loki cocked his head. What do you want with her anyway? Did your dryad earthling finally come to her senses and leave your bed?

I’ll tolerate your slurs upon my character, Uncle. Roald’s delivery was all the more threatening for his even-tempered tone. But speak ill of my wife again, and I shall take immense pleasure in ripping out your tongue. Roald took off his traveling cloak and collapsed into a chair. As to why I seek out Freya. He eyed Loki. I’ve reason to believe she has something to do with the Scythians attacking and killing scores of our people.

Loki spluttered, choking on a mouthful of wine. W-what?

Thagimasidas has renounced Papaios as his father and Lord, claiming Odin as the true Father over all creation. He threatens drought conditions on Earth and Emeath unless the Scythians—

Why would Papaios attack us? We have no authority over Thagimasidas or any other Scythian.

Rumors say Freya is involved, Roald said tiredly. If I can’t find the underlying cause of this, we both know what will happen.

By the gods, I do, Loki breathed. Were Roald to confront another pantheon, no one, from Odin to the lowliest human plebe, was safe. In a war called by not only the god of war, but the god-killer, only one pantheon could emerge victorious, and gods on both sides would perish. Egad, I could die! "Does Odin know?"

Aye, Roald replied. I just left him. He’s in the war room awaiting my decision.

You must find Freya! Loki said urgently.

Roald sighed. That’s what I was doing.

Loki glanced over his shoulder as if the mention of her name would produce the goddess of fertility. I’ll help. Where should I start?

I’ve already scoured the nine realms, and now I’m going to Earth, Roald replied. You go to Emeath and search the dimensions where she’s spent time.

We’ll find her, Nephew. In the next instant, Loki blinked out of sight.

That’s all it took to be rid of him? Roald muttered. Perhaps I owe the Scythians a tribute of thanks.

A week passed, and Freya remained unaccounted for. An assemblage of four gathered in the Great Hall of Asgard, and Odin lifted his scepter. You must decide now, Roald. What are we to do?

Without committing himself, Roald looked at Thor for guidance. Father?

The human death toll has risen to catastrophic levels while the ranks of our Valkyrie warriors have fallen to a point not seen in millennia. Thor looked glum. "My nature advocates going into battle against the Scythians, but I cannot go against the Fates who decreed that you, and only you, can make a decision of that magnitude."

If only I could speak with Freya, Roald said. The decision would be easy.

Her absence speaks volumes, Loki observed.

Odin nodded. If it were up to me—he eyed the blood-thirsty Thor—I’d make apologies to Papaios and admit her mistake.

Thor slumped on his throne. You’d make us look weak?

The lesser of two evils, my son, Odin replied. If rumors speak true, Freya’s infidelity brings dishonor to us all.

Be silent and let me think, Roald grated. As you said, this is my decision. The silence was complete when Loki stilled his impatiently tapping foot under Roald’s glare. The minutes began to stretch interminably when the double doors at the far end of the Great Hall suddenly burst open, and Odur stood, bracing himself against the frame.

I found her, he gasped. God of the sun shared a love with Freya that was beyond reproach, and the one reason Roald doubted the rumors of her dalliance. But, despite her devotion to Odur, Roald also knew Freya had no qualms about doing anything to get what she wanted.

Well done, my friend! Roald jumped to his feet and looked past Odur. Is she with you? I would seek her counsel.

That will prove difficult, Odur said bitterly. He stumbled forward and collapsed onto the closest chair. She’s a captive in Thagimasidas’s dungeon. His pronouncement met with ejaculations of dismay that Odin waved to silence.

How do you come by this information? Odin asked.

Annora, Valkyrie and mother of the Cernians, was with her, but she escaped … came forthwith to give me word. Odur looked beseechingly at the others. What are we to do?

The Scythians have imprisoned one of ours. Roald took a deep breath. We go to war.

The stench of death awakened Nanette, and she opened her eyes to see a blood-covered man dressed in tattered clothes standing at the foot of her bed. Roald, is that you? She gathered the bedclothes to cover herself and bolted upright. Oh, my gods, are you injured?

Roald looked at himself with a nonchalance that belied his appearance. Not a drop of my blood has been spilled.

It doesn’t look that way.

Be at ease, my love, he soothed. Let me rid myself of these clothes, and I’ll join you in bed. He hurried away, and Nanette cocooned herself under the covers. When he appeared next, he wore a towel draped around his waist and drops of water glistened on his chest and arms. Ah, much better.

You’re in one of your moods again, Nanette said.

And for a good reason. I’m pleased to say that we can finally live as we were meant to. For the last thirteen centuries my distraction has left you alone for months at a time. A gloating smile played across his face. This war that began but a fortnight after we said our vows is finally over. The Scythians defeated!

Nanette fixed a pouting look on her face. Then what are you waiting for, husband?

It’s to be like that now, eh? In the next instant, Roald magically joined Nanette in bed, his arms around her, the towel gone. His body was damp but warm against hers, and Nanette couldn’t help but shiver when his length pressed against her inner thigh. Is this what my wife is asking for? he whispered into her ear.

V-very m-much, Nanette managed, moaning at the delicious kisses he trailed over her neck. Roald took her mouth, kissing her until she could hardly breathe, feeling her heart racing with anticipation.

Cupping a breast in his hand, Roald dropped his head and sucked in the small rosy bud of her nipple. He laved and sucked, moving from one breast to the other, and back again.

Nanette reveled in the feel of his mouth, every lick, suck, and pinch on her nipples flooding her with a need to have more of him. Take me, my husband, she whispered.

Do not rush me, woman, for I am one who takes pride in the affairs of a bedchamber. He ran a hand down and cupped her core, his fingers sliding through wet folds, and she gasped. You, my precious wife, need more than just a quick romp in the hay.

But—

Why must there always be a ‘but’ with you? Roald raised his head and smiled at Nanette. Maybe, just this once, you will admit your brute of a husband knows best. Not waiting for a reply, he burned a hot trail of kisses over her stomach and pushed her legs apart.

Yes, he was right, Nanette thought as his mouth pressed over her core and with the same enthusiasm as he kissed her lips, he did the same to her hidden treasure. Her hips rolled, and thighs twitched, delighting in the feel of his tongue.

Roald moaned at the familiar taste that was sweeter than honey produced by the happiest of bees. He licked and sucked, pulling her nubbin into his mouth, and rolling it between his lips and tongue. A stiff finger thrust into her tight canal drew a pleasing whimper that sounded to him much like a plea for more. He gorged himself on her pink flesh, bringing Nanette to orgasm, not once but twice.

Kneeling between Nanette’s legs, Roald took a moment to drink in the sight of his beautiful wife. Every inch of her, from bright topaz eyes, pert breasts with rosy hard buds, flat stomach, and lean legs, on down to her painted red toenails, was flawless!

Equally enamored, Nanette looked upon the glorious male staring at her. His chest muscles, perfectly formed, rippled exquisitely as they flexed, and his thick erection jutted deliciously below a washboard stomach. In the next moment, there came to Nanette an idle thought: I wonder if it’s possible to reach another climax just by watching him stroke that heavy organ?

Roald focused his gaze on the apex of Nanette’s thighs. The wantonly spread, honey-soaked core made him growl with pleasure, and he leaned forward to slide his cock over her nubbin. The quiver of her body enticed him to do it again … and then again.

Oh gods, Roald, Nanette moaned. I’m … I’m— Precum seeping from the tip of his cock added to the flood of moisture, and Nanette’s hips rolled and thrashed, her hands knotting in the bedsheets.

Cum for me! Roald growled roughly.

Yes! Nanette screamed at the same moment Roald thrust his cock deep within her. Oh gods, Roald! The penetration heightened her orgasm, endless waves of pleasure rolling through her body.

Lying atop of her, he wrapped her in his arms as he pumped his hips, pushing in and drawing out with long, deep, slow strokes, all the while kissing her with emotionally charged passion. Roald could take her twenty times a day for the next two millennia and never grow tired of pleasing his Nanette, but there was something about this time that made it seem more passionate, more sensual, more intimate.

Nanette’s nails dug furrows into his back, and she gasped for breath. Roald was more than content to draw the moment out but when her walls began constricting around his cock, he allowed himself to join her in the ultimate moment of pleasure. A climax rocketed through him and seed exploded from his length with such intensity, an exultant shout escaped through his lips.

In each other’s arms, Nanette and Roald panted, their hearts beating in a matching rhythm of sated passion. I adore you, my wife, he whispered against her hair.

And I adore you, my husband.

Awakening hours later, Nanette found herself alone in bed. Stretching languidly, she happily replayed the night of bliss in her mind before rolling over. Dear gods! Nanette squealed when she spied a diminutive figure sitting in a chair across the room. Nemhain! What are you doing here? Her eyes darted around in case the other Morrigan had travelled from Helheim with Roald’s mother to invade her privacy.

Get dressed child, Nemhain said, ignoring the question. We must speak of the future.

What?

Nemhain sighed. My sisters and I are not in the habit of discussing life’s enigmatic mysteries unless those to whom we dispense our advice are properly receptive. Her voice took on a note of asperity. Put on some clothes.

With an effort, Nanette recovered her composure. And I am not in the habit of getting dressed when someone other than my husband is in the room. She raised an eyebrow. A moment alone, if you please?

Nemhain looked impatient. "You may have one minute," she said before disappearing in a flash of light. Not for the first time, Nanette was altogether thankful the shapeless, sixth century fashions of her youth were but an unpleasant memory. Instead of draping a coarse woolen lèine over her shoulders and cinching the baglike garment with a length of twisted cowhide, Nanette slipped into a pair of jeans and pulled a sweatshirt over her head before lacing up a pair of tennis shoes. A few strokes of a hairbrush, and she gathered gleaming tresses into a ponytail, finishing her preparations just as her mother-in-law reappeared.

Much better, Nemhain said with an approving nod. Now, come to me. Nanette obeyed but when long, spindly fingers took her hand, she hesitated.

Are we going somewhere?

Of a certainty. Before Nanette could steel herself, Nemhain transported them into Hel’s throne room on Helheim; the warm, comforting embrace of Asgard replaced by the bone-chilling temperatures of this Underworld. Nanette shivered and mentally cursed this Morrigan for fetching her here without warning of the inhospitable conditions at their journey’s end.

The dark, dank atmosphere of Helheim was perfectly suited to host the palace of Hel. A riot of vines covered the interior walls, and the once-brilliant white marble faded to a sickly shade of ochre. Like aging dowagers—old, tired, and entirely without hope—once-mighty timbers supporting the arched ceiling listed to one side, and a pennant hanging over their head rippled in an icy breeze whistling through the battlements. Snakes writhed across the flagstones amid countless hordes of insects that skittered over and around the hissing serpents. Close behind the pestilence of beetles, centipedes, and locusts came the lizards, frogs, and toads, and one scaly creature with a misshapen skull and webbed feet. Here and there, tongues reached out to make a snack of an unsuspecting beetle, and Nanette cringed when she heard the meal crunch on its way down.

A morose-looking woman with blue-tinged skin peered at the newcomers from her place on a tarnished silver throne encrusted with onyx. Black asps slithered over her, the undulating motion gave Hel the look of motion even as she sat regally upright. Flanking her on the dais stood Nemhain’s sisters, Badb and Macha. Everyone, with the exception of Nanette in her less than adequate jeans and sweatshirt, wore the same heavy black robing as Nemhain.

Hel, Badb, Macha, Nanette greeted the triumvirate. How are you this—she looked through a window and grimaced at the gloomy landscape and could only guess at the time of day with no sun ever illuminating the skies of Helheim—morning?

We are disturbed, Badb answered.

I see, Nanette said. And I take it that your ill mood has something to do with me?

You would be correct, Macha replied.

Nanette inwardly cringed but made an effort to hide her anxiety. You have my attention.

Like a wraith, Hel rose from her throne and clucked her tongue at the hissing snakes, voicing their displeasure from being so unceremoniously displaced. Later, my pretties. She extended a hand to Nanette.