The woman’s feet were a foot off the ground. Otherwise, Poppy guessed she’d have stood approximately the same height as her, more or less. She had long light brown hair streaked gold by the sun, and she was dressed in what seriously looked like “Amazon warrior” armor. There were half a dozen other women in the clearing, all dressed similarly. It was as if they’d transported directly into a filming set for Xena, Warrior Princess. She knew these were the Valkyrie. This was Valhalla, after all. But not one of the women was sporting a set of wings.
Poppy turned her attention back to the woman Kristopher was choking. She had both hands wrapped around his wrist, and by the color of her face, it looked like Kristopher’s grip was tightening.
That’s Toril, she thought. And he’s going to kill her. Poppy opened her mouth to call out to him and try to make him stop, but before she could say anything, someone else did.
“Erikk! You know the fight is no longer yours now!” said one of the women. Poppy gingerly touched her chin and moved forward to get a better look at whoever had spoken. The small group of women parted, and a seventh warrior moved forward into the clearing.
Kristopher’s eyes glowed hot with anger, and Toril’s face was turning the color of beets. “She attacked my queen,” he stated through clenched and bared teeth.
“Yes, she did,” said Poppy suddenly. Oh my gods, what the hell am I doing? Every Valkyrie in the clearing turned to look at her. “She attacked me,” she continued. “That means she’s my problem.” Her heart hammered. There was a ringing in her ears. She could not believe what she was saying, especially since she was saying it with an unwavering voice while standing in a fighter’s stance. “Not yours.”
Kristopher glanced over at her, eerily burning eyes and all. He’s so beautiful, she thought as he speared her through with that hellish gaze.
“I’m the one she wants to hurt,” he said simply.
“Quite frankly then,” said Poppy, “it’s unfortunate she doesn’t have better aim.”
Kris eyed her for a long, silent moment. No one in the clearing spoke. Toril continued to choke. Then, ever so slightly, the corners of Kristopher’s mouth turned upward. He slowly lowered his arm until Toril’s booted feet frantically touched the ground, kicking up clouds of dust as they found their footing. The ring of Amazonian women backed up a little, and Kris released his grip on Toril’s throat.
The Valkyrie instantly began choking, doubled over to frantically inhale wheezing gulps of air. No one touched her, and no one offered to help. It was as if interfering in any capacity would have gone against some sort of rule or law.
When Toril seemed to have finally caught her breath, Poppy took a deep breath of her own and stepped forward. “Toril Stalson, it’s time to finish this once and for all.”
Toril straightened and turned her light hazel-colored eyes on Poppy. “How do you know me?” she asked. There was malice in her tone, but there was also genuine curiosity.
“Word gets around,” said Poppy as she finished stepping to the center of the clearing.
Toril’s gaze narrowed. She faced her completely. “And you’re the new Winter Queen.”
“I am,” said Poppy confidently.
“Really?” Toril asked. “I sense otherwise. Your king radiates Winter. But you?” She snickered, smiling a smile that was more of a snarl. “You radiate mortality.”
Poppy just shrugged. “Yeah well, the thing about us mortals is we’re real scrappers.”
If growing up playing ice hockey in the neighborhood lake with a bunch of hard-hitting boys had taught Persephone Nix anything of any value, it was that when you were in the game, it was the game that mattered. Everything else could be dealt with later. If you weren’t going to play to win, don’t play. Putting in less than your all was an injustice to everyone else there.
Just as Poppy had known she would, Toril chose that moment to strike. She lunged forward, going low with a punch that she obviously assumed Poppy would attempt to duck under. But this wasn’t Poppy’s first rodeo. She side-stepped, bringing her elbow down square in the center of Toril’s back.
Toril let out a grunt of pain, stumbled forward a few steps, and spun with a backhand. This one, Poppy did duck under, and when she came back up, she made sure her undercut struck Toril’s solar plexus.
Again, Toril grunted, this time a little louder than before. She backpedalled, hand to chest, before rushing forward again. But this time, she reached over her own shoulder and pulled the sword from the scabbard at her back. It made a shhhick sound as it came free and gleamed wickedly in the sunlight.
Oh shit, thought Poppy.
Chapter Forty-Two
The Valkyrie’s sword glinted in the sunlight, and Toril’s smirk of a smile was firmly back in place.
“Fine,” said Poppy. Two can play at that game. She raised her arms and flooded her palms with waiting magic. She’d been wondering whether she would have another chance to use her warlock skills. She’d been secretly ecstatic to find that when she’d cast the breaching spells and the stone to flesh spell in the seed vault, they hadn’t somehow turned icy like all of her other attempts at magic had lately. She wasn’t sure what to make of it, but at the moment, it didn’t matter. If it was working like it was supposed to, that was good enough for her.
Toril’s smirk turned to a snarl. She couldn’t see the magic flooding Poppy’s palms, so she obviously assumed Poppy was unarmed, and therefore rather helpless. She ploughed forward, swinging her sword in a high arc.
Poppy lifted her right hand and spoke a few fast words of a spell. It was meant to steal speed from an opponent, slowing them down as if they were moving through sludge or mud. However, when it struck Toril, rather than simply slow her down, it covered her with an instant layer of frost. White-blue rime coated her boots, her hands, and the killing edge of her sword. Her skin bloomed with crystals of ice, and when she exhaled in exertion against the slowing effects of the spell, her breath was visible before her lips.
From the sidelines, the Valkyrie began to murmur. “Bifrost…” they muttered, repeating the word amongst themselves. Poppy also heard the words “winter” and “queen” amidst the babble.
She tried to block out the noise and focus on her enemy, who was glaring at her like mad at the moment. “Sorcery,” the shield maiden hissed. “I should expect no less.”
Poppy didn’t respond. There was no need. She’d done what she’d had to do.
Toril growled, and that growl became a scream, which became a roar. The spell around her shimmered and wavered, and Poppy could feel it begin to go. In her mind’s eye, she saw the magic shatter, splintering around her like the cracks in an ancient Chinese vase before it just exploded. Useless shards of magic rained down onto the ground around her.
Toril’s body lurched forward, freeing itself from its frozen slowness. She staggered a few steps, regained her footing, and wasted no time in attacking again.
This time, she swung the sword in a downward but angled arc, giving Poppy nowhere to go. Poppy did the only thing she could think to do. She acted instinctively rather than intelligently, her right arm coming up, her hand opening to meet the sword. Pain, sharp and true, spiked through her palm as she literally caught the sword mid-air, and her fingers wrapped solidly around it.
Everything came to an immediate stand-still then. More murmurs rose up in the crowd, which sounded bigger than before. Poppy stared at her bleeding hand where it was wrapped so firmly around the Valkyrie’s blade. Red lines dripped down her wrist and striped her forearm. But the pain ebbed rapidly, and the second thing she noticed was the ice once more spreading across Toril’s sword. It crackled from beneath Poppy’s grip, racing across the metal of the blade like Kurt Vonnegut’s Ice Nine.
She watched it rush straight to the hilt, rapidly enshroud the pommel, and begin coating Toril’s gripping fingers. The shield maiden gasped at the touch of the ice, and Poppy knew her instinct was to let go of the sword. But she fought the instinct and maintained her
hold, all too aware that if she let the weapon drop, the fight would be over.
The red streams that striped Poppy’s arm now dripped from her elbow, and the slightest hint of queasiness threatened her belly. She gritted her teeth, allowed her pain to make her angrier, and forced the anger to turn into strength. She gripped the sword blade harder.
At once, the ice that threatened Toril’s fingers reacted to Poppy’s power, pushing forward to cocoon them within seconds flat and move on to her wrist. The Valkyrie’s gritted teeth parted as the woman began to keen in pain.
Poppy knew how much ice could hurt. She’d hit the frozen lake at home in Canada enough times with her face, elbows, knees, and butt to know that it was hard and unforgiving. She’d had enough snow balls stuffed into her clothes to know that it was bitter and biting. How long could a person place their hand in a bank of snow before pulling it out again? Ice could cut you to the bone. It could freeze you to the marrow.
Heat was deadlier. But cold hurt like hell.
Toril’s entire arm was encased now, and the woman had gone very, very pale. At last, she tilted her head back and let out a terrible cry. Her frozen fingers crackled as they stiffly and painfully released the grip of the sword, leaving its entire weight in the tortured clasp of her opponent.
At once, a cheer went up through the crowd. Poppy, again acting on instinct, raised the sword high over her head. Before her, Toril Stalson fell to her knees and bent her head in shame and surrender.
Poppy looked down at her. Slowly, she lowered the sword, taking the grip in her other, non-injured hand. “Toril,” she said.
The Valkyrie remained where she was, head bent.
“Look at me,” Poppy commanded softly.
The Valkyrie finally looked up, slowly raising her head until their eyes met. Hers were shining with stubborn unshed tears.
“I am sorry for what happened with your brother,” said Poppy. “But he chose his wars. His battles are no longer yours to fight.” She shook her head. “They never were.”
Toril stared at her, and a sob escaped her throat. She shook her head and lowered her gaze once more. Poppy turned the sword around in her hands until the hilt was facing the kneeling shield maiden. “Take it.”
“I don’t deserve to wield it.”
“That’s just stupid. Of course you do. Take the sword, Toril.” She shrugged. “The gods know I can’t keep it. Clearly I don’t even know which end to hold it from.”
Toril’s head snapped up, her expression shocked. Poppy smiled in amiable jest. It was the instinctive thing for her to do. And wonder of wonders, it looked like it was the right thing to do, too. Because Toril Stalson reached up, took the sword from Poppy’s hand, and without looking away, she slid the weapon into the scabbard at her back.
She was still kneeling. And though Poppy knew she was destined to be the Winter Queen, the fact of the matter was, she wasn’t quite ready to have people kneel before her just yet. So she offered Toril her hand.
It was the injured hand, covered in fresh red blood.
Toril looked down at it, her eyes taking in the damage her blade had done. Then, resolutely and firmly, she took the offered hand in her own firm grip and allowed Poppy to pull her to her feet.
The group of onlookers around the two had grown since the last time Poppy had seen it. To the side, Kristopher still stood tall and broad, his arms crossed over his chest, his presence radiating oodles of power. But his eyes were no longer crackling with electric-blue heat. Instead, they’d settled into a stunning aquamarine, impossible and gorgeous. And right now, they were watching Poppy with a mixture of emotions that included a very obvious amount of pride.
“What do I call you?”
Poppy turned back around to face Toril.
The Valkyrie made a helpless gesture. “I don’t even know your name, my queen.”
My queen…. “The name is Persephone,” said the queen. “Persephone Glacia Nix.” Then she smiled, and may the Fates help her, she actually felt like laughing. “But please call me Poppy.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The remainder of their time in Valhalla had been spent tending to Poppy’s wound. The way this was done in Valhalla, however, was by drinking. Heavily.
Valhalla was composed of two different and separate sections. One was the gated home of the Valkyrie, the shield maidens of Odin. The other was the rowdy, riotous, impossibly large drinking and fighting hall that all Norse warriors lived their lives hoping they would be fortunate enough to wind up in when they died. It was the latter that Kristopher and Poppy had to visit in order to heal Poppy’s wound. Because only the ale of Valhalla could mend a wound dealt by a Valkyrie’s sword.
Fortunately for her, Poppy very much felt like drinking at that point. To say that she was in pain would have been a ridiculously gross understatement. Quite frankly, she wanted to rip her arm off at the shoulder just so she wouldn’t have to feel her hand any more.
But as soon as one of the fallen warriors from the hall handed her a full mug of ale and the liquid passed her lips, she understood why the warriors in Valhalla were said to fight every day until their deaths and simply wake up the next morning to do it all over again. The ale was a healing drought like no other. As long as it was in your system your wounds would rapidly heal, and apparently it lasted a good long while.
“Too bad we can’t bottle this stuff up and take it back with us,” Poppy murmured while she watched the deep wound in her palm seal back up and smooth itself out until it vanished altogether. “Think of the lives we could save.”
“Aye,” said Kristopher. “But the moment you attempt to take the ale past the boundaries of Valhalla, it vanishes. It cannot exist in any other realm or dimension. This is it.”
Poppy nodded solemnly. She was happy that she’d at least had the chance to use it herself.
While they drank, Toril assured Poppy that she hadn’t managed to put any wards on her throne after all. She’d barely managed to make it into the Winter Kingdom with some transport spell magic she’d stolen from the Valkyrie Queen, who kept it for emergencies. But after that, she was out of power and could sense she was out of time, so she’d transported back to Valhalla. Meridian had seen her by the throne, probably in those last moments before Toril had turned back. Poppy thanked Toril for telling her and shared a mug of ale with the shield maiden.
Poppy was also told that a Valkyrie’s wings only emerge when she descends to the mortal realm to acquire a fallen warrior.
And Winter had secretly told her, by whispering it into her mind, that her magic was behaving now because Poppy had accepted her place as queen. The only reason the slowing spell had iced over was because Winter thought it would be prettier that way.
Poppy had taken it all in stride. She’d just bested a Valkyrie. She could handle anything.
When she finished healing and they both finished quenching their thirsts, Poppy and Kristopher transported out of Valhalla, back to their palace of ice. At once, Poppy could see that something had changed.
“Something’s wrong,” she said after the portal closed behind her.
Kristopher didn’t say anything, but Poppy could tell he was on high alert. His gaze slowly combed the warded safe room they’d been transporting from. There was nothing in the room, no furniture to speak of and no decoration. There were only the four walls around them and the floor they stood upon, so there was no obvious, visible sign that anything was different. It was just a feeling she had.
Using that same instinct she’d used in the fight against Toril, Poppy made her way to the winding stairs and began ascending. Half-way to the top, she heard it. It was the same hissing sound she’d heard just before attempting to take her seat on the throne.
“What the –”
“Stay behind me,” Kristopher said. He’d come up beside her, and now passed her on the staircase. Poppy watched him climb. With each step he took, something about his figure changed. First it was the boots. Then the jacket disappeared. Then
he had a sword strapped to his back.
By the time he reached the top with her right behind him, he was in full-on Viking mode, bare from the waist up other than his sword, tight leather breeches hugging every deliciously muscled curve from the waist down. She would have given just about anything at that moment to be able to sit back and enjoy the view. But unfortunately, the slithering, undulating mass of snakes just beyond the first step of the hidden passageway drew her attention instead.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. There were thousands of them. They were obviously more of the Serpent’s children; their brilliantly colored bodies filled the study two-feet deep. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t like snakes. In fact it was just the opposite. She did like snakes. She thought they were a little cute with their kinder schema – their enormous eyes and tiny mouths. To her, they looked like anime characters or babies. But seeing them piled up possibly a million deep was unsettling on so many fundamental levels, she couldn’t help her physical reaction. Not only that, she was pretty sure the ones on the bottom were suffocating or being completely squished by sheer weight. And she hated cruelty to animals.
Kristopher looked down at the line they seemed unable to cross. “The wards are keeping them out of the stairwell. He leaned to the left and craned his neck to see around the study door and into the hall beyond. “They’re in the hall too.”
“So it’s safe to assume they’re all over the castle.”
Kristopher sighed. “That would be my guess.”
Right about then, it would have been the norm to ask “So what do we do?” but the question seemed pointless. Obviously, he was trying to figure that out. And she was too.
Transport magic would take them throughout the castle, but they wouldn’t be able to land anywhere. It also wouldn’t do any good to wrap personal shields around their bodies since they still wouldn’t be able to push through the snakes without great effort and without killing a whole lot of them in the process.