“I think special consideration should be given to us short people. Our strides are so much smaller,” Terri added. “But Commander MacLean just laughed when I told him so.”
“Speaking of sadistic instructors . . .” Donita was staring at the entrance where a group of SEALs had just entered. It was a funny thing, but when out in public, the SEALs tended to stick together and were easily recognizable by their extremely buff physiques. It was like a secret brotherhood kind of thing, she supposed. They’d seen and done things only they could share. Active duty WEALS were the same way.
The SEALS noticed them and immediately headed their way, and they soon had three tables pushed together.
Slick pushed a chair up next to her and gave her a quick, brotherly hug. “How ya doin’, toots?”
“Just dandy, if you don’t count my sore feet, aching muscles, and lack of sleep.”
“In other words, the usual.” Slick grinned. Especially handsome with his dark, brooding good looks, he was in his mid to late thirties, old for a SEAL, but since 9/11, Special Forces of all military branches were in such demand that the rules had been relaxed. He was single and not dating anyone in particular, as far as she knew. Probably commitment phobic, thanks to a bad experience with a divorced wife. Joy’s relationship with him was purely platonic.
“Do you ever ache anymore when you exercise?”
“Every day.” The SEALs were required to follow complete BUD/S training workouts whenever they weren’t on a live op.
“Oh, that’s encouraging.”
“I hear the commander has a special assignment for you.”
That got her attention. “Really?”
He ducked his head. “Oops. Guess I jumped the gun.” “Okay, spill. What’s the assignment?”
“He didn’t say anything to you?”
“Just that he wanted me in his office tomorrow morning. I figured I was in trouble for something or other.”
“You aren’t in trouble . . . unless you consider a live op in enemy territory trouble.”
“I’m going operational?” she asked excitedly.
“Uh, I can’t discuss it with you.”
“Will you be part of the operation?”
“Possibly.”
“Well, that’s good then. You’ll watch my back.” He smiled at her confidence in his protection and squeezed her hand. “Whenever I can, babe.”
They all plowed into their food, ordered more drinks, then clapped and shouted out their opinions as Cage and Marie, under the direction of Brooks and Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” did what could only be described as a combination Cajun two-step and dirty dancing. Right after that, half the place seemed to be up and dancing to that old Chuck Berry classic, “Johnny B. Goode,” with everyone enthusiastically singing the refrain, “Go, Johnny, go!” Cage and Marie were good, really good.
Slick asked her to dance, halfheartedly, but she told him she wasn’t in the mood for tripping the light fantastic. She could tell he was relieved.
Geek, a Mensa-IQ SEAL with a boyish demeanor belied by a wicked grin, asked Candy to dance. Geek liked to give the impression of being a bumbling, inexperienced hayseed, but he’d been the one to help set up a hugely successful site on the Internet called
www.penileglove.com
. Enough said! A short while ago, when someone asked what his latest project was going to be, he’d answered that he was writing an essay for a book of philosophy about women. His section was going to be on how to determine the kind of sex partner a woman would be by the way she ate her food. At that point, the men said, “Sweet!” and every woman at the table stopped chewing. But, hey, look at him out there on the dance floor. Those hips knew what they were doing. Wild Candy had to work hard to keep up.
JAM, or Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, was once a Jesuit priest or at least studying to be one. She’d bet her one and only pair of Jimmy Choos that there was a story there. JAM led Dottie out to join the others. His dancing was much more sedate.
Terri was yakking away at Scary Larry, who never even batted an eyelash or took part in Terri’s one-way conversation. He probably figured Terri would go away if he ignored her. No way! According to the grapevine, Terri had made a vow at one time that she would get laid by Scary Larry, eventually. Different tastes!
Then there was Sly, who stared at Donita for a long moment, then asked Kendra to dance. The jerk! Donita raised her chin haughtily, but Joy could see that she was fighting tears. In fact, Donita quickly rose and made her way to the ladies’ room, probably to get herself under control.
“Well, that was pleasant. Not!” she commented to Slick.
“Give the guy some credit. He’s crazy mad in love with Donita, but she can’t make up her mind whether she wants him or not.”
Joy’s left eyebrow rose a fraction. It wasn’t like Slick to listen to or pass on gossip.
“I’m just sayin’.” Slick took a sip of his beer, then exclaimed, “Oh, good Lord!”
Approaching their table was a statuesque thirty-something woman with flowing ebony hair and a creamy complexion. It was Slick’s ex-wife Barbara, who had moved to Coronado recently, much to Slick’s chagrin, and was working in an aerobics studio owned by one of the SEALs’ wives.
“Barb, what the hell are you doing here?” Slick asked right off the bat.
Barb flinched but sat down on Slick’s other side. “Just slumming.” She reached over and took a sip of his beer.
“That figures. Since when do you drink beer?”
“I learned from the best.”
It took him a moment to comprehend that she meant him. “You’ve got to be kidding. My bank account is empty, thanks to you. What could you possibly want from me now?”
She didn’t say anything, just stared at him.
And Joy realized in that moment that all the litigation this woman had filed against Slick over the years was just an attempt to gain his attention. She didn’t want his money. She wanted him. A clear case of aggression transferal.
Joy got up to leave them alone. Walking outside to the parking lot and then into an adjoining park, she sat down on a bench. All of a sudden, she felt very lonely.
Sometimes she didn’t think she was healed at all. Maybe she was just kidding herself that she’d entered the third phase of her grieving process. Maybe she’d never left step one and was just repressing her outward signs.
Looking up at the starry sky, she wondered, as she often had in the past year and more, if her brother Matt was up there watching her. Laughing at all her efforts to prove herself, once again, in a man’s world.
Sometimes it was debatable whether it was her brain or her heart that was splintering apart.
Chapter 3
When good men go berserk . . .
Today was the day. Today the madness would end.
Brandr stood at the top of the rise, staring down into the valley at the last of the Sigurdssons who were camped in tents and hastily erected timber and sod huts. Dawn was just rising, and women were beginning to stir the fires. There would be no stealth required in the fray today.
For three months now, Brandr and his comrades-in-arms had wreaked vengeance on the miscreants in a wave sweeping north of Bear’s Lair, through all of Sigurd’s holdings. He was most impressed with how his unseasoned brothers, Erland and Arnis, had proven themselves as fighting men. In time, they would make great warriors, mayhap even Jomsvikings, if they chose. Through spring and summer, Brandr’s troop had trudged on, awash in sword dew, knowing months-long darkness would soon be biting at their heels. He must be back at Bear’s Lair soon to prepare the keep for the bitter cold winter ahead.
Brandr’s hird was sixty strong, including thirty Jomsvikings who counted as a hundred when it came to combat skills. Thus far, they had only lost five men, and another three were gravely wounded. But the Sigurdssons and their followers . . . ah, they had fallen like sheaves of wheat afore the scythe. The ravens of death resembled black clouds in the skies over this northernmost Hordaland, feeding on the carrion. So much blood had Brandr shed, so many bodies had he sent to Valhalla!
Joining him today were Jarl Tykir Thorksson of Dragon-stead, a neighbor from south of here, along with a full dozen of his hirdsmen. Tykir had been a good friend for many a year, and now he rode at Brandr’s side as a good and faithful comrade-in-arms. He was especially grateful since Tykir left behind his wife Alinor and their baby Thork to join him in battle.
But Tykir was not the only one to send soldiers. King Thorvald of Stoneheim had sent men, as well. Although Thorvald had no sons, only five daughters, he spared him a full dozen warriors led by the far-famed Rafn, soon to wed one of Thorvald’s daughters once she was of age, so the rumors went.
Forseti, the god of justice, had been at their backs, while Thor, god of war, had guided their sword arms, and now . . . well, now it no longer felt like a hero’s mission. Brandr did not regret the carnage. His vengeance was justified. Still . . .
But would he ever be the same?
Did he want to be the same?
Nay, he was a berserker now. The bloodlust was imbedded in him. Rage and fury thrummed through his body with an endless rhythm, especially when in battle. Even when at rest, a blackness shrouded his soul. He knew his own men feared him at times, especially his brothers, who gazed at him betimes in horror at what he had become. Those had been the moments when his arms and chest had dripped with his foemen’s blood, spittle foaming at the sides of his mouth like a rabid beast, and still he had roared for more.
Tork, whom he’d appointed as his hersir, came up to him and looped an arm over his shoulders. They were both dressed for battle with padded undertunics, hauberks of flexible chain mail with attached coifs, and tight, thick chausses and cross-gartered leather boots, helmets, and Jomsviking shields with the embossed battle raven. Whetstones had sounded through the night as men sharpened swords, battle-axes, and knives. Archers had prepared their longbows and arrows.
“The men are ready,” Tork told him. “Do we strike at dawn?”
Brandr nodded.
“And do we spare the women and children, as before?”
“Yea. In fact, today we spare any who are weaponless.”
Tork frowned. “A bear can do great harm even without sharp teeth. Have a caution, my friend.”
“We will decide later if they pose any threat. Besides, they will all be sold into thralldom, as before, except for those women and children that our men choose to keep, or those with particular talents. A blacksmith, for example, would not be turned away, nor a leather worker, which we sorely need. Remember, no battlefield rape, or death will be the penalty. And all plunder shall be shared.”
“As you wish.” Tork recognized, as he did, that some of the men resented being forbidden the slaking of lust on enemy women, but it was a tiny bit of civility in an uncivilized world that Brandr insisted upon before the berserk rage overcame him.
A short time later, Brandr walked with careful silence over the dewy ground toward the men in battle gear who were moving into a tight
svinfyklja
or swine wedge . . . a triangular formation whereby the point faced the enemy. They brandished fierce weapons of all kinds, some in leather helmets but most with cup-shaped metal ones with nose and eye guards, even neck flaps, carrying round wooden and brass shields, only a few in chain armor, like him and Tork. They would be on foot rather than horseback because of the rough terrain. Usually, a chieftain let his men form a shield wall around him, but Brandr insisted on leading the point forward. When they were ready, he raised his right arm high, one of his hirdsmen raised the bear flag, an archer sent up the arrow of war, and Brandr howled like a wolf, then shouted, “To the death!”
Tork joined in, yelling, “Hew them down! Death to the Sigurdssons!”
“Luck in battle!” many of the men hollered to each other, followed by loud war whoops.
And Brandr began the chant that they all picked up, “Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance!”
The sins of war brought one blessing to him . . .
Many hours later, they had set up camp far from the stench of battle. Corpses and hacked bodies littered the once serene valley. Vultures were already at work.
The last of the Sigurdssons were dead, including Sigurd One Hand, who had taken Brandr’s sword through his black heart and wore a blood ring around his thick neck. At the end, Sigurd had taunted him with the way in which he had tortured his family before killing them. “Your mother’s thighs were white”—Sigurd had smiled at him through rotted teeth—“and then they were red.”
Later, Brandr had put a blood eagle on Sigurd’s back, hacking the ribs open from the back along the spine, then reaching in to pull the lungs out, like wings. It was a horrid practice, long put aside by many Vikings. His only excuse was that he had still been in a berserk rage.
Though hours had passed, his ears still rang with the sounds of battle . . . the clanging of swords, the whistling of arrows, the slap of leather, grunts, and death cries. His broadsword had nigh sung with magic today. A killing magic.