The hooded figure with the chalice produced a knife of his own, nicked the side of his thumb, and dripped a few drops of blood into the chalice. Each of the other five did the same in turn as Landvik watched Rose like a hawk. Then the last returned the chalice to Landvik and he added a few drops of his own blood to the mix. He put the chalice back on the ground in front of Rose’s knees and the seven of them moved to stand around her in a circle, with Landvik front and center, staring down.
He pulled a roll of paper from inside his robes and began to speak, in a language Rose could not recognize. His voice was low and sonorous, rising and falling like a chant. The night seemed to grow heavy, as if the darkness itself had a weight, wrapping around her like a cloak. Something cold was pressed to her lips and a thick, bitter liquid cascaded over her tongue. She tried to cough, to spit, but Landvik tipped her head back, covered her mouth and nose and forced her to swallow. More woolly thickness smothered her mind.
All the surrounding small sounds became muted, the gentle breeze stilled. Only Landvik’s voice existed as he began to chant again, and then slowly another voice and another were added to it as each of those present began to match his incantation.
Rose shook her head, blinked rapidly, trying to throw off the feeling that descended on her. Surely this was like hypnosis or some kind of stage magic, the power of suggestion and nothing more. Or perhaps whatever drug she had just been given. Her muscles seemed to grow weak and she slumped back onto her heels, unable to prevent her head falling to her chest. Her breath was low and deep through her nose. With a force of pure will, she raised her chin, determined to stare Landvik in the eyes, but he wasn’t there.
She saw a large room, like a bedchamber in a stately home, people in old-fashioned clothes moving through it, laughing.
She blinked, a soft cry escaping her lips, and before her was an open field, horses cantering in the distance and a checkered blanket spread out at her knees. A man with a clipped beard and 1920s clothing leaned his head back and laughed, an old car parked behind him.
“Wha..?” Rose’s voice was thick and slurred, she felt suddenly drunk. Or drugged, the effects of whatever she had been given flooding her senses. But she also knew, deep in the truest part of her, that what she experienced was far more than drug-induced. Something entirely more real.
A wooden building surrounded her, numerous faces of children and teenagers, miserable and crying. Some were obviously very sick. One tiny infant lay on a cot, clearly dead.
Rose sobbed, blinked again, and saw a small hovel, thatched roof and wooden walls, in a hilly field. A woman leaned on a broken hoe in front of her, looking more tired than anyone Rose had ever seen. The woman smiled and raised one hand to stroke Rose’s cheek and Rose felt her own beard under that palm, realized she was a man.
Past lives? she thought, unable to truly accept the possibility, but then what else could it be?
The images began to spin rapidly by, flickering like a film in fast forward, too quick to pin down. Or, she realized dizzily, a film in fast rewind. So many faces and places, days and nights, towns and countryside, land and sea. Rose became nauseated, swayed on her knees convinced she was going to pitch forward and vomit.
Then she did fall forward, but was held in place somehow, her arms stretched up behind her, secured to something just higher than her shoulders. Ropes bit into her wrists. She pulled her head up off her muscled, hairy chest, tasted blood on her lips that ran into her beard with her sweat and saliva.
“I am a King!” she roared. Cold wind swirled around her naked body.
Leather-armored men with bloodstained weapons stood all around, and Ivar the Boneless, the huge, muscled son of Ragnar Lodbrok, stepped forward. The other sons of that damned Ragnar stood behind, faces like dark thunderclouds of rage and hate. Fires crackled all around, lighting up the night with orange glows, and smoke roiled by.
Rose-Aella grimaced, refusing to show any fear.
Ivar spoke, but his voice was strange. Though Rose looked out from Aella’s eyes and saw Ivar, she knew the voice belonged to Halvdan Landvik.
“Tell us what we want to know,” he said.
Rose spoke with Aella’s deep baritone. “I don’t know what you want.”
She remembered the battles, the victories. She saw Ragnar Lodbrok die at her hand, cast down into that pit of snakes, and she smiled. Aella’s presence swelled inside her and Rose was pushed back deep inside, able to do no more than advise. Or not even that, perhaps only watch. Aella spoke again, his tone defiant. “Ragnar Lodbrok was twice the man you’ll ever be.”
“And yet here you are on your knees before me,” Ivar said. “Tell me where it is.”
Aella met the other man’s gaze and bared his teeth in a wordless snarl, not trusting his voice to be strong if he spoke. He could never possibly let Ivar find what he sought.
Rose watched through Aella’s eyes, as if from miles away, though she still felt the wind and the heat of the bonfires, still smelled their smoke. But she was fading, Aella’s mind taking over, pushing her away and yet, simultaneously, she knew her presence somehow weakened the Briton king, made him more vulnerable to the interrogation. The tiny, scared part of her screamed at Aella to tell Ivar what he wanted to know, to make all this end. Aella’s presence resisted, refusing to jeopardize all he had done, prepared to take his place in Heaven if that’s what must happen. The strong, defiant part of Rose tried to howl out her own insubordination, tried to lend strength to Aella, but she was a mere conduit, with no more agency than a stretch of desert highway. And that thread of her consciousness only weakened the blockage in Aella, and opened the way for Ivar-Landvik to get the information he wanted.
“Where is Mjolnir?” Ivar-Landvik demanded, and Rose fell backwards into darkness.
Landvik stood before Rose Black’s inert form, watching her chest gently rise and fall. The night coolness made the grass damp and it began to darken her clothes.
“Pick her up,” he said to one of the robed figures behind her.
“What shall we do with her now?” the figure asked. “Make it look like an accident?”
Landvik pursed his lips, thinking of all he had learned, all he still didn’t know. Then he shook his head. “We must keep her alive. It’s possible we’ll need more information from Aella before this is all over. This ritual is new to us. Maybe I can make a better job of it next time if this information proves insufficient.”
“This time it nearly killed her,” a female voice said. “She’s strong, but whatever she experienced is maybe stronger. If we do it again, it might kill her anyway.”
Landvik nodded. “So be it. We won’t do it again unless we absolutely have to. But she stays with us, in case. Sedate her and bring her along.”
Chapter 40
Crowley winced as the knife point spiked into the flesh of his upper back, then a soft sound rang down from above. Crowley frowned. It had sounded like a stone hitting the roof high above them, as if something small had dropped from a great height.
Phillipe, standing in front of Crowley, looked up, clearly questioning Karl. The touch of Karl’s knife disappeared and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, though he imagined it would be short lived.
Phillipe and Karl exchanged a few words, then Karl called out, presumably to the one who had carried Karol’s body up to the offices. There was a pregnant pause, silence growing heavy. Karl called out again, louder this time, and got no response. Crowley allowed himself a small smile.