She stood at Morgan’s side, watching as her lover hurled a war hammer toward an enemy who dodged out of the way. She called a warning to his brother, Magnus, who caught the hammer and threw it again, playing a deadly game of catch that could only end in bloodshed.
“That’s only one of your names.” She blinked as the vision faded, focusing once more on the here and now. “Do you remember anything about your life before you came to live here?”
“Yeah, sure. I was an only child, my parents raised me until I was sixteen. They died in a car accident, and I went to live with an aunt.”
“What were your parents’ names?”
“Elsa and Howard Kincade. My aunt’s name was Maria Bergen.”
“Elsa and Maria Bergen.” Morgan glanced over her shoulder but quickly turned his attention back to her. “Those are Norwegian names.”
She gestured toward her face. “My dad said that, with my face, they should have named me Brunhilde. Mom and Aunt Maria always chased him away when he said that.” Gods, she missed her family. Her parents had adored her, and she them. She’d never once doubted that she was loved by them, despite Aunt Maria’s ultimate rejection.
Behind her, someone choked, but Morgan merely smiled. True, it was a bit strained, but it was still beautiful. It lit his eyes, making them sparkle. “Does the term Jotunheim mean anything to you?”
That name jolted her. It did sound familiar. God, this was getting weirder and weirder. “You called Logan a Jotun, so I’d say it has something to do with him.”
She didn’t understand the confusion in his expression. “No. Actually, Logan comes from Muspelheim, the land of the fire Jotuns. No, the Norns of Fate hail from Jotunheim, a land of frost and rock giants.”
“Norns of Fate.” That was a name that did mean something. As a child, her mother would read the myths of her homeland as bedtime stories, but when Skye was about eight years old, her parents told her she should read to herself. She’d put the mythology aside and started reading books like C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, but for some reason the Norns of Fate had stuck out when the other myths had slowly faded away. “Like the Moirai? The three Fates of Greek mythology?”
“Exactly like them, except you’re not a goddess. You’re a Norn.”
She sputtered out a laugh. “Whoa. Back it up there. I’m a Norn?”
He nodded.
“And you’re a god?”
He nodded again. “You’ve got it.”
“I’ve got something, all right.” She tugged on her hands but he didn’t let go. “Which Norn am I supposed to be?”
“Skuld, the Norn of the future.”
Before she could object to something so blatantly ridiculous, Kir stepped beside her and placed his fingers over her mouth. “You spouted prophecy at Frigg when she challenged your right to be at the funeral. Remember what you said?”
Skye tilted her head, and the strange urge to speak came over her once more.
“Then is fulfilled Hlín’s
second sorrow,
when Óðinn goes
to fight with the wolf,
and Beli’s slayer,
bright, against Surtr.
Then shall Frigg’s
sweet friend fall.”
Morgan smiled, looking oddly proud of her. “Do you know what it means?”
She shook her head, terrified. Why wasn’t she saying what she wanted to? It was like some alien force had taken over her body.
Morgan pressed a soft kiss to her lips, startling her. His mouth was soft, yet firm, and he didn’t press his advantage.
She wanted a real taste of him, more than that encouraging peck.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart.” That endearment rocketed through her like a lightning bolt. “You can do this.” He kissed her again, a little more firmly, a little more possessively. She could almost taste him, but he wasn’t giving her what she needed. She parted her lips, inviting him inside.
He took what she offered, taking the kiss and making it his own. His arms tightened around her as he took his time, letting her know exactly who was in charge. She’d given him what he really wanted, and now there was no going back.
When the kiss ended she was dazed, panting and ready to leave the Tate-Saeter home. She wanted to be alone with Morgan, to feel him doing more than devouring her mouth.
She wanted him to devour all of her. She opened her mouth to beg for another kiss— “Then comes the high
Sigfathers son,
Vidar, and shall
the wolf war give.
In Kvedrung’s son
his sword pierced
to the heart;
avenged was his father.”
Skye shook so hard her teeth started to chatter. “What’s happening to me?”
Morgan’s determined expression didn’t waver. “You’re speaking prophecy.”
“What?” She’d had prophetic dreams and the occasional vision, but she’d never starting speaking in poetry.
Not until she’d met the Tate-Saeters.
It was these people. It had to be. They were doing this to her somehow, forcing her gift to speak through her instead of her speaking about her gift. It was the only thing that made any sense. “Morgan.” She didn’t know why, but he was the only one who could make all this stop. “Please.”
He kissed her again, and she could feel her power respond to him. Why him? “I can’t. You’re beginning to wake up. Everything you thought you knew, every part of your mortal life, was imposed upon your memory. None of it was real.”
She shook her head and began struggling against Morgan’s hold. “I don’t want to understand. I want to be me.” It made no sense, but the fear that she was about to lose everything she’d ever known gripped her so tightly she could barely breathe. She looked up at Morgan, aware of how desperate she must look. “Please, Morgan.” Something terrible would happen if this continued, she just knew it.
He pulled her close, cradling her head against his chest, his hold on her both soothing and proving once and for all that she was no longer in control of her destiny. “I’m so sorry, elskede.” He nipped her earlobe, sending tremors through her. “Remember, Skuld. Remember who you are.” He nipped harder, and she gasped. The sensation was far more pleasurable than she’d expected. “Remember me.”
Skye closed her eyes and sobbed as visions flooded over her. She was forced by something beyond herself to speak.
“High blows Heimdallr, the horn is aloft;
Odin communes with Mimir’s head;
Trembles Yggdrasill’s towering Ash;
The old tree wails when the Ettin is loosed.
What of the Aesir? What of the Elf-folk?
All Jötunheim echoes, the Aesir are at council;
The dwarves are groaning before their stone doors,
Wise in rock-walls; wit ye yet, or what?
Hrymr sails from the east, the sea floods onward;
The monstrous Beast twists in mighty wrath;
The Snake beats the waves, the Eagle is screaming;
The gold-neb tears corpses, Naglfar is loosed.
From the east sails the keel; come now Múspell’s folk
Over the sea-waves, and Loki steereth;