Chapter Six

Trace waited until he heard the water start in the shower, the gurgling noise signaling her retreat.

It took little time to send off an email to his supervisor in Lyon, France, notifying about an anonymous tip he was running to ground before coming back to headquarters. Emile might be annoyed, but Trace would deal with that later.

After buying a pair of airline tickets and booking his usual hotel suite in Los Angeles, he set out to learn everything he could about Laila Nyland, the woman currently occupying his shower.

Whether he believed she was a Valkyrie or not, he still needed to go through the motions of trying to verify her identity. He’d be a piss-poor cop if he didn’t at least try to see if she had a record—and that started with her prints.

He pulled the fingerprint kit out of a bottom drawer of his desk, tugging on rubber gloves as he walked over and picked up her water glass. Within minutes, he’d sent off the data.

Nothing to do now but wait.

He settled on the couch with the television remote, flipping through the channels.

The sound of water stopped, replaced by soft footsteps going down the hall to his bedroom. The door closed with a click and then the second snap of the lock turning.

The laptop let out a low chime, signaling the results of his search.

He sat down at the table and brought them up.

The fingerprints came back clean, as did the photograph discretely snapped from the laptop’s built-in camera.

More than clean.

Non-existent.

Trace leaned back in his chair, frowning.

The initial flush of desire when he’d first seen her in the museum had waned a bit, now tempered with curiosity.

Laila Nyland didn’t exist. Not here, not anywhere in the world.

The Interpol database interfaced with every police force that had signed on with the international unit, and through them to a nearly-infinite number of local licensing bureaus and government agencies. None of them had Laila Nyland on file. No fingerprints, no matching photograph. She was a ghost.

There was a slim chance of someone avoiding any and all documentation, having little to no contact with the authorities… but Laila? Maybe if she were an international assassin, a master spy…

A Valkyrie.

Running her through the system had given more questions than answers.

He scrubbed his eyes and got up from the laptop. Their flight would be in eight hours, and he needed some sleep. Whatever or whoever she was, she’d reveal it in time—or he’d pull the information out of her, one way or another.

Trace lowered the volume on the television, closing his eyes as the talking heads turned into a low drone. But the question remained at the front of his mind, demanding an answer.

Who are you, Laila Nyland?

Or better yet—what are you?

…

She dozed fitfully, naked under the sheets. Every night she prayed to not have any dreams, but this time Freyja didn’t hear her—or decided not to help.

The battlefield was a desert this time, the sand dunes ripped apart by wheeled vehicles that tried to push through the natural barriers, attempting to navigate through the darkness with only their headlights for illumination.

A perfect place for an ambush.

She didn’t arrive until the battle was over, per their standard operating procedure. The blood soaked into the sand, leaving dark stains behind as the Bifrost opened overhead and dropped her far above the land.

Another day, another mission.

Laila drew a deep breath and lowered herself to the ground, her wings folding up behind her as her feet hit the hot sand. Her spear was cool in her right hand, the enchanted lance ready to do her bidding.

The helmet was stifling in the night air, so she took it off. As her vision cleared, she saw the dead and dying men on the ground. A nearby armored car smoldered, sending smoke up into the darkness.

It was easy to figure out what had happened. Trade convoy ambushed by criminals, the defenders valiant and defiant to the end. A hard fight with no winner—other than Death. The victors had taken their booty and left, abandoning the dead and dying.

Now it was her turn.

A shadow lay over those evil men waiting for the Dark Valkyrie—the one taking their souls to Helheim. Laila let her breath out slowly, grateful for the reprieve. They weren’t for her.

But others were, waiting for her to retrieve them and send them to Valhalla.

A man wheezed as she approached, his back to the flattened truck tire. Blood oozed from his chest through a dozen holes, his strained breathing loud in the night air.

“Rise, warrior. Come to Valhalla and be with your honored kin.” Laila touched his forehead with the tip of her spear and watched his spirit rise into the sky, now free from pain.

She made her rounds, collecting each dead and dying fighter as she was supposed to. They hovered in the sky, waiting for her to take them all to Valhalla.

A noise came from the back of one of the trucks, startling her. She moved slowly, her booted feet leaving no trace in the sand.

She took hold of the canvas flap and drew it back.

A young man lay there—no, a boy. He gripped the pistol in both hands as he drew his last breath, blood bubbling through his lips. His chest was riddled with gunshots, the ragged and torn sides of the truck offering no protection.

He looked past her, through her, with a vacant stare as the light went out in his eyes.

Her heart ached at the sight of the child soldier, valiantly defending his post to the very end of his short life.

Now he was hers, another warrior for Valhalla.

She sank to her knees in the sand. The spear fell from her numb fingers as the pain in her chest increased, the anxiety attack growing with every second. A scream broke from inside her, growing in volume and drowning out her very thoughts. For the injustice, for the lost life, for the…

A hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her attention away from the sight.

“Go home,” Freyja ordered her, the white robes billowing in the hot wind. “Your job here is done.”

She reached over and touched Laila’s forehead. The pain disappeared, her entire body going numb as the familiar rainbow shower covered her, dragging her back to Valhalla.

Failure.

She woke with a start in the darkened room, gasping for breath as her eyes adjusted to the dim light creeping in through the window blinds.

The bedroom door opened, and Trace rushed in, going to her side.

“Are you okay?” He knelt by the bed. “You were screaming…”

Laila pressed one palm to her forehead, the sweat cool to the touch. “A nightmare. Nothing more.” She pulled the sheet up to her chin before glancing at the digital clock on the nearby table. “Is it time to leave?”

“Soon.” He stood up, eying her. “There are suitcases in the closet. Pick one, fill it with your choice of clothing like from the closet and dresser drawers.”

She frowned. “What you have wouldn’t fit me.”

“You’d be surprised at what you might find in my drawers.” His mischievous smile helped settle her nerves. “Help yourself to whatever you like. What you don’t find here, we can buy either on the way to the airport or when we arrive in Los Angeles. Just speak up, and we’ll find it.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go whip up something to eat before we go—I hate flying on an empty stomach.”

He turned away, leaving her in the growing light of day.

She showered again, drowning the last of the nightmare in the hot streams of water. There was no comparison to the springs and baths in Valhalla, but it was enough to bring her world back into focus.

Trace was right—she was surprised. There were women’s underwear, still sealed in the original packaging, in one of the overflowing dressers. There were also brand-new socks, T-shirts, and track pants which she used to fill an empty duffel bag. There were no shoes, but her runners would suffice for the time being.

The smell of frying bacon reached her nose as she strode down the hall, carrying the luggage.

“Excellent timing. Just put them out, was about to call you.” Trace gestured at the two plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast sitting atop the island. He poured coffee into two mugs. “You can clean up while I grab a shower and pack. Then we’re off to the airport. Make our flight in plenty of time.”

She sat down on a stool at the counter, surprised at finding her stomach growling in anticipation.

He dove into eating with a vengeance, talking with his mouth half-full. “Find everything you needed?”

Laila nodded, picking up a piece of crispy bacon and breaking it in half. “Do you have a lot of women visitors who need clean clothing?”

He grinned. “I have a standing invitation to any Interpol agents who need a secure pit stop for a day or two—saves them the time and trouble of trying to find a decent place to stay. They call me, I call the front desk, and they get access. Sometimes, it’s a woman passing through. So, I keep extra underwear, ladies’ shirts, and a fresh toothbrush for them to use.” He cocked his head to one side, an impish smile appearing. “But when I’m on a break, some do stay for more… personal reasons.”

Laila shook her head, changing the topic before she learned any more about her new acquaintance. “And what if I’m not here when you come out of the shower?”

His eyes met hers, cool and determined. “Then I call the cops on you, and they grab your ass before you get out of town. And if you pop your wings and try to fly away, they’ll shoot you down. Or I will, given the chance.” He took a bite of toast before shoveling the last of the eggs onto his fork. “Don’t believe me? Try it. I’ll be your partner, but I’m no pushover. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say.”

She didn’t blink, keeping him locked in her gaze for a long, tense minute before nodding.

“All right.” Trace finished eating. “A car is going to be downstairs in half an hour to take us to the airport.” He got up. “See you in a few.”

He strolled down the hall, leaving her alone with the remains of the morning meal.

…

Trace dug out the soft duffel bag from the back of the closet, knowing exactly what to pack. Traveling fast and light was a familiar routine for him—if he took more than ten minutes to gather his stuff, something was wrong.

The top drawer held his good-luck charms—tokens collected over time from around the world by his family. He had a smaller collection back in his room in France, but this held the ones he treasured the most.

He ran his fingers over the bag of preserved acorns brought back from England, the tiny wooden Dala horse from Sweden, the Hamsa Hand from Egypt…

He stopped on a small leather pouch, the deerskin soft to the touch. An infinity symbol was scratched into the hide. On a whim, he snatched it up, tucking it into his front pocket.

He zipped the duffel bag up and headed back to the living room.

Laila sat on the sofa, watching the television. It’d stayed on all night, tuned to one of the news channels.

Her eyes were soft and sad, taking in the newscast.

“Bad news?”

She turned and shook her head. “No matter how long I live, I’m always surprised at man’s inhumanity to man. All these years and we just keep getting better at killing each other.”

He paused, a sudden lump rising in his throat. Trace swallowed hard and reached for the remote.

“Car’s going to be waiting. Grab your coat.”

It took a second to check in at the hotel desk and let them know he’d be leaving.

“No problem,” the day manager said. “We’ll have it ready for your return.” She tapped on the keyboard. “One moment, please. I’ll need your signature.” She went to the printer and brought over a page, sliding it across the counter.

“Does Interpol pay you enough that you can afford to have a permanent reservation here?” She eyed him as he scribbled his name before handing it back to the clerk.

“God, no. But my father and grandfather invested in the right stocks at the right times, leaving me with a decent trust fund.” He led her through the front door and raised a hand to the waiting car, prompting the driver to come over and collect their luggage. “Not as deep as your bottomless wallet, but I manage.”

The brisk morning air flowed into the car on the drive to the airport, the driver picking his way through the ever-present traffic.

Laila arched her eyebrows at the first sight of the airplanes taking off and landing. The silver tubes roared overhead as they pulled into the Departures lane, slipping into an open space next to the sidewalk. Around them, people surged back and forth, charging off on their own quests.

They checked in without any issues, Laila showing a driver’s license in her wallet to the ticket agent as Trace displayed his own identification to claim their boarding passes. Soon they were at the departure gate, getting on the plane. No questions, no issues.

Good, he told himself.

They had a long flight ahead of them, and he needed to find out as much as he could about Laila Nyland.