Page 32 of Bonding Beasts (Bonding: The Ultimate Guide #3)

Aodhan

I jerk awake in a pool of sweat, my riastrad close to overtaking me.

The night terrors have not been this bad for years.

I manage to calm myself by breathing deeply while sitting still.

This routine has gone from a daily routine to every other hour.

It should not be this bad, yet it is. It has been for some time now.

I open my eyes to take in the dingy motel room. My computer is still on the desk, the screen blank from inactivity. A glint of metal catches my eye, and I roll off the bed away from it to land in a crouch, prepared to strike.

The spear rests against the wall, waiting to be picked up.

“ Rud fucking dúr .”

I rub a weary hand over my face in irritation.

The ten-foot stick of blessed wood taunts me with a sparkle of light from its metal tip.

Of all the gifts my seanathair , Lugh, could give me, a cursed spear is my joy.

It only appears to me when battle is coming.

I used to love it. A reminder that he is with me through my trials even after all this time.

Now, I despise the sight of it. Where was he when I truly needed him? Where was my spear when I called it then?

It has been dogging my steps for several weeks now.

I refuse to pick it up.

I will not accept whatever call is being made for me. I have other business to attend to. Yet, it never fails to appear. Shrunken to the size of a walking stick in a rental car’s trunk. Propped against a home as I pass it. The list goes on.

Being a demigod is a never-ending turmoil of struggling to be a hero your parents would be proud of and saying fuck this so you can walk away to find peace.

The spear is a reminder that I am not following the path I’m supposed to be on. I’m on the road I want to be on.

I suppose seanathair has forgotten I’m half berserker.

My phone begins an insistent ringing. Few people have the number, so I know this is a call to be answered.

Reaching the nightstand, I glance at the caller ID and frown.

Svend is in the Disputed Territory farther south than my current location.

He’s one of the only males left alive that I trust with the knowledge that I’m even in the Americas right now.

He wouldn’t simply call to enforce a visit, although he did request it.

Perhaps he’s deep in his cups. If so, this conversation should be entertaining, at least—or blackmail material for his sweet wife.

I answer, “Svend, stop drinking before it gets worse.”

“Aodhan,” my friend’s voice is solemn over the line. I don’t feel concerned. Svend likes to hold a grim facade before he allows the jokes to fly.

“Svend,” I answer in the same tone when he doesn’t continue. If he’s in his cups, this could take a while.

“I bear news for you,” he continues the charade. Yet, he’s speaking in Norse. I haven’t spoken that language for hundreds of years. Just how drunk is he?

“Sigrid is pregnant again?” I guess aloud. His wife won’t be pleased. She told him four was her limit. This would be number six.

He coughs into his fist and mumbles, “Nay. I am not yet in the mood to be gelded.”

The faint chatter of a bar, more than likely filled to the brim with berserkers, fades, and Svend’s voice becomes clearer. I hear a heavy door open and close, then the quiet hush of his breathing.

Whatever this is, he has to work up the courage for it. I feel a frown forming as my mind wanders to less pleasant possibilities.

“I have heard a rumor that I have not yet verified,” he continues in Norse. If he’s sober, grim, and consciously speaking in a language most don’t know, then there is trouble brewing. I glance at the spear with a sneer.

“Go on,” I urge my friend, switching from English to Norse myself.

Svend gives a gusty sigh before he says, “I wanted to be the one to tell you because I know your history.”

“Which portion?” I try to make my tone glib, but humor abandoned me quite a few years ago, and it falls flat.

“There is a girl here who is claiming to be a mender,” he blurts the words out in a rush as if he’s spitting out poison.

My heart begins to drum erratically as rage swells inside. My teeth grit as I wrestle with myself to regain control. With the mindless anger comes pain and a sense of breathlessness that causes me to inhale deeply.

Svend gives me time, knowing how those words would affect me. When I finally feel somewhat placid, I allow myself to ask questions .

“Why call me?” The words are wrenched from me, baring my pain to him.

“Because if it is real, I thought you might like to know,” he sounds as if he regrets it already.

He’s right, and I know it, even though I hate it with every fiber of my being. Everything I’ve done in the last few years has been in the name of a mender.

“How valid is the claim?”

“I am not sure yet. I called to ask what signs I would need to look out for.”

“Why would you need to look for signs? Just leave it be,” I force out and try to take calming breaths. My irrational mind has already begun claiming this nameless, faceless female, and I despise it.

I have known Svend his entire life. He would never cause harm to a female unless she were a danger to his clan. Even knowing this, I want him nowhere near her.

“I can’t,” he replies angrily, his rage stirring. “You have been a friend to my family before my great-grandfather was born, probably long before that. If this is a farce, I want to cut it down before you get involved.”

“And if it isn’t?” I ask, my body tense, lip curling with pent-up emotion I won’t allow to come through.

“Then you should meet with her,” all the anger has left his voice, replaced with hope.

“Why?” I snap, denial running hot in my veins.

“You know why,” Svend says, and I can hear him patting himself on the back now. Why did I ever tell this male about my history again? Oh yes, ale. How could I forget?

“It is a waste of time,” my anger fades, leaving me to wallow in pain and regret.

“You don’t know that,” he insists. “You said yourself that she was too young to really know – “

“Enough!” I bark out. My body once again is on the cusp of riastrad, and I have no outlet here. Bringing up those desolate times never fails to bring me to the edge.

“No!” Svend claps back, inciting me further. “It has been years of this. Years ! I do not want you to suffer anymore. If there is a chance or a way, I will grasp it in both hands and never let go. I will meet her and decide for myself.”

Both of our breaths are harsh as we battle for control. For Svend, it is easier. He’s married to his anamcara , has children, and a clan of his own. I have none of those things to keep me tethered to a calm state. I have forsaken them to punish myself for failing her.

I can still see her slate blue eyes, hollow and unseeing.

Long dark hair framing a gaunt face. I was never allowed to see her without a door between us.

I could not speak to her or hear her voice.

The sickness they injected me with made control harder to attain, almost impossible at times. Only she could stop it.

I felt a kinship with that small child like nothing I have ever known.

A comradery built from suffering and survival.

Stronger than even the bond I hold with warriors I bled for during battle.

Svend is convinced that she could have been my soulmate.

She was far too young for me to ever find out, taken from me mere moments before I got to her.

My last vision of her overtakes the image of her tiny form, looking up at me blankly.

Replaced by blood and instruments of torture, her body fastened to a fallen table while her insides spilled to the floor.

It’s my last memory of that place before the riastrad took me over , and I curse it.

I can’t remember one without seeing the other.

I never imagined they could hurt a mender. They are a perfect peace in this world filled with horrors.

I failed her with that assumption .

“You said that menders can bond with anyone, regardless of race. What if this mender could be yours?”

She can’t. My mender has been lost to me for over a decade.

“She is more than likely a charlatan. We have dealt with those long before my imprisonment. What makes this one stand out?” I ask, suddenly resigned to this farce of a conversation.

I know Svend. He won’t give up until he’s dug up any path possible, and then he’ll start bucketing water from a flood to continue his quest to save me from myself.

“One of our brothers went missing not too long ago,” he begins.

I’m not sure why this would be notable. Clansmen go missing all the time.

Sleeping off the drink, bedding down with a partner, even going on unplanned trips.

It’s what we do. We don’t lie back and let life pass us. We take life by the throat and squeeze.

“I wasn’t worried at first, but it’s been two months now with no word. There are also rumors of more people going missing.”

I’m in motion, checking the laptop on the desk near the television. The bastaird is still there, sleeping peacefully without a single care.

I want to gut him again. And again. Until this bloodlust he built in me is purged. I drop into the chair and sigh before rubbing my face.

“He’s still in my sights. How bad is it there?” I tell him grimly.

“Nothing is verified yet. Everyone is at each other’s throats. One person goes missing, and it’s fine. Several from different walks of life and fingers begin to point. The TGT agents assigned here are doing nothing. They haven’t been seen out of their high and mighty manor in years.”

Mitri is stationed in that territory. I can’t picture him sitting idly by while this goes on. Could he be in his sleep?

“And now a female is claiming to be a mender in your territory,” my fingers press into my closed eyes to force my building headache back. I try to relax my jaw so my teeth won’t break from tension.

If people are already going missing, the arrival of a mender is sure to bring him to the territory.

“It will draw his attention if nothing else,” Svend follows my thoughts and makes a disgusted grunt.

I look back at the computer again to see the sleeping form.

“There is also an opening for a Delegate to come in,” he needles me. He has wanted me back in the Delegates’ clutches since my fall from grace among them. After seeing their inside workings, I want no part of it. I’m better in the field.

“Which one died?” I ask absently, mind farther afield.

“Oh, I meant four openings. The Queen of the fae has already staked out one of them for herself.”

“ What? Four of them? Have we gone back to the golden age again?” Delegates rarely die. For four of them to perish suddenly is unheard of in this age. And the fae Queen has one? She’s never been interested in Other politics, only with her own.

“Murdered is what I’ve heard,” Svend says calmly.

“Does anyone know who?” I ask. I would personally like to shake his or her hand.

“No one.”

“A shame. The bastaird will be traveling to your territory then.”

“With a female claiming to be a mender.”

“When he lost his and still hasn’t forgotten her.”

“The Ancients take their obsessions seriously,” Svend deadpans.

“This will go badly.” That’s all I can think of to say.

“Yes, I agree. I need to know what to look for now. If she is a mender, she will need to be warned. If she isn’t, we can scare her off.”

My gut churns with dread. The cycle is repeating again, and I have to stop it. Where would I be best used?

“I’m on my way,” I stand and begin packing away the Human contraptions to stuff into my pack.

“No, Aodhan, not yet – “

I hang up on my old friend and silence the ringing as it begins again.

The Disputed territory is too far away for a drive. I’ll have to take a plane or port. If I port, my fastest means, there will be an Other record of my travels. With a plane, I can travel as my Human identity. So, airplane it is.

“I will see you further South or not at all,” I tell the spear as I sling the bag over my shoulder. “I think you know which I would prefer.”