Father (Blood Brotherhood 1)

I am not that impressed by speed. I can move faster than most. I am impressed by the bravery he is displaying by allowing three others to hack and slash at him with abandon. I wonder if there is some part of him that hopes they don't miss.

Thor is one of the attackers. He’s jacked. Then there’s two others. I don't know them. I've probably been introduced, but I couldn't muster the energy to care. I don't think I care now either. Generic muscle guys 1 and 2.

The fight ends without Bryn being turned into sushi. That’s disappointing, but to be expected. I never get what I want.

“Would you like a go?” Cosmo is holding a baton out toward me. He’s grinning as if he thinks we are about to have fun. Cosmo’s probably the one closest to me in age.

“I don't know anything about swords or sticks. I’m a girl.”

“Wow. I didn't know you could actually form a sentence like that post 2020. Hold on.” He holds up his finger and pulls his phone from his pocket, putting it to his ear for a moment before holding it out to me. “It’s the 1940’s calling. They want their internalized patriarchy back.”

I laugh. He doesn't let the matter go.

“Take the stick, Nina.”

"I don't want the stick!”

“Take the bloody stick!”

I grab it off him and swing it at him. Low. I don’t know why. I’m not really even thinking. I’m just annoyed in general. I make contact, which surprises me. I thought he’d move out of the way. I am also absolutely shocked when he lets out a yowl and collapses to the ground, clutching at his knee.

“Ow, fuck! You hit me! Why would you hit me! Right on the fucking knee.”

“I didn’t mean to. You made me grab the stick!”

“I didn't make you hit me with it. Argh fuck! You’re bloody lethal, you are!”

He’s humoring me. Playing with me. Trying to cheer me up. It might be sweet, but he might also have an agenda. I feel like the flame that all the moths are clustering around, like Snow White and her dozen dwarves, except all the dwarves are massive, violent men masquerading as priests.

I drop the baton. I’m not interested in beating anybody, even someone who seems to want it. Cosmos has a certain gleam in his eye. I think he’s one of those guys who likes pain. I recognize the signs, because I’ve recently discovered that I am one of those girls who likes pain.

In spite of everything, the image of Bryn muscling his way through sharp swords just keeps playing through my mind. I know I can’t forgive him. He took the last piece of my family away from me. But I can think about things in the privacy of my mind. He won’t know about that. I can enjoy all the twisted, fucked up fantasies my guilty-as-sin brain can generate.

Chapter Seventeen

Bryn

“I need to speak with you, Father Bryn.”

Mrs Crocombe is not one to be fobbed off, so I give her my attention. She has been feeding everybody admirably well. I am certain I have put on a pound or two, not that I would mention that to Crichton. He would be terribly hurt by the whole matter.

“Right. Now. There's a young lady here who doesn't ever seem to make any food or do any dishes. Is she the queen, then? Some kind of nobility?”

“She’s American.”

“Oh!” Mrs Crocombe nods as if that makes all the sense in the world. “Well, she might be less miserable if she was to do something useful about the place.”

“I think pressing her into domestic service might be more than you can chew, Mrs Crocombe.”

“Nonsense. I have three daughters, and they all have three daughters. I’ll get her sorted out right proper quick.”

“I don’t think…”

She’s not listening to me. She’s bustling off to do something that will probably make everything worse. I’m sure I’ll hear about this shortly. Probably sooner than later, I imagine.

Nina

A woman has burst into my room. She's wearing a pink floral apron and has a full head of thick dark hair sprinkled with gray. Could be gray hair. Could be flour. Impossible to tell. She’s moving in kind of a general aura of ingredients, a halo of baking powder and sugar. I’d put her age at around young grandma age. Not young enough to have her own kids anymore, not so old age is starting to break her down.

“I’m Mrs Crocombe," she says. "And we’re mighty busy down in the kitchen. Come and make some bread.”

“No, thank you.”

“I wasn't asking, girl. I was telling. There’s a good dozen men here who all need to eat, us included.”

“We’re men who need to eat?”

“Now you can drop that smartness. The master’s been feeding you without asking you for anything, and now…”