Owner (Blood Brotherhood 2)

“Would you like some water, dearie?”

The lady offers me a bottle. I take it gratefully and down about half of it. Part of my thirst and dry mouth just comes from sheer adrenaline rather than exertion from exercise.

“Thank you,” I say. “That’s really nice of you.”

We’re almost back at the village. I don't know why, but that makes me feel safer.

Direford village sits just above the river Dire, which runs through the valley. The abbey is further up on higher ground, because historically monks and abbeys and nuns and convents were always being ransacked and they needed the extra visibility to hide the good shit away. If I found Thor’s fucking hammer sitting out in the open today, I can only imagine what other kinds of relics they have hidden away.

“This is me,” I say. “Thanks so much for letting me tag along.”

I give the nice old couple a couple of pounds. At least, I try to, but they refuse. They’re too nice to take money from someone like me. Someone obviously poor. Someone who has a priceless treasure hidden away.

I hurry through the streets. Obviously, I didn’t get out at my actual place. I don’t want the oldies to be able to tell the big, muscular Norwegian who just lost one of the most precious relics in existence where I went. I weave through the picturesque, cobbled streets and across the little foot bridges over rivulets that feed the river Dire, and I make my way to the much less romantic part of town where I live.

The rest of the water comes in handy. All this running about and skulking works up a thirst. I just want to get inside as quickly as possible. They’ll call the cops for sure, and they’ll give them my description and I’m probably going to get a visit from the local plod. Got to take that into consideration.

I go in the front door and scurry up two flights of stairs. I am not pleased to see that the pull-down steps to my attic room are down. Someone’s up in my fucking room, and I know just who.

“Get out of my room, Brad!”

Our flat is a shit hole. I’m technically unemployed, and that means I live with six people in a three-bedroom house. Brad was allowed to move in on the condition he slept in the bath at night, but he’s always trying to sneak into the bedrooms just to lie on a mattress. It’s kind of sad, but I also hate it when he’s in my room. That’s where I keep my secrets. And my food.

I like being tucked up in the attic. It feels private — or at least, it does when Brad’s not invading my personal space. Again, it’s not technically a room, not by council regulations. It is a room by my reckoning, though, based on the KEEP OUT sign I’ve stapled to the trapdoor that sits up in the middle of the hall, right next to the rope that hangs from it so you can pull it down and open it up.

“Sorry!” Brad shoots me an apologetic look as he comes down my steps. “Your cushions are so comfy.”

“I am going to staple a cushion to your balls if I ever see you in here again. This is my space. Mine. Get it?”

“Yeah. God. Chill.” He cuts his eyes at me and then slouches off like he’s the wronged one. Guys always think they’re the victims.

I am not going to chill. What I have in my possession is so powerful, so important that I can never leave it behind. My room isn’t secure enough. Nowhere is secure enough for what I found today. There’s not a temple, not a fortress, not a distant space station manned with hostile beings, nowhere secure enough anywhere in creation. But it doesn’t matter. Because this treasure is more than capable of looking after itself.

Clambering up into the attic, I pull the steps up after me. I am immediately shrouded by shadows. It’s a dark little space, this attic, but it’s my dark little space. There is one window that looks out to the outside world, but I’m keeping the curtains shut for now. Instead, I turn on a little hurricane lamp. It throws a pleasingly diffuse light around the room as I dump my bag down off my back and reach into it.

I wrap my hands around the shaft and I feel a deep sense of power flowing through me.

“Thor’s actual hammer,” I whisper to myself. The priest might not have known what he had, but I do. I lift it up to inspect it properly for the first time.

It’s smaller than I expected it to be. There are some legends that say only Thor can lift his hammer, but obviously that’s not true, because I was able to heft it out of the display case and into my rucksack without issue.