Owner (Blood Brotherhood 2)

I think we’ve all realized that nobody is interested in a museum, but practically everybody is interested in Mrs Crocombe’s cooking. This will no doubt be the first and last attempt at a museum-style open house. I can already see impatience written on Bryn’s face, and he’s fairly patient when it comes to dealing with the public. He is the pastor of this parish. A respected pillar of the community hiding a deep well of darkness and pain. His wife has changed him for the better. Nina is wandering about, a red-headed beauty with an elegance and grace few people naturally enjoy.

She is not for me, but I can admire her beauty and hope that one day…

“Wow, what an incredible artifact.” A female voice comes from somewhere near me.

Most of the female people here are either older, younger, or the parent of someone younger. In other words, inextricably entangled in a set of personal circumstances which makes them off-limits for a member of the Brotherhood. I know this is not supposed to be a hookup spot, but I must admit that the English nights have become lonely of late. Living in a big old abbey with two demons, a newlywed couple, and a very old man is not precisely the lifestyle I had in mind when I travelled from the frozen Nordic realms to this green and pleasant land. I suppose I have come today hoping in some small way that someone sees my hammer, as it were, and likes it.

“Hm?”

“The hammer,” the young lady says. “That is…” She searches for an adjective. “Amazing!”

I have to look down quite a ways to give her my attention. She’s short. 5’2 short. The sort of stature that probably allows her to slip into small places but makes top shelves an astonishing mystery.

She seems to have a real appreciation for ancient Norse craftsmanship. And she’s cute. Very cute. Short and curvy with curling dark hair cut at the level of her chin. Her lashes are dark and her eyes are an intense blue. The kind of blue that seems to stare right through me. She’s wearing makeup in a way that makes her look as though she’s giving the entire world the middle finger. If one doesn’t know what that mean, I cannot help one.

I have always had a thing for girls like this. The bad girls, the ones who announce themselves as trouble.

“It’s fake, though,” she says. “A piece like this would be in a museum if it were real.” She smiles as she says it, her brows lifting just a fraction. She wants to see what kind of reaction that statement will get.

“I can assure you it is real. It has been handed down through the generations of my family. And there’s no way this will ever end up in a museum. It’s still useful.”

“Yeah? What do you use it for? Show me.”

I take it from the glass case. “It’s a functional hammer. See the way the ends are beaten from centuries of labor?”

“Almost looks like there’s dried blood on the ends,” she says.

I look carefully. Well, damn. There is a little dried blood, and some blonde hair sticking out of a bit of inscription. The DNA of giants reposes on this artifact, which is why I haven’t scrubbed it up and polished it until it looks like a cheap replica you might find in any Oslo gift shop.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No,” I say. “I’m from Norway.”

“Very cool. I love the accent. Of course, there’s a lot of people indirectly from Norway in the country, considering the whole…” She lowers her voice. “Viking thing.”

She is referring to the way my ancestors ravaged their way through this land, spreading their seed among the Anglo-Saxons. That was in 793, so over 1200 years ago. Long enough ago that most people don’t consider it taboo, but she speaks about it as if it was a far more recent travesty. For most modern people, the Viking thing is something to make shows about and dress up in. It’s like pirates or ninjas; the horror of the past becomes the amusement of the present, a kind of historical bread and circuses.

“May I hold it?”

“It’s very heavy.”

“Doesn't look that heavy.”

“Well, it is.”

She smiles at me, as if she knows something she’s not supposed to know.

“I can’t believe this is here, right here, at Direview. Who would have thought!”

“Indeed.”

“What’s your name? Let me guess.” She has dimples on her cheeks when she smiles. She’s adorable. “Thor.”

“Yes,” I say.

She laughs. “Of course it is.”

“Thor Larsen,” I say. “At your service.”

“What are you doing here, Thor?”

“I am staying with Father Bryn here at the abbey.”

“Ah, for long, or?” She lets the question dangle.

“For as long as he has use for me. I am part of the Brotherhood.”

“Like a monk?”