Owner (Blood Brotherhood 2)

“Fuck,” I curse. “No wonder you were so angry. And no wonder you had it just out and about. Didn’t think anybody would go running off with your leg or soul.”

“Quite. I should have been more careful.”

I cuddle up to him, grateful for his honesty. I understand him so much better now. I know why I felt drawn to his pain, even though he seemed strong and rich. There is a part of him that will forever be wounded, eternally trapped at that age of seven, drowning and dying in the cold waters of this land. I feel a deep sadness for him. For the first time, he doesn't feel like an adversary. He feels like someone I might truly love.

Then another thought occurs to me.

“So I told a goddess, a literal living goddess, that I eat rubbish.”

“Yes. You did.”

“Why did you say she was your mother, you prick!?”

“Because she rebirthed me, gave me new life. I owe her my existence.”

“And what did she want in return?”

“She needed someone here, to navigate the modern world, to mediate between her and these feral moderns, and to do the work of the gods.”

“To join the Brotherhood, you mean. That still doesn’t make sense. They’re monotheists. And don't start talking about elephants.”

“How about I don’t talk about elephants. How about you talk about you.”

“There’s nothing to tell. My dad was a one-night stand, probably. My mum was a drinker, and I've looked after myself for as long as I can remember. I steal, I scavenge, and I lie. I stopped going to school at fourteen, but I’ve always liked reading so I know more than I should, but I’ve got no qualifications, and I don’t want any.”

“So you saw the hammer and you had to have it.”

“Maybe, seeing as it is you, I saw you and just had to have you. Maybe this isn't about gods and murders. Maybe it's about soulmates and love?”

I smile broadly. I’m almost teasing. But I guess there's some part of me hoping for a midnight declaration of love and devotion. It is possible that all this opening up is leading to the great love of my life.

And then it doesn’t.

He doesn’t smile. He frowns.

“But the hammer should not respond to you the way it does. It shouldn’t work for you. It…”

Still going on about the fucking hammer, right in the middle of our romance. It feels like rejection. It is rejection.

“Are you mad the hammer responds to me the way it does, or are you concerned that you react to me the way you do? It’s like you never had a choice. I saw you. I wanted you. And I took you. It's not supposed to be like that, is it? The man is supposed to do the chasing and the wanting and the claiming. You didn't even like me.”

“That’s not…"

"This is what talking about feelings is like, Thor. It leads to hurt feelings. You can go now. I can have nightmares on my own.”

I feel so ashamed. I thought we were about to have a truly tender moment. I thought he was going to tell me he wanted me. But that’s not what he’s saying. He’s rejecting me. His confusion is a pointless way to keep me at arm's length.

“Anita…”

“Go away. And take your stupid hammer soul with you. Don’t worry. There’s nobody here to murder. Just you and a goddess.”

“Anita…”

“GO. AWAY! I don’t like you anymore. I don’t want you. I don’t need you.”

I am so embarrassed, I let myself be suckered into this feelings talk with this absolute dolt of a god-possessed Norwegian who doesn’t even like me. I killed with his dumb hammer, and now I am stuck with him, and he’s stuck with me.

“Go to whatever room is yours, the room you didn’t want me in, and leave me the fuck alone.”

He gets up, and he does what I've asked him to. I watch him leave and wish I was back at Direview. Wish I was in Crocombe’s kitchen, or Crichton's company. They knew how to comfort me. How to care for me. Thor is just as cold as his icy goddess of a mother.

Sleep evades me. I am upset. More than upset. I feel absolutely hopeless, on the verge of wanting to just give up. Why is it so wrong to want to be wanted? I don’t know if I even want him to want me anymore. I think it might be too late for that.

Looking out the window, I see the night unfolded all around the house. It's calling to me, offering to envelop me. It might be the only embrace I get. Pathetic, sad, and small as I feel in the aftermath of comfort turned cold, I decide to go out.

I am not alone.

“Skathi?” I say the woman's name, knowing that she is not a woman. I am in the presence of the cold and the divine. I am also fairly certain I am butchering the ever loving hell out of it.