Chapter Nine

Peyton watched as the paramedics wrapped Violet’s body in a sheet and they used it transfer her to the waiting stretcher next to her. He followed them out to the waiting ambulance and climbed inside the bay, grabbing one of her hands as he sat next to her.

Her face was an unrecognizable mass of swelling and bruising, black, purple, red. They’d put her neck in a brace. He’d packed the stab wounds on her lower back with gauze but there was so much blood…

He looked down at his hands, realizing they were still covered.

Her blood will be on your hands, Ashley…

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed, willing this whole nightmare to go away. He’d wake up and find her next to him in bed and this would all just be a bad dream…

But it wasn’t. He was brought back to the present by the sudden lurch of the ambulance and the shrill wail of its siren. He watched as the paramedics began a blood transfusion and continued assessing Violet’s injuries.

“Will she make it?” he asked one of the medics as the man sat down and swiped at the sweat on his brow.

“She will if she’s a fighter,” the medic said, his expression grim. “Her heart’s still beating. She’s got that going for her.”

“C’mon, Vi,” Peyton murmured feverishly near her ear.

The trip to the hospital was a blur. He couldn’t take his eyes off her battered face. Her hand was cool and limp in his. She looked so frail and broken and it was all his fault.

Again.

They hurriedly unloaded her from the bay of the ambulance and rushed her through the emergency center. He ran with them, still holding her hand until a nurse gently plied him away. He was escorted to a quiet, dark waiting room with a fish tank and vending machines in it. He numbly sat on one of the sofas, staring at the silent creatures swimming in the eerie blue lights.

Some time later, a pair of police officers entered the waiting room. Peyton recognized them as two of the responding officers he’d talked to just hours before. Their expressions were sad as they reached him.

“Mr. Ashley?” the taller one asked, his voice soft.

Peyton turned his gaze from the fish tank and sat up straight, absently rubbing his palms on the knees of his jeans.

“Mr. Ashley, I know this is a difficult time for you. Would you mind answering some questions for us?”

Peyton looked down at his hands and balked, realizing again that they still were covered in Violet’s dried blood. He started trembling and looked around for the bathroom. He located the public restroom at the end of the hall and motioned the police to follow him.

They watched silently as he scrubbed furiously at his hands. Tears fell unbidden down his cheeks and he lost the battle to rein in the sobs that threatened to undo him.

“Hey, hey,” the shorter officer said, catching Peyton around the waist as his knees gave out. “It’s okay. C’mon, let’s go back to the lounge. You’re okay.”

The two officers shouldered him back to a seat in the lounge and they sat facing him.

“When you’re ready, tell us what happened,” the taller office gently said once Peyton got himself back under control.

“I… I left the gym ta go home and pick up some things. A change of clothes. Some groceries. My toothbrush,” Peyton started. “She had just left the parkin’ lot. We—we agreed ta have dinner at her place and I was gonna make fried chicken. She loves my fried chicken.”

Peyton sniffled and swiped at his nose with his arm. The shorter officer handed him the tissue box from the coffee table that sat in front of them. Peyton gratefully took it and blew his nose, crumpling the used tissue in his fist.

“About what time was that?” the taller officer asked, pulling out a tablet and stylus.

Peyton watched him write on the tablet for a moment before he shook his head and continued.

“Um… 3? Maybe 3:30?”

“Okay. What time did you arrive at Miss Anderson’s apartment?” the shorter officer asked.

“Well it was 4:17 by the clock in my truck when I pulled up ta her place,” Peyton answered.

“What happened next?” the taller officer prompted.

“I took out my keys, grabbed my backpack, and went up ta Vi’s.”

“Was there anything out of place, anything you noticed that didn’t seem quite right on the walk up to Violet’s?”

Peyton shook his head and said, “Not that I recall. Everythin’ seemed fine, like normal.”

“When you arrived at her door, was it open? Closed? Locked?”

“It was unlocked but I expected that; she was home and waitin’ for… For me,” Peyton stammered.

“Did you knock or let yourself in?” the shorter officer queried.

“I went in. She was expectin’ me and I go over ta her place all the time,” Peyton defensively replied.

“It’s okay, we’re just trying to get to the bottom of what happened. Any details you provide can help us narrow our investigation,” the shorter officer said, reacting to Peyton’s discomfort.

“What did you see when you entered the residence?” the taller officer continued.

Peyton rubbed at the back of his neck and looked at the ceiling, tears welling in his eyes once more. He coughed to clear his throat and swallowed hard. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath which he exhaled noisily.

“I walked in and it was quiet. I called out ta let her know I was there, but she didn’t respond so I went in to look for her,” Peyton said. “I went into the kitchen ta see if she was in there and…”

The sob caught him off guard and he choked on it, burying his face in his hands as the memory of her battered, bleeding, limp form came back to the forefront of his memory. The shorter officer hopped up and sat next to him, gently resting his arm across Peyton’s back. Peyton sobbed brokenly for several minutes, unable to say anything coherent.

“Peyton!” Tay’s voice rang out from the other end of the room.

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The petite woman rushed in, settling abruptly into the open seat on Peyton’s other side. She hugged him tightly and his sobs redoubled. He returned her embrace, clinging desperately to her small frame as though the tidal wave of sorrow and pain would carry him away.

Several moments passed in that fashion before Peyton was able to speak again. Tay handed him more tissues and helped him compose himself.

“Please, continue. I know it’s difficult to see someone you love hurt like that, but any details you have could help us catch whoever did this to her,” the taller officer pressed once Peyton could sit up again.

He snuffled loudly and cleared his throat, swiping again at his swollen, raw eyes with the tissue.

“She was on the floor in the kitchen, on her back, her arms spread out. There was… There was so much blood. Her face was…” he choked and coughed, swallowing hard before continuing, “I called 911 and went ta the sink. She kept a first aid kit under there and I grabbed it. I checked her over, tryin’ ta figure out where the blood came from so I could stop it.”

“Was she conscious at that point?” the smaller officer asked.

“No,” Peyton replied. “She was unconscious the whole time I was there.”

“What were her injuries?” the taller officer queried, writing furiously on the tablet that rested on his knee.

“Her face was beaten up pretty bad. Barely recognized her. It looked like she’d been stabbed in the lower back, above her hips, right in her spine,” Peyton stammered, wincing at the last words and working to stifle another wave of sobs.

“Did you see any weapons laying around? Did it look like there had been a struggle?” the shorter officer continued.

“No, nothin’ looked outta place at all and I didn’t see any weapons. She was just layin’ there… Dyin’,” Peyton responded, covering his face again with his hands.

“Did you stay with her?” the larger policeman asked.

“O’ course I did!” Peyton snapped, looking up sharply. “I talked ta the dispatcher and told her what was happenin’, rolled Vi over ta stop the bleedin’ best as I could. She was breathin’ and her heart was still beatin’. I kept packin’ the wounds with gauze, tryin’ ta get the damn blood ta stop. I don’t wanna lose her. I can’t lose her.”

“What happened next?” the tall officer gently prodded.

“I stayed with her until the paramedics got there and they took over. I rode here in the ambulance with her. They were givin’ her a blood transfusion, tryin’ ta keep her alive. She’s back in surgery now, I think,” Peyton responded.

“Thank you, Mr. Ashley. That’s all we need for now. Our thoughts are with you and Vi during this difficult time. We’ll let you know what we find out,” the shorter officer replied, standing.

The police left and Manny and Dezzy took their places, having heard the last part of Peyton’s account. Manny stared toward the emergency room doors in shock. Dezzy sat next to Peyton, wringing his hands together and clenching his jaw. He looked furious.

“This is bad,” Tay whispered, snatching up one of Peyton’s hands. “But Vi’s tough. She’ll get through this.”

“It’s all my fault!” Peyton wailed then, sinking forward and covering his face with his hands.

Taylor engulfed him in a tight hug and smashed her face against his shoulder. She held him while he sobbed, tears sliding down her own cheeks. She looked over at Manny, who watched the scene in utter shock.

“She was just at the gym,” Dezzy said, the words drawing their focus on him.

Peyton sat up straighter and looked over at his friend.

“I’m so sorry bro. I shoulda protected her,” Peyton sniffled piteously, his nose draining, the whites of his eyes a painful shade of red.

Dezzy grabbed him by the forearm and stared hard at him, not allowing him to look away.

“You did not do this. And we’ll get the sons of bitches that did,” Dezzy venomously stated.

*****

“Let’s go! Get up! First day of Valkyrie training begins now!”

Violet sat up abruptly, eyes frantically darting around the room. Where the hell was she? This wasn’t her bedroom…

The white-blond waif stood at the foot of her bed, hands on her hips, her gaze expectant.

“I see you had at least enough common sense to be dressed,” Sif continued as if they’d been talking for an hour instead of Violet being rudely awoken.

She groggily sat up and rubbed at the back of her neck. She’d fallen asleep in an awkward position the left her neck stiff and sore. She jerked her head to the side once, sighing in pleasure as it cracked and relieved the uncomfortable pressure.

“Where are we going?” Violet asked, her voice raw and rough sounding.

“Service training with Gondul,” Sif brusquely replied, glancing at the mess of tangled, wild hair that floated around Violet’s head. “How are your braiding skills?”

“Non-existent,” Violent snorted in response.

Sif clicked her tongue disapprovingly and snatched a fine-looking, gold-handled hairbrush from the bureau across the room. She rummaged in the drawers for something and flitted over to where Violet had managed to scoot to the edge of the bed.

“We’re going to fix this rat’s nest you call hair before you go anywhere. You haven’t changed a bit. Honestly, you’re a princess. Act like it,” Sif snarled, yanking the brush through Violet’s hair with no mercy.

It took the better part of 30 minutes, but when they emerged from Violet’s apartment, Sif was satisfied that Violet’s looks alone would not be a cause for embarrassment. Her hair had been tightly braided against her scalp and she hadn’t been given the luxury of looking at it herself before the waif pushed her toward the door.

Violet followed Sif down the winding spiral staircase past the great hall and further below until they emerged in what looked like a cellar of some sort. It was dark and damp, and the air smelled musty as they trod on poorly lit packed earth floors for quite some distance.

They emerged from the cellar at an elaborate portcullis, which lifted on their approach. They went through and the early morning light allowed Violet enough illumination to see several practice dummies lined up in the distance. There were stands stationed many yards away from each dummy.

“Are those for sparring or something else?” Violet asked as they strode past the training yard toward another portcullis.

“Well they’re not for practicing your kissing skills, are they?” Sif retorted.

Violet stopped in her tracks. Sif reached the other portcullis before she realized her charge wasn’t with her. The waif spun and glared at Violet, hands on her hips.

“Gondul doesn’t like to be late,” Sif spat, motioning for Violet to follow.

“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere with you until you do something about your attitude,” Violet retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

Fear and worry flickered through the little girl’s expression and she anxiously looked back at the portcullis before turning her attention on Violet again.

“If you do not hurry, I’m the one who will get punished. Let’s go, Princess,” Sif snarled, closing the distance between them instantly and grabbing Violet’s hand.

Sif tugged insistently, her grip steely. But Violet was tired of being ordered around and the evident disdain with which Sif regarded her. She wrenched her hand free from the waif and stood rooted to the spot, refusing to move.

“Attitude,” Violet repeated.

Sif rolled her eyes and said, “I don’t have time to coddle spoiled royalty.”

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Some people mistakenly believe I’m this treasure hunting royal bitch named Gersemi. Those people don’t know the first god-damned thing about me. My name is Violet Jorgensen. I’m a trainer, a devoted sister, and I like to help people, listen to rock music, and play soccer. Who are you?”

Violet held out her hand, as was custom when introducing oneself where she came from. Sif regarded her with a suspicious expression, but ultimately agreed to take her hand. They shook.

“This is the part where you tell me who you are and a couple things about yourself so I can see if we have anything in common,” Violet prompted, refusing to let go of the waif.

She sighed and reluctantly obliged, mumbling, “I’m Sif. I’m a frost fae. I have seven hundred siblings, have lived through countless millennia, and I would very much like it if the stubborn not-royal bitch would hurry up. I cannot begin to convey how serious it is that we are not late in meeting with Gondul. To you, Gondul and Freyja are the same being. To me, Gondul is absolutely terrifying and I don’t have the fortune of being her daughter saving me from her wrath.”

Violet grinned and released the frost fae’s hand.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Violet giggled, jogging after her through the portcullis.

Sif just kept walking, though she did quicken her pace.

They went through several low-ceilinged tunnels until the passage spilled into what looked like an enormous kitchen. Stoves lined one wall, with an island in the center, over which hung dozens of cast iron pots and pans. A dozen or so men and women worked throughout the space, preparing what appeared to be a very large feast.

“What’s this?” Violet asked as Sif grabbed her hand and dragged her to the other end of the room, only to enter another passageway.

“That’s the main kitchen. They’re preparing breakfast.”

“Okay. And where are we going?”

“To meet with Gondul.”

“Sif,” Violent warned.

Sif sighed and looked at Violet over her shoulder as they continued briskly down the tunnel.

“You are going to learn how to serve the meals in Odin’s hall. It’s the first task Valkyries in training learn,” Sif further elaborated.

“Oh, is that all? Should be easy. I was a waitress in college,” Violet brightly replied.

“No. It isn’t easy,” Sif said. “Come. We’re nearly there.”

Violet learned that day to trust the frost fae’s assessments. Nothing in Valhalla worth learning or doing was ever easy. Not for anyone; even the supposed child of Odin and Freyja.