1
Asgard
Bernard Marchand lounged alone in Freyja’s sitting area. His gaze roamed the luxurious space, noting the rich jewel-toned woven fabric on the two sofas and two chairs. Nestled between them stood a unique table, its top a gorgeous slab of wood, the two long edges still sporting tree bark. Instead of paint or stain, the thick dark grain meandering through the lighter shades had been protected by a coat of polyurethane.
The room’s silence was deafening. Resting his ankle over one knee, he drummed his fingers on his thigh, stared at the dark-bronze God’s Glass, and wished it would begin playing. In the center of the mirrored surface, a flash of white light blinked on, then off. His fingers slowed to a stop as he waited to see if it would happen again.
The light returned, this time stronger and brighter as it filled the smooth surface. Pastel colors in pinks, yellows, and oranges swirled together. A dark-green dot appeared in the center then, as if a finger glided through the colors first in small swirls, each circle grew larger, overtaking the softer shades until there was nothing but green. He found himself staring into an expansive forest. As if he stood in the middle of the dense trees, he almost smelled the musty scent of decaying leaves and moisture.
The scene changed. He blinked, and the Glass showed him Hitler’s Wehrmacht, as it had been at the beginning of the war on Earth. Thousands of tanks, vehicles, and soldiers marched through never-ending fields, the golden stalks of grain trampled underneath the might of the German army.
His jaw clenched, and he welcomed the pain as his teeth ached under the unrelenting pressure. How he hated the war. He hated the Germans more, though, and everything they had done throughout Europe. Not even South America had escaped the Nazi brutalities. Crossing his arms over his chest, he glared at the line of vehicles. Watching this alone wasn’t such a good idea, and he wished his friends and fighting companions were here with him. At least his best friend would understand where his anger came from. Sworn to secrecy, Mikhail would never break his oath about Bernard’s past, not even to his wife, Natalya.
The massive and senseless loss of life by war’s end fueled his anger, and it grew, morphing into a seething rage, which filled his mind and body. The scene changed once more, showing him the ruins of a town. Churned earth mixed with thick snowdrifts, and pillars of dark smoke drifted over wrecked tanks and mangled bodies. The view panned out, and he caught sight of a familiar statue—six children dancing around a crocodile. His breath hitched in his chest as he recognized Stalingrad. Or what was left of the once-beautiful Russian town.
His gaze moved over the rubble, and he shook his head. “How in the hell did you get out of there—and with children?” he whispered. Already fighting for Freyja, Mikhail and Natalya, along with the two orphans Mikhail had found in Lwów, Poland, escaped the once-great port town, but not before changing events and turning the tide against the Germans. If they had not turned back the German army from Stalingrad, the Wehrmacht just might have overrun the Russian Red Army.
If they had not succeeded...
Shaking his head, he wished the Glass would turn back to the beginning of the war. He stared in surprise as the scene darkened, then showed the massive German army spreading across Europe, Hitler’s long arm reaching out and scooping up country after country. A hopeless feeling filled his chest, which he halfheartedly rubbed with his knuckles, as he watched the ease in which the German Führer overtook most of the continent.
Knowing what he now knew, after experiencing the entirety of the war and witnessing the winners and losers, his thoughts ping-ponged as he tried to think of how he could warn those in charge—Churchill, Roosevelt, even Stalin—and stop Adolf Hitler before it was too late.
A tingling sensation skittered over him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and along his arms. He recognized the feminine power standing just behind him. Freyja. Keeping his gaze focused on the events playing out in the Glass, he impatiently waited for her to say something, his fingers returning to the constant drumming on his leg.
Finally, as her emotions pounded his back, he twisted his neck, his gaze colliding with hers. “What is it, Freyja? I can sense your displeasure.”
Her elegant brows rose. “You can? How odd. Normally, only Idunn or my twin, Freyr, can feel my emotions.”
“Guess I’m lucky then. It’s probably residue from my death and will disappear in time, so I wouldn’t worry too much.” He turned back to the Glass to see the German army plow through the French Maginot Line as if the thick cement bunkers and line of French soldiers were not even there.
“Do I detect a note of bitterness in your tone?”
“Possibly.” He shrugged and turned in his seat to stare at the beautiful woman. She looked as if she had stepped out of the Middle Ages with her long, purple velvet gown and filigreed, golden amulet pressed to the middle of her smooth forehead. Thin, twisted strands of more gold snaked out from the dark-purple stone in the center of the piece of jewelry, disappearing into her long, strawberry-blond hair, which she wore loose down her back. In the light, the clear quartz stones surrounding the amethyst sparkled, giving her a queenly disposition.
What in the hell was he doing here with these people?
Freyja walked the few steps to the two-seater chaise and sat, her back straight and hands folded in her lap. “You are here, Bernard, because your truest friends couldn’t bear to be parted from you.”
Lifting his hands, he scrubbed his face, then let them fall onto his thighs with a loud sigh. “I know, and I appreciate that, but I feel like a fish out of water in this place. I have no clue what to do with myself, much less my purpose.” He motioned with a wave of his hand toward the Glass, which seemed to have paused during the escape of English and French soldiers at Dunkirk. “That’s where I’m the most comfortable—in the middle of a battle or strategizing our next operation.”
Freyja smiled. “I do understand, Bernard, truly. Believe me or not, but your true purpose has yet to appear. While your friends asked for me to save you, it was me who made the ultimate decision. I saw—and still see—a worthy man, honorable and brave...” her voice trailed off as a frown marred her perfect face. “What do you know about your family?”
His brow rose. “Why?” He didn’t like the way his stomach cramped and churned the moment she asked about his family. He didn’t talk about them much. Not because he didn’t love them or was embarrassed by them, just the opposite. He loved his parents very much and had missed them every day since their deaths. In fact, the war had interrupted his search for what happened to them.
He stuffed the memory away to ponder over later. Instead, he needed to figure out why he felt so restless and not like himself. He wanted to go back to Earth, or Midgard, as everyone here called it. He had to see the destruction for himself and figure out a way to help. Those were the only things he seemed to be good at—fighting and fixing.
“I sense something in you, Bernard, something...special.”
Shrugging again, he slumped down into the comfortable sofa. “I don’t feel very special. I feel irritated.”
“Are your parents still alive? Do you have siblings?”
Giving her a sideways glance, he shook his head. “Persistent, aren’t you? I’m an only child and was raised in a very loving home. I had two guardians, an older couple, who took care of me when my parents weren’t there. Beyond that, I know nothing about them, other than they were kind to me. Their names were as strange as they were—Lukan and Kulirra Hillhead. Both were short, and Lukan, more so than his wife, had a wizened face, as if he were ancient.”
He frowned, staring into the unlit fireplace. “I always thought it odd that they never seemed to age. At least from what I remember. The last time I saw them was the day I left for England. Lukan didn’t like that I signed up to serve as an agent in MI5. That was in ’39. By the end of 1940, my regiment was knee-deep in reports, and I never heard from them during that time. I was sent out on so many missions, I never made it back to the chateau to check on them...”
“You said they were short—and wrinkled?” Freyja asked, her amethyst stare sharp and glittery. “Was there anything else strange or a little off about them?”