11
Bernard closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. Bile rose in his throat as the enormity of what he had done washed over him. How could I have ruined everything I fought for—no, we fought for? How could I have been so selfish...?
Pulling in deep breaths, he raised his head and forced his eyelids to open, then stared at the dystopian world in the Glass. The gloomy horizon sped toward him. Several U-boats bobbed up and down with each high-reaching wave and, in the distance, dark-gray megaliths of battleships and carriers moved through the water, as if standing guard. A high spray of salt water stung his face, and he realized it was not a what-if situation. He really flew over the ocean.
Pulling his gaze from what he thought was the ocean, he saw the familiar white cliffs of England looming closer, then giving way to the circular Neolithic monument of Stonehenge. Beyond this, the cityscape of London came into view, but the majestic domed spires of the Old Bailey and St. Paul’s Cathedral were missing. There was nothing left that resembled the city he knew so well.
In their places stood boxy buildings, more resembling the newer architectural designs of Russia and Germany. There was nothing historical or appealing to any of them. In the streets, he saw more soldiers, each wearing the green uniform of the German army, as they milled up and down each street. Just north of the River Thames, he recognized what remained of the dark, hazy alleys of Whitechapel, an inhospitable haven of poverty, crime, and disease.
He mourned for the massive loss of life but couldn’t quite bring himself to be upset by the devastation left from Hitler’s V2 bombs. Poverty and disease frequented the Whitechapel neighborhood. Now, perhaps, it could be rebuilt into something better for the remaining inhabitants. He caught sight of two soldiers, one pulling an old man out of an alley and holding him while the other soldier beat him until he fell to the ground, his body curled up to protect his core.
Anger flooded Bernard. His gaze moved from one end of the street to the other, and this time he noticed the bodies lying on the ground and sprawled near the alley from where the soldiers had pulled the old man. Under Nazi rule, there would be no returning to what had been, and the country’s history would be systematically eradicated by Hitler’s henchmen.
He felt a pulling sensation on his body, directing him back south toward the river. A second later, he was standing in front of The Prospect of Whitby, staring at the familiar three-story, brown-bricked tavern he and a few of his buddies from MI6 used to visit upon returning from a mission.
Entering the tavern, he walked across the ancient flagstone floor, straight to the pewter-topped bar, and ordered a beer before moving to an old table in the corner. Well-made and sturdy, the square table’s wooden top was nicked and worn from years of use, knife scars and carvings adorning its surface.
From his vantage point, he could see anyone coming in from the street or back of the tavern. Most locals knew the building’s history. Built in the early 1500s, the structure’s back docking area had been used extensively by ship to load and unload supplies and was the perfect way to sneak inside, for pirates and Nazis alike.
He nursed his beer, his gaze constantly returning to the street as his anxiety spiked. He knew how badly he had screwed everything up and wouldn’t be surprised if the others arrived to give him grief for his actions. It’s what he would have done if one of them had created the mess he had.
Alva’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. The last time he had seen her was after they stormed the queen’s castle and rescued her from her cousin’s dungeon. Even disheveled and with a streak of dirt on one cheek, she’d been breathtaking. He’d always thought her beautiful, inside and out, although his observations had only been from watching her and how she was with others.
During every mission, he watched as she helped everyone she met. Young or old, it didn’t matter. If they were Russian, German, or French, she fixed whatever they needed. He had never known someone so selfless.
Bernard took a sip of beer, then another, and set the mug down on the table. A waitress walked by carrying a tray filled with plates. The most delicious scent of roast beef teased his nostrils and reminded him of last Christmas. Freyja had sent Alva and him to Midgard, to the outskirts of a small Italian mountain village. A German unit confiscated a small farm near the Austrian border. Their mission was to watch and figure out what the Germans were up to.
“You look to be a million miles away,” a familiar voice said, startling him. His gaze snapped to the two women sitting across from him. Freyja and Alva.
“Did you pull me here?” he asked, unable to keep the hint of resentment and suspicion from his voice.
“Of course I did. Seeing the ramifications of your actions in the Glass is one thing. Witnessing it firsthand is another. Now, do you see why I am so upset and terribly worried?”
He bit back a sigh and nodded. “Yes, my lady, I most certainly do.”
Freyja leaned across the table and laid her hand over his, which still grasped the beer mug. “I understand your motive, Bernard, and I am so sorry.”
“Since my wife’s and children’s deaths, I’ve been so lost and alone.” His voice broke over the last word, and he cleared his throat. “I just wanted them back. I need them.”
“I, too, know the pain of death, Bernard. My father was my everything growing up. My mother didn’t want me, nor did anyone else in Huldra society. When he died...” Alva took a deep breath. “When my father died, part of my heart died with him. Life became difficult, but a very wise woman gave me some advice. She told me my father still lived inside of me, and that not living the life I’d been gifted was an insult to his memory and all that he’d done for me.”
He stared into Alva’s beautiful eyes and felt himself falling into a warm sea-green pool. The tight grip enfolding his heart eased ever so slightly, and he knew what he had to do. But did he have the strength to let Savannah and his children go?
“What were you thinking about when we arrived?” Freyja asked.
Without looking away from the Huldra, he answered, “Mine and Alva’s third mission. She was fearless. We’d been there maybe a day, freezing in the winter mountain air, when a couple of German soldiers appeared. The next thing we knew, the Nazis dragged a young boy and older man from the house, hitting and kicking them. One of them kicked the young boy, slamming him into the rock wall of a water well. He made a single sound, but it was that pathetic whimper that galvanized Alva into action.”
He gave his old partner a crooked grin. “She ran into the yard and stood between the soldiers and the boy like an avenging warrior. A few skilled kicks and dagger slices with that fancy bracelet you gave her, and the Nazis fled. She saved the boy and his entire family by taking a stand and doing what was right.” He dropped his gaze to his hands, forced his white-knuckled grip to loosen, and pushed the beer mug away from him.
He scrubbed his face and let his hands fall into his lap with a sigh. “I’ve made such a mess of everything, and all I can say is I’m sorry. Freyja, I never meant anything like this to happen. I figured it was just one small battle—”
“But it wasn’t,” Freyja interrupted. “Even the smallest of skirmishes leads to diverse paths and different outcomes. The bombing of Pearl Harbor, whether President Roosevelt planned for it to happen or not, changed the war, both in Europe and in the Pacific. Without the Americans’ help and manpower, Hitler perseveres and ultimately defeats England, then goes on to decimate Russia and Africa. By the war’s halfway point, he had already begun building many fortresses as well as extermination camps throughout South America. In their isolationism, the United States laid the groundwork for their own downfall and ultimate Nazi invasion. That one battle was everything in this war.”
Straightening his shoulders, Bernard met the goddess’s angry gaze. “While I know that now, all I can do is apologize and repair the damage I’ve done.”
Alva frowned and leaned forward. “That’s what worries me, Bernard. I don’t think you realize what you will need to do to fix it. Will you be able to walk away from your family all over again? Can you let them go a second time?”
Her words were like a punch to his gut. Could he say goodbye again? “I don’t... I don’t know,” he whispered. “They are all I’ve thought about since that day. They are the reason I fought like I did in the war.”