Valkyrie Slumbering by L. VanHorn

 

    Long blond locks flying, I spin and thrust in a breathtaking dance that gives the illusion I am one with the sword I swing. I block, parry, and finish with a high leap and complete spin in the air to land with a dramatic flourish in a deep stance. Applause breaks out among the crowd as I bow low and do my best to once again look demure and harmless. Sweat tickles fine lines down between my breasts as it drips into my low bodice.
    “Thank you,” I offer up in my most gracious tone as those from my audience place coins in the small bowl at my feet.
    A grin pulls at my lips as I sheathe my sword to pick up the bowl and see the glitter of not only copper, but also silver within. With a content sigh, I tuck a lock of long straight hair the color of honey behind a pointed ear. Gasps sound around me, and people begin to whisper as they move away.
    “… line of Alfhiem,” I hear.
    A derisive snort follows it. “Hardly, half-elf at best.”
    Grinding my teeth, I block out their voices. Even a moment is too much to forget myself. I tug the hair back over my ear, concealing it. As I empty the coins into my pouch and return the bowl to my pack, I notice a man from the audience lingering. Only one. Not much of a surprise considering the mistake I just made. Although, even after revealing what I am, the type I hunt would linger about. With only one drawn in, it appears I have chosen the wrong town.
    The man is nearly six feet tall with a broad, muscular frame and dark blond hair cropped unusually short. Such dark hair sets him apart from the sea of wheat colored locks that are natural to my people. There is a certain allure to that darkness. Leather armor stretches tight across his chest, marking him as a warrior. Brilliant blue bracelets of knotwork circle his arms just above his biceps. No, not bracelets, I realize upon closer inspection, but tattoos. I’ve never seen their like.
    The long sword across his back speaks of his refinement. His handsome features are accented by blue eyes as bright as sapphires. They are the kind of eyes a woman longs to see hovering over her in the night. My gaze catches on the delicate point of one ear that pushes through his hair. Alfhiem blood and not afraid to show it—that’s a rare and dangerous combination.
    Something stirs deep inside, a reaction to his boldness, or attraction, I’m not sure which. He’s definitely not the type I hunt, but oh how I wish I was. Coming across another half-elf is a rare thing.
    His smile is infectious as he walks up to me. I find myself returning it.
    “Ye’re fantastic,” he says in a deep, admiring tone. His accent is so thick it comes out sounding more like ‘year fantastic’ but the brogue has a certain appeal I can’t deny. I’ve only ever heard the like once before from a slave brought back from a raid. The voice coupled with those lovely blue eyes makes muscles low in my body tighten, reminding me of how long it’s been since I’ve been with a man.
    “Thank you. And you are?” I ask as I sling my pack over my shoulder. I try to convince myself that I’m just being polite, but honestly, it’s those eyes, and the way he fills out that armor in all the right places. That he is like me doesn’t hurt either. I’ve never met anyone like me.
    “Grímur, but ye can call me Grím. Pleased to meet ye, lady. . .” He lets his voice trail off.
    “Kyra,” I say, giving him my loveliest smile.
    “Tis rare to see such fine swordsmanship. Ye make it into a beautiful dance,” he tells me. His accent is heavy on the r’s and the way he sort of rolls them sends a flush through me. And it doesn’t escape me that he leaves out the part about it being rare to see such swordsmanship from a woman . I’m not sure if that charms me or repulses me. I’ll wait to decide.
    Keeping this up is a bad idea, but what else am I going to do? If my display didn’t attract anyone who can lead me to my prey, then there isn’t anyone here who can. “Well