The flutter of wings.

She opened her eyes. The flight attendants had gathered to stare at her. The skinny woman was between them. They all stared, and smiled, then opened their mouths.

They had far more than teeth . . . they had fangs, canine fangs, huge, glistening, white, seeming to drip a slimy green liquid. No, no, not dog fangs, snake fangs, long, sharp, glistening, and they were laughing because she was here, on the plane, cornered, and there were monsters in the world.

She turned, trying to back away into the next seat. She was wearing a cross; she carried holy water. . .

But she couldn’t reach her purse. She couldn’t crawl into the next seat because someone was there. Ragnor. And he was laughing, and the plane was alive with flying creatures? bats. Their wings fluttered everywhere. And she whispered to Ragnor, “Help me, please, help me!” But, of course, he would not, because he had taken her for a fool, and his mouth was opening then, and he had the longest fangs of all, dripping, sparkling, like razors caught in the light, but it was midnight, deep midnight, and she could almost feel the pain of his touch . . .

“Miss Riley!”

She awoke with a start.

A young Frenchwoman, a flight attendant who spoke English perfectly, was standing over her. She had been gently touching her shoulder.

She had no fangs.

No bats flew about the plane.

“I’m afraid you were dreaming?a nightmare,” the woman told her gently, and with an awkward smile.

“You screamed,” she added, indicating an irate man standing in back of her. “It’s really ... well, we really try not to allow our passengers to scream on overseas flights. Other passengers think that something is wrong. Really wrong.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Jordan said.

The woman gave her a smile. “It’s all right. None of us can help our nightmares, I guess. If you could just try to stay awake ...”

“Yes, of course,” Jordan said apologetically.

“Um ... I mean, please, really, I know it might be hard, but you really might want to stay awake.”

“Yes, of course, again, I am so sorry!” Jordan said.

“I’m sorry, too, but?it was a loud scream. They heard you in the back row.”

“I’ll stay awake.”

She felt her cheeks reddening. She tried to apologize to the man behind her. He wasn’t mollified.

Stay awake ...

She was losing her mind.

Making everyone around her a monster.

No ...

She wasn’t losing her mind. She’d had a nightmare; she knew she’d had a nightmare.

But what had happened at the church had been real.

She glanced at her watch.

And prayed for the time to pass quickly as the plane continued over the Atlantic.

She had been dreaming. . .

And still, she had the bone-deep feeling that something wasn’t right. That she was being stalked by forces unseen.

Hunted.

CHAPTER 17

Ragnor faced his brother, his own flesh and blood, and so, it seemed, a horde of demons.

And it was Nari who had led him to this point. Nari, who through his efforts to save her, had brought about the deaths of so many men. Nari, who had shared his new savage passions and hungers, and the hope that he had found a way to exist.

She didn’t intend to take part in the carnage; not willing to risk injury to herself, she stood back, keeping her distance.

“So you survived,” Ragnor told Hagan, buying time and trying to decide if there was a way to reach his sword.

“Survived, yes, brother. With a power greater than yours. The seventh son of the seventh son. The miraculous seventh child of the wolf! You refused to accept the gift of your birth, brother. I would have known what to do with such strengths and abilities. For years I lived in your shadow, knowing that our father’s power lived in you, while I was the greater warrior. Now I have a power even greater than what you knew at birth. And do you know what, little brother? I don’t wish to share this new strength. I know how to use this gift and rule with it. I will not let you hunt down the chosen of my kind, our kind, with your would-be holy but so fragile monks!” Hagan paused to spit on the floor. “There can be but one of us, brother. And the one who remains, who rules, will be me.” A strange fear, deeper than that for his own existence, wound into Ragnor. “What have you done with Peter?” he demanded.

Hagan leaned casually upon his sword. “Well, brother, what do you think? The blood of a holy man ... it was really quite delicious. And when we were done, we roasted the flesh. There is a singular lack of game in these parts, if you haven’t noticed. The blood is the life, but I must say. there remains a tremendous joy in a well-prepared meal. And in our earlier rovings we learned that nothing of the hunt should be wasted.”

Rage filled him.

With all the supposed power of his birth, and the disease that now raged within whatever his existence might be, he should have had a sense of reason. At that moment, he did not. He lunged for his brother.

Hagan’s creatures moved forward.

Ragnor managed to dive beneath the enemies and roll upon the pallet, making it to the end of the floor.

He seized his sword, and turned, swinging. Blood sprayed as his weapon sliced into those creatures who had so recently glutted themselves on the weak and the holy; yet blood sprayed from his own flesh as well. He felt the pain, and felt the loss, but knew that he must not go down.

A dark man emerged from the front, and he lunged low, bringing his sword up through the creature’s gullet; he was aware of the man at his rear, and more aware than anything else that he could endure injury, but not to his throat and neck.

He had to keep his head. Figuratively? literally.

A sword shot into his back. He stiffened in his agony, and spun, catching the creature right at the neck.

The enemy fell, hands at his throat.

Another flew forward, lifted from the ground, sank.

Easy target. He had not for nothing learned his battle techniques at the hands of Viking masters.

More came, more went down.

But there were too many.

In the end, he bled from a hundred wounds. And in the end, he fell, and he knew that his brother, the unknown but bitter rival from the minute of his birth, would triumph.

Hagan stood over him.

“You should thank me,” Hagan said. “I have let you the engaged in fierce battle. You will rise to the halls of Valhalla and drink and be merry throughout eternity.”

“You will live in the darkness of the world ruled by Hel.”

“No, in life I lived in darkness. Now, I live in the power and light of... Hagan!” He roared with laughter.

“And now little brother ...”

Ragnor clenched his teeth but kept his eyes open as he watched his brother’s biceps bulge when he lifted his mighty battle sword.

But when the steel came down, it landed in the dirt by his side.

“Kill him, be done with it!” Nari hissed at his side. “He is tortured, beaten; you have proven yourself.

Don’t let him come back!”

Hagan roared out his wrath, and brought his sword down again. And as he hacked and hacked in fury, the others joined him, but though the blades pierced his flesh, they fell to the earth each time, short in their pursuit of his decapitation.

“It’s the chain about his neck, the silver chain!” Nari cried.

“Take it!” Hagan commanded her.

He could do nothing when Nari fell to his side. She didn’t so much as glance into his eyes. She reached for the silver chain, the relic the monk had placed around his neck so many years ago. But as she touched it, she screamed, backing away in pains, her fingers burning. She sizzled, smoke rising into the air, and she jumped back, astonished and in pain.

Hagan let out another great roar. He grasped the chain until the burning seemed to snake up his arms.

He let it go.

“Get a stake; we’ll pin it through his heart and bury him beneath the ash and stone of his precious church!” Hagan roared out.

By the time they dragged him into the night, Ragnor could feel nothing. He wasn’t even aware of the shafts of wood being plunged into him.

He could not open his eyes; he couldn’t feel. Darkness descended, a black void, nothingness ...

So that, he thought, was death.

Death then was painless ...

Life, or existence, was agony.

As little as he had been unaware of the damage done to him, he knew acutely the moment he came from the void; he felt the removal of each stake with an agony that brought screams tearing from his lungs and throat.

“There, look! There is something about this one!” someone cried.

Ragnor had vision. He looked up at a blond man, tall, looming over him in the decaying remnants of what had once been a village. How long he had slept, or died in his world of darkness, he did not know.

Trees and vines overgrew the ashen timbers of the old church. Time had passed, days, months ...

perhaps years. The man who stood over him appeared to be one of his own kind; a Viking, one with an amused grin, a massive sword upon which he leaned, and curious blue eyes.

Another man moved into his vision, both of them towering over him.

The second man hunkered down. He was darker, and different in appearance. He wore a tunic with the woven colors of the Scots brooched over his shoulder.

“What have we here?” the fellow demanded.

“Think it’s him?” the blond man asked.

“Rumor had it that we’d find him, and so it appears he is here,” the Scotsman said. “Are you known as the son of the wolf?”

Ragnor studied the strange men who seemed to have dug him up with purpose. “Who are you?”

“Ah, now, I asked the question first! There has been a rumor about that the one man who might help us stand against the scourge of the isles and his bloodthirsty mistress had been buried amid the remains of the church within an old abbey. I ask you again?are you the son of the Wolf?”

“The seventh son,” Ragnor agreed. “And who in damnation are you?”

“I am damnation,” the man replied. “But damnation with a set of rules, a vengeance of my own, and a will to survive.” He rose, stretching a hand to Ragnor. He took the hand, wincing as he tried to stand.