Fic: Of Bastard Saints, 6
May. 13th, 2006 10:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
An owl hooted, and Jason came awake, gun trained on the sound. Two wide eyes stared out of a little feathery head.
With a hard sigh, Jason glanced around and re-holstered the gun. Great, Hammett. Just blow Fluffy over there out of the tree. Next thing he knew, PETA would be after him.
He glanced at the horizon. Almost dawn. Time to start moving again.
Jason forced himself back onto his tired legs. All the strain was from the walking and the hitch-hiking. He didn't seem to have a problem hiking in the biker boots. They felt right on him, like the heavy denim jacket and jeans did. So in his previous life he was undercover as a redneck?
Humming Dixie, Jason reached for the battered map he'd picked up, at one of the many rest stops trying sadly to pimp the many glorious tourist opportunities of Minnesota's frozen tundra. According to it, the road he was on would (eventually) turn left. If the trucker was right, there would be an all night roadhouse there called Valhalla. It was situated outside of one of the little ethnic enclaves found in the Midwest, this one a heavy Norse population. The trucker'd said it wasn't to be missed. He wouldn't explain why, but he'd been smirking. Jason figured the guy was a fan of Led Zeppelin.
Sure enough, after about another half hour of walking, the road turned. There in the middle of a clearing was a huge log building with a big-ass ship's prow sticking out of the front. It was carved in the shape of a scantily clad buxom winged woman.
Jason grinned. His kind of place, between the half-naked cheesecake statue and the forest crouching on all sides. If he needed to bolt again, he'd have plenty of cover. The woods had shifted from claustrophobic to almost familiar, the weight of the gun at his back and the knife in his hand giving him comfort. It was safer than the highway in the daylight, where Jason didn't necessarily trust a dye job and a few extra pounds to keep him unnoticed if they were looking for him.
He wasn't sure who 'they' were anymore. If they were the feds, they sucked at tracking him, particularly since they'd have surveillance and intelligence on their side. If it was the cops, he'd crossed enough state lines that they should've stopped hounding him by now. But still he felt something shadowing his steps, like any second he might hear whistling from behind him just before-
Before what?
His memory stayed an unhelpful blank. Better that than the headache that seemed to accompany any attempts to push too hard. Jason let it go, stepping up to the bar's heavy wooden door. He could hear a clamor from within, the click of pool balls, friendly yelling and the pulse of music. Metal. He liked these people already.
When he pushed open the door, a chaos of scents assaulted him. Leather and spilled beer, fried food and sweet smoke. The bar was cluttered, noisy and packed wall to wall. Apparently the good people of Ragnar, Minnesota, didn't have much else to do on a... fuck, was it Saturday? And what the hell were these people doing in a bar when it was pushing dawn?
The song was right: in Minnesota, there was a drinking quota. Somebody, a remarkably tall blond, wandered past with a beer in each huge hand. He wore a t-shirt that declared it to be Moose Days.
God, this was a weird country.
Sheer, fascinated horror kept Jason in the doorway for a moment. He recovered as the songs switched and a few more of the fucking huge blonds yelled, jumping to their feet to dance with a certain plastered style. Were all of them like that? Jason could see a few brunettes wandering around, a handful of African Americans, two groping lesbians-heyyyyy-- and one very drunk guy in a yarmulke and fur on one of the tables, but mostly it was a sea of very tall blond people in... was that a horned helmet?
Yeah. There was a little too much community pride going on for Jason not to get made as a stranger within seconds. He stepped back, trying to ease through the door before somebody looked up from their beer. Granted, they were all pretty focused on their incoming cirrhosis, so he had plenty of time as long as no one-
"Welcome, stranger!" perked a voice at his elbow.
"Fuck me," Jason muttered, then forced a smile and turned to look at her. The smile froze a little as he took in the long legs, the sweet curves and the bounteous cleavage. The owner of said cleavage was shorter than him, but not by much. Enough that Jason had a mighty nice view down her low-cut top. Catching the pleased smirk, he gave up and let her have the slow up-and-down stare. "And what a welcome it is. Sorry, honey- and believe me, I'm really sorry- but I took a wrong turn and I'm late for-"
The bit of strawberry-blond fun had a dangerous smile. She went up on her toes a little, giving him a better view down her shirt as she touched his arm with light fingers. "But you just got here," she purred. "Come on in. Have a beer. It's a long way until the next road stop. Besides, it's the Moose Days!"
Wow. Hot and crazy. "Well," Jason glanced at her handily available nametag, "Idona, I'd hate to intrude on that. So-"
A man glanced up from his pool game, noticing Jason for the first time. Viking boy frowned, then leaned over to share a word with one of his buddies. Fuck.
"Oh, please?" Idona asked, cocking one hip to the side. Her smile went wicked. "My shift's almost over, and I could use the company while the shooting's going on. And Sven Morgan's been all hands most of the night, so..."
Was she worth a bar full of pissed-off Vikings with guns? Jason gauged what he could see of Idona, which was quite a bit. She was the kind of girl who could make a man thank God for eyesight and imagination, let alone for his... stamina.
Idona smelled blood in the water, because she winked and handed him a beer from her tray. "Here. I'll be back with you in a few."
Jason took the beer like an idiot and watched her stride away. It was a nice view. Kind of like watching a horror movie while you screamed at the dumbass about to get himself murdered over a piece of ass. Hey, that sounded familiar.
Hoo, boy. Jason took a swig of the beer and shook his head hard. There was trouble, and then there was trouble. He'd just track her down, pay for the beer and- probably end up staying anyway, because there wasn't much blood going to his brain at the moment. He had just gotten laid in Chicago, hadn't he? A lot?
Christ, no wonder he was scarred up. Maybe he should be watching over his shoulder for brothers, fathers and husbands. (Or wives, for that matter. Jason wasn't picky.) With pitchforks and shotguns for the wedding.
With a sigh, Jason shrugged off his bag and set it against one wall. Then he took another swig of beer and started deeper into the crowd of humanity. He'd at least try to catch up with her, and then let his brain catch up with him.
He made it about to the pool table. That was when there was suddenly a blond man in his goddamned face, seething at him.
Jason pulled sharply to a stop just before they collided, feeling someone jostle him from behind. There was precious little room, and a whole lot of people between him and the door. Wise tactical call there, Hammett.
"Why are you watching Idona?" the blond bit off. He had the flushed look and shot pupils to match the line of empty bottles on the pool table. His buddy loomed behind him, looking no less plastered.
Jason set the bottle carefully down and held up his hands. Then he stepped back. The person he'd bumped was now like a solid wall between him and escape. "Dude. It's cool, all right? I don't want any trouble." When they continued glaring, Jason sighed and tried, "C'mon, now, you don't want to sully the good traditional fun of Moose Days."
The bar was too quiet around them. Jason heard someone call, "kick his ass, Sven!"
"Sven," Jason said. "Sven Morgan?"
The blond thrust his chin out, wobbling a little with the motion. "Got something to say about it?"
The crowd parted beside Sven, letting through Idona. She'd pulled out her ponytail and buttoned her shirt until it was almost demure. She lay her hand on Sven's arm, her eyes dancing as she said, "Oh, Sven, don't fight over me."
Sven turned to frown at her. "Step back, little sister."
Little sister? Oh, fuck, he'd stumbled into the Norse Waldens from hell.
Idona shook her head, all wide-eyed innocence. "Really, it's okay. He just looked down my shirt, but it's not like-"
Sven looked sharply at Jason. "You dare?" he snarled.
Irritated, Jason replied, "It's not like I could miss them, man. I don't want a fight here, just calm the hell-"
Sven surged forward, shoving Jason hard enough to knock him back. The bad shoulder wrenched, sending pain down Jason's arm, distracting him so that he didn't see the punch coming before it put him down.
Jason hit the floor on his hands, rolling out of the way just before he caught Sven's boot to his face. He grabbed at the pool table to pull himself up and run like hell. The pool cue rolled into his hand, and Jason grabbed on. He crouched there for a moment, wondering if he could make it to the back exit, assuming there was one.
Then Sven's fingers knotted into his hair, jerking him upright. Jason went with it, and brought his fist up with him. He checked it halfway there, nailing Sven in the face with the heel of his hand. Sven rocked back, teeth clicking together. Behind him, Jason saw a flash of strawberry blonde hair disappear into the crowd.
"Look, I'm sorry if I dishonored your sister, okay? I mean, not that I-oh, Christ-I didn't touch her," Jason added hastily, seeing Sven's eyes darken in fury.
Other hands grabbed at him, and Jason swung the pool cue without thinking, feeling the satisfying crack as it impacted.
Something welled up from the base of his spine, loosening muscles, readying him for the fight. Yes. This was right. This was what he'd been born for, the fight, the hunt, the kill-
Wow. Cute and crazy. No wonder Jason'd liked Idona.
Fight, he sternly told his body. No kill.
Muscles humming, Jason pivoted. Whipping the cue around, he cleared himself enough room to move. Before the wall of bodies could close again, he leapt up onto the pool table, giving himself the higher ground.
Before he could find his balance, Sven was there, swinging for all he was worth. It was too late to dodge, so Jason took the punch square to his jaw, letting himself fall back onto the table. Sven started to lean over, totally missing the steel toed boot coming for his nuts. At least until the kick connected. That was hard to miss, even if you could ignore the sympathetic groan from their gathering audience.
Fight however you have to, son. Fight dirty. Just live.
The impact sent Sven tumbling off the table, and Jason kipped up, ignoring the protest of his stomach muscles. Some sixth sense warned him, and he glanced to the left just in time to jerk his head back from the bottle that some asshole lobbed at his head.
Pausing to slap someone's hands off his boots, Jason picked up a pool ball and winged it at the guy's head. "Batter up, bitch," he yelled, watching as the guy went down. Seeing another man about ten feet out readying his own missile, he got a better grip on the pool cue, and kicked the returning Sven in the stomach, leaving him bent over.
Sven, with his broad shoulders, made an excellent springboard for Jason to launch himself at the knot of men.
After that, the fight became a blur of fists, bodies flying past. There were people calling wagers, cheering Jason and Sven on until the fight devolved into complete chaos. At some point, Jason realized that several of the guys, including his buddy Sven, had switched sides and were now covering his back. God, these people were weird.
The fight was winding down when the sirens cut through the night. Jason froze automatically.
"Oh, dammit. Who called the cops?" Sven cursed. "Was just getting fun." His heavy hand landed on Jason, tugging him towards the kitchen door. "Idona! Get him out the back way."
Idona grabbed his jacket, practically dragging Jason to the back door. "Just go into the treeline," she ordered as the crowd parted for them. A few people thumped Jason on the back as they passed. "Don't leave. It's okay."
"What?"
"I still owe you another beer." Idona grinned. "Haven't seen a brawl like that in years."
Jason shook his head to clear it, wondering if that ever actually helped. Not so far. "What?" he repeated.
She snorted, then grabbed his jacket, jerking him down for a scalding kiss. When she let him go, she smirked. "Don't go far, stranger."
Then she opened the door and shoved him out into the snow. As Jason fumbled upright, she slammed the door on him. He grinned after her, then tore ass for the trees.
It was a long, cold wait. His jeans were damp from someone's beer, and the bruises started to hurt if he didn't pace. So he paced, watching as the cops did an exasperated, impatient sweep through the lot. He got the feeling that this wasn't the first time they'd been called to break up a bar fight in Valhalla. With Idona gunning for whatever poor bastard stayed still, Jason wasn't surprised.
He should've left, but something kept him. Probably the promise of getting laid. Damn, that was sad. As the adrenaline faded, he could feel it leaving empty spaces behind. He'd been missing that, or something like it. Jason clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to hold onto the feeling, but it slipped through his hands.
Finally, the crunch of snow announced that the police were heading out. He heard Sven's voice, strident and still pretty drunk-sounding. Jason risked glancing around the truck that had been his refuge, only to be blinded by a bright flashbulb. Jason ducked back, blinking against the afterimages, and watched in the side mirror of another truck to be sure no one had noticed him.
Apparently not. It'd just been some schmuck with a press pass taking a picture of Sven talking with what looked like a police chief. Must've been a slow news day. Amazing, what with Moose Days.
Jason relaxed warily, leaning against the truck to listen in.
"A wolf, Mr. Morgan?" the kid asked tiredly. "Again?"
"Yes," Sven said staunchly. "Came out of the woods, wandered into the bar. Seemed more scared to see us than-"
"The other way around. Just like the other times."
"Exactly," Sven said.
"Yeah. Funny how those pool cues were broken."
"Nature is funny," Sven replied. "Very rich with unusual creatures. Like the platypus, or the giraffe, or-"
"The lucky wolf," the police chief sighed. "All right. Thanks, Mr. Morgan."
"Thank you. Sorry to have called you out for nothing." Sven shook the man's hand, ushered him to his car and stood in the parking lot, waving, until the last of the police cars had pulled away. Then he laughed. "You hear that, lucky wolf?"
Jason slid out from behind the truck. "You people are fucking psychotic."
"Yes," Sven agreed. He felt gingerly at a nasty gouge above one eyebrow, grunted, and reached out to thump Jason's shoulder. "Come. Idona's making breakfast."
Jason winced, making Sven grin wider. They limped towards the bar. "What about Moose Days?"
"Big bust. No moose."
"Sorry."
"Nah. It's mostly an excuse to get drunk, fight and eat. I'm sure there were moose at some point, but we've never seen them. Which is another excuse to get drunk, fight and eat."
Jason paused, letting Sven get ahead of him. "Wait. So you and Idona- you weren't pissed?"
"Ah. Idona." Sven turned, leaning against the doorframe. His smile went fond as he spoke about Idona, making something beaten and sentimental in Jason's chest twist. "Let me tell you about my little sister. I love her dearly. I as much as raised her. But I tell you now, she's a great lover of men. It's a small town. Not many men. But I don't trust strangers. This is our way of coming to know a man."
"Uh-huh. Getting a cut of the betting profits probably doesn't hurt."
Sven smirked. "Have to keep the bar running somehow. Nobody ever pays their tab. Come in, lucky wolf. You will have pancakes."
"It's Jason," Jason told him.
Sven blinked at him, mildly. "You tell yourself that. My name's actually Brian. And Idona's Gina. But when the old one has given you a name, that's the end of it. And she's decided to give you one."
It was said so plainly that Jason couldn't find a good way to argue. Particularly since Jason wasn't his real name, either, just a borrowed one a few weeks old. "Nice custom," he said lamely.
With a shrug, Sven opened the door and walked into the bar. The place really was wrecked, broken balls and splintered table legs everywhere. There was a semi-circle of people, who'd all paused when Sven came back in. Even the ones with the beer mugs halfway to their mouths stopped, staring at Jason like they'd never seen him before.
In the heart of the circle was an old woman, sitting in the one chair that hadn't been destroyed. She was bent and wrinkled, covered in a black shawl over her black dress. She held something in her hands, working it between her gnarled fingers. Her eyes were closed, her lips working. In the reverent quiet, Jason heard her dry whispering.
This was odd. Not like horror movie odd. It was the kind of odd that went on in small towns, behind closed doors, in places where nobody but the neighbors would understand. Small folklore, little rituals that people did just because they'd always been done.
Jason wondered why he knew that.
Idona knelt by the old woman's chair, respectfully. She winked at Jason, but any play slid away from her as she looked up at the old woman. When she spoke, it wasn't English. The language was harsh, rhythmic. When she'd finished, Idona touched the old woman's hand.
The old woman kept whispering.
Idona nodded, like that made sense, and looked at Jason. "She wants you, stranger," she murmured.
Sorry. Not my type. Jason hesitated, but the sudden narrowing of Idona's eyes made him decide otherwise. It was just a weird old custom. He could bear with it, smile and nod, and try not to piss them off again. He went, feeling somehow like he ought to apologize for being so much bigger than this woman who had the entire bar scared shitless. He settled for kneeling in front of her, carefully out of reach. "Ma'am," he said. "Nice to-"
The old woman's eyes snapped open. They were gray, pupil and iris, and completely focused as she looked at Jason. They were the eyes of a woman who missed little. Jason leaned back without thinking, and the old woman gave him a dry smile. She raised her hand, and Jason made himself hold still as it came towards his face.
When she touched him, the whole bar sighed. Jason set his jaw, refusing to look away from her as she tried to stare him down. Her eyes were like deep water, reflecting back, and they were making Jason's head hurt. As she stared, he could feel a migraine barreling in on him. Then she touched him, unexpectedly gentle, her fingertips sliding up to trace the scar in his hairline.
That didn't mean a damned thing. It was the easiest scar to see.
The old woman's face cracked in a crooked smile. She stroked his cheek. Jason wasn't braced, and so he jerked when she suddenly spoke with unexpected strength. "Eyolf!"
"Eyolf!" The bar echoed.
Great. "Thanks," Jason said, going to push himself up.
The old woman planted a hand on his shoulder, making him stop. The bar drew in a collective breath. The script had been disrupted. The old woman was adlibbing now, apparently.
Like she heard, the old woman shook her head, her smile going bittersweet. She squeezed his shoulder, then held out her other hand. In the palm, chain twined around her weathered fingers, was the pendant Jason had brought with him from the hospital. "Eyolf Garm," she said firmly. Then she slid the chain over his head, letting it drop with unexpected weight around Jason's neck. It lay where his pulse beat, the metal warm from her hand, like it belonged there. "Lucky wolf, who guards the gates of hell."
Jason stared at her. "Where did you get that?"
"Eyolf Garm!" Their audience chorused, and broke into ragged cheering. Apparently they were really pressed for entertainment around here.
There were hands on him, pulling him up and away from the old woman. Jason resisted, struggling to get back and ask her how the hell she had gotten into his bag. Had Idona helped her? Fucking crazy bastards, all of them.
That didn't explain why it felt the pendant felt so right around his throat. Why he could remember other hands, bigger callused ones that were gentle as they put the pendant around his neck and told him never to take it off, because-
And then it was gone, swallowed by a jab of pain that made him gasp and stagger.
Luckily enough, Sven was there, thumping his back hard. "Two names!" he bellowed, as someone turned on the jukebox again. "Grandmother's never given two. She likes you."
"Lucky me," Jason muttered. It was a whole family larceny thing, between the grandkids starting barfights to gather the winnings and the grandmother picking through people's stuff. At least she'd given the pendant back. Must not have had much street value. "Grandmother, huh?"
"She's been the Grandmother since the times of our grandparents," Idona's voice broke in. She laid a hand on Sven's head, ruffling his hair. "She's very wise."
Yeah. And she was either a great actress or senile as hell. Still, Jason couldn't point fingers over petty theft and a good con job or three. He smiled at Idona. "So. Pancakes."
"Indeed. And if you're lucky-"
"I am lucky," Jason said. "Weren't you listening?"
Idona grinned. "Then you'll get a little something more."
"That's the best thing I've heard in...well, as long as I remember," Jason grinned, following her to the kitchen.
TBC
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
An owl hooted, and Jason came awake, gun trained on the sound. Two wide eyes stared out of a little feathery head.
With a hard sigh, Jason glanced around and re-holstered the gun. Great, Hammett. Just blow Fluffy over there out of the tree. Next thing he knew, PETA would be after him.
He glanced at the horizon. Almost dawn. Time to start moving again.
Jason forced himself back onto his tired legs. All the strain was from the walking and the hitch-hiking. He didn't seem to have a problem hiking in the biker boots. They felt right on him, like the heavy denim jacket and jeans did. So in his previous life he was undercover as a redneck?
Humming Dixie, Jason reached for the battered map he'd picked up, at one of the many rest stops trying sadly to pimp the many glorious tourist opportunities of Minnesota's frozen tundra. According to it, the road he was on would (eventually) turn left. If the trucker was right, there would be an all night roadhouse there called Valhalla. It was situated outside of one of the little ethnic enclaves found in the Midwest, this one a heavy Norse population. The trucker'd said it wasn't to be missed. He wouldn't explain why, but he'd been smirking. Jason figured the guy was a fan of Led Zeppelin.
Sure enough, after about another half hour of walking, the road turned. There in the middle of a clearing was a huge log building with a big-ass ship's prow sticking out of the front. It was carved in the shape of a scantily clad buxom winged woman.
Jason grinned. His kind of place, between the half-naked cheesecake statue and the forest crouching on all sides. If he needed to bolt again, he'd have plenty of cover. The woods had shifted from claustrophobic to almost familiar, the weight of the gun at his back and the knife in his hand giving him comfort. It was safer than the highway in the daylight, where Jason didn't necessarily trust a dye job and a few extra pounds to keep him unnoticed if they were looking for him.
He wasn't sure who 'they' were anymore. If they were the feds, they sucked at tracking him, particularly since they'd have surveillance and intelligence on their side. If it was the cops, he'd crossed enough state lines that they should've stopped hounding him by now. But still he felt something shadowing his steps, like any second he might hear whistling from behind him just before-
Before what?
His memory stayed an unhelpful blank. Better that than the headache that seemed to accompany any attempts to push too hard. Jason let it go, stepping up to the bar's heavy wooden door. He could hear a clamor from within, the click of pool balls, friendly yelling and the pulse of music. Metal. He liked these people already.
When he pushed open the door, a chaos of scents assaulted him. Leather and spilled beer, fried food and sweet smoke. The bar was cluttered, noisy and packed wall to wall. Apparently the good people of Ragnar, Minnesota, didn't have much else to do on a... fuck, was it Saturday? And what the hell were these people doing in a bar when it was pushing dawn?
The song was right: in Minnesota, there was a drinking quota. Somebody, a remarkably tall blond, wandered past with a beer in each huge hand. He wore a t-shirt that declared it to be Moose Days.
God, this was a weird country.
Sheer, fascinated horror kept Jason in the doorway for a moment. He recovered as the songs switched and a few more of the fucking huge blonds yelled, jumping to their feet to dance with a certain plastered style. Were all of them like that? Jason could see a few brunettes wandering around, a handful of African Americans, two groping lesbians-heyyyyy-- and one very drunk guy in a yarmulke and fur on one of the tables, but mostly it was a sea of very tall blond people in... was that a horned helmet?
Yeah. There was a little too much community pride going on for Jason not to get made as a stranger within seconds. He stepped back, trying to ease through the door before somebody looked up from their beer. Granted, they were all pretty focused on their incoming cirrhosis, so he had plenty of time as long as no one-
"Welcome, stranger!" perked a voice at his elbow.
"Fuck me," Jason muttered, then forced a smile and turned to look at her. The smile froze a little as he took in the long legs, the sweet curves and the bounteous cleavage. The owner of said cleavage was shorter than him, but not by much. Enough that Jason had a mighty nice view down her low-cut top. Catching the pleased smirk, he gave up and let her have the slow up-and-down stare. "And what a welcome it is. Sorry, honey- and believe me, I'm really sorry- but I took a wrong turn and I'm late for-"
The bit of strawberry-blond fun had a dangerous smile. She went up on her toes a little, giving him a better view down her shirt as she touched his arm with light fingers. "But you just got here," she purred. "Come on in. Have a beer. It's a long way until the next road stop. Besides, it's the Moose Days!"
Wow. Hot and crazy. "Well," Jason glanced at her handily available nametag, "Idona, I'd hate to intrude on that. So-"
A man glanced up from his pool game, noticing Jason for the first time. Viking boy frowned, then leaned over to share a word with one of his buddies. Fuck.
"Oh, please?" Idona asked, cocking one hip to the side. Her smile went wicked. "My shift's almost over, and I could use the company while the shooting's going on. And Sven Morgan's been all hands most of the night, so..."
Was she worth a bar full of pissed-off Vikings with guns? Jason gauged what he could see of Idona, which was quite a bit. She was the kind of girl who could make a man thank God for eyesight and imagination, let alone for his... stamina.
Idona smelled blood in the water, because she winked and handed him a beer from her tray. "Here. I'll be back with you in a few."
Jason took the beer like an idiot and watched her stride away. It was a nice view. Kind of like watching a horror movie while you screamed at the dumbass about to get himself murdered over a piece of ass. Hey, that sounded familiar.
Hoo, boy. Jason took a swig of the beer and shook his head hard. There was trouble, and then there was trouble. He'd just track her down, pay for the beer and- probably end up staying anyway, because there wasn't much blood going to his brain at the moment. He had just gotten laid in Chicago, hadn't he? A lot?
Christ, no wonder he was scarred up. Maybe he should be watching over his shoulder for brothers, fathers and husbands. (Or wives, for that matter. Jason wasn't picky.) With pitchforks and shotguns for the wedding.
With a sigh, Jason shrugged off his bag and set it against one wall. Then he took another swig of beer and started deeper into the crowd of humanity. He'd at least try to catch up with her, and then let his brain catch up with him.
He made it about to the pool table. That was when there was suddenly a blond man in his goddamned face, seething at him.
Jason pulled sharply to a stop just before they collided, feeling someone jostle him from behind. There was precious little room, and a whole lot of people between him and the door. Wise tactical call there, Hammett.
"Why are you watching Idona?" the blond bit off. He had the flushed look and shot pupils to match the line of empty bottles on the pool table. His buddy loomed behind him, looking no less plastered.
Jason set the bottle carefully down and held up his hands. Then he stepped back. The person he'd bumped was now like a solid wall between him and escape. "Dude. It's cool, all right? I don't want any trouble." When they continued glaring, Jason sighed and tried, "C'mon, now, you don't want to sully the good traditional fun of Moose Days."
The bar was too quiet around them. Jason heard someone call, "kick his ass, Sven!"
"Sven," Jason said. "Sven Morgan?"
The blond thrust his chin out, wobbling a little with the motion. "Got something to say about it?"
The crowd parted beside Sven, letting through Idona. She'd pulled out her ponytail and buttoned her shirt until it was almost demure. She lay her hand on Sven's arm, her eyes dancing as she said, "Oh, Sven, don't fight over me."
Sven turned to frown at her. "Step back, little sister."
Little sister? Oh, fuck, he'd stumbled into the Norse Waldens from hell.
Idona shook her head, all wide-eyed innocence. "Really, it's okay. He just looked down my shirt, but it's not like-"
Sven looked sharply at Jason. "You dare?" he snarled.
Irritated, Jason replied, "It's not like I could miss them, man. I don't want a fight here, just calm the hell-"
Sven surged forward, shoving Jason hard enough to knock him back. The bad shoulder wrenched, sending pain down Jason's arm, distracting him so that he didn't see the punch coming before it put him down.
Jason hit the floor on his hands, rolling out of the way just before he caught Sven's boot to his face. He grabbed at the pool table to pull himself up and run like hell. The pool cue rolled into his hand, and Jason grabbed on. He crouched there for a moment, wondering if he could make it to the back exit, assuming there was one.
Then Sven's fingers knotted into his hair, jerking him upright. Jason went with it, and brought his fist up with him. He checked it halfway there, nailing Sven in the face with the heel of his hand. Sven rocked back, teeth clicking together. Behind him, Jason saw a flash of strawberry blonde hair disappear into the crowd.
"Look, I'm sorry if I dishonored your sister, okay? I mean, not that I-oh, Christ-I didn't touch her," Jason added hastily, seeing Sven's eyes darken in fury.
Other hands grabbed at him, and Jason swung the pool cue without thinking, feeling the satisfying crack as it impacted.
Something welled up from the base of his spine, loosening muscles, readying him for the fight. Yes. This was right. This was what he'd been born for, the fight, the hunt, the kill-
Wow. Cute and crazy. No wonder Jason'd liked Idona.
Fight, he sternly told his body. No kill.
Muscles humming, Jason pivoted. Whipping the cue around, he cleared himself enough room to move. Before the wall of bodies could close again, he leapt up onto the pool table, giving himself the higher ground.
Before he could find his balance, Sven was there, swinging for all he was worth. It was too late to dodge, so Jason took the punch square to his jaw, letting himself fall back onto the table. Sven started to lean over, totally missing the steel toed boot coming for his nuts. At least until the kick connected. That was hard to miss, even if you could ignore the sympathetic groan from their gathering audience.
Fight however you have to, son. Fight dirty. Just live.
The impact sent Sven tumbling off the table, and Jason kipped up, ignoring the protest of his stomach muscles. Some sixth sense warned him, and he glanced to the left just in time to jerk his head back from the bottle that some asshole lobbed at his head.
Pausing to slap someone's hands off his boots, Jason picked up a pool ball and winged it at the guy's head. "Batter up, bitch," he yelled, watching as the guy went down. Seeing another man about ten feet out readying his own missile, he got a better grip on the pool cue, and kicked the returning Sven in the stomach, leaving him bent over.
Sven, with his broad shoulders, made an excellent springboard for Jason to launch himself at the knot of men.
After that, the fight became a blur of fists, bodies flying past. There were people calling wagers, cheering Jason and Sven on until the fight devolved into complete chaos. At some point, Jason realized that several of the guys, including his buddy Sven, had switched sides and were now covering his back. God, these people were weird.
The fight was winding down when the sirens cut through the night. Jason froze automatically.
"Oh, dammit. Who called the cops?" Sven cursed. "Was just getting fun." His heavy hand landed on Jason, tugging him towards the kitchen door. "Idona! Get him out the back way."
Idona grabbed his jacket, practically dragging Jason to the back door. "Just go into the treeline," she ordered as the crowd parted for them. A few people thumped Jason on the back as they passed. "Don't leave. It's okay."
"What?"
"I still owe you another beer." Idona grinned. "Haven't seen a brawl like that in years."
Jason shook his head to clear it, wondering if that ever actually helped. Not so far. "What?" he repeated.
She snorted, then grabbed his jacket, jerking him down for a scalding kiss. When she let him go, she smirked. "Don't go far, stranger."
Then she opened the door and shoved him out into the snow. As Jason fumbled upright, she slammed the door on him. He grinned after her, then tore ass for the trees.
It was a long, cold wait. His jeans were damp from someone's beer, and the bruises started to hurt if he didn't pace. So he paced, watching as the cops did an exasperated, impatient sweep through the lot. He got the feeling that this wasn't the first time they'd been called to break up a bar fight in Valhalla. With Idona gunning for whatever poor bastard stayed still, Jason wasn't surprised.
He should've left, but something kept him. Probably the promise of getting laid. Damn, that was sad. As the adrenaline faded, he could feel it leaving empty spaces behind. He'd been missing that, or something like it. Jason clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to hold onto the feeling, but it slipped through his hands.
Finally, the crunch of snow announced that the police were heading out. He heard Sven's voice, strident and still pretty drunk-sounding. Jason risked glancing around the truck that had been his refuge, only to be blinded by a bright flashbulb. Jason ducked back, blinking against the afterimages, and watched in the side mirror of another truck to be sure no one had noticed him.
Apparently not. It'd just been some schmuck with a press pass taking a picture of Sven talking with what looked like a police chief. Must've been a slow news day. Amazing, what with Moose Days.
Jason relaxed warily, leaning against the truck to listen in.
"A wolf, Mr. Morgan?" the kid asked tiredly. "Again?"
"Yes," Sven said staunchly. "Came out of the woods, wandered into the bar. Seemed more scared to see us than-"
"The other way around. Just like the other times."
"Exactly," Sven said.
"Yeah. Funny how those pool cues were broken."
"Nature is funny," Sven replied. "Very rich with unusual creatures. Like the platypus, or the giraffe, or-"
"The lucky wolf," the police chief sighed. "All right. Thanks, Mr. Morgan."
"Thank you. Sorry to have called you out for nothing." Sven shook the man's hand, ushered him to his car and stood in the parking lot, waving, until the last of the police cars had pulled away. Then he laughed. "You hear that, lucky wolf?"
Jason slid out from behind the truck. "You people are fucking psychotic."
"Yes," Sven agreed. He felt gingerly at a nasty gouge above one eyebrow, grunted, and reached out to thump Jason's shoulder. "Come. Idona's making breakfast."
Jason winced, making Sven grin wider. They limped towards the bar. "What about Moose Days?"
"Big bust. No moose."
"Sorry."
"Nah. It's mostly an excuse to get drunk, fight and eat. I'm sure there were moose at some point, but we've never seen them. Which is another excuse to get drunk, fight and eat."
Jason paused, letting Sven get ahead of him. "Wait. So you and Idona- you weren't pissed?"
"Ah. Idona." Sven turned, leaning against the doorframe. His smile went fond as he spoke about Idona, making something beaten and sentimental in Jason's chest twist. "Let me tell you about my little sister. I love her dearly. I as much as raised her. But I tell you now, she's a great lover of men. It's a small town. Not many men. But I don't trust strangers. This is our way of coming to know a man."
"Uh-huh. Getting a cut of the betting profits probably doesn't hurt."
Sven smirked. "Have to keep the bar running somehow. Nobody ever pays their tab. Come in, lucky wolf. You will have pancakes."
"It's Jason," Jason told him.
Sven blinked at him, mildly. "You tell yourself that. My name's actually Brian. And Idona's Gina. But when the old one has given you a name, that's the end of it. And she's decided to give you one."
It was said so plainly that Jason couldn't find a good way to argue. Particularly since Jason wasn't his real name, either, just a borrowed one a few weeks old. "Nice custom," he said lamely.
With a shrug, Sven opened the door and walked into the bar. The place really was wrecked, broken balls and splintered table legs everywhere. There was a semi-circle of people, who'd all paused when Sven came back in. Even the ones with the beer mugs halfway to their mouths stopped, staring at Jason like they'd never seen him before.
In the heart of the circle was an old woman, sitting in the one chair that hadn't been destroyed. She was bent and wrinkled, covered in a black shawl over her black dress. She held something in her hands, working it between her gnarled fingers. Her eyes were closed, her lips working. In the reverent quiet, Jason heard her dry whispering.
This was odd. Not like horror movie odd. It was the kind of odd that went on in small towns, behind closed doors, in places where nobody but the neighbors would understand. Small folklore, little rituals that people did just because they'd always been done.
Jason wondered why he knew that.
Idona knelt by the old woman's chair, respectfully. She winked at Jason, but any play slid away from her as she looked up at the old woman. When she spoke, it wasn't English. The language was harsh, rhythmic. When she'd finished, Idona touched the old woman's hand.
The old woman kept whispering.
Idona nodded, like that made sense, and looked at Jason. "She wants you, stranger," she murmured.
Sorry. Not my type. Jason hesitated, but the sudden narrowing of Idona's eyes made him decide otherwise. It was just a weird old custom. He could bear with it, smile and nod, and try not to piss them off again. He went, feeling somehow like he ought to apologize for being so much bigger than this woman who had the entire bar scared shitless. He settled for kneeling in front of her, carefully out of reach. "Ma'am," he said. "Nice to-"
The old woman's eyes snapped open. They were gray, pupil and iris, and completely focused as she looked at Jason. They were the eyes of a woman who missed little. Jason leaned back without thinking, and the old woman gave him a dry smile. She raised her hand, and Jason made himself hold still as it came towards his face.
When she touched him, the whole bar sighed. Jason set his jaw, refusing to look away from her as she tried to stare him down. Her eyes were like deep water, reflecting back, and they were making Jason's head hurt. As she stared, he could feel a migraine barreling in on him. Then she touched him, unexpectedly gentle, her fingertips sliding up to trace the scar in his hairline.
That didn't mean a damned thing. It was the easiest scar to see.
The old woman's face cracked in a crooked smile. She stroked his cheek. Jason wasn't braced, and so he jerked when she suddenly spoke with unexpected strength. "Eyolf!"
"Eyolf!" The bar echoed.
Great. "Thanks," Jason said, going to push himself up.
The old woman planted a hand on his shoulder, making him stop. The bar drew in a collective breath. The script had been disrupted. The old woman was adlibbing now, apparently.
Like she heard, the old woman shook her head, her smile going bittersweet. She squeezed his shoulder, then held out her other hand. In the palm, chain twined around her weathered fingers, was the pendant Jason had brought with him from the hospital. "Eyolf Garm," she said firmly. Then she slid the chain over his head, letting it drop with unexpected weight around Jason's neck. It lay where his pulse beat, the metal warm from her hand, like it belonged there. "Lucky wolf, who guards the gates of hell."
Jason stared at her. "Where did you get that?"
"Eyolf Garm!" Their audience chorused, and broke into ragged cheering. Apparently they were really pressed for entertainment around here.
There were hands on him, pulling him up and away from the old woman. Jason resisted, struggling to get back and ask her how the hell she had gotten into his bag. Had Idona helped her? Fucking crazy bastards, all of them.
That didn't explain why it felt the pendant felt so right around his throat. Why he could remember other hands, bigger callused ones that were gentle as they put the pendant around his neck and told him never to take it off, because-
And then it was gone, swallowed by a jab of pain that made him gasp and stagger.
Luckily enough, Sven was there, thumping his back hard. "Two names!" he bellowed, as someone turned on the jukebox again. "Grandmother's never given two. She likes you."
"Lucky me," Jason muttered. It was a whole family larceny thing, between the grandkids starting barfights to gather the winnings and the grandmother picking through people's stuff. At least she'd given the pendant back. Must not have had much street value. "Grandmother, huh?"
"She's been the Grandmother since the times of our grandparents," Idona's voice broke in. She laid a hand on Sven's head, ruffling his hair. "She's very wise."
Yeah. And she was either a great actress or senile as hell. Still, Jason couldn't point fingers over petty theft and a good con job or three. He smiled at Idona. "So. Pancakes."
"Indeed. And if you're lucky-"
"I am lucky," Jason said. "Weren't you listening?"
Idona grinned. "Then you'll get a little something more."
"That's the best thing I've heard in...well, as long as I remember," Jason grinned, following her to the kitchen.
TBC