Odin's Spear: A Livi Talbot Novel, #2

A Livi Talbot Novel

Skyla Dawn Cameron

Praise for Works by Skyla Dawn Cameron

SOLOMON’S SEAL

Whip-smart, gritty, and fascinating. Olivia Talbot is a badass, and a mother, I’d want on my side if the world went to hell. Skyla Dawn Cameron’s deft characterization, complex plotting, and brutal action leaves the reader gasping for more.

—Lilith Saintcrow, New York Times Bestselling Author

It's well-written with a balanced blend of humor and adventure you can't deny is spellbinding.

—My World...in words and pages

"Solomon’s Seal starts off a new series with a bang!"

—Errant Dreams

DEMONS OF OBLIVION SERIES

This not-to-be-missed release rocks from word one. Skyla Dawn Cameron writes as though she’s been producing bestsellers for years.

—Bitten by Books

Urban fantasy at its best with characters and a plot that makes it stand out from the rest of its genre.

—The Romance Reviews

A dark and gorgeous heroine that will have you enthralled in moments.

—Bookmark Your Thoughts

What a riot this book was! I felt like rediscovering what the genre of urban fantasy is about all over again.

—Nocturnal Book Reviews

...fast, funny, and furious... The action and fight scenes were intense, the romance bittersweet, and it left me wanting more.

—The Romance Studio

RIVER WOLFE SERIES

River is a powerful and new take on your typical young adult paranormal story and I absolutely loved it!

—Bitten by Books

...a fresh and unique take on the werewolf legend.

—Judy Bagshaw, author of Kiss Me, Nate

...a terrific book, filled with unique and well-drawn characters, realistic dialogue, and a great deal of humor...

—ParaNormal Romance Reviews

...a story about love. Not just the happily-ever-after fairy tale kind, the real kind, the sort of love that takes two people and cements them together in relationships that are like lighthouses on rocky shores.

—Long and Short Reviews

THE SILENT PLACES

Tightly paced, laser-focused, and scorchingly honest—I want to give this book to every woman I know.

—Lilith Saintcrow, New York Times Bestselling author

The Livi Talbot Series

LIVI TALBOT (Series in Progress)

Solomon’s Seal

Odin’s Spear

Ashford’s Ghost (novella)

Emperor’s Tomb

First Dates the End Badly: King’s Bounty (novella)

Shiva’s Bow

Yampellec’s Idol

Charon’s Gold

Untitled Final Seventh Book (projected late 2024 or 2025)

Copyright © 2017 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Cover Art © 2017 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

¹st Edition: February 2017

eBook ISBN: 978-1-927966-21-1

Print ISBN: 978-1-927966-20-4

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this or any copyrighted work is illegal. Authors are paid on a per-purchase basis. Any use of this file beyond the rights stated above constitutes theft of the author’s earnings. File sharing is an international crime, prosecuted by the United States Department of Justice Division of Cyber Crimes, in partnership with Interpol. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by seizure of computers, up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 per reported instance.  Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

If you obtained this book legally, you have my deepest gratitude for the support of my livelihood.

If you did not obtain this book legally, you are responsible when there are no future books. Please do not copy or distribute my work without my consent.

Odin’s Spear

ALL’S FAIR IN SIBLING RIVALRY AND WAR.

After nearly losing her family and her life, Olivia Talbot is trying to leave the world of artifact hunting behind. But an adrenaline junkie unsuited for a 9 to 5 job can’t hide herself forever, especially when deadly operative Dale West comes knocking with off-book work for his covert organization.

It’ll be easy, West says—just a trip to the museum. But a deranged former soldier is seeking to reunite the pieces of Gungnir—spear of the Norse god Odin—which is capable of starting war, and this job is much bigger than anyone has let on.

Followed by the dogged son of a tabloid mogul, competing with her archaeologist older brother, and still struggling to trust West against her better judgement, Livi will venture into an ancient underwater city in the Mediterranean to stop the dawn of a new war. But the spear of a god has plans for them all, and power not even she might be able to withstand.

#

Genre: Urban Fantasy/Action & Adventure

Note: While some books contain romantic elements (some more than others), this is not Paranormal Romance and does not follow PNR genre conventions.

For a list of content/trigger warnings if needed, head here.

Dedication

For the orphaned.

On the host his spear did Othin hurl, Then in the world did war first come...

Völuspá; The Poetic Edda

*

We cannot destroy kindred:  our chains stretch a little sometimes, but they never break.

~Marquise de Sévigné

1

O’ Death

Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve brought my daughter to her grandfather’s funeral.

I’d debated it in the days leading up to the service. Funerals are for the living and supporting those left behind; I supposed, as weird as it was for me after years of estrangement, that did include me. If I was going, I wanted my family with me. In addition, at six years old it was her first real experience with death, and I thought it an important milestone.

Not that she understood what was happening. She hadn’t, in fact, even met the man. She knew Mommy didn’t get along with him, and Uncle Marty was upset, and my best friend Prudence kept asking if I was okay. Emaleth was an intuitive kid and she knew something was up—in fact, she asked several times why I wasn’t crying and insisted she would cry if I died, but my attempts at explaining the complicated situation to her wasn’t helping. I told her to mind her manners, find some black clothes, and get in the damn car.

The autumn day was overcast but not raining, somewhere between perversely cheerful sun and drab depressing clouds. Cars were lined up and down the road around the cemetery, some still arriving from the funeral home. I’d headed straight for the cemetery ceremony rather than anything else because I could at least see him committed to the ground and the idea of standing around for a wake seemed ghastly.

He’d disowned me years ago, after all. No one wanted to give me condolences.

I parallel-parked between two cars far nicer than mine and climbed out. We weren’t late, really, but I’d had trouble sitting still for the drive and impatiently gestured at Prudence and Emaleth to hurry up. Pru left the passenger side and Em climbed out of the back behind me.

I glanced over the cars to see the crowd already around the grave, a ways up the hill. I’d missed whether pallbearers were carting a coffin up or if my father had been cremated, but I caught sight of the top of Martin’s head where people milled about and figured things were starting soon. My hand locked on Em’s and I tugged her along.

I’m cold, she whined, dragging her heels.

I took a steadying breath that didn’t help at all. "Then you should’ve brought gloves like I told you."

It’s my ears.

There was enough of an October wind to make it nippy out—even my skin was icing over—but I’d damn well told her to dress warm before we got in the goddamn car, and she’d made a big dramatic deal about being too cool to wear last winter’s bunny earmuffs and how she’d be fine. I gave her hand a tug, but she just dragged her heels harder.

I halted and swung around. Damn it—

Prudence stepped in, taking Em’s hand from my mine. Wind stirred her shoulder-length, thick dark hair, and she swiped it from her face to tuck it behind her ear while she gave me A Look. I’ll take her the rest of the way. You go be with Martin.

I mouthed my thanks and knew I’d kick myself later for losing it with my daughter, but my nerves were too shot to calm down and be Patient Mom at the moment. I left the two of them to walk together and hurried ahead myself.

The earth was soft and damp, the heels of my boots sinking in awkwardly with each step. That would be just my luck—I’d been through how many dangerous situations and it would be walking across grass that would finally do me in.

I wore a black coat that came to my knees and it snapped in the wind. I’d forgone a skirt in favor of straight-legged black dress pants, and the black turtleneck under my coat ensured I stayed warm. I even wore black gloves and probably looked like some kind of super villain or assassin, but truthfully I was trying to cover as many of my scars as I could. The two that were the most obvious included the stitched-up gunshot-graze on my right forearm and the burn around my left middle finger from using the Seal of Solomon. I’d tried wearing jewelry on that one, but it just drew attention to the ugly mark. Oh well—another one for the collection.

Ten steps from the grave, Martin saw me. He didn’t walk over to meet me but did give me a half-hearted smile. Several years my senior, he’d always seemed very grownup, but today he was positively aged. Weary from his strawberry blond hair that was lifeless and drab in the gray light to his tired brown eyes. His suit and jacket, too, seemed to hang on him, whether they weren’t quite pressed or didn’t fit properly, I couldn’t tell.

A deep hole had already been dug in the ground, with bright green turf around the edges to disguise the ugliness of the dirt. It was a much more narrow hole, one for an urn with ashes and not a full-body coffin. The grass around the turf was a pale brownish-green, sprinkled with the odd darkened leaf that had escaped the caretaker’s rake.

A foot to the side of it sat a proud tombstone of polished dark granite, nearly as tall as I was with a wide square base and an imposing cross above. On either side of it grew a single bush, the green bright spots of color seeming out of place. Opposite the tombstone was a matching granite bench that no one took a seat on. Sitting and staring at a grave seemed too morbid for even the most morose, in my opinion.

I averted my gaze from the writing on the tombstone, an odd sort of ache working up my spine to my head at the thought of facing it. Instead I blinked, looked away, and focused on the people already here. I recognized two of my father’s cousins, an aunt twice removed, younger people who must’ve been children from relatives I hadn’t seen since I was a teen. No one paid much attention to me, so I gave them none of mine either.

I reached Martin, who stood slightly separate from the others. Grief, as I recalled, was an odd thing in our family; grieving, like anything emotional, was a private affair. In public, even among relatives, Talbots by both blood and marriage were proper, restrained, and full of social grace.

But Martin’s eyes were edged in red, pink spreading through the whites as emotion welled. I was steel, rigid and untouched by anything around me—odd, it seemed to me, that the one time in recent memory that my father would be proud of me was at his own funeral—and my brother was a reed being tossed horribly by a storm even as he tried to remain standing.

My heels put me at his height, and I wrapped my arms around him. He returned the embrace with less of a fierceness than I’d expected; either he was still trying to keep it together, or he was just too tired to hold on. Still I held him anyway, breathed in the mix of aftershave and shampoo that, when I closed my eyes, drew me to memories of home while he was in university still, sneaking into his room to snag something I wanted or to tease him.

It was that particular feeling giving my heart a squeeze, making me ache. For a moment, I missed home so terribly that I sagged against him like his weariness was contagious.

I blinked but my eyes were still dry, and I stepped back. My hand found his, and his gloved fingers laced with mine.

Where’s Will? I asked.

Martin looked almost sickly pale in the grim light but the slightest of color touched his cheeks. Home.

Why?

He winced. Don’t start.

I didn’t think anything accusatory was in my voice, but maybe it was my natural speaking tone or something. Are you two fighting?

We just didn’t think it was appropriate.

For your partner of five years to come to your father’s funeral?

Martin sighed, and his voice came out thin and colorless. I said don’t start.

Sorry. I bit my tongue quite literally with the effort to do just that and gave his hand a squeeze. Martin could be openly gay with Daddy’s disapproval, yet it was a baby out of wedlock that lead to my disownment—an inconsistency in Dad’s thinking that baffled me still. I could see both being a problem as products of very backward thinking—neither should be any kind of offense, otherwise—but I’d been the only one punished for his old-fashioned attitude.

I glanced to my right, watching as people slowly picked down the paths towards Dad’s grave and spotted Em and Prudence still on their way. Emaleth walked in front, Pru’s hands over her ears as they stepped slowly and awkwardly, the pair of them giggling.

You brought Em?

My gaze snapped to Martin’s sharply. Is that a problem?

But there was no anger about him; instead he was looking past me at where my daughter and best friend walked. No. She just...she seems so young.

She is, I said, and followed up with a lie, but she wanted to be here.

He nodded as if that was normal and said nothing else about it.

Did you get a hold of Mom?

No. Martin’s lips twisted but he held back whatever else he was going to say. Neither of us, nor Dad, had seen Mom in years. Not a couple; more like twenty, which felt like lifetimes considering everything that had happened. Her sister had said told Dad she went back to Hungary after the divorce. No one told me why when I was little and, if they remembered now, they didn’t raise the issue.

Wind stirred, the scent of fresh earth and crinkle of dead leaves riding with it. I tucked an errant chunk of straight, dark brown hair behind my ear. I’d left it long and loose, hanging down my back where stopped midway between the bottom of my bra strap and the waistband of my pants, which meant there was a whole lot of it to get in the way.

Thinking about my hair, too, and being irritated by it, was keeping me from staring straight ahead of us at that shining, massive stone and the words carved across its face. The longer it remained in my peripheral vision, however, the uglier it grew, until it felt like a hulking monster I’d have to kill before it buried me too.

And here’s me without my guns.

Far in the distance, a polished black Lincoln Town Car gleamed, turning through the tall black gates of the cemetery. There could be only one reason for a vehicle to be passing the parked cars and people.

My stomach knotted. So did my throat. I had Martin’s hand in a death grip, but he didn’t comment or try to loosen his fingers; it was possible he held me just as tightly.

The car parked a scant twenty feet from where we gathered. Among the people in black, an Anglican minister walked as well, leather-bound bible in hand. My lips parted, but while I searched for a more appropriate way of phrasing, What the fuck?, Pru and Em reached me.

Emaleth cast her dark eyes up at me from beneath a fringe of lustrous chocolate brown hair, questioning and apologetic all at once. I knew she hadn’t a clue what she was apologizing for, and that I ought to be the sorry one, but I returned it with a half-smile and reached out. She wrapped her tiny hand in mine immediately and I drew her to my side.

Prudence gave Martin a hug and then took her place protectively on Em’s right side, her hand on my little girl’s shoulder. Truthfully, neither knew precisely what we’d encounter at the funeral with so many of my relatives and Dad’s friends. While I didn’t care what they said about me, if anything was uttered within earshot of her, I would make things decidedly less pleasant for them.

I had, after all, plunged a machete in a dragon’s brain and killed a psychotic genie a few weeks ago. I wasn’t taking shit from a bunch of fucking old-money-Talbots.

The minister took his place near the tombstone, which gave me something else to focus on that wasn’t a tall, cross-shaped scar on the day. He was middle-aged, with dark skin and very white teeth, and clutched his bible in both hands. I could not for the life of me figure out what possible purpose his presence was to serve, but for irony.

The crowd formed a loose horseshoe shape, starting at one bush by the tombstone, dragging right and then down, up again and meeting the left bush behind the minister. Behind a pair of little old ladies I didn’t recognize to my right stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, with messy sandy hair he’d attempted to comb and gel back even as wind disturbed it. His dark eyes, perched above cheekbones I could probably spend a few hours alone just staring at, were already on mine and he smiled.

Richard Moss. I’d agreed to a dinner date with him earlier in the week, then promptly canceled some hours later when Martin told me our dad had suddenly died of a heart attack.

Dick had called three more times just to see if he could be of help. And sent flowers. I hadn’t rescheduled our date yet but figured I’d be expected to soon.

I nodded at him then returned my attention to the minister. It wasn’t merely making eye contact with Dick—Richard—that turned my gaze; no, it was the man in a suit approaching with a polished black urn in his hands. While he moved in the corner of my eye, I stared straight ahead at the minister, focused approximately on where his sternum would be. Faces, eyes, none of those were options, nor was the grave, the headstone, the urn. Soon I had nowhere to look, nothing to distract me, everything closing in until my chest ached with not enough air.

I gulped down a breath and didn’t dare move my hands from either my brother’s or my daughter’s grips in case I started shaking.

The urn was poised on something that would lower it into the ground. The minister lifted his book. I listened to the wind, felt it stir my hair, scrape my back, toss a mix of scents in the air. Someone was wearing a hideous floral perfume and a deranged giggle clawed its way up my throat.

I swallowed it back but cackling like a madwoman seemed more and more a possibility as the minutes ticked on.

A heavy hush fell over the thirty or so people standing around Dad’s grave. The minister waited a beat and then opened his bible, thumbing to a passage marked by a red ribbon bookmark.

The red reminded me of blood, so I stared at the toes of my boots.

Today, Lord, we commit to the earth too soon one your children, the minister began. Oliver Marcus Andrew Talbot, taken at age sixty. Beloved by friends and family alike. It was his request that, at this time, I read the following passage. The pages of his bible crackled as he turned them.

Wait, what?

As I realized everyone was looking at me, I also realized I was speaking out loud.

Martin raised his brows and gave my hand a squeeze.

Shut up, shut up... Sorry.

The minister waited again, perhaps to see if there were any more interruptions, then continued. None of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself. His voice rang out clear, cutting over the wind. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.

Oh my god, I just don’t even...

If I bit my tongue any harder, it might actually start to bleed.

For to this end Christ died and lived again, that he might be Lord both of the dead and of the living—

"Dad was an atheist," I snapped at last. The whole fucking thing was so absurd, I didn’t even care that they were looking at me like I’d just openly slayed a dragon right in front of them. I can’t be the only one thinking he’d be rolling over in his grave right now if, like, he wasn’t a pile of dust.

"He’d be rolling over if he saw her here," someone whispered behind me.

Though I swung around, I couldn’t figure out who’d said it; I met nothing but a sea of wrinkly, stuck-up faces blinking back at me.

Rage burned a fire through me, and I had difficulty seeing straight. What the fuck was I thinking, anyway? I didn’t belong here.

I wiggled my fingers free from Martin’s.

Liv, he started, but I wouldn’t hear it.

It’s fine. I’ll see you after. A moment of hesitation passed, and then I pulled Em’s hand into his. She looked up at me with questions in her eyes, but I both needed a minute on my own and still thought she should be present for this. My fingers swept her hair from her eyes. I’ll see you in a bit.

Mommy? she whispered.

Be here for Uncle Marty, okay, little miss?

Em nodded and I looked away because I didn’t know what to say to the poor confused kid anyway.

I just needed to get the fuck out of the cemetery.

2

Meow

I didn’t give Pru a moment to protest either, but instead slipped past her, wove between people who were more than happy to get out of my way, and stalked away from the funeral. My hands shook and I clenched my fingers into fists to stop them, heaved deep breaths.  There was a twist in my gut that rose higher and higher, threatening to toss whatever I’d mindlessly eaten that morning out on the cemetery lawn, and I tried to swallow back rising bile.

The gray sky above was unchanging now, a steady strip of steel over my head that covered the sun. Cold wind bit at my eyes and I blinked angrily to ease the sting. My quick steps had carried me well across the cemetery in seconds and I turned the gate, rounded the cars, not certain what I was going to do once I reached my vehicle; I couldn’t leave, but driving really, really fucking fast seemed like a good idea in that moment.

A figure in a dark brown coat leaned on my trunk, however. And even without facing me I recognized the straightness of his back, the unkempt raven hair, the way he was poised like a coiled spring about to pop.

A moment of hesitation passed in which my steps slowed, but a near imperceptible move of his head suggested he’d already heard my approach. Damn it.

I sighed and trekked over, already rolling my eyes. "If you’re looking for a funeral, it’s over there with all the people and the tombstone, Agent West."

Dale West was grinning at me as I rounded the car to face him, but where I expected bright blue eyes peering back at me, I got brown.

Hm. Curious.

If you want to get technical, I’m not an agent, he said. I’m a field operative.

I said nothing.

Hello, Olivia.

I still said nothing, just cocked my brow expectantly.

The smile faded. I’m sorry about your father.

Bloody hell, I’d have none of that. I left the funeral for a reason—don’t make me shoot you for bringing him up.

You can’t shoot me without your guns.

How do you know I don’t have them?

Your hands would be pushing your coat back to reach for them upon seeing me, first of all. Second, you don’t carry around your daughter.

He was smarter than me and he never let me forget it. I wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, but it annoyed the hell out of me. "Is this really what you’re choosing to spend your precious vacation days on?"

I could think of worse company.

What do you want, Buttons?

West stood straight, adding to his height considerably. His stare was just as striking without the icy color to his eyes. A brief conversation over coffee.

This wouldn’t end well. Things with West never did. "At my father’s funeral."

That you’re not attending. And you just said—

Yes, fine, I did. Motherfucker.

While I debated, weighing how much I wanted to get the hell away from the cemetery versus how badly I’d come to regret engaging at all with whatever West wanted, my phone buzzed. The number flashed Pru and I answered. Yeah?

I just left Em with Martin for a sec. Are you sure you’re okay?

I chewed at the inside of my mouth, staring at West’s completely unreadable eyes that made me colder just looking at them. Yes. Can you have Martin drive you guys back if I’m not here when the funeral is over?

His lips flickered almost indiscernibly upward.

Sure. Doubt crept into her tone. Can I ask why?

I found a feral cat on my car. I think it best to make sure the pussy didn’t give me rabies.

She made a quiet little Pru noise, the sort of thing that sounded like a stifled sigh. You’ll be back?

Shortly. We are not running off to elope.

Yet.

Quiet, you.

Be careful.

Always am with him. I ended the call and gestured at my car. Separate vehicles. You lead.

When dealing with a shape-shifting tiger from the intelligence division of a covert agency, however, I figured that would hardly do me any good.

Pity I didn’t carry a spare gun in my vehicle.

*

Two blocks from the cemetery didn’t sound far in theory, but considering the size of the cemetery, it was. Three miles down the road was a tiny shop called The Grindhouse, with empty bistro tables outside and a board with today’s specials that rattled on the sidewalk when the wind hit it. I parked behind West and followed him inside without a word.

The scent of fresh roasted coffee beans enveloped me immediately: warm, rich, and welcome. Jazz played softly from hidden speakers and dust motes floated faintly in the yellow overhead light. A ways from the city itself and tucked along a string of small specialty shops, the place wasn’t currently seeing a lot of business; the only people besides us was a young woman behind the counter and an older gentleman at the back scooping loose beans into a bag.

I ordered a medium blend with hints of maple, elbowed West when he said he’d pay—I just did not want anything about this even remotely construed as obligating me in any way to him—and took a seat to wait while he ordered. There were a handful of bistro tables inside, but I opted for one farthest from the counter and at the front of the store that didn’t tip when I rested my drink on it. Raw sugar, packaged soy milk, and stir-sticks waited to the side, though I drank my coffee black. The shop was painted in burnt orange and browns, earthy and warm, making the grim daylight beyond almost white in comparison.

I was on my way to the funeral when I saw you leaving, West said as he sat. His mug sat across from mine, heavy scents of a dark earthy blend drifting up with threads of steam, and he watched me.

Dale West never merely looked; he always appeared to watch. Study, even. It was an active sort of way to see the world, as if he took in all details around him instead of passively letting his gaze drift around as most people did. Given his chosen career, I supposed it was helpful and perhaps even training. His expression also perpetually suggested he was privy to some great joke the rest of us weren’t—a joke I tended to feel like I was about to be the butt of.

But for now I ignored it. I eased my coat to the chair at my back, plucked off my gloves, and wrapped both hands around my mug to warm them. Apparently I’m not supposed to interrupt the minister.

Cannot imagine why. He didn’t remove his coat but did lift the mug to take a drink that was no doubt piping hot.

With no desire to burn myself, I kept a hold of mine a bit longer to let it cool. "So, if you’d meant to pay your respects—if you had any—"

West shook his head. That’s uncalled for. I have plenty of respect.

You don’t—pay attention, Liv—"didn’t even know my father."

True. I was just objecting in general to the notion.

Fuck the burns, I lifted the cup and took a sip just to distract me for a moment. I hadn’t realized how chilled the outdoors had left me until warmth rolled through me. God, I loved coffee.

I allowed myself a second, deeper sip, then returned the mug to the table where the coffee rippled and danced with the movement before stilling again. What do you want, West? Besides to sit here while the barista makes eyes at you.

His eyes widened with mock-surprise and he glanced her way. I had no idea.

Sure you didn’t. The damn chick was practically hanging over the counter staring at him, and if he looked closely at the change she’d handed him, I suspected he’d find her phone number shoved in there.

West was stunning in a way the word didn’t quite prepare you for. It wasn’t even the odd contrast of black hair and handsome