With This Heart

Prologue

A year ago…

Group therapy. If someone had told Aaron Jacobson even just two years ago he’d be in a VA group therapy in Salem, Oregon, he would have laughed. So what if his undergraduate degree was in psychology? But therapy for him? Yeah, he would’ve laughed.

Two years ago, he would have considered himself a functionally dysfunctional. Sure, he grew up not knowing his dad. Had a vague and fuzzy—not of the warm type—memory of a man and the feeling that things weren’t right. His mom raised him and raised herself, she’d laughingly tell him. She put herself through night school to become a CPA and gave him so much love and affection that Aaron never felt particularly hurt or disturbed to not have a father figure in his life.

He’d been interested in psychology because it seemed remote. Something that happened to other people—emotional abnormalities of the not-functional type.

Now, he glanced around at the other vets in the group, or just group as many called it. God, it felt good to be around soldiers again. He’d worried it would trigger something in him, make him freak out and want to run. But he felt that sense of camaraderie he always did when around fellow soldiers, er, fellow former soldiers. They got each other without articulating. But group was all about articulating. Damn.

He’d been asked to introduce himself by the leader, a psychologist with premature gray hair tied in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck and warm gray eyes that seemed, from time to time, haunted. But that was it. He hadn’t had to say anything else. Thank the fuck.

Other men talked. There was one woman in group. She had given her name too, but nothing else. She had burns on the side of her face and a prosthetic arm. Aaron felt like a coward for being in group without visible scars. Luckily, there were other men who weren’t scarred either. Otherwise, he might have bolted.

He sat next to a guy who hadn’t ever given his name but was called Spook. It didn’t take much to guess he was intelligence of some kind. Jesus, the things that guy must’ve had to do. Aaron didn’t like thinking about it. He didn’t like thinking about the things he’d had to do either.

That didn’t sound right because he was proud of his service. He was proud to have been in the military and, oddly, kept thinking about re-enlisting. But he knew he’d be flagged by psych. That didn’t mean he couldn’t go downrange—combat overseas. But he would’ve had to talk more than he was willing to, more than now.

He wasn’t sure if he should talk about the succession of years since his last deployment and how he was now homeless. That was humiliating, so he decided not to go into it. See, the problem was that he had a hard time breathing in spaces that were small or was too crowded. He’d feel way too hot, and his lungs wouldn’t function properly. Not that he was having panic attacks. Oh no. Nothing simple for him. Because on top of the panic there was the—fuck it all—rage. He’d shake with it, knowing how out of place it was, how crazy it was to be angry for no reason at all. But it operated all his systems.

Which meant that living and working in a building with other people was out. It meant he couldn’t live in his old apartment. And that was fine—fine and fucking dandy—since he couldn’t make any money anyway.

The thing is, at one point, not that long ago, none of this would have mattered. At one point, he’d liked his apartment. At one point, being around other people wasn’t a big deal. At one point, he’d been normal.

He sighed as he tried to listen to a Vietnam vet talk about nightmares. Yeah, that shit was crazy. He hated to sleep too. Not only would he have the fucked-up versions everyone else in group talked about—seeing your dead buddies, their body parts, the blood, and feeling so fucking impotent and helpless—but he had the added crazy of seeing a woman at the end of his nightmares. He couldn’t quite make out her features as if she were underwater or something. She was blurry, but he could make out her long, glossy black hair and elegant limbs. Ballet-thin and graceful. Once, she was so close he caught hazel eyes with golden starbursts and a sad smile. She spoke in a language he didn’t know but understood nonetheless.

Every single time he dreamed of her, she’d coaxed him down from a mental ledge, from the fear and self-contempt. She gave him peace. Just for a second. And for that, he wanted to touch her. He wanted to show her how grateful he was for steering his brain away from replaying death and the shame of not being able to save the ones who’d died. In the dream, he’d move toward her, but she’d always find a way to be just out of his grasp. The more he pursued, the more aroused he’d get, watching her body float away from him. Just as he was aching, like he was a teenager again, he’d lunge for her. But fluttering, black-and-white feathered wings flapped in his face, on his chest, his arms, making him flinch. And he’d wake up feeling more fucked up every time.

He didn’t want to talk about that. His dream woman gave him something, gave him a sense of calm, when it seemed nothing else in his brain would allow for that. He worried talking about her would, somehow, make it so the coy thing would be permanently removed from his thoughts. Then he’d have no coping skills. He did wonder about his arousal so quickly after a nightmare, wondered what some Freudian would think of that. So, yeah, best not to share any of it.

And the last reason why he would never share the black-haired beauty with others was because after the first time he’d had the dream—in an Afghanistan barrack the day after Rodriguez, his sergeant, had died—he woke up and found an eighteen-inch feather in his hand. Eighteen fucking inches. Black on one side. White on the other. He’d looked it up online and couldn’t find anything about any big-ass bird in Afghaninstan. Ostriches had big feathers like that one, but they were fluffy, ornate. And definitely not black and white. What had landed in his hand was more like from the wing of a hawk, a bird that used its feathers for flying.

He still had the feather. The first couple years after he was honorably discharged, he carried it everywhere with him, even if it was difficult to hide. Now he left it with the few clothes he had, in a backpack on a piece of plywood he slept on under the stars, the only place that allowed him to breathe.

He wished he could hold the feather right now in group therapy but thought that was resorting to childish tactics, much like wanting to hold a teddy bear. That said, at this point in his life, maybe holding onto a long feather wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Even if it was silly, at least the feather gave him hope.

1

Now…

I saw him die. Aaron shook as he whispered to one of the three teenage girls who were helping him into a recliner at his new-to-him house. I saw the bullet hole right through his heart. I saw the blackness in his chest. The blood.

The purple-haired girl glanced at her sisters. They were so strikingly similar, maybe identical triplets. Save one thing: their hair. The purple-haired girl frowned at the pink-haired one. The blue one tried to caress his whisker-covered cheek.

Fuck, just moments ago he’d seen Luke—the guy whose house he was living in because it was big and quiet, the guy who’d joined group therapy a month ago and who he’d quickly bonded with—die.

And then he just sat up. Aaron shook his head. After he died, he sat up and started breathing. I saw his wound heal itself. I saw that.

No panic attacks in months. But now? Now? He might need to breathe into a paper bag for a few months.

The pink girl nodded. I know. She winced. This must be very disconcerting for you.

It’s not for you? Aaron’s voice cracked.

She bit her lip. Our kind…heals quickly.

From bullet wounds? His voice was getting higher-pitched, and he knew he sounded close to hysterical. No matter if he told himself to calm down; how could he? He’d seen Luke heal from being shot through the heart. He’d seen that Luke’s new girlfriend, Sam, had wings. Big wings too, black with tufts of strawberry blond at the tips. And when he’d first caught a glimpse of her, she had faint marks all over, even her wings, that looked like Celtic knots.

Purple-haired girl clapped her hands together. Okay, so you saw some really weird stuff today.

Weird?

You saw someone heal from a bullet wound.

Through the heart. I saw him bleed out first.

She put her hands on her tiny hips. She looked so…normal. They all did with their ripped-up skinny jeans and T-shirts too big so they could stick out a bony shoulder. But he knew they were anything but normal. Right, purple girl continued. So, are you going to be okay?

He blinked, not sure about anything any longer. Would he be okay?

What…what are you? He swallowed, trying to cover the way his voice trembled.

She’d been there. The woman from his dreams. Her black hair was even glossier in reality. Her eyes were mesmerizing—gold and bronze. She’d been more athletic than in his dreams, not that he’d complain. In fact, in reality she was so much more of what he’d always wanted.

Wait. Was this reality? He’d just witnessed a man get shot through the heart and live. Just seen a woman with gigantic wings. And he had just seen the woman from his dreams.

Am I awake? he asked the three teenagers who had helped him back to his house after Luke had died. And then lived.

The teenagers nodded.

This is real, blue girl said.

Then he’d really seen her. The woman he’d been sleeping with for years. Her. And she was real?

He swallowed, replaying the conversation. Your kind? What are you…angels?

The purple-haired girl laughed so hard she had to turn away. It was the quiet, blue-haired girl who shook her head and said, No. No, we aren’t anything like angels.

Sam had wings. Angels have wings. He sounded hoarse.

The purple-haired girl righted herself, shaking her head. Yes, we have wings. But we’re not angels. Or goddesses, as we’ve been called. Or even fairies, although we like to call ourselves that. But that’s because most of us, now, are guardians to orphaned children. As in fairy godmothers. Get it? I’m not sure he gets it. Not much of a sense of humor for this one. Anyway, I’m a dís.

He had a great sense of humor. The blackest of the black. And he could laugh at slapstick schtick too. However, he wasn’t in a laughing mood as he vaguely remembered that Sam, Samuella, Luke’s girlfriend, had said her last name was Dís.

The blue-haired girl grabbed an ottoman and sat close to him. We’re dísir. Dísir is plural for dís, which comes from an old language. We’re a kind of people who have wings. And we heal from bullet wounds.

Luke’s a dís?

All three girls shook their heads.

No, he’s human, blue girl continued. We don’t understand how Luke…well, it seems by falling in love with Sam, she’s given him some of her powers, and vice versa.

Humans don’t have powers. He raked a hand through his growing hair, hair that had been buzzed close to his head for so long that what ran through his fingers felt foreign and didn’t comfort him the way he’d hoped. Jesus, what the hell am I saying? Powers? Who has powers? Just what the hell is going on?

Blue girl held her hands out, palms up. We don’t know either, human.

He pointed at his chest. Aaron.

Aaron. Blue girl smiled and started playing with a fray at her knee. You’ll probably have a lot of questions about us, about what happened, but we have an important question for you.

He licked his lips, thinking about that woman. The woman. Her eyes had been so round and full of shock. Because…she’d recognized him. She had said his name, like she knew him. She’d said as much, but it was damned hard wrapping his head around any of this. Who…who was that woman who was wearing something Wonder Woman would wear?

The pink girl laughed. Yeah, what were Madde and Adala doing wearing their Valkyrie outfits?

Aaron stood, running his hands through his hair again, getting even more frustrated in the process. Pacing away from the girls, he asked, She…she’s a Valkyrie?

Who? Purple girl tilted her head away and pulled out a big cell phone that looked like a regular iPhone, except it had wings, big feathery wings, where there should have been an iconic bitten apple. She turned away, typing something into her phone.

You mean Adala and Madde? Pink girl arched a brow.

He waved his hands around, only then remembering that beside the woman of his dreams had stood another who looked a lot like her. I don’t know anyone’s name. I don’t know who they were. But those women…those women wearing breastplates with longswords strapped to their backs—

They’re the sisters Adala and Madde. Blue girl nodded, giving him an encouraging smile.

And they’re Valkyrie?

Blue and pink girls nodded while purple girl was still typing away on her phone. They looked like typical teenagers. They really, really did.

Do you have wings? Do the Valkyrie have wings? Does everybody have wings?

Blue girl smiled while pink girl chuckled and said, You sound like Oprah. ‘Everybody has wings.’

He just about growled when the blue girl nodded. Yes, my sisters and I have wings. We’re the Norns, the leaders of the dísir. Please, don’t be fooled by our youthful appearances. We’ve taken on this look for a number of reasons. Anyway, Adala and Madde do not have wings. They’re Valkyrie.

Of course. Sarcasm came easily to him and it felt good, his only grounding in the absurd. In this fantasy.

Why do you care if Adala has wings or not? Purple girl was off her phone, tucking it into her back pocket, glancing at him with a weird, mischievous smile.

How do you know he was talking about Adala and not Madde? the pink girl asked but was elbowed by purple girl who quickly showed her sisters the phone and stuffed it in her pocket again with her mischievous smile growing.

He turned away from them, replaying her name in his mind. Adala. He felt like he knew her name would be Adala. Not Madde. Yes, Adala. Pretty name. Pretty woman—er, Valkyrie. Shit, this was so fucked up. I’m just trying to wrap my head around all of this.

Sure. Sure, one of the teenagers said.

He turned around in time to see blue girl hold her hand out, looking like she wanted to touch him, comfort him, but she placed her hand timidly back on her lap. "Aaron, we have to ask that you keep all of this secret. I mean, you can talk about this with Luke, since he’s affected by this too, but we’d like you to keep us a secret. She looked down at her ripped-up jeans. We used to be a strong people, hundreds of us. But we’re down to our last seventy now. And humans being humans are curious and have hurt us in the past…Adala—"

Someone hurt Adala? Her name on his tongue was warm and right. And if someone had hurt the woman from his dreams, he’d tear them apart with his bare hands.

The blue-haired girl stood from the ottoman, taking a step closer. It’s not our story to tell, but your kind has hurt mine. Killed us. So we’re asking you to please keep us a secret. Do you think you can do that?

The three teenagers stood in a triangle with blue girl at the front, and something about the way they were looking at him made him stop in his pacing tracks. They were deadly serious. He had a feeling that if he had jokingly asked if they’d kill him if he wouldn’t agree, they couldn’t have joked back. In that moment, he saw something old in their eyes. Older than old. Beyond the primitive need to defend their own kind was something primordial that sucked away all the air in his lungs.

He nodded. I keep a lot of secrets.

We know you do. Pink girl nodded too.

He softly snorted. You know about the secrets I keep for my government? He’d been a Green Beret. He knew how to keep secrets, even if they were killing him.

Blue girl shook her head. No, not really.

He narrowed his eyes, wondering if she was meaning to be vague or was trying not to lie to him.

I’ll keep the dísir a secret if you tell me something.

What’s that, human? Purple girl pursed her lips.

How does Adala know me? Can I talk to her? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk to the woman of his dreams, who had stunned him into a stupor at the sight of her. She had been dressed in a bronze breastplate, looking like she was ready to fight with Vikings, but that’s not why he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, that’s not why he kept remembering the way she looked.

It probably sounded crazy, and it was. But he knew her. Yeah. All right. He only knew her from his dreams. But that had to mean something. Or was he grasping at straws, hoping to find gold when there was none to be found?

Hell, he had to talk to her. If anything, just to be closer to the calm she provided.

Blue girl glanced over her shoulder at her sisters, some kind of silent communication between them.

Let us talk to Adala, pink girl said. See if she is willing to talk to you.

Aaron nodded.

Blue girl stepped closer. But know this, Aaron. She’s a Valkyrie. With one touch, she can kill you.

She’s got mad skills or something? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? He smiled, but the levity he was aiming for fell flat when he saw the girls’ faces.

The blue girl shook her head. "No. She’s a Valkyrie. With one touch, she takes fatally wounded warriors to the afterlife. With one touch, she whispers out life. Aaron? Aaron! You need to breathe."

The teenagers rushed to him as his knees almost gave way. But he flinched away from them, bracing himself on a nearby wall, wondering, again, if he was merely