Aegyir Rises (Guardians of The Realm Book 1) Read online

  Aegyir Rises

  Guardians of The Realm:

  Book 1

  Amanda Fleet

  Copyright © 2020 Amanda Fleet

  The moral right of Amanda Fleet to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Also by Amanda Fleet

  The Wrong Kind of Clouds

  Lies That Poison

  The Guardians of The Realm

  Aegyir Rises

  Aeron Returns

  War

  To Sly and Nero, who accompanied me for some of this journey, but who weren’t able to see its completion.

  And to Max, who’s still beside me.

  Prologue

  My name was Reagan Bennett.

  I had a fabulous life.

  I lost everything. Everything.

  Three weeks. That’s all it took.

  This is my story.

  1

  Finn grimaced from the effort of standing firm while my fists slammed into the pads in a satisfying one-two, one-two. “Oocha! Okay. What’s happened?”

  “I saw Helen today.” I threw another combo.

  Finn’s cornflower blue eyes settled on me, his gaze wary. “Uh huh? And?”

  I pummelled the pads he held with punch after punch until my arms sagged like wet string.

  “Stephen’s getting released.” Helen’s stepson and the man I’d put in prison.

  “Feck. Already?”

  His eyes widened but the news wasn’t news to me. I’d been counting the days of Stephen’s incarceration since he was found guilty of grievous bodily harm. On me. He’d also caused the death of my best friend, Sarah, though he’d never been tried for that. I knew as well as Stephen did when his sentence would end.

  My arms exhausted, I indicated to Finn I was moving on to roundhouse kicks and he shifted the pads.

  “When did you see her?” His brow creased and the remnants of his Irish accent emerged. He was closer to Dublin than Cumbria right now.

  “This afternoon. She came over.”

  Finn sucked his teeth. He knew how rare a visit from my adopted mother was. We hadn’t parted on good terms. Actually, we’d barely even started on good terms.

  “John with her?”

  “No.” I wiped a sweat-slick lock of black hair out of my eyes.

  My next kick made Finn stagger and he shifted his balance. John was Stephen’s dad, Helen’s second husband; no relative of mine. Not even adopted. Thank God.

  “Okay, you call it.” I stepped back and let my arms drop to my sides.

  Finn called and I followed until he knew I was running on vapours.

  “Okay. Home,” he said. “Did you make anything or are we picking up takeaway?”

  “I cooked.”

  “Excellent!” He dropped a kiss on the top of my head and hugged my sweaty body. “Meet you in the cafe?”

  “Sure.”

  We were at the gym where we both worked – a modern building with fantastic facilities. Downstairs was split into a cafe open to everyone and the weights rooms which were for members only. Finn was a personal trainer there; I worked part-time on reception. Some of the advantages of working-out here were the free hot water and excellent showers.

  I found Finn waiting in the cafe on the ground floor, fiddling with his phone, blond spiky hair darkened by his shower, his work uniform of sweatshirt and jogging pants replaced by jeans, t-shirt and biker jacket. Both motorbike-helmets sat on the table.

  “Take it steady going home? My blood sugar’s in my boots.” I picked up my helmet. Blood red. As opposed to Finn’s more conventional jet black.

  “I can tell. You’re that fetching shade of pale olive you go when you need food.” He held his arm out and I tucked underneath it as we crossed the brightly lit cafe towards the plate glass doors. “Come on. Home.”

  Finn’s pride and joy was parked at the back of the gym. He’d saved up for years to get it. It wasn’t the most powerful bike available by a long chalk, but it could shift if you wanted it to, and Finn had hankered after a motorbike since I’d met him. He’d bought it in barely working condition but stripped it down and rebuilt it one summer, with help from Paul, my adopted dad.

  My stomach clenched with bittersweet memories. That was the year Sarah had died. That Stephen had assaulted me. I jammed my helmet on and slid on to the bike, tucking my arms around Finn’s middle, trying to blank the memories. Finn flipped the stand up and revved the engine, and I thought about our tiny cottage. Would the door withstand a good kicking any better than I had?

  Back at the cottage, Finn tidied away my helmet and jacket while I headed for the kitchen.

  “Shall we get a dog?” he said, joining me.

  He took a carton of milk out of the fridge and drank straight from it, peering at me over the top as I heated up dinner. Distraction techniques so I wouldn’t think about Stephen?

  “Don’t give me that look,” he said. “I’m gonna finish it and anyway, you and I share more than spit on a regular basis.”

  County Dublin was still in the ascendancy. His ‘I’ was shifting even further towards ‘oi’ and his ‘th’ beginning to lose the h and gain a d. He finished the milk and then crumpled the carton and tossed it in the recycling crate next to the bin. “So, shall we get a dog?”

  I stirred dinner, scraping the bottom of the pan to stop the sauce from catching. “What kind of dog?”

  “I dunno. A dog kind of dog!”

  Where was this coming from?

  I sprinkled some salt into the pot. “A puppy? A rescue dog?”

  He leaned his hips against the worktop, his posture softening. “A rescue dog.”

  Yeah, Finn didn’t do cute. Which was just as well since I had a broken nose, a chipped tooth and a couple of bent ribs. He was also big on rescuing. Usually people, but he wouldn’t be able to leave a dog shelter without needing to give a new start to any mutt that seemed unlikely to be re-homed. He’d be disappointed not to be allowed to rescue them all.

  “So?” he said.

  “Let me think about it. We’re meant to be saving so we can get a bigger place. With heating.”

  Finn winked, then picked up two bottles of beer and waved one at me. I nodded, and he flipped the cap off and handed it over.

  “You still okay to do the self-defence class with me on Thursday?” He clinked his bottle against mine.

  “Yeah. Perfect timing to brush up on how to kick the living shit out of someone.”

  “That’s not really what we teach.” A grin poked a crease into his cheek. “But yeah, it would be good to keep your skills up.”

  The self-defence classes were something Finn had persuaded his boss, Billy, to run for free once a month. I helped, trying to show the women who came to the classes that it didn’t matter if you were smaller and lighter than your attacker, you could still defend yourself. I’d do a better job of that if I wasn’t six feet tall of course.

  Finn pulled me against him. “You okay about Stephen?”

  “Mm. I’m hoping someone knifes the fucker before he’s out.”

  An image of Sarah’s shattered body at the bottom of the escarpment filled my brain. Knifing would be too quick for him.

  “Okay. Settle, petal.”


  He kissed the nape of my neck, snapping me out of my daydreams of a slow death for the man who’d beaten the shit out of me. Just once. But one time too many.

  “Oh! I finished those calligraphy pieces today,” I said. “They’re in my portfolio.”

  “Yeah? Can I see?”

  “Are your hands clean? Because if you get grubby paw-prints on them, I will charge you.”

  Not that that would help the finances. I was hoping to make cards from prints of them to sell online, so we could replace the toaster before it electrocuted us.

  He moved back and held clean-looking hands out for me to inspect. I still didn’t trust him with my best work of the week. I handed him the spoon, retrieved the folio and opened it on the battered melamine-topped table, to reveal heart-shapes filled with love poems written in intricate calligraphy.

  I’d qualified from college in graphic design, but jobs in the area were thin on the ground. I guess Helen had been right about something. Paul had believed in me enough to support me through college. Well, him and Finn. Paul had moved down south not long after he and Helen divorced and perhaps I should have gone to live with him when he offered. Things could have been so different. But then I wouldn’t be with Finn, so I was better off where I was. Broken bones and all.

  Finn leaned over to see the portfolio but kept his body clear. “They’re amazing. As always.”

  “Thank you. They’re for the toaster-fund.”

  The “getting a place with central heating fund” was yet to gain more than a few pounds.

  I tidied them back into the portfolio and returned it to the lounge. Finn was dishing up when I re-joined him.

  I squeezed into the chair at the back of the small square table that lurked in the corner of the kitchen. Since Finn and I clocked in at six foot four, and six foot, it took a special kind of choreography for us to work round each other in the tiny space, but it was all we could afford. I’d insisted on us having a table in here because I hated eating in the lounge from a plate on my lap, but if we both sat at the table, our knees bashed each other’s.

  Finn put a plate in front of me and slid into the seat opposite. He ate a forkful of dinner, nodded enthusiastically, and added about quarter of a bottle of hot chilli sauce to it. I rolled my eyes.

  “What?” he said, his mouth full. “It’s great.” He chewed and frowned. “You really okay about Stephen?” Old memories conjured shadows in his eyes.

  “Do I have a choice? He’s served his sentence.”

  He stabbed his fork into a piece of chicken. “He comes near you and I can’t promise I’ll keep my cool.”

  “If he comes near me again, I’ll beat the fucker up myself.”

  He flinched. “Okay. You’re definitely kick-boxing with me tomorrow. Burn off some of that fire.” He glanced across to the fridge where a series of magnetic letters held up his work schedule. “When am I on late? Will you come to the gym those nights?”

  “I’ll be fine. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to come here again.”

  Finn’s breath hissed out of his nose and he drank a long gulp of beer. “I’m gonna call John and tell him that if his son comes within half a mile of this place, I’ll kill him.”

  I rested my hand over his. “You’re going to do no such thing, because John will record you and then if you and Stephen do come to blows, he’ll use it to crucify you. He hasn’t forgotten how you hit your dad.”

  “Yeah, well. He hit Mum.”

  I let it drop. He’d watched his dad beat his mum when he was a kid, then protected her when he was bigger. At seventeen and almost the size he was now, he’d hit back. He’d assumed his mum would leave his dad after that, but she’d stayed. Finn’s father had thrown him out and Finn hadn’t set foot across the threshold of their house in seven years. His father claimed he didn’t have any children.

  “You called her today?” I said.

  Finn nodded. “She’s fine. Well, she says she’s fine. You able to go over this week?”

  “I can pop in on Tuesday. Anyway, I cooked, so you’re doing the dishes.” I stacked the empty plates, hoping to shift him away from fretting over his mum.

  I wandered through to the lounge and curled in the corner of the threadbare sofa, unsettled. Our cottage might not be much, but in the years since the attack, it had become my sanctuary – the place where I could shut out the world and be me. The idea that Stephen would be out in a matter of days… I didn’t for a moment believe he was a reformed character.

  I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes.

  Don’t let him come here. Please don’t let him come here again.

  Finn sauntered through, switching the telly on as he sat down.

  “Mind if I watch the footie?” He cocked a brow at me.

  “What would you do if I said yes?”

  He caught my eye, smiling, but said nothing. I needed distraction, and footie wasn’t going to do it. Finn was though. I slid my leg over Finn’s so that I sat on his lap facing him and undid a button on my top.

  “I have an offer for you.” I popped another button.

  “Uh huh?” He scanned down my cleavage and back up. The noise levels rose in the match, and his attention flicked to the telly before locking back on me.

  “Mm. And you look at the match again while I’m telling you and the offer’s off.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  He knew damn fine what the offer was. Behind me, a roar indicated a scored goal, and I could see him itching to look.

  “The offer is…” I trailed a finger over his chest. “Unlimited sex tonight… or… you get to watch the footie and have no sex for a month.”

  His hands settled around my backside. “No chance of watching the footie and then having slightly more limited sex tonight?”

  “Nope. The deal is the one I’ve just outlined. And is only valid for ten seconds.”

  He held my gaze, looking as if he was weighing up the options, but he did this every time. On cue, after about nine seconds had passed, he clicked the telly off. “You did say unlimited, didn’t you?”

  2

  I needed to draw. Nightmares had wrecked half of my night and Finn wasn’t around to distract me this morning. I’d see him later once he’d finished work and I could punch seven bells out something. Until then, it was me and my thoughts. Not a great combo when I was this wound up.

  I flipped through one of my sketchbooks. Most of them had drawing upon drawing of Finn in various states of undress – after all, he was a mighty fine specimen, and I’d always loved drawing the human form more than anything else. A couple of sketchbooks had doodles and designs for logos or other sketches that might get me my hoped-for job in graphic design, but the book I had in my hands was my ‘Realm’ sketchbook.

  My dreams had been populated by the same place for as long as I could remember, but it wasn’t anywhere real. It could almost be a film-set for something set in medieval times. Without exception, everyone wore leather and wool – leather trousers, leather boots, wool shirts and leather jackets, but there was never anything modern in the dreams. No phones, no TVs, no plastic… Oh, and everyone carried a sword and had a dagger tucked into their belt as if at any moment they would be called to battle. I didn’t know what the name of the place was – in my dreams it was only ever referred to as the Realm.

  I closed my eyes and let my brain drift. The dreams were so detailed and realistic, at times they felt closer to memories. In the latest one, I’d been walking through a courtyard surrounded by gorgeous flowerbeds – a kaleidoscope of flowers in full bloom billowing out from behind neatly clipped low hedges. It had been so real, I could smell the heady perfume that suffused the air. Even now I could imagine the scent of the roses.

  I sketched the corner of the courtyard where pinkish-grey flagstones matched stone walls with fruit trees trained neatly over their surface. In my last dream, it had been late summer there and the boughs of the trees sagged with ripe apples and pears.

  I often dreamed
of this courtyard. It teemed with people in tight groups, always seeming to be gossiping and scheming, their heads close, their eyes darting as they whispered behind hands to one another. As soon as anyone passed, they’d be tight smiles and courteous bows, then they’d be straight back to the whispers and the side-eyes. More often than not, a tall, dark and very handsome man walked with me, my hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Faran. My husband. Who adored me. We seemed to be pretty important there. Wherever we went, people bowed respectfully. I was punching well above my weight with him. I would never swap my life with Finn for anyone though, drop-dead gorgeous or not. And anyway, Finn wasn’t exactly a gargoyle.

  It hadn’t needed a child-psychologist to explain why I dreamed of a place where I was loved after I’d been left on a hospital doorstep at a day old, then handed from pillar to post umpteen times before Helen and Paul had finally adopted me. I wasn’t a lovable child. So Helen had told me in our many fights.

  I finished my drawing of the courtyard and turned to a fresh page to draw Faran. Like me, he had leaf-green eyes and thick, dark hair, bordering on black. Unlike me, he had high, sharp cheekbones and full lips with a sharp Cupid’s bow to them. Interestingly, in my dreams my hair was always long rather the short crop I’d had forever, and I had no tattoos or piercings. Did some corner of my brain crave convention, after all? Or did I just have less to rebel against there?

  Drawing my mythical Realm soothed me almost as much as drawing Finn did. The scritch-scratch of my pencil on the paper, the blending of colours, the focus… my brain couldn’t be anywhere else. At times like that, it was good to be inside my own head and to escape from Real Life.

  I finished my picture of Faran and a smile tickled my lips. He was a handsome bugger. I flipped the cover shut and tidied everything away, a peaceful feeling settling on my shoulders. I grabbed a quick bite of lunch, then set off to meet Finn at work.