Where Ravens Soar

Where Ravens Soar

I'm currently editing a book seeped in Norse Mythology, but set in the modern world called Where Ravens Soar.

I thought I'd give you a sneak peek of the first chapter. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter One.

Throughout the gloomy, closed-in space, a deafening noise pulses from several throbbing speakers. Blinking strobes of multi-coloured lights capture, in slow-motion, the dancing, sweaty crowd. Heads thrash to the music's rhythm and a blur of limbs move through the haze of thick grey smoke filling the room.

With a numb butt, Finn perches on a waist-high wooden stool, her dangling feet tapping against one of its four slender legs. Her straight sable-black hair obscures the scowl which has graced her expression since she stepped into this dingy joint. Her cotton vest clings to damp itchy flesh, and moisture glides a pathway from the top of her back to the waist of her pants.

A rock band dominates the cramped stage behind her back. Throaty screamed lyrics join with the wailing melody of an electric guitar. The heartbeat of the bass-line reverberates around the small square building, resonating down her tingling spine. The noise is too much for Finn’s superhuman hearing, her eardrums and temples throb in time to the beat.

She glances at a young man who pushes in beside her. He flashes a flirty smile as he leans into her personal space, so close she can smell the alcohol on his breath. Pursing her lips, she shakes her head. With a disappointed frown, the male slips back into the throng. She watches as he weaves expertly through bouncing figures, three beers held above his head.

She's here to hunt and can't afford any distractions.

Scanning the rest of the room, Finn brings her drink to her lips. She might appear calm, but her hands reveal the adrenaline coursing through her veins as they shake against the bottle she holds.

She spots a man leaning over the far end of the grime-covered counter. A pearl of sweat sits on his upper lip, and his tanned skin appears washed out under the room's poor-lighting. Dressed in a black suit, he stands out against the pub's regular customers. Around his neck hangs a loose, pale blue silk tie, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. Leather and ripped jeans are the usual attire for this dingy place. Her arse-kicking boots and black animal hide pants mean she blends in with the crowd; neither of his goons gives her a second glance.

Wolf-skin children have disappeared lately, with her sources pointing to this middle-aged man. He is tall for a human, six feet and two inches if she were to guess, but he's dwarfed by the two monsters framing him on either side.

Ice giants.

They stand with their shoulders stooped; though it doesn't prevent their twisted horns from knocking into light fixtures dangling from the wooden rafters. Bent, they must still be at least eight feet tall. A shimmering spell glamours the brutes so the humans don't see them for what they are. If they could, they would run for the exit.

A door slams open, and a cool breeze invades the room, fluttering soft strands of her hair against her neck. The stink of an unwashed body mixed with the stench of wolf drifts towards her. Underneath the initial whiff, the subtle smell of rotten leaves and mint lingers in the air.

Finn drums her fingers against the bar. The familiar scent nudges at her memories. Her mind flashes back to where a few of the latest children were taken. An ice cream melted on the pavement. Action figures left forgotten on a bedroom floor. A shattered bowl drowning in milk.

The lingering stench of an unknown wolf-skin was the only parting gift at each crime scene, and now she knows who it belongs to. Her back straightens, and her hands twitch with a need for steel to fill them.

Patience.

The male wolf-skin joins the man with the pale-blue tie. Finn grits her teeth, fists clenching. A crackling fills her left ear, then the deep growling voice of Augustus, her partner, comes through the earpiece. "Be calm, Finn. We'll get them."

She swivels her butt on the seat to face the small circular dance floor. Her enhanced eyesight picks out Augustus' mud brown eyes. They peer into her own from across the dim room. An answering flash of anger smothers their dark liquid depths and adds a tightness to her partner's square jaw.

Nodding her head in reply, she watches as Augustus' hulking form slips through the exit and into the night. It's been a hard case. It always is when children of any species are involved. Her hand moves to the corner of a photograph tucked into her trench-coat pocket. The edge feels soft against her fingertips, and she caresses the new creases.

She has memorised the toothy grin of the little girl whose image looks back at her from the wrinkled surface. Freckles cover a small button nose, and the young girl's chestnut hair hangs in pigtails tied by pink ribbons glinting in the sunlight. You would never guess the spirit of a wolf lives inside the girl.

Her name is Amy Moore. She's only five years old. The kidnapper's latest victim. Finn can't understand the pain her family must be going through. To her, the girl is one more face to add to the others haunting her nightmares.

Just over a week ago, Amy was there one minute, playing and laughing. The next, she'd vanished. Snatched from a swing set right from under her older brother's nose. No one saw a thing.

The girl was taken from a park only a few blocks from this dump, and this realisation makes Finn’s skin prickle. Her fists clench, and her body vibrates with the energy needed to kill something.

Eyes flickering from side to side, she avoids paying close attention to her prey. She doesn't want them getting spooked.

Her ears itch, and she hones her senses to drown out the pounding music and focus on her target’s conversation.

"I've chosen another, but I’ll need back-up this time. The boy's being guarded, and I'll need a distraction to snatch him," says the unwashed wolf-skin.

"That's fine. I already have a buyer lined up for the pelt. How soon can you move in on him?" asks the man in the pale blue tie.

It's all the proof she needs, and she can't stomach hearing another word. Her hands clench and open again, chest rising and falling.

She stands, kicking the stool back, and shoulders her way to the exit, squeezing through a mass of dancing, sweating bodies.

It might be too late to bring the children home, but not too late to make sure those responsible suffer before she sends them to Hel.

Maybe she could even talk Helreginn into continuing their pain and suffering once they get there. The goddess might act gentle on most days, but Finn’s heard the woman rules with a firm hand and has an evil streak she uses on those she deems unworthy. Finn would do it herself, but her mixed-blood won't allow her to enter Hel while life is still pumping through her veins.

Finn opens the door and walks into a dark alley. She steps over two black trash bags tipped on their sides, the contents strewn across the damp ground. The rotten stench of days' old food, urine, beer, and the sickening sweet smell of vomit invades the cool evening air. Finn’s stomach turns. Nose scrunched, she tries to block out the stink.

She pads toward the silhouette of a large figure leaning against the building’s brick wall, her footsteps echoing on the concrete pavement as she walks towards her partner. If she didn't know to look, her gaze would've skipped past his dark outline.

"I got confirmation. It's them," she whispers into the darkness.

"Didn't have a doubt. I'll take the bodyguards; you take the other two."

"Deal. Let's try for no witnesses this time. You know The Cleaner grumbles more than usual when she has to wipe human minds."

"Stuck up elf. So high and mighty," says Augustus, his bared teeth glinting.

"You should come home with me sometime. She's a walk in the park compared to the gods and goddesses I have to put up with whenever I go for a visit."

Tiny frown lines form between Augustus' bushy eyebrows. "I think I'll pass on that one. Odin is one scary dude."

Chuckling, Finn nudges her partner with her elbow. "Don't die on me; I'll take your spirit to Valhalla myself if you do. You know my grandfather has a fondness for your kind."

Augustus stares down at her, his eyes flashing with conviction. "I don't plan on it."