What's Up, Buttercup? (Vexatious Valkyries Book 1) Read online

  “My sense of humour and perspective remain intact.” Okay, that came out kind of low and sounded more threatening than Galen had intended.

  All Kaleb did was throw back his head and laugh loudly. “You know what I see when I look around us?”

  “I’m guessing there is nothing I can do or say to stop you from sharing?”

  “Nope, because I’m a giver. What I see, my old friend, is our impossible to kill, thick skinned, even thicker headed, idiotic brethren, throwing themselves like lemmings over a - well-endowed Valkyrie – cliff, for our pure enjoyment.”

  “That’s a rather belaboured metaphor.”

  “What can I say? I’m a rare, complicated, intelligent Demon... whoa, did you see that raven-haired beauty? I would swear I could see right up her golden skirt when she kicked your Uncle Marcollus in the throat. Can you imagine those lithe limbs wrapped around my head?”

  “Funnily I can.” Galen conceded. “Though in my version she squeezes so hard your head pops off like a pimple.”

  “Oh, Lucifer. Such a drama Prince. Woe is me, I’m a hugely successful, obscenely wealthy Conflict Demon who is on the stabby fast track. My life is over... moan, moan, moan.”

  “I do not sound like that. And why shouldn’t I be upset? In less than two weeks I’m going to have to choose...” Galen spat the hated words out. “...a wife who sees nothing but dollar signs and my family connections when she looks at me. Aren’t you the least bit worried? You’re only ten hell turns younger than me.”

  “Statistically the numbers are on my side. Only roughly one out of every two-hundred males experience Knustabber prior to being claimed.” Kaleb smiled, his pale blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “And my mother diligently prays twice a day to keep her golden haired baby boy safe.”

  “I’m surprised your mother hasn’t floated some elaborate conspiracy theory regarding the numbers of males turning stabby. Margrete does so love to make waves.”

  A frown fleetingly touched down on Kaleb’s brow before disappearing. “Those conspiracy theory chatrooms keep her too busy to interfere in my life, so no complaints here. Still… it’s kind of weird, unmated stabby, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, does it?”

  “I’m not exactly a big fan of it either.” Galen grumbled. “But I can hardly fight evolution.”

  “I’m on board with Knustabber. Get claimed. Level up. Protect the Mrs. But unmated stabby? Why? What’s it’s purpose?”

  “Fuck. I lie awake at night trying to answer that question. Find some reason for why this is happening to me. It’s beyond frustrating. When species evolve, they generally do so as a means of survival. Either to escape a predator. To feed more efficiently. Or to live longer. I keep coming back to the same fucking question, how do unclaimed males turning stabby berserker help us as a species?”

  “And what answer did you come up with?”

  “It doesn’t. It’s a pain in the ass, is what it is.”

  “Ah, you old grumpy bastard, don’t give up hope. There’s still time for you to find your mate.”

  “In the next two weeks? I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe she’ll be at your aunt’s party.”

  “I just don’t think I am…” Galen side stepped the slash of a sword aimed at his chest, bending low and using his opponent’s momentum to toss her over his shoulder. The pale haired Valkyrie landing with a heavy thud, a wave of annoying red dust wafting upwards to tickle at his nose. “...capable of being that optimistic.”

  Kaleb rolled his eyes. “I had a suspicion you were going to be a Demon-downer about this so I came up with a contingency plan.”

  Galen’s dark eyes narrowed as he surveyed his life long friend with what he considered well-earned scepticism. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. You, moaning sad sack that you are, have forgotten about the time difference between the Earth plane and this one. While only five days will pass back on Earth, and that dreaded forced wedding of yours looms large in two weeks. Here, my potentially stabby friend, you are granted eight long weeks in which to retreat to the luxurious little cavern I had set up for you three miles west of our basecamp. You will find it stocked with some very good, hideously expensive whiskey, and assorted other supplies. Maybe spend the time coming up with a plan on how to avoid the Queen’s machinations. Or, feel free to drink yourself unconscious and brood until you bleed out your eyeballs.”

  “I’m out of time. There is no way to avoid the wedding. I’ve run every scenario.”

  “Plot… sulk… whatever… but here, on this plane, you have eight weeks to indulge your inner imp. Sorry, I meant drink hundred-year-old whiskey and come to terms with your future. Embrace it or go next level stabby, you choose.”

  “Eight weeks?” Plus tack another week on to that back in the real world once this bachelor party long weekend was over, nine weeks? Time, it was his biggest enemy, and Kaleb, if nothing else, had granted him a small window of breathing room.

  “Yes, think of it as my wedding gift to you. So, while I keep your brethren battling Valkyries all day and carousing all night, you may have some what I think is some much needed alone time.”

  “Really?” Galen winced at how eager he sounded.

  “Go drink. Go sulk… I mean, plot how you are going to emerge triumphant from this mess. Just know this. When all is said and done, I don’t want to lose you to the Stabby Battalion, I’d rather see you miserable and married.”

  Typical of Kaleb. Both encouraging and at the same time brutally honest. “A hundred-year-old whiskey you say?”

  “Here.” Kaleb handed over a map before looking down at the pale haired Valkyrie at their feet, unconscious but breathing steadily. “I wonder if she has even taller, meaner sister? I can only hope.”

  Galen watched as his friend turned and entered the fray, slapping aside more than a few of his fellow Demons to reach the frontline. Shit, if Galen didn’t have devolving into a stabby monster or a forced meld marriage in his near future, hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, then he would have joined Kaleb, happily fought by his side.

  But no, he had a future to plan. He would not accept a woman into his life who was driven by greed or eager for political connections. Also unacceptable was the alternative of turning stabby, forced to join the Queen’s Berserker Guard Unit.

  He was a Prince, a Conflict Demon. There was only one option open to him as far as he could see. He just needed to come up with an awesome plan that would result in him finding and being claimed by his mate. In the interim… he would drink.

  Chapter Two

  Stephanie planted her knee-high gold boot against a burly Conflict Demon’s shoulder and shoved, yanking her hatchet out of him as he fell like a tree trunk to the ground with a resounding thud. Turning swiftly, she blocked a sword thrust. Spinning, kicking out, catching another Demon in the butt and sending him sprawling.

  Thrust. Kick. Parry. Punch. Slash. Her ponytail streamed out behind her like a golden, silken banner. Damn, she loved a good battle. Conflict Demons were worthy opponents, kind of, in that they could take a beating, or better still, a hatchet to the chest, and keep on ticking.

  Stephanie ducked a red-headed Demon’s attack, watching with exasperation as he tripped and stumbled into several of his colleagues. The Demons immediately began to fight and squabble amongst themselves. Grrr, that was the real problem with these guys. Sure, they were enthusiastic, and yes, outnumbered them by ten to one, but they were so easily distracted. Worse, quite a few were drunk, and several of her fellow Valkyries had complained that they were more than a little handsy. Something Stephanie could attest to.

  Oh, and the pitiful moaning when they were taken to task? So irritating on the ears. Honestly, they were Demons, lop their hand off, big deal, it would grow back in a couple of hours. Personally, she thought the perverts were getting off lightly, considering the smudge prints they were leaving all over her armoured, gold breastplate.

  Demons, men… they were all alike. They saw a
six-foot stacked blonde with ocean blue eyes and full, lush lips and all they wanted to do was cop a feel. Even in the midst of battle.

  As the day had progressed the battleground had grown increasingly treacherous. Not because of the skill of their opponents. But the quickly multiplying number of amputated limbs and Demons rolling around underfoot, clutching stumps, moaning and blubbering.

  The cluttered packed field all but writhed with the injured. Watching where she put her feet whilst fighting was proving tiresome. If she tripped and fell on her ass, she’d never hear the end of it from her Sister Valkyries.

  The strict no-kill clause enforced by Management, when they were hired out for a corporate event like this, was beyond frustrating. Though there was never a guarantee that everyone would be coming out alive, these were still battle conditions after all. Accidents had been known to happen.

  Thankfully, all these conflict-thirsty assholes had signed liability waivers before they were allowed to enter this particular Fjornfiall plane. Though it was lucky for them most Valkyries would pretty much do anything to avoid a long, monotonous inquiry into an accidental killing of a client. Even if that meant pulling their punches and largely targeting secondary, more non-essential organs their clients would be able to live reasonably fulfilling lives without.

  As faux battles went, this one appeared so far to be a rip-roaring success. Certainly their Demon clients seemed to be having fun, despite the number currently rolling around on the ground moaning and bleeding. And as for the Valkyries? They generally loved any excuse to shed blood that wasn’t their own.

  Still, Stephanie never thought it would happen to her, but recently she couldn’t deny that she’d begun to feel a little… dissatisfied with the daily battle grind.

  Oh, she still loved a balls out, kill everything in sight skirmish. But more and more lately the battle scape was changing. Instead of decimating their enemies they were being hired for family reunions, birthday celebration battles and even one very boring Dungeons and Dragons game. Her actions decided by a throw of a dice? Horrifying.

  Stephanie didn’t like this new trend. Take a look at this event. A Corporate bonding exercise? But hey, the Conflict Demons were paying to have the shit kicked out of them. She shouldn’t complain… but, she couldn’t help but feel that Management were more interested in making money of late than the satisfaction levels of their employees.

  For instance, Management had booked this gig for eight weeks. In her opinion that was seven weeks and six days too long. Stephanie was afraid if this trend continued her fellow Valkyries would eventually become disenchanted, given the lack of challenge. Worse, if their mettle wasn’t being tested on a regular basis then their skill levels might become negatively impacted and begin to degrade.

  Just when had legal documentation begun to take precedence over heat of the battle, and their Freyja born right to grind their enemies into dust beneath their gold boots?

  Times were changing. Management should be actively chasing clients, searching out new target markets that were rich in conflict. There had to be a Demon Warlord or Angelic Host with vengeance burning a hole in their heart, who’d love to trot out a Battalion of Valkyries so they could teach someone a lesson in their name.

  Stephanie blocked a clumsy attack and thrust her second hatchet into the chest of a Conflict Demon, who even as he was gurgling for breath and falling to the ground, locked his leery gaze on her bodacious cleavage.

  Yeah, and that was another thing. The Legal Department needed to add a sleaze factor clause that would negate the no kill clause. That would keep the clients on their toes and maybe their attention off of how a Valkyrie filled out her breastplate armour.

  Wiping her gory and bloodied hatchets on the trousers of one of the fallen Conflict Demons, Stephanie turned and began making her way back to camp. The suns were setting on the Fjornfiall plane, the purple orbs dipping low towards the horizon, beginning to take on a bluish tinge. The sky transitioning from orange to crimson.

  All over the battlefield her fellow Valkyrie were disengaging. Turning their backs on the enemy and stomping off towards their assigned basecamp in search of ale, food and some Sisterly bonding time around the fires.

  None of them offered to help the hundreds of fallen, wounded Conflict Demons, or provide any assistance in getting them or their body parts back to their own camp to rest and recover.

  You could pay a Valkyrie not to kill you, but there wasn’t enough money in all the various planes of Fjornfiall that could convince one to play nursemaid.

  Entering her squad’s assigned basecamp, Stephanie fought not to grind her teeth. Here was another instance where Corporate were failing to listen to the concerns and complaints of those Valkyries in the field. Rotating camp manager duties based upon alphabetical order was ludicrous.

  Not that Eznelda, assigned to this particular section, was completely useless. The camp fires were roaring. The tents were set up. Meat sizzled on open grills, scenting the air with delicious smells. Yet somehow there was an underlying air of disorganisation that grated on Stephanie’s nerves.

  Watching as her Sisters began to walk into camp following a day of fighting, Eznelda wore a frazzled, envious look on her round face. Wispy locks of dark hair escaping from her battle braids as if she’d been tugging at them in frustration.

  Ignoring the pleading look for help Eznelda shot her way, Stephanie strode to the leather, portable troughs full of water. Elbowing one of the younger Valkyries out of her way she bent over and dunked her head under the water. Remaining there for a count of ten in an attempt to release all her tension.

  Straightening, water dripping down her front, Stephanie grabbed a towel to wipe her face and pat at her hair. Ouch, seems the laundry that had recently won the supply contract had never heard of fabric softener. Grrr. No use complaining, Corporate were too lazy, blinkered, or on a cost-cutting mission to do anything about it.

  Stephanie carefully blanked her expression as two fledgling Valkyries bounded up to her. Enthusiastic grins on their gorgeous faces as they competed to tell her all about their day of splitting skulls and pummelling Conflict Demons.

  Stephanie absently magic’d away her gold armour, standing in nothing but her cream shellan; a short toga like garment that all Valkyries wore under their armour. The cloth wasn’t just magical, changing shape to preserve modesty and remaining fresh and dirt free, more importantly, the shellan prevented chafing. Wearing gold-plated armour wasn’t for sissies.

  Stephanie sluiced water over her arms and throat, secretly amused as Lena and Brodie continued to talk at her and over one another. Damn, had she ever been that young? That green? Neither of them yet sixteen but they were formidable already and given time and maturity, would be awesome battle Valkyries. Fit to wear the gold-plated armour and lead squadrons in the name of Freyja, their Goddess and Creator.

  As long as they didn’t grow disenchanted with never ending boring campaigns such as this one. Hmmm… or maybe that was just her? Was she burnt out? Stephanie had been campaigning for close to two-hundred years now on the many Fjornfiall planes. Even if she did look like she was in her mid-twenties, and would continue to do so for a good long time.

  By The Sword, it was only day three of this interminable engagement and Stephanie already felt… felt what? Normally she felt nothing but a killing lust on the field of battle and a sense of belonging and camaraderie in the camp. It was just lately, there was this low level niggly feeling that had begun to eat at her that things could, should, be done differently… better.

  Take this current campaign for instance. Suddenly, as she surveyed her assigned basecamp, all the glaring faults came into sharp focus. Determinedly she tried to push them aside, but she couldn’t seem to stop cataloguing the annoyances.

  It wasn’t just scratchy towels and itchy sheets. There were the fires, that were smoking just a little too much because Eznelda had sourced the wrong wood. And though there was plenty of ale caskets awaiting their arrival, the
ir contents would be warm since their camp manager had forgotten to request an ice hut for the campaign. Worse, Guzbal had been assigned to supervise the grill, and she tended to burn everything.

  Stephanie would like to think a good night’s sleep would snap her out of this little funk that was gnawing away at her, but she doubted that was in the cards. Since Theomore had been assigned a tent smack dab in the middle of the configuration. Instead of a tent off to the side. Where she could sleep battle all night at the top of her lungs without disturbing the rest of them.

  Stephanie’s patience was wearing thinner by the minute. Even the thought of sitting around a campfire swilling ale and listening to her Sister Valkyries recount their victories of the day, it strangely held no appeal. Not just because of the camp disorganisation, the poor planning and the sub-standard level of offerings by their support services. She felt… antsy? Frustrated? Like there was something she should be doing. Somewhere she should be.

  Which was ridiculous. But as the cooling night breeze began to dry her skin and hair, Stephanie became conscious of a strange, metaphysical pull emanating from the west. Determinedly ignoring the weird feeling, she crumpled up the rough, scratchy towel, before dumping it in the waiting receptacle. Turning, she noted Eznelda was headed straight for her, no doubt intending to whine about the need for toilet paper rationing or how there was a barrel of ale missing.

  Honestly, they were Valkyries on campaign, there was always a barrel of ale missing, presumed stolen and drunk. And the idea of rationing anything on day three of a campaign? It spoke to deep, fundamental levels of incompetence on Eznelda’s part. Sure, the woman was hell on the field with her battle mace but she couldn’t fill out a simple supply checklist to save herself it seems.

  Stephanie held up her hands abruptly, silencing Lena and Brodie who had begun re-enacting one of their double team take downs from earlier in the day. “I think I’ll just go for a quick walk before dinner.”