Shit. She’d watched her brother and her father die.
“And what about your mother? Was she there? When the bad woman bit your father?”
She nodded.
“I want to go home now.”
Chapter Eleven
Day Six
Jocelyn was kneeling on the stone floor of her Inner Temple, Saint Michael towering over her. They looked into each other’s eyes, his fury daunting. Skunk shivered on her left shoulder.
“How could you do such a horrible thing?” his voice boomed.
“I was off my meds.” She shook her head and raised her voice. “I was off my meds! I’m sorry, but I was off my meds!”
“And whose fault is that?”
The meditation was giving her clarity. “I got sick. I’ve always been a productive member of society—as long as I take my meds. But I’ve never been truly violent even when off my meds. I must have snapped from the stress of the situation and being off my meds.” Her speech began to falter, choking off a sob. “You can’t hold that against me. I’ve done everything I could to be a productive member of society. It’s just I’m ill—”
“You should have had more medication to spare . . . but I understand your vigil, your requirement to be alone for an entire month. The strain that put on you, too . . . Ah, I see now.” He closed his eyes as if he were watching a drama unfold on TV. “You were infected and fought off the disease . . . “ He looked back down at her, and his gaze softened. “I do not know what to do with you. We cannot have you taking innocent lives . . . but since you are immune to the disease—”
“What disease?” she interjected, unable to restrain herself. The roar of her waterfall behind Saint Michael was a little too loud—she Willed its flow to abate.
“A dreaded disease has taken over earth. It turns people into animalistic creatures who eat their victims’ brains and infect others, propagating the spread exponentially. Though still alive, ‘zombie’ is what people in general are calling them. I, however, call them ‘draugar.’”
“Draugar? You mean what is written on my sword?”
“Yours is no ordinary sword,” he said. “It is time for you to know the true nature of the sword.”
“And that is?”
“The sword is over a thousand years old.”
“That can’t possibly be true,” she said.
“But it is. You know I cannot lie to you.”
“That’s what my grandfather said.”
“This sword was forged in the late tenth century for your Irish Viking ancestor, Olaf,” he said. “I have blessed it with the magical power to be effective in defeating draugar in combat. Be careful with it because the blade is super-sharp, and when you swing with it, it appears to give you extra strength. Your ancestor was a shamanic warrior. A later ancestor converted to Catholicism. But the sword-bearer always retains his . . . er, or her . . . shamanistic ways. Furthermore, the sword bearer must be of Olaf’s blood, as he is tied to the magic of the sword.”
Despite the incredulity of it all, things started to make sense. “That’s why we practice magic, even though we’re Catholic, because of our Viking ancestry?”
“I believe that is the intention.”
As a then-candidate for a PhD in History, she had studied Viking and pagan history and knew all too well the differences between Catholicism and Paganism. “And that’s why you are a guide, a patron, rather than someone to be served.”
Saint Michael circumnavigated her altar clockwise. That was odd. “That is correct, because pagans don’t worship in the same manner as Catholics do.”
A thought suddenly dawned. “So that’s why Grandfather Cummings kept pestering me about marriage.”
“Yes, you need someone to pass the sword to and train in sword-fighting and shamanism, just as your grandfather did for you. Remember, it must be a blood relative descended from your ancestor. Technically, you could pass it onto your mother, but then you’d have to train her as a shaman.”
“Or what?”
“Or the sword would be ineffective,” he said. “It would function just as an ordinary sword.”
“So what if I die before I can pass it on?”
“That is part of its magic. It will eventually find a bearer with Olaf’s blood.”
“So I will eventually have a child? Even though my marriage prospects are weak?” She didn’t really love her boyfriend. She had considered breaking up with him once she got a job at a University (probably not U.C. San Diego, where she got her PhD) after her vigil. Marriage had been so distant in her mind, probably because she grew up in a divorced family. It hadn’t worked out for her mother, so why would it work out for her?
“Actually, I think you are under more pressure than that.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Have you not been paying attention? The sword was meant to be wielded by a descendant of Olaf to defeat the draugar. I can only suppose that is you.”
“But I have committed murder. Most likely I will go to jail for a very long time.” She bowed her head in shame, her guilt overwhelming. “I can’t fight these draugar from prison. Should I kill myself? Or turn myself in? I’m not being suicidal, but I want to make amends for what I’ve done.”
She looked at her chalice on the altar behind Saint Michael. She wished she could just fill it with poison and drink it, but she could not be harmed by anything in her Inner Temple.
“I have not fully explained the situation to you,” he said. “Every major city in the world is infected—only some rural areas remain untouched.”
“Oh, my god, what caused it?”
“We do not know. The entire astral plane has mobilized but all we can do is advise people and put out fires. That is why I did not respond to you, not because I did not want to, but because you were not important enough . . . until now.”
“So you don’t want me to turn myself in?” she asked.
“Under normal circumstances, I would say turn yourself in. But
