Void to Break (Dred Dixon Chronicles Book 5) by N.A. Grotepas

Author:N.A. Grotepas [Grotepas, N.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-10-21T16:00:00+00:00

20

“Who the hell are you?” I asked, reaching for my Colt 1911. It was with me, always, even though my magic was a lot more powerful than bullets.

“Not necessary,” he said, his eyes flashing to my hand that was reaching for the gun.

“Fine,” I said. I refused to feel sheepish about being careful. Still, I slipped my gun hand into my pocket rather than pulling the firearm. I remained on high alert.

He was tall, and wore a cardigan with a thick collar—the kind I’d seen in TV shows and movies based in Shetland and Iceland. Gray wool with elbow patches. His hair was more salt than pepper, and he had a full beard full of similar ratios of gray to black. He laughed. A deep, booming laugh that came from his chest. I swore I could feel it like thunder rippling across the air between us. He crossed the room and got very close, staring down at me. He clasped me on the upper arms and inspected my face with bright blue eyes that seemed to shimmer to green and then back to blue.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “One of my best creations yet.”

I pulled away and took a few steps backwards so that I could study him without being manhandled. “So, you’re Heimdall?”

I knew he was, but I wanted the introductions out of the way. No questions. This was the man I was seeking—I deserved to know it.

He crossed his arms. “Some have called me Rig, others Gullintani, but I mostly go by Heimdall.”

“What should I call you?”

“Whatever you want. Rig is an easy nickname, though I don’t appreciate all the connotations that have come from that one.”

“You’re my father and a god. Shouldn’t I call you some kind of an honorific?” I pointed out, then shrugged. “I guess Heimdall is fine. So, Heimdall, what have you done with my partner?”

“He’s safe. I preferred talking to you alone, Dred.”

“You know my name?”

“Heimdall hears all. You know the rumors, correct? Things about grass and the wool growing on sheep.”

I’d heard of them, yes. Pithy little statements from stories about how his ears were so keen that he could hear grass growing and the wool growing on sheep.

“If that’s true, then all this time you’ve known that I was seeking you. And yet you never came to me. You know, then, that my mother died telling me the truth about my heritage. Still, you didn’t come to her funeral. You didn’t come to me, your own child. You’ve done nothing, it seems, but sit up here in your mansion.” I looked around. The room I’d been transported into was large and full of exposed timbers like a cabin. The floor was solid wood covered in thick rugs, some of which were animal skins. There was a fire and a sitting area at one end. At the other, a long dining table beneath a chandelier made from antlers.

Honestly, I was a little surprised about the amount of bitterness in my voice. I wondered if there was a point in masking it.

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