themselves. They cost me my face.”
“Sir?” Wessel was shocked by the admission.
“I didn’t always wear a mask to hide my features,” Ragnarok replied, his voice distant as if he were remembering. Not until the day I met Captain Hawkins and his me….
*****
Ragnarok spun towards the door of the room he was hiding in an instant before it burst inward. The young man that stood in the door was muscular beneath the tight leather flying clothing he wore, and while Ragnarok did not fear mere physical strength, he was wary of this man who was no more than a boy, with the bright blue eyes that glittered like polar chips beneath dark eyebrows.
“Hawkins!” Ragnarok roared. He summoned his mystical energy, drawing it into his fist.
“I mean to stop you, Ragnarok! I won’t allow you to destroy the ship!”
Hawkins’ voice was as flat and cold as the blade of guillotine.
Ragnarok clenched his fist, letting the power build in his body - a spell of power that would burn his foe’s bones to dust within his body - but before he could release it, Hawkins had crossed the room and slammed a fist across his jaw. Ragnarok flew backward and the power he had summoned dissipating like so much spilled milk as his concentration fractured. He fell to the deck of the passenger liner, groaning in pain.
His weakness surprised him; it had been a long time since he had taken a mortal form.
Hawkins moved in closer. Ragnarok summoned a blast of energy - relatively mild for its hastiness - and sent it snaking from his hands to the American interloper that had emerged to foil his plans.
Hawkins flew backwards, his brown hair standing on end, and hit the deck, but just as quickly rolled and sprang to his feet with a pistol in his hand. It fired just as Ragnarok raised his hands.
Flame erupted around the mystic, a supernova in the tiny passenger berth. Hawkins jumped back, his eyebrows singed by the heat as Ragnarok ran for the door, then gripped the railing and plummeted over into the sea below….
*****
“Hawkins nearly destroyed me. The people in that plane, they are of the same sort. If we catch them, we kill them immediately,” Ragnarok told him.
Hans Wessel nodded in agreement. “I plan to destroy them if we catch them,” Wessel said.
“We cannot allow them to reach the Emerald of Eternity before we do!” Ragnarok insisted.
“They won’t,” Wessel replied between clenched teeth.
“If they do,” Ragnarok stated, matter-of-factly, “you shall die.”
“They won’t!” Wessel hissed through teeth clenched so hard they hurt.
Chapter Eight
Mike Hannigan stepped away from the plane on wobbly legs. Once he was a safe distance from the edge of the river, he dropped to his knees and kept his head down until the urge to vomit passed. After several long minutes, he felt someone’s presence behind him. Hannigan looked over his shoulder.
Gregor Shotsky stood there. “You okay?”
“As well as expected after being tossed around like a bird in a hurricane while being shot at by fighter planes,” he shrugged weakly.
“Always the joker, Michael.” Shotsky’s voice dropped, his tone becoming solemn.
“The girl, she worries for you. If you are ready, you should go back to the plane and let her know you are okay.”
“Right,” Hannigan tried to climb to his feet but he found that his legs still felt like India rubber.
Shotsky reached down and slipped his hands under Hannigan’s arms and hauled him to his feet.
“Thanks, Gregor.” His legs weren’t shaking quite as badly now. Maybe the adrenaline rush that had fueled his actions in the air was finally wearing
“Sir?” Wessel was shocked by the admission.
“I didn’t always wear a mask to hide my features,” Ragnarok replied, his voice distant as if he were remembering. Not until the day I met Captain Hawkins and his me….
*****
Ragnarok spun towards the door of the room he was hiding in an instant before it burst inward. The young man that stood in the door was muscular beneath the tight leather flying clothing he wore, and while Ragnarok did not fear mere physical strength, he was wary of this man who was no more than a boy, with the bright blue eyes that glittered like polar chips beneath dark eyebrows.
“Hawkins!” Ragnarok roared. He summoned his mystical energy, drawing it into his fist.
“I mean to stop you, Ragnarok! I won’t allow you to destroy the ship!”
Hawkins’ voice was as flat and cold as the blade of guillotine.
Ragnarok clenched his fist, letting the power build in his body - a spell of power that would burn his foe’s bones to dust within his body - but before he could release it, Hawkins had crossed the room and slammed a fist across his jaw. Ragnarok flew backward and the power he had summoned dissipating like so much spilled milk as his concentration fractured. He fell to the deck of the passenger liner, groaning in pain.
His weakness surprised him; it had been a long time since he had taken a mortal form.
Hawkins moved in closer. Ragnarok summoned a blast of energy - relatively mild for its hastiness - and sent it snaking from his hands to the American interloper that had emerged to foil his plans.
Hawkins flew backwards, his brown hair standing on end, and hit the deck, but just as quickly rolled and sprang to his feet with a pistol in his hand. It fired just as Ragnarok raised his hands.
Flame erupted around the mystic, a supernova in the tiny passenger berth. Hawkins jumped back, his eyebrows singed by the heat as Ragnarok ran for the door, then gripped the railing and plummeted over into the sea below….
*****
“Hawkins nearly destroyed me. The people in that plane, they are of the same sort. If we catch them, we kill them immediately,” Ragnarok told him.
Hans Wessel nodded in agreement. “I plan to destroy them if we catch them,” Wessel said.
“We cannot allow them to reach the Emerald of Eternity before we do!” Ragnarok insisted.
“They won’t,” Wessel replied between clenched teeth.
“If they do,” Ragnarok stated, matter-of-factly, “you shall die.”
“They won’t!” Wessel hissed through teeth clenched so hard they hurt.
Chapter Eight
Mike Hannigan stepped away from the plane on wobbly legs. Once he was a safe distance from the edge of the river, he dropped to his knees and kept his head down until the urge to vomit passed. After several long minutes, he felt someone’s presence behind him. Hannigan looked over his shoulder.
Gregor Shotsky stood there. “You okay?”
“As well as expected after being tossed around like a bird in a hurricane while being shot at by fighter planes,” he shrugged weakly.
“Always the joker, Michael.” Shotsky’s voice dropped, his tone becoming solemn.
“The girl, she worries for you. If you are ready, you should go back to the plane and let her know you are okay.”
“Right,” Hannigan tried to climb to his feet but he found that his legs still felt like India rubber.
Shotsky reached down and slipped his hands under Hannigan’s arms and hauled him to his feet.
“Thanks, Gregor.” His legs weren’t shaking quite as badly now. Maybe the adrenaline rush that had fueled his actions in the air was finally wearing
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