Chapter 10 : The Vanir

by

"Are you okay?" Dean asked me as I pinched the bridge of my nose.

I nodded. Of all the times for my brain to catch fire, it had to be right now. I gripped the banister tightly as we waited for the professor, and I groaned loudly, trying my best to focus on what was happening.

I could barely even open my eyes.

"Here," he muttered as he turned around slowly and pulled a flask from the interior pocket of his leather jacket. I looked him up and down quizzically. He already thought I was a drunk, and he was offering me a flask. "Just take it," he insisted as he pushed it into my chest. "Today, before he comes down."

I twisted the lid up and tossed it back, cringing as the burn rushed down my throat.

"How long have you had headaches like this?"

I handed him back the flask and shrugged. "A couple months now, I guess."

Dean's brow raised in disbelief, and he stared at me oddly for a few minutes. "Months? How many? Like five or six?"

I shook my head. "No, just the last two or so."

"Does anything happen when you get them?"

"Yeah," I shot at him. His voice was pinging off each side of my skull. "I get this overwhelming urge to shoot loud takers in the throat."

He rolled his eyes at my sarcasm and leaned forward, the seriousness of his questions making me retreat slightly. "I meant weird stuff... Visions? Things moving?"

"If you're looking for a reason to shoot me, Dean, I will gladly give you one."

"As much as I would love to," he paused as an upstairs door slammed shut. "I'm being serious. Nothing weird ever happens?"

"It's a headache."

He nodded. "Yeah, but -"

"It's a headache, Dean." I turned away from him and shoved a stick of gum in my mouth as footsteps started down the steps. I managed to force a smile as the grey-haired professor stepped towards us with a smile on his wrinkled face.

"You must be the young lady that sent me the email." He outstretched his hand, and despite every urge to give him a curt nod, I held my shaky hand up and shook his cold fingers gently. "Pardon my manners, but I've been up all night reading thesis papers. I don't quite remember your name."

I smiled and let out a small laugh. "Andrea, Andrea King."

He gave me a half-smile and his gaze settled on Dean, who seemed far more interested in the half-naked woman painted. I rolled my eyes at him, but he smiled like a five-year-old at the painting until I stomped on his boot.

He jumped slightly and glared at me before turning his attention to the professor and introducing himself as my research assistant. They shook hands, and despite every part of me is telling me not to, I let him take the lead and feel back behind them, cringing at the pain in my head.

"So, you say you're interested in local lore?"

"Yes, sir," Dean was quick to step in. "Specifically Pagan ideology."

"Well, I'm afraid Indiana isn't quite known for its Pagan worship."

"Well, what if it was imported?" My ears perked up at the question."You know, like the pilgrims brought their religion over. Wasn't a lot of this area settled by immigrants?"

The professor nodded, confirming Dean's information.

I was flabbergasted, but it quickly turned to anger as I realized that the only way he would have known that was if he had done his own research or if he had read my journal. He side glanced at me, and when he noticed the look on my face, he quickly stepped forward, keeping pace with the speed walking grandfather of a man in front of him.

"Like that town near here, Burkittsville, I think it is. Where are their ancestors from?"

"Uhh, Northern Europe, I believe. Scandinavian."

I stepped closer, trying to process the information as it lingered back to me.

"What can you tell us about their Pagan Gods?"

The professor stopped in front of his door and laughed gently. "Well, there are hundreds of Norse Gods and Goddesses."

"Well, we're just looking for information on one," I said, coming between the two of them. "I believe it would live in an orchard. I found some bits online, but Wikipedia isn't exactly an acceptable college source."

"My dear child," he laughed as he let us in. "Wikipedia is never an acceptable source."

Dean smiled childishly and tipped on his heels. "Which is why we are here."

"Indeed," the professor muttered as we piled into his office.

Dean and I stood by the doorway as he slowly skimmed through the wall of books that cluttered his office. The tension in my head had eased a bit, and I found enough energy to glare up at Dean, who was trying his damnedest not to look me in the eye.

"Pilgrims, huh?" I muttered lowly as the professor hummed to himself.

Dean glanced down and nodded, but before I could say anything, the professor pulled down a large leather-bound book and dropped it down onto the mahogany desk.

"I believe you are looking for a Wood's God," he said as he anxiously started flipping through the pages, but as he was about to pass a stark resemblance, Dean slammed his finger down onto the page and gave me a knowing look.

"What's this one?

The professor pulled his glasses from his face and sighed deeply, almost knowingly. "That's not a wood's God per se."

"The Vanir?" Dean looked up at him for confirmation that he was pronouncing it correctly before continuing. "The Vanir were Norse Gods of protection and prosperity. Keeping the local settlements safe from harm. The villages built effigies of Vanir in their fields, other villages practiced human sacrifice. One male and one female."

And we have a winner.

"Kinda looks like a scarecrow, huh?"

"I guess so," the professor seemed as if he was starting to worry. The confused look on his face, mixed with the rapid rise and fall of his chest, only made me more anxious. He knew something, and I had a feeling that it was more than just what was going on a few towns over.

I stepped back, trusting Dean to get the last bit of information we needed, and made my way to the door. I had a feeling the professor wasn't going to confirm a kill plan, and I needed to call John. This was originally his hunt. He had to know how to kill it.

I pulled the door open slowly, but too much to my dismay, I walked straight into the barrel of a shotgun. On instinct, my hand went up to grab it, but I quickly realized that if I were to maneuver my way out of this, a misfire would most likely end up hitting Dean behind me. So I slowly looked up, following the cold barrel to the ashy hands holding it and up the blue uniform dawned with a sheriff's badge.

"You've gotta be kidding me?" I growled as I stood face to face with the officer that ran us out of town, and as I turned my head towards Dean, who was still reading from the book, I felt the cold hard plastic of the stock crack me in the temple...