Valkyrie of Desire

10. The Volcanic Vagina

I chase down a deer and rip its throat out

I bury my face in its fuzzy neck

Blood pumps against my teeth, a gamy stink

My arms hug its heaving breast

As it dies, I rest, warm and content

—Jax the Axe

Hildr gulps milk, creamy yellow and warm. She paid extra to ensure it came from a tin bucket that sat under a cow at dawn. The liquid fat satiates, unwinding kinks in her thoughts and smoothing tension from her body. Why do sugar-burners deny the magic of the fat-burning life?

A breeze blows open the curtains of the townhouse window, making her squint as the midmorning sun lights up her pale face. She gasps and turns on her bench, wiping a white mustache away with her bare arm.

In a shadowed corner, Apple grunts and stretches over his gut to shove away a plate of glistening bacon. Grease spills as it slides across his dining table towards her.

"Careful, I can drink that." Hildr dips her finger in a spot of oil and licks it.

He says, "Had them stop before it got crispy, like ya wanted."

She lifts a limp strip to her nose. There is a hint of oak, ash, and pine. She shudders, sucking in a string of drool. Flavoring meat to perfection is worth a forest of trees. She stuffs her mouth with piece after piece, moaning as she chews.

Apple whistles. "The pleasure on your face from that bit of pork beats any joy I've given a woman."

"Overgoddess of fire and flame, passion from tongue to stomach and brain." Hildr hands him a dripping piece. "This tribute forges our bond again."

He bows his head and nibbles an end. "Salty."

Hildr frowns. "Nothing else?"

He raises a bushy eyebrow. "What—"

"That was a prayer to Phoenix. Where is your reverence?"

"The Purge." He burps and chuckles. "The demigods were the watchdogs of devotion. Without them, I suppose I've grown lax."

Pre-Purge, the man would have clapped his hands together or done some other dramatic motion to commit. Divine reverence no longer ensures his loyalty, and Hildr's depleted sexuality cannot be relied on to replace it.

Apple smacks his lips and leans towards her. "How's about a bit of that bovine juice?"

Hildr hugs her milk bucket with a wrinkled brow. "All mine." She tips it and drinks deep, spilling a little on her pale pink dress.

"Come on, Sweet Peach."

"Tomorrow, get your own."

"With your coin?"

She burps and drums her fingers on the tabletop. "You spent most of mine paying off your tab at Alleyway. What could cost so much?"

The old man sinks into his chair and scratches at his mess of white hair.

"Confess to me, or I'll bring in Agastache. She's begging for an excuse to put you back on that shame box."

"Okay, okay." He waves his hands. "So, whoring is outlawed, but the wenches can still charge to flirt and say sweet things. I only meant to pay a few coppers, make up for some missed payments. But ... that brute of a bartender saw the glitter of your gold quarter." He shrugs. "I'm not a fighter."

"Clearly."

Hildr runs her plate across her tongue and sighs. For richer or poorer, this is the man she choose to protect her until her baby is born.