Thunderstruck, p.1
Thunderstruck, page 1
part #1 of VanAesir Series
Take a hot-tempered guitarist, a mischievous drummer, and a kickass bassist, and you get VanAesir, one of the hottest underground Viking death metal bands in Seattle.
But the road to the top is an endless struggle, especially for Tor Hagen, lead guitarist of VanAesir and walking disaster for all electronics. Getting through a set without a hitch is a challenge for Tor, whose uncontrollable lightning abilities are amplified through his uniquely crafted guitar, Myollnir.
A few days before one of the largest metal events in the country, Tor wakes up to find his beloved Myollnir has been stolen. With a little help from his friends Frida Winters and Luca Ingram, Tor must do whatever it takes to get it back—even if gaffs and corsets are involved.
A hilarious and snarky contemporary retelling of the Norse mythology story The Lay of Thrym from Poetic Edda.
Thunderstruck
(VanAesir, Book 1)
By Marie Long
Copyright © 2023 by Marie Long
All Rights Reserved.
www.marielongauthor.com
Published by Chikara Press
www.ChikaraPress.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book.
Cover by Fiona Jayde Media
eISBN: 978-1-960253-03-3
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author
Chapter 1
Tor Hagen peered through the gaps of the outdoor stage’s crisscrossing steel scaffolding at the shouting, rowdy, headbanging crowd clamoring for an encore from the band onstage, Stingray Armageddon. The five-member group was a household name in Los Angeles’s underground death metal community and was among Tor’s most admired bands. It boggled his mind that such an elite band wasn’t headlining. But at the annual Death by Metal festival, the bands performed in no particular order.
From his vantage point backstage, the crowd, which appeared to be ten thousand strong, seemed daunting. A layer of sweat formed on Tor’s palms. He swallowed, his heart beginning to pound. No one outside of Seattle really knew about VanAesir. How in Helheim was his trio expected to top Stingray Armageddon?
Tor inhaled a long, deep breath. The members of Stingray Armageddon took a bow, and the open field echoed with approving screams and roars.
Someone slapped Tor on the shoulder, and he looked back at his drummer, protégé, and best friend, Luca Ingram.
“Dude, you’re just making things worse for yourself, looking out there,” Luca said, giving him an amused grin.
Tor clenched his jaw. “How are you not nervous, having to perform right after them?”
Luca chuckled. “I’m excited, not nervous. This could be our big ticket to go places, y’know?”
“By putting us right after Stingray Armageddon? Who assembled this crazy line-up?”
“Who cares? We’re finally getting the exposure we deserve. Let’s give that crowd a reason to love us.” Luca spun one of his wooden drumsticks between his fingers.
“Just don’t blow up the amps again.” Frida Winters adjusted the strap on her gold-and-chrome six-stringed bass then fluffed out the feathers of her black bolero. The amber gemstones of her golden necklace twinkled under the overhead stage lights. She fixed Tor with a stern look. “If you don’t want to foot the bill for another damaged piece of stage equipment, control your damned powers this time.”
Exasperated, Tor raked his fingers through his hair. He and his friends were among a small population of the world who possessed certain powers or abilities that manifested during puberty. Their kind were called Effigies, believed to be touched by an unknown magical entity that was not of this world. For Tor, his power was electric energy that sometimes got channeled into whatever he was touching if he got too deep into the music. On stage, that meant his beloved electric guitar, Myollnir.
“What’re you talking about, Fri?” Luca said. “The crowds love it when Tor goes berserk on stage. It’s, like, our band’s gimmick now.”
“I don’t want to be known as a fucking circus act,” Frida retorted. “Besides, Harold will be furious if we screw up our PR.”
Luca raised his eyebrows. “You’d rather Tor go back to playing drums, then?”
Tor cringed, remembering the first time his powers had manifested during VanAesir’s early years, when he’d started his career as drummer. He’d played fast and furious, and the thunderous sounds, amplified by his powers, reached an overwhelming volume, shattering every sound system. No drum shield or booth could contain the acoustic thunder Tor produced when he’d let loose, which hindered the band’s ability to create a decent song. As a result, Tor had retired from the drums and taken up lead guitar, which had quickly become his new love.
“Oh, gods, no.” Frida sneered.
Laughing, Luca took out another drumstick from his belt. “Yeah, I’m a way better drummer, anyway.”
Tor gave him a look. “I taught your sorry ass how to play drums!”
“Don’t hate because the student surpassed the master.”
The stage lights dimmed, and as Stingray Armageddon’s roadies began unplugging and packing up their band’s equipment, the event’s emcee, a young man with dozens of steel rings in his eyebrows, nose, and lips, ran out.
“What a kickass performance!” he boomed into the microphone. He threw up his hands and shook his head. The ends of his long, scraggly black hair cinched with a black bandana whipped across his face. The volume of the roaring crowd increased.
Backstage, Tor watched the last member of Stingray Armageddon leave, and the event’s tech crew and volunteer workers rushed on stage and began setting up the microphones, amplifiers, and Luca’s ten-piece drum kit. Unlike some of the other bands, VanAesir hadn’t yet employed their own road crew. Much of that decision was made by their band manager, Harold Larssen. Tor never understood Harold’s reasons for making certain decisions, but he tried his best to trust his judgement, as Harold was a man who possessed the power of limited foresight.
After the stage crew left, Tor took a deep breath and nodded to his bandmates.
Luca bounced on his heels. “Let’s go!”
“You guys are in for another treat tonight!” the emcee shouted as he paced the dimly lit stage under a following spotlight.
Tor, Luca, and Frida hustled out and got in place. Tor stepped up to his standing microphone, took one look at the crowd, and swallowed.
He wiped his clammy hands on his black jeans. He glanced sideways at Frida, who stood at the other mic, her head held high and fingers poised on her bass, ready to play. She didn’t acknowledge him and appeared deep in her own world. At least she’s not nervous.
“This year’s Death by Metal event is proud to present one of the hottest up-and-coming Viking death metal bands on the West Coast!” the emcee announced.
Tor looked over his shoulder at Luca, who sat behind his drum set. Luca caught his gaze, smirked, and nodded, as if he already had a plan in place if things went south during the set.
“It’s time! For! Vaaannn-Ae-seer!” The emcee hurried backstage. The stage lights went full up, bathing Tor and his friends in cool blue and white light. Luca tapped his drumsticks, setting the tempo, and together, the three of them launched into one of their most popular songs—“War Edda.”
Tor played the opening verse, strumming hard and growling the guttural war-chant lyrics into the microphone. He listened to the song in his mind, having played it repeatedly during practice and gigs, and his hands strummed autonomously while he let the music possess him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his hands emanating a soft white glow. He shook out of his brief trance and forced himself to be conscious of his playing again. The glow from his hands dissipated. But it wasn’t long before he slipped back into his trance, and as he strummed the lead-in to the second verse, a spark fizzled from his fingers. In between verses, he cringed, trying desperately to reel in his powers. Goose bumps made his skin prickle, and he shivered from a sudden rush of static shock. As the feeling subsided, Tor glanced at Frida, who returned an icy glare.
I can’t lose control now. I won’t lose control. His teeth sinking into his bottom lip, Tor broke into a riff. The crowd went wild, headbanging and jumping around to the beat, throwing up hand signs, and screaming as the power and energy of the song began firing them up. Tor began chanting the lyrics of the next verse and entered a trance as the music took hold of him once more. He no longer saw the thousands of raving metalheads before him, but the empty, dark field beneath an overcast sky reminiscent of his recurring dreams.
Alone he stands, ready for war. The gods are watching. From the depths of Muspelheim, the demons emerge…”
Tor blinked. For a moment, he was back on stage, playing. He bobbed his head, an auburn curtain concealing his face as he reached the bridge of the song, belting the lyrics in a low rumble. The music enveloped him, and he was back in his dream world, alone in the barren snowy field, looking up at the swirling clouds that threatened to unleash a hellish storm.
The white ground began to tremble, and a figure slowly emerged, its growing shadow rising higher, higher. Tor’s heart pounded in tune to the music’s tempo. Sweat poured down his forearms as he tilted his head back farther, farther. The shadowy mass resolved into a giant blue-grey-skinned creature that loomed over him, dwarfing him. Parts of its muscular body were intricately formed into spiked leather-like mythical armor. Tor couldn’t see the creature’s face, but he felt a sense of familiarity. The giant appeared whenever Tor entered this world. Whenever Tor played Myollnir. As if the music were a beacon for this unstoppable force. Like a curse Tor could never break.
And yet, Tor could not stop playing. The music kept driving him. Calling to him. Enveloping his conflicting mind in a haze that kept him in the seemingly unbreakable trance.
Drive them from the depths, by his thunderous reign. To Jotunheim, to the giants’ domain…”
Part of Tor’s subconscious sensed he was nearing the end of the song. His heart thrummed, anticipating what came next, and he wanted so desperately to suppress that feeling. He couldn’t lose control. Not tonight.
The giant extended its massive hand, and an equally large battle-axe appeared. The giant grasped the axe’s handle and stood poised, ready to attack.
The clouds formed ominous snakelike puffs, lighting up the sky with soft lightning, as if taunting him. Tor’s forearm tickled as the hairs stood on end in anticipation. The storm watched and waited.
From the wasteland. We strike. We strike. To the death. We strike.”
A bolt of lightning shot down from the ominous sky, hitting the ground just inches from the giant’s bare feet. Tor’s vision blurred in and out of reality. The barren land was electrified in a strange energy that drew him to the song’s final release.
Warriors, take up arms! We strike. We strike. We strike! We striiike!”
Tor growled at the top of his lungs, losing himself in his guitar solo. The image of the present world suddenly shifted, becoming one with the mythical world. His hands tingled, and he attacked Myollnir’s strings as he marched around the stage with furious, deliberate steps.
More lightning rained down from the sky, striking everywhere except the giant. A bolt struck somewhere into the crowd of the present world, but it seemed to pass through the stands like a ghost. Tor concentrated, fists clenched, his vision becoming a blue electric haze. The present world fizzled away, and he was once again standing in the voids of the mythical world. Fully charged and in a blissful state of uncontrolled freedom, Tor ran toward the giant as it swung its axe.
Then the mythical world fizzled to blackness.
At the outro, Tor roared and fell to his knees on stage, picking the final chord, the sounds blaring from the speakers. A rush of electric energy surged throughout his body, bleeding from his fingers, into Myollnir. The current was channeled through the guitar’s wire and straight into the amplifier.
Boom!
He jolted out of his trance, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. He was back in the present world, before the immense, rowdy crowd, who gave a deafening cheer. Sparks flew from the back of the amplifier sitting near him. An ear-piercing screech reverberated from one of the overhead speakers, then it exploded, showering sparks onto the stage. Tor jumped back as sparks landed near his feet while the crowd’s cheering continued. Tor looked to Frida, who glared at him. Luca grinned widely and gave him a thumbs-up.
The stage went dark. A spotlight appeared and focused on the emcee, who scrambled back on stage. “Holy shit, folks! VanAesir literally brought the house down!”
“VanAesir! VanAesir!” The chant pounded the air like thunder reinforced with stomping and clapping, demanding an encore.
“Sorry, guys, but that’s all from them for tonight.” He glared over his shoulder at Tor then turned back to the now-booing crowd. “We need to fix some technical difficulties before the next band. Sit tight, guys. I promise you, this night’s about to get wild!”
The boos from the crowd grew louder as three tech crew members rushed past and began tending to the blown amplifier. Another crew member began scaling one of the scaffolds.
The emcee turned off the microphone and approached Tor. “Get the hell out of here before you destroy something else.” He thumbed toward the exit.
Tor stared at the emcee. He couldn’t even keep it together for one song. Clenching his jaw, he yanked the cable from his guitar, stormed past Frida and Luca, and grabbed his guitar case. Backstage, he discovered the remaining three bands who were waiting to play, all wearing confused looks on their faces.
“Oh man, what happened out there?” one of the band members asked him.
Ignoring the question, Tor brushed past them and headed straight for the barricaded lot filled with the performers’ cars, tour buses, RVs, and trailers, which were parked in haphazard rows.
“One of the tech crew said an amp was blown,” Tor heard another person say.
“Damn, so the rumors were true about VanAesir? No wonder people hate playing after them.”
Gritting his teeth, Tor yanked open the door to the small trailer that was hitched to VanAesir’s rental SUV. He laid Myollnir in its case and set the case inside the trailer. Shutting the door, he swore repeatedly. I did it again. I fucking did it again! He got into the driver’s seat of the vehicle and ran his hands over his face, exasperated. The remnants of ozone scent on his hands reminded him of the disaster on stage.
His fingers slid down his face, and his eyes were suddenly drawn to a can of Warrior’s Stout, his favorite dry-hopped mead, sitting in the console’s cup holder. How’d that get there? He could definitely use a drink right about now. He swiped up the silver can and brought it to his lips.
“Dude! Stop kissing your phone and get out here!”
Tor jumped in his seat and frowned at Luca, who stood outside the driver’s side window, smirking. Tor looked back at his mead and realized he was holding his cell phone. He threw the phone back into the console’s cup holder, and opened the door. “Damn it, Luca, stop with your fucking illusions.”
Luca shrugged innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t start…”
Luca held his hands up in surrender. “We’re not done here, yet. We still got our fans to impress.”
Tor shook his head. “We’re done. We’ve been kicked out.”
“What are you talking about? The crowd loved us! They’re still chanting our name. Let’s get back out there and give them an encore!”
“With what sound system?” Frida said, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door.
Tor’s shoulders slumped, and he gave Frida an apologetic look. “Hey, I’m sorry, Fri. I—”
“One song! We couldn’t even get through one fucking song before you completely destroyed our chance of success!” She crossed her arms and sulked. The feathers of her bolero rose, as if echoing her anger.
Tor sighed. She was right. He’d screwed things up. Again. How much longer until she ended up quitting the band because of it? His heart ached at the thought. She was the lifeblood of the band. There was no VanAesir without the complementing vibes of Frida’s bass. She was irreplaceable. And Tor would go insane if he had to retire Myollnir for good. “I’ll fix this somehow, Fri,” he said. “I swear, I will.”
