Carrie’s Christmas Viking
Page 3
His green-hazel eyes said more, in the silence that followed. That she was beautiful to him, precious, worth any danger. Over his head, hung on a roof beam, a spray of mistletoe shone ripe with berries, the promise of kisses...
“Take me to bed,” she whispered. “Let me be a whole woman again.”
The instant she spoke, Carrie closed her eyes, appalled to have made her need known. Yet, even as she waited for scalding scorn, as she had experienced from Jack whenever he did not “feel like it”, she felt herself plucked off her chair and cradled, in steady arms that would never drop her. Another swift rush and the soft coverlet cushioned her tingling limbs. Eric placed her on the bed as if she were the most delicate of wind flowers.
“Carrie?”
His hesitant question was everything—trust, care, respect.
She opened her arms to him.
Chapter 4
Eric opened his eyes. He was in a grey swirl of mist again, only this time, stepping out of the fog was the witch, clad in a shimmering gown of silver and gold. He glared at her.
“The first time in years and you stop my time with a woman!”
Elfrida smiled more widely, utterly unrepentant. “You are not ready.”
“Not ready!” He pointed at himself, the need so strong in him he ached.
“Carrie deserves someone who calls her by name at the very least. She will consider your time together to be another dream and take no hurt from it.”
“What of mine, Madam?”
Elfrida shook her head until her braids tumbled in spears of fire over her shoulders. “All men, such boys,” he thought he heard her mutter, and she snapped her fingers. He felt a jolt run over him, like a dash of icy water, and the tightness in his pants diminished.
“Thinking again, are we?” she asked, with deadly sweetness. “With your wits and not other parts?”
He folded his arms and looked out to the sea—where the sea should be in this maze of fog. “What do you want?”
“You were the one proclaiming her kindness. Would you take advantage of it? Have you learned nothing through the ages, Eric North-man?”
Loathing the fact that she was right, Eric scraped at a patch of mist with his booted foot. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.
“Better,” Elfrida approved.
“Are you also asleep?” he asked, and she laughed, sounding and looking much younger.
“How else do we speak together?” she replied. “Speak and understand?”
The idea of them communicating across such distances of time made his brain spin. Dizzy, he looked about, realizing he was back in Carrie’s cottage, not as a statue but as himself, and more, Elfrida was with him.
She leaned over the bed, gazing at the sleeping Carrie. “Your lady has a look of my sister Christina, with more dash and fire.”
“She is not mine,” Eric protested, wishing it were true.
“But your lady, yes?”
“If only!”
The red-head jerked her face up to his, her amber eyes bright as molten iron. Eric almost took a step back, stopping when it meant that Carrie might be in the line of a witch’s anger. He spread his arms protectively in front of her sleeping form, glancing about for his shield, and glared when he heard the tiny snort.
“You will do, sir Viking.”
The witch turned to study Carrie anew and Eric was struck by how dainty the two women were. Dressed in her long gown, with green ribbons threaded through her long hair and braids, Elfrida seemed a Christmas fairy, though, he sensed, far more dangerous. Carrie, curled like a hedgehog in her bed, the tip of her nose peeping out from the duvet, was pale as a primrose, her blond locks a spilling fall of light over the bed end. In a dark blue, embroidered nightdress—and had she been wearing that earlier?—she looked like a queen from a Russian folk tale.
“She is strong.” Elfrida touched a rambling curl of Carrie’s hair. “She needs to be.”
“Why?” Eric tensed, waiting for the answer. This was the crux, he knew, the reason he was here now, and awake.
“What do you know of Cliff Reach?”
“It is her home,” said Eric at once, crouching so he could hear Carrie’s soft breathing and smell the sweet scent of her skin. “Mine, too, I suppose.”
“Her family have dwelt in this place for years, as masters of the shrine.” Elfrida held up a narrow hand to prevent his eager questions. “No matter that their purpose was lost, the shrine remained and the family abide. So long as they do, no harm will enter.”
Eric wished again for his shield, and this time, saw it, propped at the foot of the bed where it had not been a moment before. Slipping his arm through the straps, he put it as a wall between Carrie and the world. “What kind of harm?” he asked then.
“Some evil spirits and demons can cross water, even over the sea.”
“In this age?” Eric queried, with raised brows, shooting a glance at Carrie’s mobile phone, at the baubles she had piled in the window as holiday decorations. “Few believe in such.”
“Does an angry god need anything but people’s hatred?”
Eric scowled, their conversation becoming too philosophical for his taste. “Did you talk this way with Magnus?”
“At times.” Elfrida seemed amused for an instant, but then grew solemn. “Denzil believes, and he means to stir trouble.”
“I thought Denzil was your problem. He’s dead to me.”
“His descendant.”
“Sins of the father, Elfrida Magnus-wife? Truly?” It felt petty but glorious, to scold the little witch, however gently.
Elfrida’s eyes became shuttered. “Not all are like their fathers, I agree,” she said slowly, “but your lady is in danger. No—”
She stopped his protest with a flick of a finger. “I cannot see everything of the future, only glimpses. Ley-lines are a part. This cottage is on the line of Saint Michael’s, a strong line of earth magic, old magic. Denzil wants it for something.”
Eric thought the talk of magic had gone on for long enough, it was time to be practical. “The only man who wants here is Carrie’s useless ex-husband and that for malice, the bastard, though he’s not called Denzil.”
Eric expected his dream-companion to disapprove of his swearing, but instead, she paled.
“What does he look like? Tall? Thin? Scraggy ginger hair?”
“I’ve not seen him.”
“Do not let him enter. He must not enter freely, or by invitation, understand?”
Her intensity chilled him, more so when she spun about, taking in the Christmas decorations for seemingly the first time. “It is winter here.”
Eric nodded, unsure why that mattered, starting when she snapped her fingers at him.
“Winter, the dark time of the year, coming to the longest night of the year. Denzil means a great magic working then, at the Solstice, warping the ley lines! Just as his forebear did, stealing away brides for sacrifice. I have to prevent it, somehow, before it is too late.”
Matching her agitation, the mist swirled and the red-haired witch vanished. He reached out to where she had been, then turned back to the sleeping Carrie.
Elfrida is mistaken. This is my time now, the time I have awakened.
“I will stop him,” he said aloud, his vow sinking into the silence of the cottage. He lay down again beside his lady, determined to protect her.
Denzil will not get in.
Chapter 5
Carrie woke, clear-headed and refreshed. Singing a carol under her breath, she lifted Eric out of her bed and popped him back onto the windowsill, smiling as she considered her recent dreams.
If only my Viking did come to life. We could sail or fly to Vinland together.
A rapping on the door broke her happy reverie.
“Cal! We need to talk!”
A face and a mop of ginger hair appeared at her window. Carrie flicked the curtains closed and slid across the tiles to ensure the door was bolted.
“You need to stop this
immaturity. Cal—” She heard Jack take a deep breath before continuing in a wheedle. “Please. We can work something out.”
She didn’t want to talk to him, or look at him.
“I’m not leaving until you let me in.”
You need to go to work soon, her conscience started up. She ignored it. The Scone and Seagull can do without me for a day. I’ve not taken any holiday this year, so I’m due.
“We don’t need lawyers coming between us, Cal.”
No, your personal assistant Jocasta did that quite well.
“Just a few moments of your time, that’s all I ask.”
Carrie clenched her fists. A cold determination, one that had seen her through her grandfather’s final illness, made her watch and hear the world about her in utmost clarity. The surge of the sea, the spit of the fire, the cool, living green of the holly all strengthened her. She looked across to her Viking and Eric was there, his shield raised, ready to guard. He does not want me to leave, either.
“Darling...” The romantic term was marred by the shocking flurry of knocks and kicks her ex gave the door. “Will you come on?”
Was I ever so foolish as to consider this creature any kind of husband? To be afraid of his judgments? I must have been bewitched. The sudden insight ran through Carrie’s mind like the warm, protective silk of Eric’s dream-embrace, allowing her to forgive herself, to reassert her strength. “No,” she answered softly, “I will not.”
Reluctant as she was to engage with this unwelcome visitor, she called out, a prelude to getting rid of him, “Why do you want Cliff Reach, Jack?”
As expected, he blustered, something about prime real estate and bargains. Carrie waited until he had wound down, with a final “So what do you say, Cal?”
“I want you to leave.”
“But the clock is ticking!”
“Let it. I am not interested.”
Instead of an answer, Jack bellowed incoherently, slamming his body against the doorframe. The wood groaned like a living thing and a splinter broke off and fell onto the doormat.
Carrie snatched up her phone to dial 999 for the police, even though she knew they would not stop Jack before he broke in. As she heard the call ringing in the distant station the oak door shuddered, almost seeming to buckle.
“Stay out!” she yelled, skating across the tiles to brace the ancient planks with her body. The room was full of sawdust and shadows and the hinges screamed. With a hefty kick the lock gave way and a white scrabbling hand appeared as a disembodied voice asked, “Which Service?”
“All of them!” Carrie flung herself against the yawning gap, desperate for it to close, beating everything in sight with her phone.
“You’re not passing,” said a familiar voice behind her. A massive hand, more of a paw than a fist, drew her safely out of range then spread across the fractured wood, keeping it all in place. Eric towered over her and leaned on the wood. The grasping white hand vanished and the door snapped closed again.
“I’ll be back!” Jack howled. “You and your toy-boy won’t get away with this!”
“Why don’t you admit the truth?” Eric spoke above the shouts and new riot of kicks as if Jack was a toddler in a tantrum. “Why not say what you mean? Or is the ley of the land too hard?”
Abruptly, there was silence outside.
“What?” Carrie began, but Eric shook his head, a warning full in his eyes.
“Fine!” Jack spat, after a ragged inhale. “Fine! But there’s something of mine in there and I will have it, and I don’t mean that mewly, two-faced cow! I never wanted her anyway!”
There was the rapid drumming of feet, the roar of a car engine and the hectic spin of wheels as Jack departed with the stink of burned rubber.
Numbly, Carrie realized her phone was broken, its pink cover in pieces over the floor.
“Have you a wood-axe, timber, nails? To repair things?”
Eric’s patient questions returned her a little to herself. “Outside toilet,” she mumbled, her jaw stiff as she tried not to shiver. “Toolbox—”
Her legs no longer holding her up, she sank to the floor. “What happened just now?”
“Up you come. Sit by the fire. I’ll make us a hot drink.”
Moments later, she was swaddled in the duvet, Eric was building up the fire and pressing a mug of tea into her chilled fingers.
“He was like an animal.” Carrie managed a sip of scalding tea, though a bit dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Her instincts and mind were at war, one part screaming at her to flee, another to fight, while a cold, flinty reason told her to stay here.
“I’ve seen berserkers go that way, but they can be killed all the same.”
“We can’t murder!”
“Leave the ginger one to me.” Eric crouched beside her. Alive again, he remained bare-chested, stripped of his armour and seemingly impervious to the cold. His dark-blond hair swung about his face while he took a drink of tea. Carrie blinked and put her mug in the hearth, surprised at her keen desire to touch this new change. And why did I not notice earlier, especially when Jack taunted him as a toy-boy?
“When did you hack off your beard?”
His hazel-green eyes took on a quizzical light. “Grooming questions now?” As she continued to look at him steadily, he picked up her tea and proffered it. A slight rose colour dusted his tanned features, or it could have been the light from the fire.
“Once, when you talked to me, you wondered how I would be without the beard. I wondered, too.” He rubbed his bare chin. “This is the result.”
“Looks good.” Swiftly, before she lost her nerve, Carrie touched a thumb to his cheekbone and traced the strong planes of her companion’s face. Eric did this for me.
“But you still can’t kill,” she said, returning to the threat and Jack’s grim promise.
He said he never wanted me. Was our marriage a sham? Had Jack’s whole pursuit been to win this cottage? But why?
Eric rose to his feet, glancing to the ruined door. “I am a guardian. Your kindred made me so, and with my past, I cannot be other.”
“Please, Eric. We have the police, the courts.”
“They have protected you well so far?” He sighed at her no doubt mutinous glare. “I swore to keep that wolf from you.”
“But why?” This time, she voiced the question.
“Later. Let me get these timbers secured first.”
She saw the sense in that. “You will tell me?”
“Yes. And I will do what is needed, no more, no less.”
That concession was as far as she could take him, Carrie guessed. Despite his knowledge of English and some modern customs, he was, at heart, a warrior. “So be it,” she agreed, and as if by mutual unspoken agreement, they both turned to the business of repairing and securing the door.
The day wore on, the hours running swiftly into the next like the flow of the tides. Despite her calling them, the emergency services did not appear, a fact which made Carrie both relieved and wary. Eric strengthened the door, somehow repaired the lock and chopped wood for the fire. Carrie baked—cooking soothed her as little else could, although Eric may do better for me in that area than my making fresh bread—and collected more holly from the garden. She filled the windowsill with it.
“Prickly,” she remarked, as Eric gave the mass of greenery a curious stare. “Should we look for whatever he said he’d left here?” No need to name the “he” she meant.
“Let’s finish the rest first.” Out in the tiny yard with the door ajar on a glinting new chain that Eric insisted she use, her come-to-life Viking tossed the wood-axe deftly into the chopping block, shook himself like a wet dog and cracked his knuckles. “What’s the date today?” he asked suddenly.
“December 21st, the shortest day.”
She saw him stiffen, then resume his gathering of wood logs. “The longest night,” he said, turning it about, and rose his head to the setting sun. “We should hurry. Can the window be shuttered?”
“Good,” came the reply and a quieter, “Pray God and the Norns it holds.”
Carrie slipped the chain off and hurried outside, to be overtaken a few strides later by her companion. “I’ll bring the board,” he said.
She nodded, aware he could shift it more easily than she. “Best be quick,” she added, looking at the red-and-gold-tinged waves.
Sitting by the small fire that could be rapidly added to, to create a blaze, Eric spoke the truth of his heart.
“Whatever comes tonight, this has been the best of days for me.”
Carrie touched his thigh briefly, a sign of agreement. His senses stirred, hotter than the tongues of flame, but he remained still. Her former husband denied their marriage this morning. Guard her, even against yourself.
He had a glimpse of this Jack earlier, while keeping the man out. He was, as Elfrida had described him, tall, scrawny and ginger. A Denzil for sure, and up to no good.
“More bread, cheese, dates?” Carrie asked, returning Eric to the present.
“Please.” He was not truly hungry, but sensed it gave her joy to feed him. “I’ll make more tea.”
She grinned at him. “You and tea!”
“Near as good as mead,” he replied, with a wink, “but not quite.”
They moved easily to the tiny kitchen, completing their tasks without colliding. Back beside the fire, lounging on the rug, Carrie drummed her fingers anxiously on the hearth.
“I tell you the rest?” he prompted, though a huge part of him dreaded her reaction.
She pursed her lips and glanced at the deep windowsill where he had once stood. “You must,” she agreed reluctantly. “Though it is unbelievable,” she added.
“I agree,” he admitted, and their eyes met in perfect understanding.
Swiftly, before he lost his nerve, Eric explained then of Joseph Denzil, the necromancer and enemy of Elfrida and Magnus, and how his descendant or reincarnation wanted Cliff Reach. That he had been warned not to allow the man she knew as Jack, her ex, to enter the cottage by invitation.