“Brynna?” Pia’s gentle voice brought me back. “I believe Agda wants you.”
I snatched the keys from Paul’s hand and tossed him a quick “I’ll go to the store for you, Paul. You go in and have dinner.”
“Do you know where it is?” he asked, following me to the door.
“Sure, I was there yesterday with Thor.” Paul’s younger brother had visited for the weekend, returning home after only two days with the family, the lucky duck. “I know exactly where it is. I’ll be back in a flash.” I gave a quick wave and dashed out to Paul’s car.
As I drove down the narrow path that led from the farm to the road, I didn’t wonder why my one-hundred-year-old great-grandmother Hildigunn Dahl continued to live in a house that was older than her, one filled with steps that had to be hard on arthritic hips. Located on the eastern coast of Sweden, halfway between the northern and southern tips, the Medelpad region was absolutely breathtaking. I’d already fallen in love with the Indalsälven River which came out of the north, the wild, rugged coastline, and the gorgeous heavily forested hills. Momo Hildi (“Momo” is Swedish for “Granny”) had been born in this farmhouse, where she lived with her daughter, my somewhat scary Aunt Agda, and Agda’s son and his family.
The road wound alongside the coast as I drove toward the town, whistling a happy “I’ve escaped” song.
My favorite area was coming up, a tiny stretch where the road sat twenty or so feet above an isolated, rocky beach. The waves pounded on the shore with ferocity, terns wheeling overhead while little shorebirds with flashing legs ran along the sodden sand and rocks. It was wild and untamed, and my heart rose at each sight of the area. I had begged Paul the day before to stop so that I could explore the bit of beach, but he muttered something about it having a bad reputation, and drove on.
“Bad reputation? What do you mean?” I had asked, craning my head as we drove past the beach.
“No one goes there. Even the fishermen give that stretch a wide berth. There’s a prettier area for you to go to a few kilometers to the north. I’ll take you there one of these days.”
“I don’t want to go to a pretty area. I want to see this part of the coast. It’s so…oh, I don’t know, primitive, I guess. You can practically see the Viking longboats setting out to sea.”
Paul jerked, sending the car into the opposite lane. An oncoming driver slammed on his brakes. Paul swore to himself and gave an apologetic wave as we returned to our lane, then slipped me an odd look.
“What?” I asked, confused by both his reaction and the questioning look.
The road curved away from the shore and back into the dense woodland, and I sat back with a sigh of disappointment.
“You said Viking longboats.”
“Yeah, so?”
He slid me another quick look. “It is said that ghosts haunt that area of the coast.”
I nearly laughed at the thought of my stodgy cousin believing in anything so ridiculous. “Viking ghosts in longboats?”
He nodded, his eyes on the road. “So it is said. The area is considered to be bad luck.”
That conversation came to my mind as I drove down the stretch of road that afforded such an excellent view of the (supposedly haunted) beach. I was just scanning the shoulders for a place to pull off the road, when a deer suddenly ran in front of me.
“Gah!” I slammed my foot down on the brake, jerking the car to the left, and the car skidded off the pavement, and over the side of the cliff. I screamed and threw my hands up over my head, sure I was about to meet my end. The car rocked and bucked as it hurtled down the slope to the rocky shore, headed straight for the water. The airbag exploded as the car slammed into the surf, spun a full circle, then crashed into a sharp boulder that jutted up out of the sea like a dagger’s point.
A dark, spinning nothing sucked me in, until the world I knew was utterly extinguished.
Two
“ …don’t normally like redheads, but this one is pretty. I bet her hair is curly when it’s dry. I wonder what color her eyes are?”
The man’s voice drifted through the hazy darkness that surrounded me in a soft, warm cocoon that bobbed ever so gently.
“It’s her nipples I wonder about. Don’t redheads have pink ones?”
“You have nipples on the mind, Torsten,” the first man said. I frowned, trying to remember something important, but it skittered away. “There’s more to a woman than her breasts.”
“Breasts are good,” said a third man with a very deep voice. I liked the first speaker’s voice the best; it had a rich timbre that made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
“I don’t dispute the importance of breasts, I simply mention that there is more to enjoy on a woman than just her breasts. All things considered…I’ll go with pink.”
Several male voices murmured their agreement.
The darkness that enveloped me shifted a little, and I frowned as I realized it was rocking slightly.
“Look, she’s scowling. I guess she’s not dead,” said a softer voice, with a heavy accent that didn’t sound quite Swedish.
“Of course she’s not dead,” said the good voice. Its accent was softer, more sing-song than the other one. “She’s a Valkyrie. She just got knocked out when she crashed into the sea.”
Crash? Valkyries? Was I dreaming?
“Thank God for…what are those called?”
“Airbags.”
Airbags? Oh my God, I wasn’t dreaming! In a rush, the plunge off the cliff came back to me, filling me with adrenaline.
“What the hell?” I shouted, my eyes popping open. I stared in bewilderment at the four male faces that peered down at me in concern. All of them were bearded except one young man; all had long hair.
“Blue eyes,” the nice voice said with satisfaction.
“It’s good to see you awake.” One of the faces beamed down at me. “Let’s hope for no brain damage.”
“Brain damage?” I reached up to touch my forehead, and was met by a warm, solid obstacle. I tilted my head back and discovered a fifth face, one that was upside down. It was by far the nicest of all the faces, with a short, reddish-blond beard covering a strong jaw, intriguing hazel eyes that were filled with concern, and a long, thin nose that bore a scar midway down, where an obvious break had sent the bone slightly off center. For some reason, the sight of his crooked nose made my stomach tighten pleasurably. “I don’t have brain damage, do I?”
“No,” the man told me. I realized then that I was lying in his lap, and it was his stomach my hand had run into while I was trying to feel my head. “You are probably a bit confused, though. Does anything hurt? We looked at your limbs but didn’t see any obvious breaks.”
I sent out a query to my arms and legs and was pleased with the results—although my head hurt, everything else seemed to be fine. “I think…I think I’m okay. I’d like to sit up.”
The man helped me up to a sitting position.
“What am I doing in a boat?” I stared around me in stunned surprise. I was sitting on the wooden floor of a boat, surrounded by five men clad in odd garments of leather and wool, with occasional bits of fur poking through, as if they were wearing historical garb. I blinked a couple of times, hoping my vision would clear. “And why were you guys speaking in English instead of Swedish?”
“Your Volvo crashed into the water. You were going to drown, so Alrik rescued you. Your passport was in your pocket, so we knew you were American,” the man with the very deep voice said. He had a round face, a dark beard and hair, and even darker eyes.
“I am Alrik Sigurdsson,” the man who had been holding me said. He looked even more handsome right-side up, although he, too, was clad in a linen tunic and wool pants with leather leggings.
“Are you guys some sort of reenactors?” Perhaps I’d stumbled across a group of history enthusiasts, or a movie set?
“Reenactors?” The man named Alrik frowned and glanced at the others.
“Yeah, you know, those people w
ho really get into history and reproduce old battles and things, right down to the costumes and weapons.”
Alrik’s frown cleared. “No. We are the real thing.”
I laughed. “Yeah, sure you are.” None of the men laughed with me. “You’re not…er…serious, are you?”
“Another unbeliever,” one of the men behind me said. I turned to look at him. He had hair almost as red as my own. He shook his head. “We’re going to have to show her.”
“Aye,” Alrik said, getting to his feet and stepping over me to join the other four men. The boat rocked slightly at his movements, causing me to gasp and clutch the side nearest me.
“A landsman, too,” the man with the round face said, looking disappointed.
I glanced toward the shore, trying to calculate how far out we were, and whether, if I jumped overboard, I’d be able to make it to solid land before one of these very strange men could reach me.
“You won’t make it,” Alrik said, correctly reading my thoughts. “We’re very fast swimmers.”
“Aye, we are,” said a blue-eyed man. The others nodded. “We’ve had centuries to practice.”
“Centuries?” I asked, scooching back a couple of feet. It was odd that this boat didn’t have any benches on it. I glanced around, noticing even more abnormalities—a stack of oars in the center, alongside a raised platform from which the mast rose, but no oarlocks. Instead, holes had been cut into the sides of the ship. I looked down, gently touching an iron rivet that had been pounded deep into the wood of the ship. I turned to look behind me, my eyes widening at the sight of a prow that rose at least six feet into the air, topped with an intricately carved dragon head. “This is a longboat. A replica Viking longboat?”
“Not a replica at all. We’d best show her, lads,” Alrik said, standing at the back of the boat. Despite my initial concern that we’d tip over if people moved around too much, the boat seemed remarkably stable. It was broad at the bottom, what they called a shallow draft, while the ends of the ship rose high fore and aft. Stacked neatly at intervals were wooden barrels, crates, and what looked to be iron-bound sea chests. The men stood as I carefully got to my feet. I noticed with disgust that they looked remarkably at ease, and didn’t cling to the side as I did.
“Show me what?”
“That is Bardi,” Alrik answered, nodding at the dark-haired, deep-voiced man.
“Hello,” I said politely. “I’m Brynna Lund.”
He put his hand on his chest, and bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Before I could do so much as blink, he disappeared. My jaw sagged a little as I looked in confusion to Alrik.
“And that is Bardi’s cousin, Grim,” he said, gesturing toward another dark-haired man, whose long beard had been split into two and braided.
“Grim?”
“Aye,” he said, then he, too, simply disappeared from sight.
I couldn’t help myself. I rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them, there were only three men remaining. “So…you’re a magician? A historical reenacting magician’s troupe? Or wait—this isn’t the Swedish version of Candid Camera, is it?”
“Jon is the redhead,” was all Alrik said.
Jon stepped forward, took my hand, and kissed my fingers. Then he blinked out like someone had turned off a switch.
“Okay,” I said slowly, backing up a step. “Um. You know, I think I really need to be running along now.”
“I’m Torsten,” a white-blond man said, grinning at me with such delight that my lips twitched in response. “I am very pleased you have come to save us. The last Valkyrie we had was not nearly so pretty.”
“Thank you. I think,” I said, watching him closely. Valkyrie?
His grin increased; then suddenly it was gone…along with the rest of him.
I looked to the last man remaining. Alrik stood with his arms over his chest, his legs braced wide. A sudden wind had the waves moving restlessly, which made the boat shift. I held firm to the side, but Alrik moved with the boat with the ease of one who’s spent his life on the water.
“So. As I see it, there are two possibilities—either I’ve gone insane, or I hit my head during the car crash and I’m being raced to the nearest hospital for immediate brain surgery, while hallucinating this very strange experience. Are you the aid unit person, or the brain surgeon that I’ve somehow incorporated into my fantasy?”
He walked forward until he stood right in front of me, his eyes an interesting mix of greens, browns, and gray that seemed to shimmer and shift with his expression. “I am Alrik Sigurdsson, as I have told you. I was born midsummer in the year 719 and died in 758.”
“You…died?” I stopped admiring his eyes and gawked for a moment.
“In a manner of speaking.” He grasped my shoulders with both hands, leaning in to me until his breath brushed my face. For one wild moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. What bothered me was how much I wanted him to do just that. “We’re cursed men, Brynna Lund. And we need your help.”
He was gone before I could so much as scream. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. I looked wildly around the now empty ship, waving my hands through the spot where just a second before Alrik had stood. I could still feel the warmth of his hands on my shoulders—how could he disappear like that?
“This has to be a trick,” I said, making my way down the boat by dint of clutching the side. I waved my free hand through the air, hoping to find…I don’t know what. “This is ridiculous. One minute I was driving down the road, and the next I’m on a longboat with people who think they’re Viking ghosts. This sort of thing simply does not happen!”
“It does, you know,” a voice said behind me. I spun around, but there was no one there.
“Over here,” another one said. Bardi popped into view.
I picked up a small hatchet that had been lying on top of a chest, and pointed it at him. “Okay, fun and games are over—”
He disappeared before I finished the sentence.
“Alrik was cursed by a witch, you see. She cursed all of us, too. We’ve been in this boat ever since then,” red-headed Jon said as he appeared next to me.
“You’re trying to drive me insane, aren’t you?” I asked him.
“No. We want you to save us,” he answered.
I reached toward him and his form dissolved into a vague, milky shape, as if he was hidden behind several layers of nearly transparent cloth. The ax I held passed effortlessly through him, causing the hairs on my arm to stand on end.
“You’re a Valkyrie, Brynna. You can help us. You can take us to Valhöll,” Alrik said from behind me.
I whipped around, narrowing my eyes at him. This wasn’t happening to me. It just wasn’t possible! I marched forward toward the Alrik hallucination, clutching the ax tightly, sure I would walk right through his image.
“Oof!” I said as I bumped into him. He grabbed my arms to keep me from falling, our bodies so close I could feel the heat of him through my thin linen shirt. His head dipped a tiny bit until his mouth was less than an inch from mine, those gorgeous eyes of his going more gray than hazel. “You’re real?”
“Very much so. Please help us, Brynna. Please take us to Valhöll.”
His lips brushed mine as he spoke, starting a burn deep inside me. I had an almost overwhelming desire to tilt my head up just a fraction of an inch, so his mouth would be pressed fully against mine, but a shred of dignity kept me from doing so. I never kissed men I had just met! Especially not ones who had been dead for almost thirteen hundred years. My mind did a double take at the fact that I was so willing to believe Alrik. It had to be an illusion of some sort. Didn’t it?
I reached up with both hands and grasped his wrists firmly. He wore gold metal bands on each one, but the flesh beneath them was warm and silky over steel muscles. “Now disappear,” I said, tightening my grip slightly.
“As you wish.” His lips brushed mine again as he spoke; then he leaned forward in a kiss that damn near burned my
mouth, it was so hot.
I opened my mouth to tell him that I wasn’t a naïve little girl to be seduced, but before I could draw in a breath to speak, he was gone, simply melting before my astonished eyes…and regretful lips.
My hands were in midair, holding nothing where a moment before Alrik’s wrists had been. I could still taste him on my lips, a faintly sweet, earthy taste, like that of the mead I’d once had at a Renaissance Faire.
“Oh dear God,” I said softly, my hands dropping to my sides as I absorbed the impossible fact that I’d just been kissed by the most incredibly sexy man I’d ever met…and he had been dead for more than a thousand years.
Three
N ope. Not buying it. I’m willing to admit that you guys are…er…”
“Ghosts,” Jon said.
“I’m sure the politically correct term is living impaired. I’ll concede that you’re not alive, because I prefer to go with that reality rather than to assume I’ve gone so very insane there will be no going back for me. But this bit about my being a Valkyrie? Nuhuh. I’m a secretary to an insurance salesman. I live with two cats and a deranged parakeet. I drink eight glasses of water a day. I’ve had only three boyfriends, none of whom lasted more than six months. I’ve never had a traffic ticket and don’t like rap music. I’m probably the most white bread, boring person in the world—in short, I could not be less Valkyrie-like if I tried.”
All five ghosts were back now, sitting or standing around where I was perched on top of a barrel. The longboat seemed to drift aimlessly, her sails down, the steering paddle in the back raised out of the water.
“We know a Valkyrie when we see one,” Jon said.
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