“Skyla is on an extended sabbatical,” Hugh said.
That was the same excuse he had given me when I called the week before and asked to speak to her. That time, I had posed as a journalist wanting to interview Skyla for an article about women making a living in the sporting industry. I had made up some excuse every week, for the past four weeks, to call Thorin’s store and ask about her. In all that time, Hugh’s story never changed. Thorin Adventure Outfitter’s official statement on Skyla’s whereabouts may have meant Thorin thought she was alive but missing. Or maybe he thought she was dead but wouldn’t admit it without official evidence.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?” I asked.
“I don’t, but I can take a message.”
“No,” I said, throwing a little annoyance into my tone, the better to fool him into thinking I was a disgruntled customer. “Maybe I’ll just try to find another guide.”
After I hung up with Hugh, I disassembled my phone and went into the library and logged onto a public computer. Logging in required a library account number. Library account numbers required photo IDs and physical addresses, but in my experience, librarians were a softhearted bunch who easily succumbed to young women bearing sob stories about broken California dreams and unstable living conditions. The librarian on whose shoulder I cried had offered me a temporary account number that would last until I brought back my credentials and registered for a permanent account. Until then, they wouldn’t lend me books, but I could access the Internet.
Just as I did every week, I conducted an exhaustive online search for anything that might lead me to Skyla—or as exhaustive as could be performed in the hour the library allotted for computer use. So far, I had found nothing but old history: a brief mention of Kara North’s marriage to Neron Ramirez in the San Diego Tribune. Vital records showed Skyla and her brother, Paul, had been born there too, but military families moved around a lot, and I lost track of the Ramirezes in New York. I had already followed my few New York leads to dead ends in conjunction with my visit to Oneida Lake. After those fruitless searches, I backtracked the Ramirezes’ trail to its start with hopes of finding a new thread.
Paul Ramirez, Skyla’s brother, had disappeared after high-school graduation, and he seemed to have no social presence online. Skyla’s parents, Neron and Kara, had vanished similarly. Was the cause of their disappearance magic, malice, or something more common, such as sickness or death? Asking questions while constructing an in-depth investigation was difficult when trying to remain anonymous. The United States military and government-records offices tended to shrug off young women who wouldn’t give contact information or personal details.
My searches resulted in more of the same disappointments, and I was running out of ideas.
In the past weeks, I had discovered plenty of news about my own disappearance. Not long after my transformative experience at Oneida Lake, my parents had issued a missing-person notice, and the Siqiniq Police and Alaska State Troopers circulated a press release asking for information about my possible whereabouts. No one had put as much effort into locating Skyla, but she deserved better treatment than that. She had saved my life. Searching for her was the least I could do in return.
An hour later, my time ran out on the computer, and the system logged me out. I leaned back from the screen, rubbed my eyes, and stretched. Then I slipped on my hood and sunglasses and went outside to catch the bus back across town.
Another day of fruitless searching had confirmed what I’d already accepted in the depths of my heart. I wasn’t going to find Skyla by hiding out in San Diego any longer. I had recovered the majority of my fire, and I would have to hit the road again soon. Helen was probably the most direct resource for information on Skyla, but I wasn’t brave enough, or dumb enough, to face her alone. I needed backup for that kind of confrontation. So, back to Alaska and the Nordic deities who contest my every move? Or return to the Aerie and take my chances among the potentially compromised Valkyries?
I had gone to San Diego because Skyla’s family had established its foundations there, and it seemed like a good place to search for new leads. It was far away from my home in North Carolina, no one had reason to look for me there, and I had needed a place to hide while recovering my strength. If I admitted I had done all I could on my own, and my search required my making a more… public nuisance of myself, then the time had come. But if I reached out and reconnected, I’d have to decide whom I most trusted to support my goals. Thorin’s image appeared in my thoughts—the look in his eyes when I’d last seen him, when he had told me he was not like Val and would not make his mistakes. At the time, I thought Thorin meant he wouldn’t force his affections on me, but in the weeks that had passed, I wondered if Thorin meant he wouldn’t make the mistake of getting close to me or letting me get close to him.
Good thing I didn’t need his intimacy. I only needed results. Of all the supernatural beings in my life who could help me find Skyla, Thorin was the one I most believed in, a man not much on words but big on action. Guess I just made up my mind.
Back in my apartment, I spent my remaining free time washing dishes and packing my paltry laundry in tote bags so my things would be ready to go at a moment’s notice. In the late afternoon, I tossed aside my cleaning rag and donned my bartending armor, a psychological shield constructed of layers of patience, humility, and a healthy sense of humor. I also put on a bowling shirt printed with the “Stefanakis Spirits and Suds” logo and a dark pair of jeans that hid spills and stains. I tied my hair up in a messy knot and headed for the door. Successful bartending relied on a careful balance of being attractive but not too attractive. After too many beers or bourbons, customers sometimes developed possessive inclinations toward me. I did my best to discourage them in advance.
The commute from my apartment to my office took all of thirty seconds, the time required to lock my door, jog down a short flight of stairs, and step through the bar’s back door into the storage room.
“Sabrina,” Nikka said in greeting.
“Nikka,” I said in return. She had brought racks of clean glassware from the dishwasher to the bar, and I helped her stock the shelves.
“You ready for tonight?” she asked.
“You think it will be as bad as last Friday?”
Nikka nodded. “The band I scheduled for tonight has a pretty dedicated fan base.”
“Rock?” I asked, trying to predict the crowd.
“Nah, more like folk.”
“So, more PBR and less Bud?”
“Yes,” Nikka said and rolled her eyes. “I can’t stand assholes who drink beer ironically” —she rubbed her fingers together— “but I have to love them because they drink so damned much of it.”
Nikka and I hustled to restock well liquors and inventory the premium brands. She filled ice wells and opened several beer taps to release air from the lines while I sliced limes and oranges for our garnish trays. The first few regulars trickled in: two old guys who drank shots of ouzo between glasses of an imported Greek beer I had never heard of until I started working at Stefanakis.
Nikka’s bar attracted an eclectic mix: old guys from the nearby Greek community loyal to Nikka’s dad and his bar; professionals stopping in for a drink before they headed home for the night; and a trendy, younger population who came to Stefanakis looking for an “authentic” experience. Nikka and I slipped into our routines without the need for chatter. In our four weeks together, I had learned most of the steps to the bartender’s dance, and Nikka and I made pretty fabulous partners.
Tre showed up for bouncer duty around the same time the band arrived to set up. I poured him a glass of sweet tea, a delicacy in those parts. He swore I made it like his grandma had when he was a kid in Alabama, so I made a point to brew a fresh batch for him whenever Nikka put him on the schedule.
Tre took the glass from me, chug
ged down half, and smacked his lips in a show of appreciation. “What do you know about banana pudding?” He handed the glass back to me for a refill.
“I know everything there is to know. Why do you ask?”
Tre made puppy-dog eyes at me. “I can’t even tell you how long it’s been since I had a real homemade banana pudding.”
“Oh, yeah? If I made you one, what would be in it for me?”
Tre’s eyes narrowed. He chewed his bottom lip and considered what bargaining chip to offer.
The band’s guitar and drums kicked in as their technician tweaked the sound system’s idiosyncrasies. Dissonant notes reverberated around the room, and microphone feedback stabbed my eardrums.
Tre winced and yelled over the noise, “We’ll settle this later.”
I winked at him and turned to greet my latest customer. He was no Greek patriarch or trendy college kid but a dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger. He settled his tall frame onto a stool near the register and ordered a black and tan.
“You want to start a tab?” I asked.
He rolled a shoulder. “Sure.”
“Under what name?”
“Rolf Lockhart.”
“Rolf? That’s not a name you hear every day.”
“No. It’s old—a family name.”
“Haven’t seen you in here before, Rolf.” I made friendly chitchat because that’s what bartenders did and because something about the man drew me in. My immediate, visceral response to him upset my careful composure, and not in a good way. My defenses snapped into place, and my suspicion flipped into high-alert mode.
“Haven’t been here before. I’d ask how long you’ve been around, but I can tell by your accent that it hasn’t been very long. You’re a southern girl, yes?”
“Yes,” I said and cursed my ingrained twang. If I concentrated, I could neutralize my accent, but Rolf had caught me off guard. I finished pouring his beer, careful to stack the Guinness above the paler Bass without mixing the two.
“Whereabouts?” Rolf paused to sip his beer. “I have family in Mississippi.”
“Uh, no. I’m not from Mississippi.”
A woman beside Rolf yelled for a Heineken. I drew a cold bottle from the cooler and poured it into a frosted glass. She gave me a ten and I passed back her change.
“But I’m sure it’s nice,” I said.
Rolf’s lips twisted into a wry grin. “That’s debatable.”
I shrugged and scooted past him, heading for a customer waving at me from farther down the bar.
“You still haven’t told me where you’re from,” Rolf said when I returned to pour a pint for another customer.
Sure, I had a fake back story, but explaining it to Rolf only invited him to ask more questions. I humored Nikka and Tre’s inquiries to an extent because I needed them, and they had befriended me. But that guy… I owed him nothing, and my instincts said to push him away quickly. I remembered a quote in my latest spy thriller, the words of Eugene V. Debs: “‘I have no country to fight for. My country is the earth. I am a citizen of the world.’”
The bar’s population swelled after that, and Nikka and I hustled to keep up with the increasing orders. Too harried to maintain our idle chit-chat, I put Rolf out of my thoughts and focused on work.
Later, near midnight, Nikka grabbed me and pulled me aside during a lull. “I knew that guy down there looked familiar.” She nodded at Rolf. “It just hit me where I saw him last.”
I snatched a couple of empty glasses off the bar and set them in a bus tray. “Where?”
“The diner. Remember I told you some guy was staring you down like he knew you… or wanted to eat you… or both, maybe?”
My gaze shot to Rolf, who looked back at me as though he knew he was the topic of our conversation.
“Him? Are you sure?” I asked.
“Does he look like the kind of guy I would easily mistake for someone else?”
Rolf’s black hair hung in a glossy sheet, almost brushing his shoulders. He had the pale skin of a northern European rather than the darker tones I was used to seeing around that area, especially with hair like that. His eyes were so vibrantly blue they seemed purple in the neon bar lights. Elizabeth Taylor had had eyes like that. “What the hell, Nikka? How did he know I was here?”
“Luck?” She shrugged. “Coincidence.”
“Coincidence and I don’t get along very well.”
A shiver rolled up my spine and broke in cold waves across my shoulders. Coincidence equaled monumental trouble in my world. Compounded by the strange incident on my fire escape the night before, the appearance of this would-be stalker set my nerves on edge—not that they weren’t there already.
“Nikka, can you handle things here for a second? I need to go talk to Tre.”
Nikka shrugged. “Sure. I got it.”
I rounded the end of the bar and pushed my way through the throngs of fans swaying to the jam band’s music. I tuned out the distractions and set my sights on Tre’s hulking dark figure, guarding the entrance to the bar. A smile lit his face when he saw me coming. Outside, the crowd’s roar dropped to a dull murmur.
“How’s it going in there?” Tre asked.
“Not too bad. Mostly, they’re behaving.”
“So you just came out to visit me?”
“Not entirely. I came to tell you I thought of a way for you to earn that banana pudding.”
Tre’s bright smile widened. “Oh yeah?”
“There’s a guy in there. He’s been polite and well behaved, but he gives me the creeps.”
“You want me to tell him to get lost?”
“No.” No need to draw any more attention to myself or this odd situation. I described Rolf to Tre and said, “Just watch him for me, will you? In case he tries anything?”
Tre nodded. “I’d do that for you anyway. It’s my job. But I’m not going to look a gift banana pudding in the mouth.”
Rolf had drained the last of his second beer by the time I returned. I refilled his drink without comment and spent the rest of the night trying to avoid him. At some point I looked up and found an empty space where he had been sitting. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, and a coil of tension eased in my chest.
Tre parted the crowd and caught my eye. When I finished serving my latest customer, I stepped down to the end of the bar where Tre waited. I leaned close so I could hear him.
“Your buddy took off down the street. No trouble. Didn’t look back. Still, I’d like to walk you up to your apartment tonight—check it out and make sure you don’t have any unwelcome guests waiting for you.”
My heart plunged into my gut. “You think…?”
“Better to be safe than sorry. Come get me when you’re ready to leave.”
Tre was settled on a bar stool, sipping a to-go cup of sweet tea when I finished my close-up duties. Nikka said goodnight and headed out the front. I locked up behind her and clenched my keys in my fist. “Ready to go?” I asked.
Tre stood and followed me through the bar, into the storage room, and out to the alleyway behind the building. I had climbed halfway up the staircase to my apartment before realizing Tre wasn’t behind me. I turned around, intending to ask him about the hold up, and found him crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Something cold and hard crawled up my throat. I covered my mouth before a scream escaped. Realizing panic was useless, I swallowed my fear and stiffened my shoulders. Something was coming for me, something undoubtedly bad, and I had to be ready for it.
Before I could descend the stairs, a man stepped from the shadows into the glow of the Stefanakises’ backdoor light and crouched over Tre’s limp body.
Ice water chilled my veins, but fire simmered beneath the surface of my skin. “Rolf,” I said, “or whoever you really
are…”
Rolf stood, looked up at me, and smiled. “I’m of no consequence. I am merely a pawn, like you.”
“Helen sent you?”
He shrugged.
“How did you find me?”
“You’ve been very clever. I’m sure if I was merely a mortal, your attempt at anonymity might have been successful. But we are not human, are we? And the gods have their ways.”
“Where’s Helen?”
Rolf shook his head and stepped forward. “You’ll see her soon enough.”
I raised a hand and let my fire erupt around it. I kept the other hand, the one clutching my key ring, behind my back. “Don’t come any closer.”
“No?” Rolf sneered at my measly fireball. “And what are you going to do with that?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Convert yourself into a star again? Lose yourself for another month?”
My heart seized up like a piston without oil. “H-how do you know about that?”
Rolf laughed. “I know everything, Solina. I remember everything. There is nothing that happens outside my knowledge.”
“Then tell me where I went,” I said, challenging him. “Tell me where I was for that four weeks. Who was I? What was I?”
“You were Sol. You were her essence, the pure power that is her soul.”
“How did I come back?”
Rolf shrugged and stepped closer, moving around Tre’s lifeless body. “It’s not important.”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“I just said I know everything. I didn’t say I would share all the secrets of the world with you. I am not here to be your tutor; I am here to take you to Helen.”
Arctic Dawn (The Norse Chronicles Book 2) Page 3