He turned his face away from her and pulled himself to his feet. Blood stained the leg of his trousers, and he was cradling his left hand. The palm was blackened and cracked. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re bleeding,” she protested.
“What the hell was that?” one of the guards demanded.
Erik took a deep breath and turned at last to face them. “Just a thief.”
“Just a thief? I just saw her fly!”
The Swedish man brushed past the guard and hurried out of the gallery. “I don’t have time for this.”
Nika raced after him. “Mr. Thorvald! Erik!”
He did not wait for her, and she had to run to catch up with him. He was slowed by the injury to his leg, which was in her favor, but she still had to kick off her heels to run faster.
“Mr. Thorvald, wait.”
He turned on her. “I do not have time to wait! Go away, Miss Graves!”
“Where are you going? You need a doctor.”
Erik growled in his throat. “I need to get that sword.”
“I can help you.”
He shook his head and started walking again. “No, you can’t.”
“I saw her fangs!” He stopped short, and she caught his arm. “I am responsible for that sword, too. You can’t just leave me out of this!”
“The Rune Sword is my responsibility!” He pulled his arm free. “I am telling you for the last time, Miss Graves. Stay out of this. You will get hurt if you persist.”
“If I don’t, I lose my job and the museum loses millions of dollars.”
The Swede snorted. “Money and jobs are nothing if I don’t get that sword back.”
A woman in a smart gray business suit emerged from a side gallery, and Erik stopped when he saw her. She spoke to him rapidly in something like Swedish, but different. Erik responded, clearly ashamed. The new woman snapped at him, then seemed to notice Nika for the first time.
“I apologize, Miss Graves,” she said. “I am Astrid Sigurdsdottir. We spoke on the telephone.”
Nika remembered. Sigurdsdottir was the curator from Stockholm, the one who had negotiated the terms that had brought the Viking display to Central City in the first place. “Yes, I recall. I’m so sorry about the sword. We will get it back, I promise you.”
Astrid fixed Erik with a harsh look. “We had better.”
“We have to get Mr. Thorvald to a doctor,” Nika told Astrid. “He’s hurt.”
She Swedish woman looked at Erik and smiled strangely. “Hurt? No. He’s not hurt. Are you hurt, Mr. Thorvald?”
He pulled himself up straighter, almost like a soldier coming to attention. “No. I’m not hurt.”
“But your hand -” Nika grabbed his left wrist and pulled his hand away from his side.
The burn was gone.
Erik pulled free of her grip without rancor. “As I said, I am unhurt.”
Astrid interposed herself between them, slipping an arm around Nika’s elbow. “Come, we must see to the rest of the exhibit. I hope there is no damage to the other artifacts…”
As Astrid pulled her away, Nika looked over her shoulder. Erik was already sprinting for the front door.
Chapter Two - Hunters
Erik raced out of the museum, holding his earpiece with one hand. He could hear his partner, Gunnar, speaking rapidly.
“I’ve got a visual. She’s heading across the rooftops toward the east.”
“Copy that,” he replied. He shook his left hand, which still stung from the unexpected blast of burning magic it had received. “Is she alone?”
“Negative.”
Shit. “How many?”
“I count three.”
He made it to his rental car and threw it into reverse, barely looking to make certain that there was nobody in the way. He rubbed his hand over the wet blood on his slacks and scowled at the stain.
“Known quantities?” he asked.
“Yes,” Gunnar answered, sounding regretful. “They’re the brothers.”
Erik cursed in every language he could muster, spewing foul invectives to vent his anger. This was not supposed to happen, not now. The barrow had been plundered, and Hakon’s body was lying in that museum, just waiting. Now the brothers were in town.
His team had crossed paths with the brothers before. Ivar, Knut, Arne and Bjorn were formidable fighters and hired killers. They had been Erik’s particular enemies for years.
“I see you,” Gunnar coached from his over watch position. “Keep heading east three blocks. They’ve gone into the fourth building on the left.”
“Residential or business?”
“Residential.”
“Get Rolf and Magnus to guard the museum vault and meet me at the building.”
“They’re already on the way.”
He drove as quickly as he could in city traffic. The urgency of his need to intercept that sword made his heart race, and he gripped the steering wheel to calm himself.
Don’t panic, he thought. That won’t help.
He managed to make it to the building without killing himself or anyone else, which he counted as a victory. There were no parking places on the street, so he simply parked the car and turned on the hazard lights. Over the honking objections of the people behind him, he sprinted into the apartment building.
It was a surprisingly rundown place, with the smell of rats and urine in the entryway. He found the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, charging up toward the roof, hoping that he would meet the thief and her accomplices on the way down.
“I’m in,” Gunnar said in his ear. “Taking position to watch the exit.”
“There had better be only one way out.”
“I’ve got Hrothgar coming to mind the back.”
He heard rapid footsteps approaching, racing down the stairs toward him. He pulled his sidearm and pointed it up the steps, waiting.
Bjorn was the first one to appear. His name meant ‘bear,’ and it suited him perfectly. His eyes widened, and then he grinned, flashing long black fangs. Their tips were a stunning red.
“Huntsman!” he called to his fellows.
Erik shot him in the face.
The man’s big body tumbled down the stairs, and Erik stepped around it, heading up. He could hear one of the brothers shouting.
“Sigrunn! Give me the Sword!”
He proceeded cautiously, with his gun still aimed upward. Above him, the largest of the brothers, Ivar, leaned over the railing then ducked back, avoiding the silver bullet that Erik shot in his direction. The projectile clanged off of the metal beams supporting the stairs and ricocheted twice before it buried itself into the wall.
Another of the brothers, the youngest, Arne, leaped over the rails and landed in front of Erik. He slashed at him with his left hand, his fingers hooked into claws. Erik ducked, and the vampire caught a fistful of plaster from the wall behind him. He growled and tried again with the other hand.
This time when Erik shot, he didn’t miss. Arne’s body rolled down the stairs to join Bjorn’s on the landing below.
“Arne!” Sigrunn, the woman who had stolen the sword from the museum, screamed.
Erik charged up the stairs just in time to see the middle brother, Knut, dragging Sigrunn through a doorway and into one of the interior corridors. Ivar, the last brother on the stairs, whispered words of power and threw a handful of dust at him. In mid-air, the dust became an impassable wall of tangled branches, studded with long, glistening thorns.
He knew from past experience not to touch that wall. Cursing again, he raced back down the stairs to doorway on that level, heading into the interior of the building, as well.
He reached the corridor just as the elevator dinged to mark its passing. He activated his earpiece and spoke.
“Coming down.”
“I’ve got them.”
Gunnar sounded confident, but Erik was less sure. He went back into the stairwell.
He should have known that a single bullet, even a silv
er one, would not keep the Draugr down. Both Arne and Bjorn were struggling to sit up, recovering and healing as he emerged from the corridor. He didn’t have time to properly decapitate them, so he shot them each in the head once more. At least it would keep them quiet for a few minutes longer.
He ran down the stairs, hearing the sound of battle in the foyer as he approached. Shouts and the clang of metal led him like a beacon. He reached the bottom floor just as a brilliant flash of green light erupted, searing his eyes and making his ears ring with the hum of magic. Sigrunn was using the Rune Sword.
Ivar saw him coming and flung a hand axe at him. Erik dropped to one knee and fired, hitting Sigrunn between the shoulder blades. She screamed and turned away from Gunnar, who was lying on the ground, bleeding heavily.
Knut, the last brother, grabbed her. “Let’s go!” he shouted to her in their native tongue, Old Norse. He caught his brother by the arm, as well. “Go!”
Erik pursued them out onto the street, where the three Draugr took flight. He emptied his clip, trying and failing to bring them down.
“Damn,” he spat. Astrid would have his head for this.
He went back into the building and found Gunnar cradling his arm, which had been deeply wounded by Ivar’s axe. Erik knelt beside him.
“You’re lucky to still have that hand.”
“I know. Hopefully I’ll have it a while longer.” He glanced at the stairs. “Where are the other brothers?”
Erik grimaced. “Down, but not out. I’ll be back.”
He picked up the axe and went to finish the job his bullets had started.
Chapter Three - Revelations
Nika spent the rest of the evening overseeing the building crew as they carefully removed the artifacts from the shattered gallery. With the floor perforated and the ceiling open to the air, there was no way that she would allow those priceless materials to remain at risk.
Sigurdsdottir hovered near her, observing as she responsibly cared for the loaned treasures. The woman said virtually nothing, but she watched with icy eyes, silently appraising and judging everything that Nika did.
When the last of the artifacts were packed away, Sigurdsdottir finally spoke. There was something heavy and meaningful in her tone. “You look very Nordic, Miss Graves. Do you have any Scandinavian ancestry?”
She ran a hand over her red hair. “Most people say I look Irish.”
The other woman smiled tightly. “Red hair is a Norse trait. If the Irish have it, it is because the Vikings owned Dublin for a very long time. But you haven’t answered my question.”
Nika shrugged. “I don’t honestly know. I was adopted when I was very small, so I have no clue what my birth family’s heritage might be.”
“Too bad.” Sigurdsdottir picked up her purse, a sleek black number with a tiny padlock on the zipper. “Everyone should know where they come from. Good night, Miss Graves.”
She smiled. “Good night.”
When the icy chill of Sigurdsdottir’s presence finally left the blasted gallery, Nika let out a sigh of relief. Something about the woman made her profoundly uncomfortable, like a mouse pinned in the gaze of a raptor. It was unsettling.
She walked slowly through the mess that remained in her museum. The case that had held the sword was completely smashed, and everything else had been rolled away on dollies and stored in the archives under lock and key. This was not the way she had wanted this exhibit to end. So much for her hopes of success.
Her morose contemplation was broken by a soft green shimmer that caught her eye. Something in the bottom of the sword case was glowing, the illumination throbbing in her view. She moved closer, subconsciously holding her breath, and the glow intensified as she approached. Moving the shattered glass aside, she peered into the case.
A tiny green cabochon jewel, unfaceted and smooth, lay on the green felt. It was glowing, just like the sword had glowed in the hands of the thief. She remembered Erik’s hand burning like meat on a grill when he’d grabbed that sword, and she was reluctant to touch the jewel. She looked over her shoulder, not sure what she was watching for, and steeled herself to the deed.
Against her expectation, the jewel was cool in her palm. It continued to glow, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, which was quickening with excitement and wonder. She touched the little bauble with the index finger of her other hand, stroking it. It seemed to welcome her touch. She could almost hear a voice in the back of her mind, whispering.
She shook her head abruptly, breaking herself out of the strange reverie. This jewel belonged to the sword, and therefore to the Royal Museum of Stockholm. She would give it to Sigurdsdottir in the morning.
For now, she slipped it into her skirt pocket, where it settled with a hum.
***
Astrid went to her temporary office, a loan from the museum while she was there shepherding the exhibit. It was small and cramped, with one window, a desk, and one chair for visitors. A bookcase stood to the side of the room, beside the visitor chair and between the desk and the wall. “You failed me twice,” she said without preamble. “Some special forces soldiers you turned out to be.”
“We did our best,” Gunnar began, but Erik silenced him with a look. He fell quiet.
“Two of the brothers are dead,” he told her. “Sigrunn has the sword.”
“Which two?” She took out her smartphone to make notes.
“Bjorn and Arne.”
“Truly dead?”
He looked insulted. “I took their heads. They are as dead as it gets.”
“Good.” She sat back. “I don’t need to tell you what this means. For the Draugr to have the Rune Sword while Hakon’s body is here, unguarded –”
“My men are standing watch over it. They won’t be able to get near enough to it to start a ritual without my knowing.”
She sneered. “Like you knew that they were going to take the sword today?”
“I was expecting a night raid,” he told her, his tone hard. “I did not anticipate that they would be so brazen.”
Astrid looked at Gunnar. “Go get some dreyri,” she told him. “Both of you.”
Erik shook his head. “You know my vow.” He nodded to his partner. “Go ahead.”
Gunnar left them, and once the door was closed, Astrid leaned forward. “If you would take the dreyri, you wouldn’t be reduced to bullets and automobiles.”
He set his jaw. “I swore that I would abstain from drinking blood until I found her again. I swore to the Aesir. Would you have me break my oath?”
“Why not? You’ve broken countless others.” Her tone was biting as acid.
“Only one.”
“The only one that ever mattered to me.”
He looked like he wanted to scream. “Time and place, kona. This is neither.”
She smiled thinly at his use of the word for ‘wife.’ “So at least you remember making the vow, even if you chose not to keep it.”
“That was hundreds of years ago.”
“We are immortal. What are a hundred years to us?”
He scowled. “Long enough for you to get over yourself.” Erik ran a hand over his face. “Sigrunn used the sword. That’s how Gunnar was hurt.”
She looked surprised, their argument forgotten. “He wasn’t burned.”
“No,” he agreed. “He wasn’t. That means that the Sálsteinn is missing.”
Astrid’s eyes widened. “You have to find that stone. Everything depends on it.”
“I’ll check by the display and backtrack. Maybe, if we’re lucky, it just fell off somewhere between here and our little urban battleground.”
“Wait.” He stopped halfway to the door, and she said, “The curator.”
“Miss Graves?”
“Yes. I left her alone in the gallery.” She looked up at him, her eyes stormy. “She may have it.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll find the curator, and I’ll have Magnus and Rolf do the backtracking. If we know the stone is missing, you can bet for d
amn sure that they do, too.”
Against her better judgment, Astrid told him, “Find the curator and stay with her, even if she doesn’t have the stone. She is one of the Valtaeigr.”
Erik was surprised. “Descended from the vala?”
“No.” She curled her lip as she said it. “The vala reborn.”
****
She took the bus from the museum to her apartment building, just like she did every night. The driver was the same as always. She smiled at him as she climbed the steps into the vehicle.
“Evening, Sam,” Nika greeted.
“Evening, Nika,” he returned. He waited for her to scan her bus pass, and then held the bus while she found a seat halfway to the back, just past the benches that faced the center aisle. She sat and held her purse on her lap.
A young man got on the bus after her. He was small but muscular, wearing a leather jacket and motorcycle boots with his faded jeans. She watched him as he made his way slowly through the bus and took up a position on the seat across from her.
He had a handsome face, and his eyes were the bluest she had ever seen, but there was something disturbing about him. The other passengers made room for him, either because he willed them to do so or because they were made too uncomfortable by his presence to stay too close. He was staring at her.
She looked out the window. Darkness was falling heavily outside, bringing a touch of chill wind. It would be winter soon. She put her hand into her pocket and fiddled with the stone, wishing Sam would stop being quite so cautious and put on some speed.
The bus stopped, and there was a general exodus as a majority of the riders got out at one of the busier subway stations. Sam closed the door, and she was alone beside the man in the leather jacket.
As the bus rumbled forward, he moved to sit beside her. He put one arm across the back of the seat and grasped the upright rail in front of him. She was three-quarters contained by his body, and she started to panic.
“Hello,” he said, his accent lilting. “And who might you be?”
She looked away from him. “I’m sorry… I’m just trying to get home.”
“Alone?”
There was something obscene insinuated in his voice. Her heart was pounding, and she pulled her purse closer. He reached out with one hand and tucked a stray hair back behind her ear.
The Alien Surrogate (The Klaskians Series Book 1) Page 8