A thick, opaque barrier of glass kept Sofia from lunging at him. Thinking quickly, she fumbled for the door handles, preparing to jump out of the taxi. If the fall killed her, it didn't matter. She'd rather jump to her own death than be raped and murdered by this evil, grotesque little bastard.
But the door handles wouldn't budge. Making small, terrified sounds, Sofia rattled the handles harder to no avail. The driver must possess a mechanism that kept backseat passengers from opening the doors until they paid their fares.
Oh no.
God, help me!
Sofia kicked against the door with all her might. "Let me out!" she screamed, her heart hammering loudly in her ears. Her fists pounded against the glass divide that separated them. "Open the fucking door!"
The cabbie didn't even acknowledge that she'd spoken. His silence was more frightening than any words he could have spat back at her.
She was going to die. Perhaps slow and torturously.
Her heart slamming against her breasts, Sofia slumped helplessly back against the seat.
Chapter Two
Hannu, New Sweden
Present Day
T he bride-hunter lied to me!" a disgruntled Viking spat.
"They always lie!" another angry male voice boomed in. "'Tis treachery that they are permitted to deceive us, milord!"
"It costs us nigh unto our last coins to purchase a bride. The bride-hunters should make certain that the wenches are prime candidates to bear Viking fruit. Not just physically, but emotionally as well!"
Enraged demands that the bride-hunters be whipped and imprisoned erupted in the hall. Lord Johen Stefsson sat in his chair at the apex of it, soldiers surrounding him on all sides of the raised platform.
Not that Johen required their protection; a more skilled warlord did not exist.
Johen stood seven feet tall, his battle-scarred body honed of three-hundred-twenty pounds of solid muscle. He wore black leather boots and braes, and a sleeveless green silk tunic that stood in stark contrast against his naturally bronze skin. The emblem of a dragon was emblazed on the gold bangles clasped around his powerful biceps, signifying his authority.
Lord Stefsson could defend himself with deadly skill did the situation require it. In this instance crowd control would not be a problem, as Johen was firmly on the side of the people who looked to him for leadership and guidance.
"Enough!" Johen bellowed, his eyes narrowed into gray slits. Two braids plaited back against his temples served to keep his dark brown hair out of his eyes; the shiny mane fell to mid-back. "I hear your cries, men, and I do not take them lightly. I will speak to our king about this issue on the morrow."
The crowd of fifty quieted, appeased mumbles rippling through the gathering like a wave. Nods of approval and respect told him they would give him time to find a solution before taking matters into their own hands.
Not that talking to the jarl would do them any good, Johen thought, disgruntled. Toki was of a mind to make coins, not friends.
One day his corrupt rule would come to an end. Until that time arrived, all Johen could do was act as an intermediary between Toki and the people of his sector. Failing that, there would be no choice but to revolt again.
The Revolution had been won less than two fortnights ago, the old, corrupt jarl dead and deposed. Under the former king's rule, bride-hunters had gotten away with far too much, sharing the profits of very little work with the crooked jarl.
But now a new government was in power and lots of changes were to be made. It would take time, though. Years and years of neglect and abuse couldn't be turned around in less than one month.
Lord Stefsson assessed the crowd, his battle-trained mind accustomed to sizing up war opponents rather than men he was meant to rule. 'Twas a vastly different role, one that would take some time to grow accustomed to, yet he was eager for the challenge. His people had been neglected for far too long and deserved to be governed by a noble who had their best interests at heart.
The Revolution had been both necessity and inevitability. In the Viking world that existed below the earth's dirt and leaves, where none from the Outside knew of its existence, war was not taken lightly. 'Twas resorted to only when obligation dictated.
For mayhap two thousand years, the Viking clans of New Sweden, New Norway and New Daneland had thrived below the ground deep in the earth's belly. 'Twas the decree of the gods that they go there and dwell, the ancient prophets predicting that one day soon, mayhap in Johen's lifetime, the number of wenches who lived above the ground would dwindle to near extinction.
The Vikings would live on, the Terrible Northmen destined to rule the world once again. Their people had been forewarned by the gods of the events to come. 'Twas their duty to preserve their way of life, which could only be done if those who dwelled above the ground knew naught of their existence.
The king of New Sweden, Toki, had flirted with being discovered by Outsiders one too many times. For that, and for his brutal tyranny, Lord Stefsson, commander of the independent sector of Hannu, had thus far refused to let his people be swallowed into the belly of New Sweden. Toki hadn't dared gainsay him for fear that Johen would throw his weight toward the jarl's enemy--the king of New Daneland.
The warriors of Hannu had revolted after Toki claimed the throne, declaring Johen their leader instead. Situated between mainland New Sweden and the barbaric kingdom of New Daneland, their small but well fortified zone thrived.
His people were dependent on New Sweden for nothing--except for brides. Until a new jarl overthrew the corrupt one, 'twas unlikely any significant changes would be demanded of the bride-hunters.
"'Tis a bride-hunter's job to ensure that the wenches they steal from above the ground are not wed to Outsider men." Johen frowned, his face grim. "If they are not doing what they earn their high wages to do, there will be hellfire to pay for it."
Cheers ensued.
Johen inclined his head. He meant every word of it.
He grew as tired as his sector's people were of waiting for New Sweden's Revolution to erupt. Did the rebels not overthrow Toki soon, Johen would swear his allegiance to the New Danish jarl.
"I would not trade in my Jennifer even if I could," one man grumbled. "Yet her heart is with another. 'Tis difficult to warm her up to her new life with me."
The laws of the Underground did not recognize Outsider matrimony as binding, yet Johen understood the anger these Viking men felt upon learning that their wives were already married. It made wooing them into Viking culture and ensuring their eventual marital happiness a difficult task.
Once a wench was captured, she could never return to the Outside; 'twould be foolhardy and mayhap cause the collapse of their civilization. 'Twas why bride-hunters were to go to such great lengths to do all they could reasonably do to guarantee a lack of marriage.
None from the Outside could know of their existence--a point that couldn't be stressed enough. On the few occasions when the colonies had been stumbled upon by accident, the people in question were either killed or incorporated into their culture by matrimony.
Johen was the product of one such marriage. His sire, Eemil Stefsson, was a Viking from Hannu. His mother, Amani, was an Outsider who originally heralded from the country of Saudi Arabia.
His mother had been on vacation with her only living relative, a sister, in what the Outsiders called Alaska, when she and Aunt Affra had accidentally stumbled upon a door that led to the Underground. They had been caught and sold on the marriage auction block.
Eventually, after much perseverance by their husbands, both women had happily settled into Viking life. It made the transition easier that neither wench had given her heart to another man prior to being captured.
The bride-hunters had done grievous injustice to the men standing before Johen today. 'Twas not, however, Lord Stefsson's place to judge the fates of the bride-hunters; that would be the jarl's decision. If he refused to listen, Lord Stefsson would have no recourse but to rebel.
Chapter Three
T error having deserted her long ago in favor of numbness, Sofia wasn't certain how much time had ticked by before the taxi pulled up in front of a remote log cabin.
Icy mountains thrust up all around her. She was in the middle of nowhere, deep in the heart of rural Alaska. She hadn't seen another cabin since she'd awakened.
Snow began to fall, soft tranquil puffs looking at odds with their deadly ability to freeze people. What she wouldn't give to be back home in Florida, the sun beating down on her face.
As if in a dream, Sofia watched her hijacker alight from the taxi and close the door behind him. The thudding sound caused her to blink; the blink forced reality to come crashing back down on her.
He was going to murder her, probably rape her first. There was no other explanation for this.
Sofia's teeth began to chatter. Watching the taxi driver walk into the log cabin and shut the door behind him, she forced herself to concentrate on how she might overpower him.
He was short, fat and aging. She stood five-feet-eight-inches tall and had a more athletic physique. She had always been on the voluptuous side, but she was in excellent shape.
But what could she use as a weapon...Of course--her keys! She fumbled through her faux leather purse, relieved when she found the keys to her car. They didn't make much of a weapon, but they were better than nothing.
When he opened the backseat door, she would attack him. She took one of the keys off the ring, palmed it, and prepared to strike.
Driving a taxi didn't earn Willy the money he needed to support his cocaine and booze habit. Fuck, it barely covered the bills. Luckily, he knew what he had to do and who he had to go to in order to get paid nicely.
The pair of tall, weird mountain men who lived out here in the middle of no-fucking-where regularly paid him a lot of cash for young, pretty, fuckable bitches. Black, white, Asian, Spanish...they liked it all. But over the years he'd learned what they paid the most for, and the lady in the back of his cab was it.
The mountain men with the weirdo foreign accents didn't pay much for the skinny ones. They preferred rounded asses and hips, and big ole titties. An exceptionally beautiful face was always a requirement. Color didn't matter.
Willy didn't know what the mysterious men did with the women after they bought them, nor did he care. It was obvious the ladies were killed after they were fucked good and decent for a few days because the cabin was always devoid of females when he showed up...and he couldn't kidnap the bitches fast enough to suit the foreigners.
Willy waited with more patience than he felt as the foreigners stalked outside and inspected the new chattel.
Sofia clutched the key so tightly her knuckles turned white. Expecting to do battle with the short, out-of-shape taxi driver, she gasped when two huge men draped in polar bear furs emerged from the log cabin instead. They looked straight at her and her heart leapt into her chest.
They wore their hair in an odd fashion--a braid plaited on either side of their temples to keep their hair out of their line of vision. Obviously, they'd watched Mel Gibson in Braveheart one too many times. The polar bear furs obscured what they wore beneath them and whether or not they were carrying weapons.
The closer the giants got to the car, the sweatier Sofia's palms became. They had to be six-and-a-half-feet tall! She willed her heart to stop thumping so madly, but couldn't control it. The excess adrenaline was making her hands so clammy she could scarcely keep the key palmed.
One of the men threw open the front door of the taxicab. He pressed a button and Sofia heard the locks click open. Her teeth sank down into her lower lip, drawing blood. Her heart was beating so fast, she felt close to passing out. She didn't know what to do.
"Leave me alone!" she demanded, her voice guttural with desperation. "Go away!"
The front door slammed shut. The two brutes began to converse in a foreign tongue she couldn't place. One of them inclined his head to the other, then threw open the backseat door.
Sofia's breasts heaved up and down with her labored breathing. Did she strike now, or after he pulled her from the cab?
A second later, a big, meaty hand grabbed her by the arm and roughly pulled her from the backseat and onto her feet. Two seconds later, she was stabbing his hand with the key, breaking free of his hold while he bellowed.
"Fan, hon skar mig!"
"Var inte sa mesig!"
Sofia took off running, blindly fleeing into the night, as far away from her new captors as her four-inch black high heels would carry her.
"Jag kommer att fixa henne!"
"Det ar ingen storre problem!"
She could hear their raised voices shouting at each other. Her arms pumped madly as she ran, breasts jiggling, her feet already close to frostbite. Her black pantyhose and high heels offered no protection against the subzero conditions. She was dressed for a funeral--not for highspeed running.
Where do I go? Sofia hysterically wondered.
There was nowhere to run to. The log cabin was in such a remote area, it was impossible for most people to find.
Her eyes widened in terror when she heard the telltale crunch of boots on snow gaining on her. Oh God, this wasn't happening. It couldn't be!
She ran with everything she had in her, heart drumming like mad, breath coming out in pants. Sofia screamed when two strong hands seized her from behind, effectively bringing a halt to her escape.
She struck out at him blindly with the key, but this time the giant merely snatched it out of her grasp and pocketed it with his free hand.
"Enough," he said gruffly, frowning. His accent was thick, its origin indiscernible. "Calm yourself, wench."
Wench? Oh God, he really had watched Braveheart too many times. The psycho believed he was living in medieval times!
Sofia kicked and flailed when he lifted her from the ground and threw her over his shoulder. It was like a mouse hammering against an unyielding brick wall.
"Help me!" she wailed, hysterical. "Somebody please help me!"
The big man was unperturbed by her cries as he carried her back toward the cabin. It forced her to wonder how often he did this to women, for it seemed like all in a day's work to him.
The giant she'd injured was waiting at the threshold. The colossal man carrying her said something to his comrade in their odd language, then followed him into an adjoining room.
The door shut firmly, terrifyingly, behind the three of them. A light flicked on. Sofia was hoisted off her captor's shoulder and made to stand before them. Her teeth started chattering again.
Her heart pounded like mad in her chest as the duo took their time studying her. They walked around her in circles as if inspecting a new horse they were considering purchasing. They forced open her mouth and eyed her teeth, then palmed her breasts and squeezed them a little. A hand on her butt, another one feeling up and down her legs...
"Please," she gasped, her voice catching in the back of her throat. "Don't hurt me."
One of the men blinked, then had the nerve to look affronted. "No harm shall come to you, wench." He frowned. "'Twould lower the price you can fetch us below the ground."
Lower the price they could sell her for? Like some modern day sex slave? But...but why would they take her below the ground? Would they talk so freely if they weren't absolutely certain she'd never escape them alive?
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Perspiration drenched her forehead and cleavage. Unable to endure another moment, Sofia kneed one of the kidnappers in the groin and ran for the door as he bellowed in pain.
A pair of hands confidently seized her from behind. One moment she was kicking, screaming and punching anything within striking distance, and the next she had a handkerchief over her nose, breathing in what could only be chloroform.
Sofia could feel blackness steali
ng over her. As her legs and hands slowly went limp, her last conscious thought was that she hoped she never woke up again.
Willy's beady little eyes lit up as the two foreigners handed him a wad of hundreds. He whistled as he counted the cash. Yep, he'd known that girl would fetch him a pretty penny the moment she plopped down in the back of his cab.
What Willy didn't yet know was that this time, he wouldn't get a chance to snort that money away. The tall, mysterious men had decided that the cabbie knew too much, had seen too much.
And that was something they wouldn't tolerate.
Chapter Four
L ord Stefsson emerged from the jarl's dwelling place, furious he and the king were not of the same mind where the bride-hunters were concerned. The penalty for perjury under Hunter's Oath should result in whipping, imprisonment and confiscation of property for the guilty--not a slap on the wrist.
Bride-hunters who went out of their way to excel at their craft should earn higher wages. 'Twould offset the cost of the time-consuming work they must do and should have been doing all the while.
Unfortunately, a bride auction was slated for this eve. As always, the bride-hunters could legally sell off wenches to the auctioneer tonight, regardless of how little research they'd done before stealing the females. Johen would be there with his soldiers to ensure crowd control. 'Twas the best he could offer the men from his sector who were of a mind to bid on an Outsider bride this eve.
Right now he had another duty to attend to, of the familial sort.
Johen had promised his parents that he would arrive at their dwelling in time for the noon repast; they hadn't been able to see their son but twice in two fortnights. The price of power, he supposed.
He loved his sire and mama fiercely, but truth be told, Johen was not looking forward to this meal. Both of his parents had been pressing him to marry for ages. He had insisted on not buying a bride until after the rebels' Revolution had been won. That hadn't come to pass, but his parents expected him to continue their lineage regardless.
And, indeed, when he left Lokitown and arrived in the colony of Hannu forty-five minutes later, the marriage conversation began. Johen stifled a sigh as his sire droned on about the importance of settling down. Johen understood his duty and had given more thought to marriage as of late, but he preferred to give the rebels another couple of years. 'Twas much to be done in New Sweden and he would be responsible for much of it did they win.
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