by Kresley Cole
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 så 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 är ingen större 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 stealing 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
Lord 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.
Johen respectfully listened as he wolfed down his mother’s impeccable cooking.
“You are a noble, son. The status of our entire line depends upon a marriage that bears fruit.” Eemil Stefsson looked at his son pointedly. “’Twould be a shame for the glory of the Stefsson name to die out with you.”
“Really, Eemil,” his mother, Amani, said with exasperation. “Can we not discuss this after Johen finishes eating?”
His sire frowned, but grumbled agreement. Johen winked at his mother.
Gods, but he’d missed his mother’s cooking. Leastways, ’twas decent fare to be had all over Lokitown, but none of it measured up to his mother’s Viking-Arabian style of cuisine.
His sire resumed needling him about marriage the very moment Johen’s platter was empty. His mother smiled, knowing her husband very
well. There would be no help forthcoming from her camp, he mused.
“’Tis a matter of honor,” his sire barked. “Not to mention pride. The Stefsson name cannot carry on without a bride to give you heirs. And furthermore…”
Johen listened with a patience he did not feel as his sire droned on. He sat back in his chair, resigned to the tongue thrashing no man save Eemil Stefsson would dare give him.
Leastways, his mother’s cooking had been worth it.
Johen gathered up his warriors and soldiers, motioning for them to follow him toward the bride auction. If the gossip his men had overhead was to be believed, crowd control might very well be an issue this eve.
’Twas apparent that the men of Hannu were not the only ones upset about the bride-hunters’ inept work as of late; the Vikings from mainland New Sweden were growing increasingly furious as well. The bride auction could very well turn ugly.
He didn’t like traveling to Lokitown. He had come here once today already to speak to the wretched king. Twice was taxing to the nerves. Johen didn’t think Toki would be so daft as to attempt his assassination, but ’twas best to always proceed with caution. Killing Johen would result in Hannu throwing its allegiance toward New Daneland, but the jarl of New Sweden was known for his idiocy.
Johen’s gray eyes narrowed as he walked. “Do not wield blunt force unless absolutely necessary,” he instructed his men.
Making their way to the coliseum, Johen reflected on the nooning meal he’d shared a few hours ago with his parents. As much as he hated admitting it, his sire did have a valid point.
Johen was possessed of three married sisters. Unless he took a bride, their line would die out—a fate worse than death to proud Vikings.
He supposed it wouldn’t kill him to assess the wenches up for bid this eve as potential brides for himself. Ten of the fifteen to be auctioned off were natives of New Sweden, accustomed to the ways of the Underground Viking world. They wouldn’t spend days, months or mayhap even years, grieving for life above the ground.
Unfortunately, Outsider wenches had always held an allure to Johen. Even as a boy barely in the throes of puberty, he’d sneak into bride auctions, hide in the shadows and lust after them. Their exotic beauty and unfamiliar backgrounds were too much an enticement to pass up.
Johen’s tastes hadn’t changed over the years. Outsider wenches continued to fascinate him. Mayhap he could at least consider the possibility of…
He frowned. Nay, ’twas impractical. At least in this phase of his life.
Helping Niko depose of Toki was not only his mission, but his duty. He needed to be at the ready when the rebels were ready to strike. A troublesome wife at such a crucial juncture was a recipe for disaster.
And all Outsider brides were difficult until they settled into the Viking way of things. No matter how intriguing any of the Outsider brides up for auction might be, he would only consider native wenches as potential wives. ’Twould appease his parents while permitting him to concentrate on his duties to Hannu.
“We are here,” Johen told his men. “Keep your swords at the ready.”
His course firmly decided, Johen entered the arena, his fighters close on his heels. Should he purchase a bride this eve, ’twould be a native wench and no other.
Chapter Five
Are you sure?” she gasped. “M-maybe it’s a mistake? Maybe Sam wasn’t on that chopper?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But there is no way your brother survived that helicopter crash. None of the four victims could have.”
She closed her eyes, indescribable grief ripping through her gut. Sofia had tried so hard to talk Sam out of joining the army, but he couldn’t be swayed. Naïve and patriotic, her brother had wanted to make a difference for his country. He hadn’t gotten that chance.
And wasn’t the military supposed to deliver news like this in person? Sofia thought, angry at everyone and everything. That’s the way it always happened in the movies.
“Ma’am?” Jacobs’s voice gentled. “I know this is difficult for you, but as Specialist Rowley’s only living family member, we really need you to come to Alaska and attempt to identify your brother’s remains.”
“Attempt?” she breathed out. An ice-cold chill worked up and down her spine. “Can’t you tell from his dog tags?”
Every person in the military wore those small pieces of metal dangling from their necks. They were used for identification purposes, namely for awful situations like this.
Jacobs stilled on the other end of the telephone connection. “We didn’t find his head,” he said softly, “so there wasn’t a dog tag to retrieve.”
Sofia’s eyes widened. She slapped a palm over her mouth, and screamed behind it.
Her eyes flew open. Breathing heavily, Sofia jolted upright on the bed. Sam…
Her heart sank as she realized anew that her brother was dead. It had been this way every night since she’d received that horrible telephone call. Despite her current predicament, the nightmares still came.
She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as her gaze darted around and another reality slowly took hold—she was still being held captive.
Sofia had been a prisoner in the bizarre Underground world for five very long days and nights. She hadn’t seen much of the civilization, but the trip from the log cabin to this undiscovered enclave in the earth’s belly was enough to send icy fear lancing through her.
Each day in captivity felt as long as a year. The first day was still a numb blur, as she’d been too shell-shocked to comprehend what was going on.
The numbness waned on the second day and was replaced with a mixture of anger and terror. She physically and verbally attacked anyone who dared to enter the tiny room she’d been sequestered in, not caring whether they were male or female, young or old.
They claimed to be Vikings. These people were insane, and she wanted no part of their lunacy.
An old healer named Myria had mixed a brew to calm Sofia’s raging nerves, and explained where she was and why she was here as Sofia sipped from it. The woman had told her that the people of the Underground had dwelled below the earth’s surface for centuries as a result of ancient prophecies. They believed that one day the women who lived above the ground would become all but extinct.
Sofia could have cared less about how their people chose to exist. She cared mightily, however, that they meant to envelop her into their peculiar world.
“You are to become the bride of whatever Viking bids the most coins on you,” Myria told her.
“You can’t be serious,” Sofia retorted. She managed to keep her voice from shaking, but it took a lot of effort. “I’m going to be sold off…like a slave?”
“Nay, like a wife.” The old healer frowned, her wrinkles all but enveloping her lips. “’Tis an honor.”
Sofia didn’t think it was an honor. She had spent days three and four plotting methods of escape. Determined to be back in sunny Florida before she was auctioned off to some throwback barbarian on night five, she had attempted to break out and run away at least a dozen times.
She had failed every time. Deep down inside, she had known she would. After all, these people continued to exist and thrive because nobody knew about them—it was as simple and ugly as that. Sofia wasn’t naïve enough to believe that these Underground dwellers hadn’t thought and rethought out every possible escape…and made them foolproof.
Still, she owed it to herself to try, so try she did. She didn’t give up the ship until this morning, when a group of female groomers entered the room she was confined in and made her strip off her clothes. Then they bathed her, shaved her mons of all hair and worked rich oils into her skin that smelled of vanilla and honey.
They were preparing her for the marriage auction block. That knowledge was as sobering as it was frightening.
Later, toward evening, the group of females returned for a final inspection of Sophia. She asked them for clothes; they told her all brides went
to the block naked. Sophia paled, praying for death.
Physically exhausted and mentally resigned, Sofia didn’t know what to do as she examined her reflection in the jagged, cracked mirror on the wall.
She closed her eyes and sighed. She wished her prayer for death had been answered. Even going back to the surreal, numb phase would have been welcomed. It would be easier to get through this auction if she wasn’t so painfully aware of everything transpiring around her.
“’Twill be all right,” an old voice crooned.
Sofia’s eyes flew open. She hadn’t heard Myria come in. “I doubt that, but thanks for trying to make me feel better.” Her turquoise gaze rounded. “I’ve never been this scared.”
She wasn’t the type to admit to fear, but confiding in the old woman was easy. She had been with Sofia so much over the past five days that her presence almost felt normal.
“I vow that no harm will come to you.” The healer shut the door behind her and waddled into the room. She was the only female Sofia’d seen around here that wasn’t dressed in skimpy attire. She always wore a black-hooded cowl that covered everything, its solemn color a stark contrast against the white crinkles of her skin. “Viking husbands are patient and kind. Leastways, they try to be.”
Sofia snorted at that. “How encouraging,” she muttered, running both hands through her unruly mane of blond curls.
“Drink this,” Myria instructed, handing her a mug of something she could tell was alcoholic. Apparently Sofia wasn’t good at hiding her emotions under moments of extreme distress. “Drink,” Myria again prodded. “’Twill calm your nerves considerably.”
Sofia had no problem following that dictate. She was grateful that the old woman had intervened with her impending fate in whatever small way she could. And, she thought as she swallowed down the contents of the tankard, the healer was right. It was calming her nerves. A few minutes later Sofia realized it was doing something else too, though. She frowned quizzically.