Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Tallinn's mouth forms a thin line. My speech is probably too fast for the Rosetta Stone program I make him use to learn my native tongue. Like a bird of prey, he scans their body language. He is quick to act and slow to think. He is the kind of man I'm happy to have on my side.

  Manuel takes in my sweat-soaked clothing as well as my hair tied in a tail at my nape.

  “Ejercicio, Francisco?”

  “Si,” I reply, though I find the question to be a dumb one. Of course I was exercising. The question is a diversion.

  Tallinn's eyes slim to slits.

  “You are early for our meeting,” I say, switching gears to topics other than small talk.

  “Things have changed.”

  My guts cinch like a perfectly tied bow.

  I reveal nothing of my feelings. I plant my feet apart, folding my arms against my drenched shirt. The sea breeze flows from the outside, swirling around us with cool insistence.

  “We have reports of a cousin of yours....”

  Ramiro.

  Ice sheets inside me—he is like a brother to me.

  “We need to see to her until you make full payment.”

  The effort necessary to keep from launching myself at him is ugly.

  Tallinn makes a small move forward, and one of the narcos shoves hands in his pockets, flashing his piece tucked neatly inside a holster.

  Manuel holds up a hand inoffensively. “Come no closer.”

  I still, only now realizing I’d moved forward.

  “I am aware you are a lethal weapon in your own right, Francisco. We do not want you within arm's reach.”

  “Why have you taken, Ramiro?”

  A smile spreads like oil across his face. “I did not say it was Ramiro.”

  We need to see to her until you make full payment. My brain suffers the vertigo of my uncertainty. Who?

  Better question: why? “Who?” I bark out like a dog backed into a corner.

  “She, Francisco. She is a distant cousin and is being watched by my people there.”

  I go blank, utterly and completely blank.

  “Where?” I ask.

  He smiles a second time, and I want to end him. My eyes go to the vulnerable spot at his throat. One strike, and he would fall. My palms sweat with want; my fingertips dig into my forearms under the pressure of my restraint.

  I've always paid. Culturally, that is how it is done. It is part of life in Mexico. I think it's enough to know that my family is safe.

  I am obviously wrong.

  “We have not taken action, of course. And we might not have to—if you pay us the amount we require.”

  I realize I've always loathed what the narco represents in the deepest part of my psyche. They go against everything I am.

  Yet, the police are corrupt and my family is vulnerable, recourse is nonexistent. There isn't a wealthy person in Mazatlán who does not pay to keep his or her family from harm's way.

  Instead of delivering the beat-down I envision, I take a stab at logic. “There is no reason for this. Whoever she is, I have done nothing wrong. I pay on time—every time. These threats are unjustified.” I look from one to the other of them, but my gaze moves back to Manuel. “I do not have a female cousin.”

  His polite smile becomes a grin. I can almost see the feather sticking between his lips after his meal of the canary.

  Prick.

  “She is currently in Norway, friend.”

  I can't conceal my shock. My chin juts back as my arms drop. It is the most unexpected of answers.

  “What? Are you loco? I have no cousins in Europe.”

  Tallinn is silent, watching the ping-pong match of our faces, dialogue aside. He is watching hands, expressions and the subtle tells of our bodies.

  Manuel goes for the pocket of his suit and I move in.

  A gun finds its way into my face.

  “Relax, friend. I but retrieve a photo of your lovely relative.”

  The circle of the barrel greets my forehead. I swallow the bitter pill of my fear.

  Ruthlessly regulating my breathing, I settle my heartbeats.

  I will live another day. My belief is absolute—like everything else about me.

  The narco surprised me. A feat of epic proportions.

  I thought to pay the cool five million tomorrow. I have the currency in a safe secured into the very foundation of my home.

  This?

  This is unexpected—and unwelcome.

  “Put the gun away, Emilio.”

  Emilio twists his lips in the parody of a grin. He holsters his weapon, and my shoulders relax.

  Manuel flicks the photo at me. The corner catches me on the chest then floats to the floor.

  I stoop to pick it up, my eyes on my enemies.

  I gaze down at the image. The subject of the photo is obviously unaware that her picture is being taken.

  Blond hair like whitish silk is caught mid-breeze and rosy color blooms on skin a shade of vibrant pale cream.

  Yet, it is her eyes that hold me prisoner.

  They are depthless seas. The ocean of her soul is not stormy.

  It is full of life. Cornflower blue is captured for all time in the still shot. A graceful, long arm is frozen forever, attempting to brush a strand of hair away. Her long neck is fragile like a stem supporting the delicate flower of her face.

  I swiftly study her face again. A vague memory floats to the surface of my mind, and I attempt to latch on.

  My breath catches. The bar. My angel.

  I swiftly kick that possibility aside. I remember one moment of suspended time when I met her face with my gaze. It cannot be her, yet the memory of those brief seconds haunt me. The coincidence would be too serendipitous to entertain.

  My gaze seeks Manuel again and I slowly, reluctantly hand the photo back to him.

  His fingertips pluck it out of my hand, and as I itch to have the photo back, my extremities tingle.

  “She cannot be a relative,” I say simply.

  Though her loveliness is something I've never encountered in my thirty years on this earth, she is not blood of my blood.

  “We say that she is.”

  He lies. I shift my weight, my confusion deepening.

  “You are Spanish and French, eh?” Manuel asks as though explaining.

  I nod absently. I'm not sure what my ancient lineage has to do with anything. Many people of Mazatlán can trace themselves back to those European areas. There is even Chinese blood here.

  Though I can't think of why this obscure woman has been picked as my relative. I hate that she reminds me of the woman from the hotel. The coincidence commits me in ways I don't relish, in ways I'm helpless to deny.

  “And the price of this year's protection has increased with inflation.”

  I stare at him, my rage boiling. I know I'll explode.

  “Thirty million, Francisco.”

  My heartbeat grinds to a halt. “You are joking.” My eyes bounce between the three of them.

  “What's going on, Paco?” Tallinn tenses. He understands just enough to know things have gone from bad to worse.

  I need to negate violence at all costs. No matter our skill, we remain weaponless. That basic fact can't be ignored. The police are corrupt. There's no accountability.

  “He's raised the amount I owe six times more than that of the year before,” I say in English. “And”—I give him my eyes for a brief second before shifting them back to Manuel—“he will torture and kill my cousin if I do not comply.”

  I don't need the consequence spelled out for me. That is how the narco operates.

  “She,” Tallinn says loudly, pointing at the photo Manuel holds, “is not your cousin, dude.”

  “I know,” I say. It's laughable.

  No one is laughing, though.

  “Then who the hell is she?”

  My skin pebbles with realization. Club Alpha. Is it possible to feel one's blood grow cold in their veins?

  I think so.

  “Sh
e might be my wife.”

  “Are you crazy? Man, you don't have a wife.”

  We look at each other.

  The wife of my future.

  I see when Tallinn hits on the same puzzle I solved. His arm flies to his chest. “Oh man, no way.”

  I nod. My words are for Tallinn, but my eyes never leave Manuel.

  “Yes way.”

  Manuel just keeps smiling insufferably. “We can come to terms then?”

  “She is not my relative!” I yell, finally losing my temper. The two other narcos drop their arms from their knotted hold and let them hang loosely at their sides.

  “Then you will not mind her slow torture and execution. Your indifference will be absolute at her deliberate rape.”

  I flinch. The thought of my angel being degraded is more than I can stand.

  His fingertip trails seductively over the photo of her. My stomach churns in a slick roil of heat. “What do you want?”

  Manuel is back to grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

  “Why… the money of course.”

  My heartbeat returns to normal.

  I can do money. I have more than I could ever spend in ten lifetimes.

  “Fine.”

  Manuel leans toward me. I can smell bad breath cloaked by mints.

  “There is one other thing. You must kill her. You, no one else.”

  Every instinct of protection that has lain dormant inside me rises like sweat out of my pores.

  I cannot kill her. I know this as surely as I stand there taking my next breath.

  And why would I have to murder anyone?

  Especially if my speculations hold true—if this is a Club Alpha artifice—why would I kill the woman possibly meant for me?

  It makes no sense.

  “You have seventy-two hours. I expect the money to be wired directly into my account, as always. Here is the number of a doctor who will validate the end of her life.”

  He passes the number to me and when I don't take it, Tallinn does.

  “I can't kill her,” I say.

  “That is no problem. We will be happy to end her life, friend. Slowly.”

  I peg my hips with my hands, pacing away. I need time to think this through, and time is not my friend. I hit on a plan and whirl back around.

  “I'll do it,” I say.

  “Excellent,” Manuel answers as though he knew what my reply would be.

  He could not have. I am not transparent.

  Manuel nods at his lackeys. They pivot on their heels, and start to leave the house.

  I call out, “Manuel!”

  He turns.

  “I am not your friend.”

  He chuckles darkly.

  I watch him walk out of the front door and into the street where a black SUV waits to rush him to his next appointment of extortion.

  I glance at my wristwatch.

  Seventy-one hours, fifty-eight minutes and ten seconds.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Greta

  “I'm trying really hard not to get excited here!” I squeal into the phone.

  Gia sighs. “It's not like I'm Miss Maturity or something but let me insert myself here as the voice of reason.”

  I groan, slapping my forehead. Reason makes me tired. Exhausted.

  I'm lying on the hotel bed, thrilled to my toes to have a date with Mr. Yummy Dane tonight.

  It's all business.

  I'm so excited I can hardly stand myself.

  “It's got to be Club Alpha, Gia. I swear, it's like this guy is made to order, Greta style.”

  “Tell me more about him before you get your thong in a twist.”

  “I don't wear a thong,” I say with a small euphoric giggle.

  “Right, it's an expression, my giddy friend.”

  “Well, I can wear heels, and he's still taller.”

  “Okay, you have me there. You're an Amazon.”

  “I'm actually Norwegian,” I huff.

  I cross my legs at the knee and jiggle my foot, anxious to pick out a hot outfit.

  “We've established this. Go on.”

  “He's interesting to look at.”

  “Uh-huh. Does that mean hot? Or, he has a good personality and abs—but he's a double bagger?”

  “Gia!” I slap my bare feet on the bed.

  “No! He's… I don't know, exotic, foreign…”

  “A client,” she reminds me in a droll voice.

  I smooth strands of hair out of my face. “Yes. There is that.”

  “Listen, Greta. I thought you put Mr. Right as dark, non-Caucasian.”

  A beat of silence thrums between us.

  I twist the hem of my shirt. Memories flood my mind: being tied off to bedposts, the mattress a hard misery beneath me.

  “Yes,” I reply in an agonized whisper.

  Gia deciphers the one tightly squeezed syllable from halfway across the world.

  “Don't you go there, Greta. Don't you dare. Breathe. Now.”

  I suck in a lungful of air and release a breath that tastes stale and stifling.

  I clench my eyes. “Gia,” I whisper.

  “I am here. Listen to my voice, Greta.”

  Hands.

  Everywhere.

  Four heads rise above me. My legs are spread. Searing pain like a hot poker ignites from my groin to my belly button.

  Variations of blue and green irises, hidden behind identical masks, smile maliciously down at me—as they pump their evilness inside my body.

  “Come back, Greta. It is not happening right now. It's the past.”

  I breathe in harsh pants, shoving their hands away, killing them, hurting them like they hurt me.

  My eyes burst open, and I sit up, stiff like a plank, in the middle of the bed.

  The hotel room's calming ultra-modern environment comes into focus like the lens of a camera. The drape is parted, and a slit of the water beyond shimmers in the late afternoon

  My heartbeat begins to slow.

  “Greta, are you here with me?”

  I know that voice. It saved me.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Good.” Her tone is no-nonsense, but the concern is threaded through her one-word response. “It's dangerous for you to revisit what happened too often. It doesn't grow you.”

  Like a plant.

  I shiver a little, though the room is seventy-three degrees. “I know.

  Maybe I can't go out with him.” I clench the rolled-down bed linen in a tight fist.

  “You can—you will. I just… I caution you. It might be coincidence.” Gia laughs. “I mean, you're not such an ugly duck a man might not want to take you out.”

  I smile a little.

  “It's safe, Greta. He's a legitimate client. There's no reason you can't doll yourself up, and show him the newest swatches by candlelight and wine.”

  No alcohol. Ever.

  “Sorry, I mean sparkling cider,” Gia corrects herself quickly.

  “I knew what you meant.”

  Gia sighs. I hear so many nuanced things from that one snippet of sound.

  “It'll be fine. You're only in Norway for a week. Then you return here. I'm sure the Club Alpha fantasy doesn't really heat up right away.”

  “Zaire said it could be anytime within the ninety days.”

  The silence, instead of words, fills the conversation.

  “Knock his socks off, Greta. Have fun. Allow yourself to feel happiness again.”

  I nod then realize she can't see it. “Okay, you're right.”

  “Phone me tomorrow.”

  “I will. Thank you, Gia.” Thanks for pulling me from Hell's gallows.

  “You bet. Talk tomorrow.”

  “Bye.”

  I swipe her grinning face away.

  Determined, I jump out of bed and walk briskly to the closet. Tearing open the doors, I scan the clothing.

  My eyes land on a rich midnight-blue dress so dark it's nearly black, very simple. It's sleeveless. I hesitate, hand on the hanger. It wo
n't cover the scars.

  Finally, I jerk it off and lay the beautiful dress out on the bed. I walk away before I can turn chicken and decide against wearing it. I move to the shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it.

  It won't wash the memories away. Nothing will.

  But I'm determined they won't steal my freedom.

  The happiness Gia promises is there for me if I trust again.

  If.

  *

  A pearl gray limo prowls to a stop beside the high curb in front of my hotel.

  A light shawl covers my shoulders. Like my shoes, it's nude. October in Norway feels like the promise of winter, and I'm instantly aware I'm not dressed warmly enough. The spiderweb of fabric gives the illusion of coverage but no real warmth. A huge coat would have marred the line of the dress, so I chose my shawl.

  Beauty is pain. I smirk.

  The hemline rides three inches above my knees and wraps at the high point of my hip. The subtle v-shape neckline is not exceedingly low, but it offers a glimpse of cleavage as I move.

  I stride to the limo as the driver rounds the front and heads me off at the pass to open the door with a flourish.

  “Thank you,” I greet him in Norwegian.

  “You're welcome,” he returns like a perfect volley in English.

  I forget how so many Europeans speak English. So much for practicing my Norwegian.

  I give my best effort to hang on to modesty as I fold myself inside the plush interior.

  Tor Aros waits inside.

  Like a cat catching sight of a mouse, his energy seems stretched taut, reaching for me on invisible strings.

  His eyes flare as they settle on my figure. Tor leaves nothing untouched or unseen.

  “Hello,” he says in a rich baritone timbre, sliding forward and capturing my hand.

  He kisses it as he did earlier today. This time, there is electricity like a painful spark.

  His eyes meet mine over the bend of my hand.

  Just as the exchange might become uncomfortable, he gently places my hand against my knee. “How are you this evening, Ms. Dahlem?”

  My lips lift. “I am well, Mr. Aros,” I say, ducking my head slightly.

  “Tor,” he says. A whisper of brows meet, then his face clears.

  My smile widens. “Greta.”

  “Touché,” he says.

  I swing my slim briefcase around and begin to fiddle with latches.

  “No, Greta. Let us wait on things of business until such time after we've dined.” His deep auburn brow rises in question.