Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  I nod. “Certainly.”

  The officer takes a look around the once-pristine hotel room and shakes his head in apparent disgust.

  He and the other officers move out the door. A fine layer of fingerprint dust coats every surface, making all the edges of the room appear grimy.

  Our bags are strewn about; my personal things have been pawed through.

  However, I am not about things. But people.

  The important documents I take everywhere with me are secure in the hotel safe. The vagrants made short work of the room in the ninety minutes Tallinn and I were working out in the gym. They were about ease, not robbery.

  The police were baffled over my wallet being intact. Ten thousand dollars in US currency and even more in large-billed pesos are still secure inside my billfold.

  No, the motive was an entirely different from robbery.

  I am certain it is related to Club Alpha. But as Zaire was quick to mention, I’m pressed to discern what is random circumstance presented by life and what is at the hand of Zaire Sebastian.

  The last officer leaves.

  Tallinn presents me with a key card to the new room we’ll be staying in.

  “This has to be part of the fantasy,” Tallinn says, stuffing his own card in his pocket.

  I shrug. “I believe so, but I'm not utterly certain.”

  Tallinn cracks a smile. “That's the fun. For you.” He points a finger.

  My eyes take in the ruin of my belongings. “This”—I wave a palm in the air—“is not fun.”

  Tallinn cocks an eyebrow. “But you're not bored, are you?”

  “No.” I'm troubled.

  “Let's get to the new room. They have people who'll collect the junk and get it in our room.”

  I retrieve my passport and the bulk of my cash from the compromised safe and follow him out.

  “What of your weapon?” I ask as we draw nearer to the elevator.

  “How about: where's your piece?” Tallinn says, stabbing the button on the elevator.

  I exhale in a rush. “I did fine with Greta.”

  “No.” Tallinn laughs. “She is fine. I don't know about you.”

  I laugh, slipping into the elevator. “Touché. I'll make a supreme effort to speak more casually.”

  “Just while we're here, fancy pants.”

  I roll my eyes, jerking my soft-leather briefcase onto my shoulder by its long strap.

  “What is that?” Tallinn asks, pointing to my briefcase as it lays at my left hip, strap crossing my body.

  I think of it briefly in Spanish then switch to the clunky English translation. “A soft briefcase.”

  “A murse,” Tallinn says with a snort.

  I frown. “I'm not familiar with the term but it sounds derogatory.”

  “Oh yeah, it is.” He laughs like a bleating sheep.

  I frown. “Wonderful. Explain.”

  He does.

  “This is not a female's handbag.”

  Tallinn's lips quirk. “Uh-huh.”

  “You're insufferable,” I comment, meaning it.

  “You need me.”

  I have no doubt of that. “Yes,” I reply. A thought occurs to me. “Do we have adjoining suites as before?”

  Tallinn nods. “You sick of me already?”

  I grin so hard my face hurts. “Oh yes. However, I think the night's young and we'll be using your GPS know-how to find Lisbeth.”

  “On it.” His eyebrow sweeps up. “Wasn't that weird as hell, seeing the chick in the elevator looking so much like the target?” He scrubs his face. “Wow, totally.” His eyes slide to mine. “The dudes I have in place haven't seen a thing from our girl.”

  “That doesn't mean she's safe.”

  “True, but Manuel's narco losers haven't made a move either. Looks like they're giving you the time, Paco.”

  A ragged exhale leaks out, sounding as weary as I feel. “How generous of them.”

  I think of how odd the resemblance is between Greta and Lisbeth. I consider it all the way to the new room on floor thirty-eight. I stop hard at the door when Tallinn opens it.

  I turn suddenly. “What if Lisbeth isn't the one?”

  His face fills with denial. “Nah, you were given her name, her address by that asshat narco, right?”

  My disquiet deepens. “Yes. But if this is a Club Alpha machination, I might have been set loose in the maze like a clever mouse.”

  Tallinn walks back into the hall, his eyes scanning the vicinity. I ignore his cautious study for my safety as my mind turns over the different pieces of the puzzle I find myself in.

  “He would not make it too easy. And this presents that way.” I pace inside the hotel suite while Tallinn looks both directions in the hall, closes the door, and bolts it from the inside.

  “Hold up.”

  I stop as he searches for more trouble.

  “All clear.”

  I feel my shoulders drop, becoming aware of the tension they held. I nearly succumb to the sensation of walking an unseen tightrope that never ends.

  Tallinn unstraps his ankle holster and latches it around the bedpost. I note the butt handle faces so that he could reach it while at rest.

  “Before you shower…” Tallinn begins.

  I groan and hold up a palm, dropping to the floor.

  “Just because your shit got tagged, doesn't mean I go soft.”

  “Of course not,” I say between push-ups.

  At one hundred my breathing comes faster. At two hundred I begin to labor.

  “No rest for the weary, buckaroo.”

  I give him the middle finger, mid-push up.

  He claps in glee. “Nice! The class act slips.” His eyebrows dump above his eyes, low and hard. “Now it's one-handed. Show me what you got.”

  Sweat runs into my eyes as I shake from the three hundredth push-up.

  “Stop.”

  I gasp, moving to stand. The blood rushes to my head.

  Tallinn faces me, his fist to his heart. “Bud, you're all guy somewhere in there. Sebastian has begun the unveiling of all those layers. And I'll coax it along.”

  He winks.

  “Now—let's shower and do some reconnaissance.”

  *

  Tallinn walks in a tight, prowling circle around me, and I turn with him, my eyes following his location.

  “You trust me but don't give me your back. Interesting.”

  “It's nothing personal, just training,” I reply.

  I’m wearing the outfit he brought for me, which makes me feel like a fake ninja. I tell him so.

  He guffaws.

  My hands go to my hips. “We have a young woman to save, if you recall.”

  “And you will thank me that you're less visible. Now stop being a candy ass, and let's get going.”

  My stomach feels slightly bloated from the room service order I just consumed. Even though I ate lightly, the day's chaos has taken its bite out of my normal center of calm.

  I walk out, with Tallinn following. My soft-soled, all-black shoes make no noise. I wear a second-skin mock turtleneck, which is also black. Pants with a painted-black belt buckle solidify the monochromatic look.

  We slip into an unmarked SUV, and Tallinn drives.

  Though he’s driving on what would be the wrong side of the road in America, he doesn't have any trouble.

  Tallinn makes it clear that we'll need to be a half mile out from the target's house for unnoticed entry and escape.

  I feel very conspicuous as we park the car and exit. Two men dressed in all black out for a midnight stroll in mid-forties weather? It doesn't seem believable.

  It seems, as it is, nefarious.

  With his ultra-dark complexion, Tallinn is the one who blends with the night.

  “Come on,” he says, moving into the nearest alley.

  Cobblestones slick with the beginning of icy weather threatens our footing, but Tallinn has outfitted the soles of our shoes with stout tiny rubber pegs. They tear through the slickness
but are not long enough to impede speed or make the noise that taller grippers would.

  The cold seeps into my bones like icy leeches made of smoke. My warm-blooded roots rebel.

  “It's damp,” I mention quietly.

  “There's no staying dry here.” Tallinn stretches out an arm as we come to the back of a house. Small windows, illuminated softly, watch us like eyes.

  Tallinn sends a cautionary look my way.

  “Let's just get a feel for the area, the moment.”

  I smirk, asking quietly, “What? Is this getting in tune with my inner male?”

  He nods, as serious as I've seen him. “It's saved my ass many a time. Just sit here before you go in for the kill, so to speak,” he says quickly. “Close your eyes and listen. Open your senses. Forget the cold, the sound of the water. Listen for all things furtive.”

  I raise an eyebrow at his vocabulary.

  “This is where I have excellence, Paco. This is why you hired me. Listen. React.”

  I inhale deeply then let it out in a smooth rush. I lean tighter into the crevice between the two clapboard homes. I hear far-off ships on the water. A distant bell tolls. A can rolls across the alley; the patter of scampering feet follow it.

  There. I turn my head in the direction of that small sound—a noise, deliberate and stealthy. My instincts flare like a flame lit.

  Left.

  Air pressure moves in front of me and the fine hairs of my body rise as my eyes snap open.

  She comes for me, all blond braided hair.

  Her hair is all I can see, for she wears black, as well.

  For one terrible moment, I take in Tallinn's still form.

  Then I'm fighting for my life.

  *

  I catch her foot as it sails with breakneck speed for my head. I twist as it smacks my palm, numbing my arm to the shoulder. The maneuver takes down my assailant.

  She counters, spinning with my twist, and kicks me in the jaw with the other foot as she falls.

  I lean back, defaulting to karate as I take my next breath. Her palms slap the stone, arresting her descent.

  I retreat, dropping to a defensive stance—palms opposite each other, one foot forward.

  She arches, springing to her feet, and runs for me without pause.

  I prepare to use her momentum.

  At the last second, she veers to the left, wrenching my elbow. I drop the arm she’s gripping, take her by the neck in a strong V hold with my free arm, and toss her.

  She keeps her hold on my arm, and her body weight topples us both.

  I've landed thousands of time—on the soft dojo mat. I land and roll expertly.

  My ribs instantly bruise, though.

  I suck her against my body. I am not on this earth to abuse females. I know it like I know I'm alive.

  And I've never felt more alive than I do at this moment.

  She fights me, throwing her head into my forehead. Stars burst in my vision as my ribs sing.

  Her elbow plows into my tense stomach, knocking the breath out of me. I tighten my arms like steel bands, capturing hers against me. I move my head when she would stun me again.

  “Stop!” I yell in English into the chilled silence of the alley.

  She stills.

  We breathe harshly together. My head throbs, and my ribs constrict painfully underneath her body.

  My hard hold continues.

  “I will not hurt you,” I say in a hoarse whisper.

  The quiet between us holds weight.

  “You were not sent to murder me?” she asks in a voice I feel I've heard before.

  I was.

  I lie, but it is the truth as I know it. “No. I am here to save you.”

  Another tense beat of silence sweeps between us.

  She shudders, seeming to relax, and I release her.

  She stands, and the streetlight casts its blue light on her face. My mouth hangs agape. I forget Tallinn is a few meters away. Dead or alive—I do not know.

  I am speechless with surprise.

  It is Greta, the girl from the elevator.

  Shame fills me that I hurt her.

  “I am Lisbeth,” she announces quietly. “I imagine you knew that.”

  I go from shocked guilt to instant confusion. I shake my head as I stand, never taking my eyes from her form.

  “No. I did not.”

  Tallinn groans. Gracias a Dios. He will survive to annoy another day.

  I don't look away from the woman who claims to be Lisbeth—the woman I'm supposed to murder, came to save instead, and who almost had me at her mercy in an alley in Norway. An environmental scientist who is expert in hand-to-hand combat?

  The question I ask as I look into her face: Who is she?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Greta

  I twist the stem of the water glass between my fingers, and glance at Tor through my lashes.

  “You were sneaky.”

  His expression blanks. After a moment, emotion flows over his features like water.

  “Ah,” he says, tipping his head back as understanding lights his eyes. “I was underhanded.”

  I think. “Not exactly, but close.”

  “English is challenging. There are ten different words with as many shades of meaning for the single definition.”

  I laugh easily. “So true.”

  Leaning forward, I manage to resist the last crumb of my dessert off the plate. Norwegian baked custard is one of my favorites. My love for the creamy delicacy can be compared to the Americans’ love of mac and cheese, but in dessert form.

  “You didn't tell me you'd sealed the deal already.” I don't accuse him, but I'm curious. Tor is an enigma to me.

  He shrugs a shoulder, and an image of Paco superimposes itself over him, stealing the gesture. I shake my head a little, as though I can get rid of him.

  No luck.

  I shouldn't be distracted by guy A when I'm out with guy B. Bad Greta.

  “I did not. My assistant did.”

  I lean back, resting my elbow over the back of my chair. The silk of my thin blouse draws taut across my breasts and Tor's eyes track the movement.

  I smile, feeling confident in a new way.

  It's liberating—fan-effing-tastic. “A technicality, Tor.” I raise an eyebrow. “You made Charlie's day, and mine,” I admit. My happy bubble just can't be popped.

  He spreads his hands out at his sides inoffensively. “I aim to please.”

  The gesture triggers something.

  My lungs suddenly hold scorching breath.

  Tor sits up straighter, his relaxed expression becoming alarmed.

  Something hidden and deep stirs. Like a fabled monster, it rises from the depths of my emotions, and my body bucks, remembering.

  No sound.

  Noiseless raw fear saturates me.

  They move around me, securing my hands tightly to the bottom of bedposts—and am summarily ignored.

  Bright light tosses its uncaring glare on the scene of my degradation.

  I look down my body and see the first man.

  His penis stands at rigid attention, and I can't… free myself.

  Though my vision swims because of the drugs they fed me, I scream, loosing a shriek of unfiltered despair.

  He moves between my legs; the proof of his torture bobs obscenely as he draws nearer.

  His hands spread apart as his mask, a grotesque parody of a clown, cocks to the side as though considering my worth. Then an open palm lands on my cheek, silencing me instantly.

  The taste of copper pennies fills my mouth.

  I can't move as he tears into my unprepared, dry body.

  The next scream is smothered by a gag. His sweat drips on my body like the salty tears I can't shed.

  “Greta!” Tor calls loudly above me.

  My eyes roll in their sockets, seeking his.

  I blink, lying on the floor of the restaurant while strangers stare down at me.

  Tears are cooling against my hot
skin as they slick my face with their liquid sadness.

  “There you are,” he says gently and scoops me up against him. “I-I am sorry. I don't know what happened. I was unsure what to do.”

  Panic attack with a chaser of blackout to seal the emotional deal. My next breath rattles loose.

  Tor stands with me in his arms. He looks around at the audience, and a hot tide of shame floods me.

  “I think she's all right,” he says in Norwegian, and I allow myself to settle against him.

  I'm always spent after an attack. I haven't had one in three months. I thought they were done.

  Obviously not.

  “Please, Tor, set me down.”

  Without a word, he does.

  His hands stay on my shoulders and I repress a shudder as I regulate my breathing.

  I spot a softly lit sign with a woman's outline in a skirt. “I'm going to the restroom,” I say in English and he nods.

  “Do you need me, Greta?”

  Our gazes meet, and I offer a weak smile, shaking my head as I walk slowly to the bathroom.

  I ignore the stares of the curious, keeping the door in sight as though it’s an SOS donut tossed into a stormy sea.

  I open the door, move inside, and close it before throwing the bolt. The flat of my palm rests against the smooth birchwood veneer. My forehead is hot against its coolness.

  I stand for seconds that become a minute.

  I push away, walking mechanically to the wash basin, and turn on the cold water tap.

  Two bright spots of color decorate my cheeks as though I've been slapped. The rest of me is ghostly pale.

  I splash the rushing water over my face then drink some from my cupped hands.

  This has to stop.

  The problem is with the triggers themselves. I don't always know when some innocent smell or gesture or random sight will cause me to tumble down the slippery slope of memories. My exhale shudders out of me.

  “Greta?” Tor asks through the door.

  I realize I made a rhyme, and a hysterical bubble of laughter leaks out.

  God.

  “Just a moment,” I manage.

  I can feel him waiting just outside the barrier between the outside and the cocoon of the bathroom. I have to face it all.

  The knob is cold, my fingers icy.

  I twist the knob and robotically open the door. His arms are spread wide, hands gripping the threshold. He studies my face, missing nothing. “Let's leave, Greta. I'll have Oliver drive into the city. We can talk.”