driver finally hit pay dirt.
“I’d ask her to wait for us, but this has already been the most expensive taxi ride of my life,” I told Eirik as the driver zapped my MasterCard.
He pulled out the sword, which he wore strapped to his back. “I will take care of the taxi wench for you. You save your weasel gold.”
“No, you will not. You know the rules—no hurting anyone unless I give explicit orders to the contrary.”
“Like the lich,” he said with an anticipatory smile, the avid glint in his eyes making me a bit wary. As the taxi zoomed off, all four of us turned to look at the house. It was of gray stone, with a red tile roof that flared upward into a variety of small turrets and spires. The entrance of the house was flanked on one side by a tall square tower attached to the house, with diagonally slanted white-framed windows. The upper floors had narrow arched windows. The side of the house that faced the courtyard, comprised of a circular paved drive around a small fountain, looked very familiar. Or rather, the stone projections like miniature buttresses sprouting off the side of the wall looked familiar. I looked up at them, noting the runes that had been carved with rough cuts into the stone. “For some reason, those give me a bad case of the willies,” I told the others as a little shiver rippled down my arms and back.
The Vikings glanced at the runed arches, but said nothing, just waited with obvious anticipation for me to give them the okay to storm the castle.
I gave them all a quelling glance and raised the huge cast iron knocker in the shape of a man hanging upside down by his feet, his hands tied behind his back. I was extremely grateful for the double layer of my gloves as I banged the knocker against the metal backing. The noise seemed as loud as a gunshot, making me jump and my heart race with unreasonable nervousness.
One of the heavy wood double doors creaked open with suitably atmospheric noise. I half expected to see someone in a full Dracula outfit answering the door, or at least a hunchbacked minion in a lab coat, but the man who stood at the door with a polite expression of query on his face was anything but standard monster movie fodder. He was a little taller than me, had sandy brown hair, freckles, and absolutely black eyes.
“Ja?” he asked.
It was the black eyes that gave him away. “You’re the lich, aren’t you? You’re . . . Ulfur?”
He blinked at me a moment, then answered in a voice with a slight Scandinavian accent, “Who are you?”
“The lich!” Eirik yanked me aside, sending me crashing into a large planter as he lunged forward, the other Vikings giving bloodcurdling cries of happiness as they rushed with him, their weapons in hand.
“No! Wait, guys—” Painfully, I scrambled out of the planter, about to order the Vikings to stand down their attack, but the words left my mouth as I flung myself to the side to escape the path of a screaming, rampaging horse that suddenly burst out upon us.
Isleif yelled something and ran over to protect me, while the other two Vikings started hacking away at the horse. I had a moment of sheer unadulterated horror as I imagined the worst had happened, but when I leaped out from behind Isleif’s bulk to stop the carnage, there was nothing to stop. Oh, to be sure, Eirik and Finnvid were fighting the horse, and he was a mass of flashing hooves and teeth-gratingly loud, angered screams, but there was no blood, no gore, nothing. I stared with fascination for a moment at the sight of the Vikings and horse before turning to the man who calmly watched the scene from the doorway.
“You live with a ghost horse?” I asked.
“That’s Ragnor. Yes, he is a ghost. My master refused to raise him when he had me raised.”
“You
“Yes, I am.” He turned his attention to the three Vikings, who had by now realized that the horse was insubstantial. “Those are ghosts, too, aren’t they?”
“We are Viking ninjas, lich,” Eirik said as he swaggered over to Ulfur. “We are here to protect the goddess Fran, so do not think to attack her, for we will cut out your liver and eat it before your eyes.”
Ulfur’s eyebrows went up at that. “I have no intention of attacking anyone, let alone a woman. Did you say goddess?” He gave me a once-over. “You don’t look like a goddess.”
“I’m not. It’s just a misunderstanding. I’m Fran. Francesca Ghetti. I believe you have something of mine, a valknut.”
Ulfur’s black eyes widened for a few seconds, then he glanced over his shoulder, hesitant, before stepping back and gesturing toward the inside of the house. “You may come in, but you must not stay long. My master isn’t at home now, but he does not like visitors, especially unexpected ones.”
The room he led us to was a surprise—I had expected that with a house this old, it would be filled with dark paneling and antiques. But this room, clearly one meant for entertaining, reminded me of something a hip, urbane Satan would have. The walls were rock, not wood paneled, the floor a glossy cream marble cut into diamond shapes, and the furniture was ultramodern, all scarlet in color, with uncomfortable-looking chairs, swooping, curved-seat love seats, and white, headless, armless statues of naked women dotted around the room.
I could see the Vikings appreciated the statues, but the room left me cold, literally and figuratively. Ragnor the ghostly horse followed us, his eyes narrowed, his ears back. It was vaguely disconcerting that his hooves made no sound on the marble floor, but I decided that was the least of my worries.
“We won’t stay long. Assuming you give me back the Vikingahärta,” I said, holding out a hand when Eirik, with a growl, started toward the lich. “Eirik, let’s try our party manners first.”
The outraged look Eirik shot me spoke volumes. “You said we could force the lich to do what we wanted. You promised us blood sport.”
Ulfur’s face paled, but he didn’t back up. He looked like he knew he was overwhelmed, but was going to stand his ground, regardless.
“I said you could persuade Ulfur if he refused to give me back the Vikingahärta, but he’s not going to refuse. Are you?” I kept my voice and expression sweet as I gave Ulfur an encouraging smile. I remembered well the unspeakable anguish that held him in an unbreakable grip.
His face tightened as if he was, in fact, going to refuse, but after what must have been an inner struggle, his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. “No. I will not refuse to return to you the valknut, although it will mean serious trouble with my master. Wait here. I will get it for you.”
“I think my friends and their extremely sharp weapons would really be happier if we were to come with you,” I said, following him as he left the room and started up a flight of stairs, the Vikings collectively muttering under their breaths as they trailed behind.
He said nothing, but led us to a small room done in shades of olive and muted red. At a giant desk that dominated the room, he removed a small red box, holding it for a few seconds while he gave me a piercing look. “How do I know this is yours?”
“I know where you stole it from, and approximately when. I can also describe it to you. But more important, the valknut knows me. It doesn’t like anyone else touching it, which you probably found out if you took it out of the velvet bag it’s kept in.”
He grimaced and held up one hand. Like mine, his fingers were marked, but his held an angry-looking burn. “Unfortunately, I did. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see you hold it. Just to be sure, you understand.”
“He will not give it to us,” Eirik growled, stalking forward. “He intends to keep it for himself.”
“I never wanted it in the first place,” Ulfur said frankly.
Eirik suddenly halted, an indescribable look on his face. He spun around to face the now solid equine face of Ragnor, who I could swear was grinning as he munched on a piece of black leather, obviously nipped off of the baldric Eirik wore on his back.
“Your horse can ground himself?” I asked Ulfur.
“For short periods of time, yes. Ragnor, stop that. I’m sorry,” Ulfur apologized to Eirik. “He has been moody ever since I told him the master wasn’t going to have him returned to life, too.”
“Wait a second . . . You’re alive?” I asked, distracted by that idea. “I thought you were dead.”
“I was.” He sighed and sank down onto the edge of the desk, still holding the box with the Vikingahärta. “I was quite happy as a spirit, too. We had lots of tourists in our village, and although it was sometimes boring in the winter, the summers we all enjoyed greatly.”
“We? Your family are all ghosts, too?”
