Chapter 2
The Coral Lounge, excuse me, the Valhalla Lounge, looks like someone capsized an entire shipment of romance novels into a perfectly respectable cocktail bar.
“Hubba hubba,” Nettie breathes, stopping dead in the doorway. “Now this is what I call interior decorating.”
“This is what I call a fire hazard,” Bess counters, but she’s grinning like a Viking-loving loon.
Life-size cardboard cutouts of shirtless Vikings line the walls, and I mean everywhere.
Oiled abs, fur cloaks draped strategically low on hips, spears held at suggestive angles, and expressions that scream “I’ll pillage your village and your heart.
” There have to be at least twenty of them posted around the room on bouncer duty, a full pantheon of pectorals.
The lounge itself is glitzy cruise-ship chic with deep burgundy velvet seating, gleaming brass fixtures, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Copenhagen’s harbor lights fading into the distance as we pull away from port, and the dark water stretching between us.
But someone went full Viking override with the decorations.
Shields hang on the walls. Faux-fur throws drape over every available surface.
And a massive glittery banner stretches across the back wall reading, WELCOME TO THE VELVET VIKING BOOK CLUB! PREPARE TO BE RAVISHED!
Consider me warned.
“Subtle,” I say, taking in the full glamour of Viking life.
“Effective,” Nettie corrects, already beelining for the nearest cardboard Viking. “Come on, Bessie. We’re taking some serious selfies with all the hotties this place has to offer.”
Music pulses through hidden speakers, something with heavy drums and horns that’s aiming for Nordic and landing somewhere closer to a spin class.
The scent of expensive perfume mixes with champagne and something buttery coming from the buffet table, and fifty or so women mill around the room in various states of excitement.
Think frat party, and then think louder.
Although in this case, the frat boys have been relegated to cardboard.
Honestly, it’s an improvement.
The buffet deserves its own spotlight. Possibly its own security detail.
An ice sculpture of a Viking warrior dominates the center, easily six feet tall, complete with carved beard and battle-ax, and the whole thing glows an ethereal shade of blue from lights underneath.
Even the ice around here is ripped. Charcuterie boards fan out on either side, loaded with meats, cheeses, olives, and crackers arranged in concentric circles.
Delicate finger sandwiches march in tidy rows.
Cucumber, smoked salmon, chicken salad. But then things get hearty.
Swedish meatballs in cream sauce. Braised lamb shanks.
Lingonberry-glazed pork tenderloin. Roasted root vegetables glistening with butter.
And presiding over the entire spread sits a boar’s head sculpted out of lard and dyed a rosy pink, an apple tucked into its snout.
Someone gave it eyelashes. Long, curled, flirtatious eyelashes.
Nothing says Viking feast quite like a pig batting its lashes at the meatballs. Although I’ll admit the apple is a nice touch. Even the centerpiece came accessorized.
The desserts, however? Pure decadence. And oh wow, chocolate-covered strawberries the size of my fist. Layered cream cakes drizzled with caramel.
Miniature tarts filled with berry compote.
A towering croquembouche dusted with powdered sugar.
Fudgy-looking brownies cut into perfect squares.
And a flaming custard situation that’s currently making guests nervous every time someone walks past it.
I plan to visit each and every one of these desserts personally before the night is through. It’s called dedication. And according to my hips, I am quite dedicated to the cause, always and often.
I shoot a quick glance at the entry to the lounge. I know for a fact that Wes is up on the bridge doing captain things, and Ransom is briefing his security team somewhere below deck.
Only a few people on the ship know about my supernatural quirk, and that small circle includes Bess, Nettie, Wes, and Ransom.
And as of last week, Marina. As it stands, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as supersensual, which basically means I can see the dead.
Not all of the dead, just the ones who come back to help me solve a case.
And each time a ghost shows up on the scene, someone inevitably bites the big one.
Some women get hot flashes in midlife. I get homicides.
Oh, who am I kidding? I get hot flashes, too. Lucky me.
Anyway, that whole ghost thing would be why Ransom swore up and down that his team would swarm the ship in an effort to thwart whatever homicide is headed our way.
He can’t exactly tell them a killer is in our midst, but with our track record, his team can do the math.
But I digress. Both Wes and Ransom promised they’d swing by the party this evening as soon as they were free to do so.
Which means I’m currently flying solo with Bess and Nettie. Also known as unsupervised.
The term buckle up comes to mind.
“Selfie time!” Nettie announces, dragging Bess toward a particularly well-oiled Viking cutout. “Get in here, Trixie!”
I join them reluctantly, and Nettie angles her phone for the shot.
“Say pillage!”
“Pillage,” we chorus, and she snaps seventeen photos, minimum.
“Perfect. Now with this one.” She moves to another Viking, this one holding a sword above his head. “Oh, he’s a looker.”
“They’re all the same,” Bess says.
“Excuse you, they are not. This one has better cheekbones.”
“They’re cardboard,” I say.
“So?” Nettie looks affronted by my segue into reality. “Cardboard can have good bone structure.”
“So can a shoebox,” Bess says.
“Show me a shoebox with cheekbones like these, and I’ll date it,” Nettie fires back.
“You dated worse in ‘78,” Bess says.
“And I’d do it again. Groovy Gary had personality.”
We all share a laugh just as Marina appears in the doorway, still in her crew uniform, that tablet of hers clutched like a security blanket.
Her hair’s slightly disheveled, her lipstick’s faded, and she looks freshly steamrolled.
Tinsley’s handiwork, no doubt. She spots us and navigates through the crowd.
“You made it!” I pull her into a quick hug.
“Barely.” She takes in the room, her eyes widening at the Viking invasion. “This is...”
“Amazing?” Nettie supplies.
“Insane?” Bess offers.
“Both,” Marina decides. “Definitely both.”
“You should take a selfie with one of the Vikings,” Nettie says, already moving toward another cutout. “It’s basically a requirement for attending.”
Marina laughs. “I’m technically working.”
“You’re technically at a party,” Bess points out. “Come on.”
We pose with three more Vikings, and I’m certain Nettie plans to wallpaper her cabin with these photos.
The party swells around us with laughter, chatter, the clink of glasses, and women comparing notes on their favorite fictional Norsemen with the intensity of people defending their doctoral theses.
Footnotes and everything. I won’t lie, I’m loving the sheer enthusiasm for all things literary—even if those literary things have a six-pack.
“So.” Marina smooths her skirt. “Are we ready for eight days of this?”
“I’m ready for eight years of this,” Nettie declares. “These women know how to party. And look at all these hot Vikings!”
“They’re not real,” Bess reminds her.
“Neither are the ones in the books, but that doesn’t stop anyone from enjoying them.” Nettie winks. “Although if I play my cards right, maybe I can convince one of these to come back to my cabin later.”
“The cardboard men,” Bess clarifies flatly.
“A girl can dream.”
Marina laughs, and for the first time since boarding, she looks relaxed.
Actually relaxed, not customer-service relaxed.
“I have to admit, this is a step up. Earlier I mediated a hostage situation involving a towel monkey. The wife refuses to unfold it, and the husband insists it’s meant to be unfurled. ”
“I collect each towel animal until the cruise ends,” I say. “Ransom doesn’t seem to mind the terry-cloth zoo that I line up on the sofa.”
She nods. “You married the right man.”
“I so did.”
The wife is right. You don’t dismantle art. You dust around it.
Astrid Storm materializes from the crowd, gliding toward us in burgundy velvet that shimmers with every step. Her silver braid crown is still perfectly intact, and she’s holding a glowing blue cocktail that looks radioactive and probably tastes expensive.
“Ladies!” She air-kisses our cheeks without actually making contact, and her thick perfume holds the scent of honeysuckle. “Thank you so much for coming. Isn’t this marvelous?”
“It’s incredible,” I say honestly.
“We spared no expense. These Vikings alone cost—” She stops herself, laughing. “Well, let’s just say my late husband would roll over in his grave if he knew what I spent on cardboard men.”
Nettie raises her champagne flute. “They’re worth every dime, honey. They’re all giving me the bedroom eye. I’ve never felt more appreciated as a woman.”
“That’s the whole point.” Astrid laughs.
“We deserve to be ravished, even if it’s only by our imaginations.
” She takes a long sip of her glowing drink.
“We’ve got two authors joining us on the trip too, so you’ll have plenty of opportunities to pick their brains about how they dream up these steamy scenarios. ”
“Do they ever run out of ideas?” Marina asks.
“Honey, there are infinite ways to describe abs. Trust me.” Astrid winks. “I’m an end user myself. I don’t write them, I just devour them. My book boyfriends keep me very satisfied.”
We all laugh, and I’m starting to genuinely like this woman despite her slightly terrifying intensity when it comes to all things paperback.
The blonde woman from the gangway drifts past us, and Astrid snags her by the arm. “Poppy! Come meet some of our lovely crew members.”