Chapter 12 #2
Magnus has drifted off to hover above a cluster of book club members in velvet capes, treating himself to a bird’s-eye view straight down a neckline or three, with the shameless grin of a man with no face available for slapping.
So very Magnus.
The Viking queen declarations march on. Women step forward to declare themselves wise queens, compassionate queens, queens prepared to balance the royal budget while inspiring loyalty through interpretive dance or whatever.
One woman announces she’d be “a queen of both the broadsword and the Bundt pan,” which earns enthusiastic applause and, from me, genuine respect.
Another declares she’d rule “with the fury of a mother bear and the gentle hand of a kindergarten teacher in June,” which mostly sounds exhausting.
I can barely rule my own snack drawer, and I’ve governed that realm for years.
It’s touching, honestly—watching these women claim their power in a ritual their murdered leader created, even if a few of the declarations are veering into self-help seminar territory. I hope every last one of them sails home feeling like royalty.
Well, every last one of them but the killer. She can feel like a prisoner. I’m flexible on the timeline.
But while the queens keep coronating themselves, I’m watching my suspects.
Poppy stands perfectly still, hands clasped in front of her, face pleasantly attentive, serene as a Sunday morning.
Except her eyes keep drifting to Freya. It could be worry.
It could be curiosity. But she’s tracking that woman the way I track a dessert cart, and devoted queens don’t usually keep tabs on the competition.
Freya has moved to the edge of the group with her arms crossed and her jaw tight.
And the moment one of the women pledges her undying loyalty to the crown, Freya turns her back on the entire circle and studies the palace wall with the focus most people reserve for a dinner menu.
In a club built on belonging, she’s doing everything in her power not to belong. That’s not shyness. That’s a statement.
Or at least I think it is. I’ll admit, trying to solve a homicide colors my perception of even the most mundane facial expressions.
And Sienna? Sienna holds herself tight, her gaze parked somewhere above the rooftops. Her body is running this event. The rest of her boarded a ferry to the archipelago twenty minutes ago and has no plans to return. She’s the woman in charge, and she cannot wait for it to be over.
Long live the queen. Preferably one with an alibi.
“Your little ringleader is nervous,” Magnus observes, drifting back to my side. “Guilty conscience or social anxiety? Hard to tell with mortals. In my day, I cured both with a firm hand and a private tour of my chambers.”
I’m sure he did.
And there’s that mortals line again. What exactly does he think he is? Granted, the man is dead, which might account for the mortal cracks for all I know. I’ve decided not to press the issue. The last thing I need is a ghost with an identity crisis stacked on top of a homicide.
Wes leans in. “So, the declaring-themselves-royalty-in-public thing. Is this standard book club behavior?”
“For this particular book club? The one that gobbles up steamy Viking romance novels like Halloween candy?” I whisper back. “This is them showing restraint.”
Marina stifles a laugh. “The covers alone are worth the price of admission. Lots of shirtless men with braids and battle-axes.”
“Battle-axes seem impractical for romance.” Wes looks mildly annoyed by his Viking competition.
“You’d be surprised,” I say.
He winces. “I’m not sure I want to be.”
Chapter fourteen of Conquered by the Berserker surprised me plenty. I’ll be taking those details to my grave. Possibly beyond, depending on how the afterlife handles book clubs.
“The books have titles like Claimed by the Viking King and The Viking’s Captive Bride,” Marina adds with a devious gleam in her eye.
Wes blinks. “And they’re…popular?”
“Extremely,” I confirm. “Astrid founded the whole club around them twelve years ago.”
“She loved fictional Vikings enough to build an empire out of them,” Wes says under his breath. “And now she’s dead.”
“Poisoned and crushed by an ice Viking,” I whisper. “The irony is not lost on me.”
“Do you know what else isn’t lost on me?” He says it fast and lands a stern look on me to boot. “The fact that your husband is stuck on the ship while his wife is out here running down a killer.”
I frown at him for calling me out so blatantly. “He’s very busy with the Swedish authorities.”
“So you decided to tail murder suspects through Stockholm.” His brows rise along with a short-lived smile.
“We’re multitasking,” I tell him. “We happen to be firm believers in both tourism and justice.”
Marina nods along. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Sienna claps her hands, visibly relieved to change the subject. “Beautiful declarations, everyone! Now, let’s gather for a group photo to commemorate this moment!”
The Velvet Vikings cluster together on the palace steps, arranging themselves with the organized chaos of fifty women trying to fit into one frame.
Scarves whip in the wind. Someone’s cape gets tangled in someone else’s amber beads.
Two women engage in a brief but heartfelt tug-of-war over a horned helmet.
Viking fashion, as it turns out, is a contact sport.
There’s a short and intense debate about who should stand center now that Astrid is gone, and nobody wants to claim the spot. Her job filled itself within days. Her photo op remains vacant. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, and I doubt it’s a flattering one.
Nettie photobombs from the side, blowing a kiss at her favorite guard. He still hasn’t moved. I’m beginning to suspect she’s found her perfect man. This one can’t run. He’s under orders.
Camera flashes go off in a burst, the moment ends, and the group starts to scatter. Some head back toward the ship, others debate lunch, and a promising few set off to explore Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s medieval old town filled with narrow cobbled lanes and buildings in sherbet colors.
I’m guessing the excursion budget didn’t cover an actual palace tour. Just the courtyard and the delusions of grandeur. Both free of charge.
Poppy peels off with the Gamla Stan crowd, and we follow her into the maze of medieval streets with tourists streaming around us, and the smell of fresh-baked pastries drifting from bakery doors. My stomach lets out a growl fierce enough to wake the dead.
Justice first. Cinnamon buns later. A queen knows her priorities.
Magnus strides beside me, invisible to everyone else and clearly having the time of his afterlife, ranking the women we pass on their suitability for his mead-drinking binge. Out loud. With unabridged commentary.
Wes falls into step on my other side. “You know we’re tailing a murder suspect through a foreign capital, right? This is insane.”
“You’ve met me,” I point out. “Insanity is my brand.”
“You said it, not me.”
Marina catches up on his other side, slightly breathless. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s brilliant insanity.”
Wes glances at her, and the hard line of his jaw eases. “It’s still insanity.”
“But brilliant,” she insists, smiling up at him.
“I’m outnumbered,” he mutters, but he’s smiling back, and neither one of them seems in any hurry to stop.
Poppy turns down a narrow alley lined with ocher and rust-colored buildings, and we drift in after her, doing our very best impression of casual tourists while being absolutely nothing of the sort.
The queens have had their coronation. Now comes my favorite royal tradition.
The interrogation.
It’s time to stop playing queen and catch a killer.