Chapter 16
We were almost at my house and I noted the lights were out at Mrs. Graham’s and the Perkinses’ minivan was absent, meaning they were likely grabbing pizza in town after a late soccer practice. Phew .
“What I can’t figure out is how did you or they or whoever call up a Viking?
” Jasper used both hands to sweep his hair away from his face.
It fell into thick black waves, landing effortlessly just past his jawline.
Annoying. “When historically no Vikings landed, lived, died, or were buried in Connecticut.”
“That we know of.” I dragged my gaze away. “There is the Maine penny to consider.”
“Maybe the rest of the items were washed out to sea, or the Norseman who the coin belonged to was a captive, or maybe it was planted there by someone just to cause a stir.” I shrugged.
“I don’t know. Just like I have no idea how an ancient Viking could come back from the dead and barge into my house looking for a book. ”
“That’s right,” Jasper said. “He was fixated on the book. But why?”
“Maybe, like Eloise, he wants to walk on.” It was as good an answer as any, but given that I would have to be the one to send him, I didn’t like it.
Also, I could understand my grandmother bringing Eloise back for companionship.
But who the heck wanted an ancient Viking to pal around with?
No one. Which was another reason I was certain that the Viking’s arrival was all my fault.
When we reached my walkway, the teeny-tiny hope, truly just a flicker, that this was all a nightmare evaporated as I saw half of my front door still on my lawn while the other half was on the floor at the entrance.
Jasper scooped up the half door as we walked by. He propped it against the side of the house while I stepped around the other half and went inside. The fire had burned out and the books the Viking had tossed from the bookcase were scattered all over the place.
My nerves were frayed. I crossed to the cabinet where I kept an emergency bottle of whiskey and I poured us each a shot. If Jasper didn’t want his, I’d happily drink it myself. I noted my fingers were shaking, so instead of holding his glass out to him, I slid it across the granite counter.
Jasper pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and I noticed each of his forearms bore a tattoo of a very detailed black raven, which ran from his elbow to his wrist, with different Norse runes tattooed below each.
“Odin’s ravens?” I asked. I don’t know why I was surprised. Probably because I had assumed he was a product of a posh British prep school and wouldn’t have tattoos. How very narrow-minded of me.
“Very good.” Jasper looked impressed. “My mother, Christina, is a Swede and she used to caution my siblings and me when she left us on our own to behave because Hugin and Munin see and hear all and they would report back to her.”
“So these are a nod to your heritage and your childhood?” I asked.
“Something like that.” He grabbed the whiskey I had pushed in his direction and lifted it up in the air, tapping it against mine. “Sk?l.”
“Sk?l,” I repeated the Swedish equivalent for cheers before I fired back the whiskey, coughing as it scorched a path down my throat but welcoming the bloom of warmth it unfurled inside me.
“I have a question.” I poured myself a second shot.
“Another one?” He held out his glass and I poured him one, too.
“How did you end up working for the BODO?” I asked. “You’re not like the others.”
“I’m not?”
I stared at him, then tossed back my whiskey. I needed the ethanol to ride through my bloodstream to my brain and give me a dopamine release that would override my common sense and make me bold.
“You’re the field operative,” I said by way of explanation. I felt this was much better than admitting he was ridiculously hot.
“I am.” He downed his drink in one swallow, looking clear-eyed while I felt a bit woozy. Undoubtedly, he could handle the effects of alcohol much better than me.
“How did that come about?” I asked. “I don’t suppose you answered an online ad?”
He laughed. “No.”
I waited. He looked around my little house as he considered what to say. Finally his gaze met mine and he said, “I was recruited by Miles for the job after I graduated from Cambridge with a degree in mythology.”
“Mythology?” I asked. “That doesn’t seem like the sort of degree that would lead to an occupation that specializes in cleaning up messes.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “But the alternatives, teaching or writing, had absolutely no appeal, so I took the job.”
“And now you’re here being chased around a Connecticut village by an undead Viking,” I said.
His mouth curved up on one side and his gaze lingered on mine. “I’ve had worse days.”
A rush of heat hit me low and deep as awareness thrummed between us. I glanced away.
I found it impossible to believe there was something worse than what we’d just been through, but when I remembered how calm he’d been while we were running for our lives, I had to admit he had skills.
I sensed there was more, much more, to the story than he was telling me, but given that I had likely just released a centuries-old Viking on the neighborhood, I didn’t feel I had a right to badger.
“We’d better get that door fixed.” He pushed his empty glass across the counter to me. “I don’t suppose you have a random piece of plywood lying about?”
“In the detached garage,” I said. “Bought during our last hurricane.”
“Tools?”
“On the workbench, also in the garage.”
“Brilliant.” He left through the gaping hole that had once been my door and I watched him go. It was a moment or two before I realized I was staring stupidly after him. I stoppered the whiskey bottle and glanced around my living room.
The books the Viking had tossed from the bookcase were scattered all over the floor and I hurriedly collected them, relieved that none of them was the worse for wear because of the evening’s drama.
While I reshelved my books, Jasper returned with the plywood.
He propped it up and paused to take a call.
I suspected it was someone from the museum, as he surreptitiously glanced at me before answering.
I knew if it was Claire, she was going to insist that I stay in one of their safe houses.
I had no intention of doing any such thing.
“Right,” Jasper said. “I’ll tell her.”
He ended the call and looked at me. I met his gaze and went for a preemptive strike. “I’m not going to New York.”
“But you’re not safe here, love,” he protested.
He’d called me that several times now. It made my insides flutter, which I really resented because I suspected he knew full well the endearment, spoken in that growly, sensuous accent, did that to any person with a pulse and it was a consciously deployed weapon in his arsenal.
In fact, I knew it was, because I’d heard him call Freya love when he’d rescued her from me. Well, I wasn’t that easily maneuvered.
“If I’m the one who brought the Viking forward, then I’m perfectly safe,” I said. “I just won’t meditate on the grimoire again—ever.”
“And if you’re not the one who brought him back, then your life is at risk, and given that Eloise is now dependent upon you to send her on, you really can’t stay here.”
I considered him for a moment. Usually when I stared at someone with no expression on my face, they got uncomfortable, shifted on their feet, and finally glanced away. Not Jasper. Then man leaned in. He. Leaned. In.
“Well, what’s it going to be, Zoe? You stay here and I keep watch over you, or you come back to New York and settle into one of the safe houses, which, for the record, are actually very-well-situated apartments.”
I tipped my chin up. I would not be cowed. “Neither.”
· · ·
It took a lengthy call to Miles and some time replacing my front door with the plywood before I had a moment to throw some things, including my grimoire, into a duffel bag and leave my house.
Jasper had been invaluable in helping secure the sheet of plywood.
He told me he’d arranged for someone to come early the next morning to replace my door, for which I was grateful.
I was used to doing all of life’s chores and tasks by myself, but the night had been more harrowing than I was used to—dramatic understatement—and I was finding it difficult to process, so the assist was welcome.
We arrived at Agatha’s house just before midnight.
She was waiting for us with a fresh pot of chamomile tea and two guest bedrooms all made up for us.
I was exhausted in body but not in mind, so I accepted the tea, weaving my way around her possessions to one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace, which had a nice blaze going.
Jasper took the chair opposite me and Agatha sat on the sofa.
She waited until we were settled and had sipped our tea and relaxed into our seats before she said, “What happened tonight?”
Jasper glanced at me over the rim of his cup, clearly indicating that I should do the telling. Fine.
“Potentially, I called an undead Viking into being and he arrived at my house looking for the grimoire.” I sipped my tea, wondering how long it would take the chamomile to soothe my frayed nerves. The whiskey certainly hadn’t.
Agatha peered at me over the top of her reading glasses. “That makes no sense. You haven’t used any of your abilities since you were a child.”
“Actually, I’ve been studying the craft under the supervision of the BODO staff,” I said.
“Zoe, why didn’t you tell me?” Agatha put her hand over her heart and looked wounded.
“I just started,” I said. I glanced at Jasper for unspoken backup.
“She did,” he confirmed.
“Fine,” Agatha said, looking somewhat mollified. “But how could you raise a Viking when you can’t even read the book?”