Vacation with the Troll (Monsters and Margaritas #5)

Prologue

THE QUEEN OF THE MOUNTAINS, MEDDLING AGAIN…

S ummer was, in Gryla’s considered opinion, an abomination.

The midnight sun hung over Iceland like a lamp nobody had the sense to switch off.

It bleached the sky the color of old parchment and drenched the mountain in a warmth that made her fur trim itch.

The reindeer were insufferable — lolling about along the mountain and in the valley without a care in the world, fat and smug in their summer coats.

Even Ketty had relocated herself to the coolest corner of the great hall and refused to move unless offered smoked salmon, which she then accepted with ill grace.

Gryla swirled her cocoa—iced, because even she had standards about summer—and glowered at the panoramic view from her mountain hall.

Below, tourist buses inched along roads that had, for a thousand years, been perfectly private.

Human voices drifted up on the warm breeze.

Laughter. Camera shutters. Someone with a drone.

Thank the gods for magic that kept her cave hidden from human eyes and directed them away when they strayed too close to her home .

“Thirteen sons,” she muttered, addressing the iced cocoa.

“Thirteen enormous, immortal, magically gifted sons. Two mated. Two.” She held up a single gnarled finger for emphasis.

Ketty opened one green eye, regarded the finger, and closed it again.

“Ketill found his Andrea and did I get so much as a thank-you? No. I got a card. A card, Ketty. With a goat on it. They put a goat on the card.”

The Yule Cat’s tail swayed once. Unbothered. Regal. Possibly asleep.

“I’m aware it’s the thought that counts,” Gryla said primly. “The thought could have been flowers, though she did come with two children who I adore. That’s something. Though would it be too much to ask for another child? A troll child?”

She sipped her cocoa. “Then Gunnar. I found him the perfect mate. Wren likes the cave, loves his art, and even brings him to art festivals now. Did I get any credit? No. Instead, they yelled at me for endangering her life. I knew Gunnar would save her. Of course he would. I raised him right.”

Motion from the interior of her cave pulled her from her musing.

Torfi, her favorite, not that she would admit it.

All of her boys were special, but Torfi was special.

An explosion and a cloud of smoke announced his entry.

Ketty yowled and bared her teeth at him.

She jumped off her perch and stalked to the end of the cave and disappeared outside, her tail flicking irritably.

Torfi grinned and kissed Gryla on the cheek then collapsed in a chair. “I hear you’re looking for your next matchmaking project.”

She arched a bushy brow at him. “And you want to make your case?”

His eyes widened and he shuddered dramatically. “Absolutely not. I’m too young for mating. ”

“You’re four hundred and fifty years old. Past time for settling down in your cave, a mate and offspring.”

He stretched his arms behind him. “That’s working so well for you with Gunnar and Ketill, isn’t it? No, I’m a terrible choice but I want to help.”

She snorted. “You want to cause trouble.”

He grinned, his teeth flashing white. “Same thing. Who’s next? Eirkir, if you could pull him out of his books. Bjarni, but he’s too absorbed with his poetry and living the dramatic lifestyle. Maybe Stenrik with his restaurant?”

She grunted. “I haven’t decided yet.”

She rose from her carved chair and stomped to the scrying pool—a wide, shallow basin of glacial meltwater that rippled with old magic. With one knuckle, she stirred the surface and waited for it to settle into images.

It obliged, as it always did, because even enchanted water knew better than to argue with Gryla.

The image that formed made her click her tongue in exasperation.

Stenrik. Her third son, the chef, the dramatic one—currently in the underground prep kitchen of his restaurant, The Lava Sanctum, having what appeared to be a passionate argument with a wheel of Icelandic blue cheese.

She couldn’t hear the words, but from the gestures, she gathered the cheese had offended him personally.

He was wearing his apron—the dark one, with the char marks he refused to wash out because he claimed they were “ a record of my struggles ”—and his hair was up in that ridiculous man bun he favored during service.

His tattooed arms were braced on the prep counter, and he was pointing at the cheese with a wooden spoon as though issuing a formal warning.

“Dramatic,” she said fondly. “Utterly dramatic. Gets it from his father.”

Torfi leaned over her shoulder. “Oooh yes. Stenrik needs someone to pull the fire poker out of his ass. Who is our target?”

She ignored him and swirled again. The image shifted—to a woman in an airport. Tall, polished, moving through the terminal in Reykjavik as if on a mission. Caramel-colored hair pinned up, expensive luggage, shoulders back, jaw set.

The kind of expression that said: I have a plan and I am executing it .

Gryla liked a woman with a plan.

She watched the woman collect her bags, glance at her phone, tick something off a mental list. She was heading to a car rental. As they watched, they heard her ask for directions to her destination. South. Toward the lava fields.

Toward The Lava Sanctum.

Gryla smiled—the slow, satisfied smile of a woman who has been engineering outcomes for a thousand years and knows what a good setup looks like.

Torfi whistled. “She’s hot. Maybe I’ll welcome her to Iceland.”

Gryla whirled and gripped him by the throat. “You touch her and you answer to me. Understand?”

Torfi didn’t look too concerned but he nodded. He knew he was his mother’s favorite. Damn him. She turned back to the scrying bowl.

“Elise Moreau,” she said softly. She had been waiting for her.

A couple of well-placed emails and suggestions had found fertile soil.

And her boys thought she knew nothing of technology.

“French-Canadian. Food journalist. Famous for her Beyond the Plate videos and podcast. Very thorough. Immerses herself completely.” She paused. “And terrified of small spaces.”

Torfi watched her with growing respect. “Mother, what are you planning?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Gryla said. “I’m not sending her into a cave because she’s afraid of caves. I’m sending her into a cave because my son lives in one. There’s a difference.”

Torfi’s eyebrows twitched.

“A meaningful difference. And you’ll help me. But only do as I say. No improvising.”

Torfi narrowed his eyes. “You planned this?”

He reached for the pool and she smacked his hand away.

“Don’t you dare. This took three months to engineer.

” She turned back to the image, which had now followed Elise to the car rental, where she was loading her luggage.

“The point, Torfi, is that she is exactly right for him. She conquers things. He builds sanctuaries. She goes toward fear—that is a woman who reviews hákarl and calls it interesting. And Stenrik —”

She sighed. A maternal, long-suffering sigh.

“Stenrik has spent his lifetime underground without walking in the summer sun. He is arguing with cheese. He is pouring his feelings into bread and developing new fish dishes, Torfi. This is not a healthy man. He needs the sun. He needs light and joy. He needs her.”

She waved her hand over the pool, and the images dissolved in a ripple of silver.

“She already has a reservation,” Gryla continued, smoothing her cloak with the air of someone who has thought of everything.

“Three nights. But three nights won’t be enough.

So.” She cracked her knuckles. “There will be a booking issue. Her hotel will be unavailable. I’m thinking a pipe situation, something very mundane and plausible.

She’ll need alternative accommodation. The restaurant has staff quarters.

” She smiled again. “Very cozy staff quarters.”

Torfi watched her with a sort of horrified fascination.

“I know what I’m doing,” Gryla said. “She needs him, too. He offers stability and peace, not constant movement and running. They’re a perfect match.”

Torfi shook his head.

“I know what I’m doing. I always do. Are you questioning me?” Gryla asked, irritated at being questioned.

“I’m just realizing how how scary you are.”

“That’s not a compliment, my son.”

“It wasn’t intended as one,” Torfi replied. “Just make me one promise. Never play matchmaker for me. Never.”

He headed for the back of the cave and the maze of tunnels that connected the family throughout the mountain. She watched him leave. “Your time is coming, my son. But not yet.”

Gryla looked back at the now-still pool and lifted her iced cocoa.

“For now,” she said. “Let’s see how you like the dark, my dear.”

She took a sip and began to plan.