2. Helene #2
More people will arrive as the evening progresses. The Longshore festival draws a crowd in all manner of dresses. Some of them are Viking adjacent, some less, some what Hollywood thinks Vikings are.
More than a handful of guys dressed like Loki pass our booth, from the show and from the movies.
Not one of them is Tom Hiddleston. Pity. I’d gladly run over him with the wheelchair any day, points or not. Then nurse him back to health.
None of them measure up to the aura of the dude with the cape either. There was nothing effeminate about those feathers. Not when he rose up taller than any man had a right to, when those eyes shone with an unnatural iridescence.
Not even when his lips pulled back in a snarl.
“Hi, can you tell me about this piece?” A young woman glances briefly at her friends who are already bored by their pause at the booth.
“Come on, Missy, they started the Galley procession, and I want to see who they choose for the Guizer Jarl,” her friend whines.
My grin widens and freezes in place with too much teeth. “You have good taste. That’s a Rosmaled trinket box, hand-painted in Norway.”
I’ve always been partial to the round case with its colorful design on wood. The girl leaves with a new find in her pocket, her friends happier to scope out potential mates, and I score another sale.
Somewhere along the line, between the Rosmaled box and a first edition copy of Wuthering Heights, Audra disappears and returns with a lap full of treats.
“It was pickled herring or Kottbullar,” she explains.
My stomach gives a singular growl. “I’ll take the Swedish meatballs, thanks.”
“Extra gravy, extra lingonberry jam, and extra boiled potatoes.”
“Why didn’t you buy two dishes?”
“It’s stupid to shell out for two when I’m going to eat off yours, anyway. Besides, it was cheaper this way.” She shrugs, and my appetite vanishes.
“Sure.”
I sound unconvincing in the worst possible way. Covering my tone isn't an option, either. We both know money is tighter, allocated to other more important things than having two meals.
No one else is going to look after us. Blood hadn’t guaranteed it. Choice had.
“Mr. Brandstedt was happy to toss a few extra potatoes in the box.” Audra is all chipper, fake optimism. “These legs are good for something at least.”
She hands over the recyclable cardboard container, and I have enough time to shove two meatballs in my mouth like a chipmunk before the next wave of potential customers stop. Most of them gloss over the wares and shift off with a nod of acknowledgement to us.
The top visitor of the evening doesn’t actually buy anything.
Our raven is back.
It flits between tents, darker than the violet dusk, hopping nearer each time. I break off a piece of rye bread and toss it to the bird to entice it closer. “I could use a buddy to keep me company.”
“Jeez, what am I?” Audra hands change to a happy couple visiting from the Midwest. “A loser? I’m the best company you’ve got.”
I lob another bit of rye. “You’re doing an amazing job, but this cements my status as the town crazy lady. The only way to have people leave us alone is to train a flock of ravens. I’ll have my own murder.”
“You don’t actually want that,” she says.
I nod. “Yes, I do.” Clucking my tongue has the raven turning, angling its head, snapping its beak.
But it doesn’t fly off.
Minutes tick before a thick throat clears. When I glance up, a trio of men have stopped. One of them raps their knuckles on the hollow plastic table while his buddies snicker.
“Hey, nice display.” Marvel’s Loki high-fives a Temu version of the same character and both of them snicker, but neither divert their gaze from my tits. “How much?”
I stifle a curse under my breath. “I’d be able to give you a better answer if you looked at my face.”
His friends guffaw and elbow him in the side as if they know he needs a prod to keep going.
The boy tugs at what appears to be a newly purchased ax slung in a holster on his hip. Right where he wants us to think his cock would land.
Sure.
“I’d be happy to make conversation with you—” Another glance at the girls, “—all night long. What do you need to be convinced?”
“Solid pass, thank you.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, and his attention snaps to my gaze for a beat before his cheeks mottle.
“Wow. Fucking bitch.” He skulks off with his friends, leaving more muttered curses in his wake because I won’t pretend to swoon.
Rejection sends them hurrying toward the axe throwing, where the line has already grown and the contestants are being supervised like rowdy toddlers at an overrun daycare.
“Scum,” Audra mutters. “Why do so many men lose their shit at some mammaries?”
I shrug. “Women, too. Don’t be sexist.”
When I turn, the raven is closer, hopping across the grass and clicking its beak.
“I think your plan worked, though,” Audra says with a smirk. “The training-a-murder-to-do-your-bidding scheme. Which is not helping you get a date.”
The thing is huge. And it’s been watching me from the top of the tent for the last hour.
“He wants the bread,” I correct.
She chuckles. “No, he's angling for the shiny things on the table.”
“Well, we’ve got the right set up. Offering food and gifts.” Ravens make fine companions, I’ve heard.
This one is large enough to make people think twice from stepping up for a good tete-a-tete with the tatas. If it chooses to stick around.
I take the remnants of rye bread and leave it on a napkin, sliding it closer to the raven, then grin when it doesn’t immediately fly away. “Here. This is for you.”
“Honey, look! They have tarot cards.”
The call comes from the left, a beaming woman with dangling purple chandelier earrings clapping with excitement.
“These were hand painted by the shop owner's mother.” I tap the top of the deck. “They’re one of a kind.”
It’s people like Lydia, who walks away with a new deck and a serene air of bliss, who make days like this worthwhile. The Longship Festival is cool the first time you attend, and decent the second time.
The colors grow drab, the costumes mundane.
Audra yawns, and once her social battery is as dead as her wheelchair one, she heads to the back of the tent with her back to me and reads.
More stories of Valkyries, I’m sure.
I snag the last of the cold Kottbullar for a protein boost, skin prickling before my fingers nab the meatball. The undeniable sensation of eyes sends a trickle of ice water along my vertebrae and freezes each nerve.
Most of the crowd is gathered to watch the longboats make their way back to the dock and see which one wins. The throng lightens, and aside from the raven, snacking on rye bread, there isn’t another set of eyes cast on me.
The bird watches without blinking. Not afraid. Not flying away when I scoot closer.
It’s not the raven though. The impression of being watched tugs from all sides like strings of a cobweb. The niggling tension I’ve carried in my chest since this morning spreads along muscle and sinew, then straight up between my eyes in a warning.
My sixth sense is screaming, and I can’t figure out what it’s saying.