Chapter 11 #2
The Royal Palace courtyard opens before us, all stone and gold and perfectly manicured everything. Royal guards stand at attention in blue and gold uniforms, completely motionless, very attractive human statues, every last one of them. Somewhere out there, Harald the wooden Viking has competition.
Tourists cluster around, taking photos of both the palace and the royal guards. Drums sound from inside the palace, ceremonial and impressive, making me feel as though I should be wearing something fancier than my sundress and sandals.
And there, gathered in a semicircle near the palace steps, are the Velvet Vikings in all their overdressed velvet glory.
Wes pauses and holds up a finger. “Is that the book club?”
“Would you look at that,” I say, feigning surprise. “Why, it sure is. What a coincidence.”
His eyes narrow. “You knew they’d be here.”
I make a face. “Define ‘knew.’”
“Trixie.” He lifts a brow at me, and the effect is decidedly handsome. I’m half tempted to shove Marina in his direction and let fate sort out the paperwork. Although if I did that, I have a feeling they’d need that honeymoon suite sooner than later.
“Okay, fine.” I wrinkle my nose at him. “We might have checked their itinerary.”
“You’re following them.” Wes somehow manages to look incensed, and truth be told, I don’t know why. I’m the best detective he has on this ship. Technically, Ransom is a security officer, so there’s no insult hurled his handsome way.
“Following is such a strong word,” I counter.
He inches back to get a better look at me. “And what would you call it?”
“Strategic observation,” Bess offers.
“For the record,” Marina says, studying her nails, “the itinerary was posted publicly on the club’s event page. I simply read it. Last I checked, reading isn’t a crime, Captain.”
Sassing the captain within her first two weeks aboard. Around here, that’s practically a rite of passage.
I completed mine with honors, within hours, and with a body count.
Wes closes his eyes a moment too long. “You three are going to give me gray hair.”
Marina, I notice, has been exempted from the hair damage. Interesting.
“Gray would look very distinguished on you,” Nettie points out. “Very attractive. I’ve always had a soft spot for silver foxes. And gray wolves. Honestly, anything with good bone structure and a pension.”
Bess huffs. “You’re not helping, Nettie.”
“I wasn’t trying to help. I was flirting on Marina’s behalf. Somebody has to.”
She’s not wrong.
I’m about to say something when a shower of miniature silver stars erupts in the vicinity of the ladies who read. And sure enough, Magnus Darkwater materializes, infernal and rather furry: bare chest, fur cloak, all seven feet of ghostly Viking hotness.
“Ah, the palace!” he guffaws. “Magnificent. I raided one similar in the year 952. Different outcome, though. Less tourism, more pillaging. And the women of the court begged me to stay. I imagine a few of them are still waiting. I have that effect on the female species.”
I’d say something, but I’d hate to cause a supernatural scene.
He strides over to the nearest royal guard and studies the man’s motionless face from an inch away.
“Now this is discipline. Either these are the finest warriors in the north, or they died standing up and no one’s had the heart to tell them.
” He waves a hand in front of the guard’s eyes.
Nothing. “Impressive either way. Although I’d wager one beautiful woman could undo him in half a heartbeat.
No mortal man stands this still while this many vixens in velvet parade past.”
Considering the current vixen-to-guard ratio in this courtyard, the man deserves a medal. Or at the very least, a coffee break and a raise.
And unless he’s a time traveler, I sincerely doubt Magnus raided anything in the year 952, or in any other year with only three digits in it.
If Astrid knew him, that means he’s her contemporary.
Unless she fell in love with someone she heard or read about, and considering Astrid headed up a book club, that very well could be.
That or Magnus Darkwater is a liar. Or maybe Astrid was the time traveler?
Life has surprised me with stranger things.
Most of them this week. Several of them before breakfast.
I don’t dare mention his presence to anyone with me, mostly because Nettie might unravel in the very worst way while trying to sit on his lap. The king was theoretical. Magnus is right here. Sort of.
Besides, shirtless and cryptic or not, Magnus remains my best lead. A smart woman doesn’t heckle her sources. She flatters them, feeds them attention, and waits patiently for the spill.
“Trixie, my love.” Magnus shakes his spear at me, grinning.
He has clearly just invented mischief and would like full credit.
“I find myself surrounded by beautiful women. Everywhere I look, velvet and jewels and feminine charm. How is a warrior to choose?” He sighs the sigh of a man burdened with riches. “In my day, I didn’t have to.”
I frown over at him as he makes his rounds, sniffing each woman’s hair with the dedication of a sommelier. If the afterlife has an HR department, Magnus is single-handedly keeping it in business.
Okay, so he’s a bit weird. He can’t possibly be weird and a liar. A man only gets to be so many things, so I suppose that rules out liar.
Sienna, with her frizzy auburn hair and a desperate air about her as she tries way too hard to fill Astrid’s tyrannical shoes, claps her hands for attention.
Funny thing about those shoes. Three days ago, she told Marina and me she was never in Astrid’s inner circle, just a woman who attended events and read the books. Now she’s running the show as though she’s been rehearsing for it. Grief does strange things to people. So does opportunity.
Then again, her hands haven’t stopped trembling since she clapped them. Whatever else Sienna Caldwell may be hiding, she’s a woman holding herself together with hairpins and willpower, and my heart goes out to her. My suspicion and my sympathy are simply going to have to learn to share.
“Ladies!” Sienna’s voice carries across the courtyard, pitched with so much pep it borders on a threat. “In Astrid’s honor, we continue our traditions! Today, in this place of kings and crowns and power, we celebrate the queens within us!”
Seeing as the last club tradition ended with Astrid face-first in a blue cocktail, I might have voted for a nice quiet moment of silence instead. But then nobody asked me.
A roar of boisterous screams goes up as the book club applauds their newfound royal standing, and we clap right along, because nothing says undercover like enthusiasm.
“I already celebrate my inner queen,” Nettie doesn’t mind telling everyone within earshot. “Frequently and with company.”
“We’re aware,” Bess mutters. “Too aware.”
Sienna presses on, vibrating with the effort of keeping the whole club on script. “Now, a little exercise in Astrid’s memory. I want each of you to declare it, loud and proud: What sort of Viking queen would I be? Speak from the heart. Channel your inner shield maiden. Let the palace hear you!”
Behind those gilded windows, an actual royal family is presumably wondering why fifty velvet-clad Americans are preparing to shout affirmations at their house.
The Velvet Vikings murmur their approval, smoothing their sleeves and clearing their throats, a courtyard of women preparing to crown themselves on royal ground.
One of these soon-to-be queens has already issued her first royal decree, and Astrid didn’t survive it.
Long live the queen.
Her enemies aren’t so lucky.