In a Fix

by Linda Grimes

  cause.”

  “Listen, Per—”

  “Tel me where Mina is.”

  “I don’t know!”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “Look, she could be anywhere. She might be on her way home to the States by now. How about we just slow down here until

  you check the airports?”

  “I’m afraid you wil have to do better than that. Ah, here is Sam back.” He took the straps from him.

  “No, realy. I don’t know, I swear.” I hated the pleading that had crept into my voice. Not so, Per. He liked it fine.

  “Take her arms, Sam. Hold her stil.”

  Knowing it was useless, I took off, getting not even two steps before I was jerked to a halt by the back of my stupid dress. A

  hand came down over my mouth and stayed there until a gag—a filthy-tasting linen rag—replaced it.

  A fence of Vikings blocked the actions from any curious passersby. Hel, they probably would have thought it was just another

  show, anyway, the oblivious sheep.

  With the help of a handy Viking knot ace, Per fashioned a harness snugly around me. My hands were tied in front of me, and

  my ankles bound. It took two of them to carry me over to the trebuchet. I managed to kick one of them in the gut, but eventualy I

  was laid beneath the archaic device and held in place, my shoulders and feet pinned to the ground by large hands.

  Per straddled me, placing his feet on either side of my hips, and looked down at me from his great height. He held a hook

  connected to a long rope in one hand, and appeared to be enjoying himself.

  “One last time. Where is Mina?” he said.

  I would have gladly kicked him in the nuts if I could get my legs free. “Uck oo!” I said instead, as loudly as the gag permitted.

  He got the gist.

  “Very wel, Miss Haligan. As you wish.”

  Now, I thought, would be a good time for Bily to show up. I looked around at al the Viking faces, keeping a chokehold on my

  panic, searching for some clue as to which one he might be. There was no indication.

  Per attached the rope to my harness. Hooked the other end of it to the long arm of the trebuchet. When he spoke to his men,

  excitement glazed his voice.

  “Take off the safety lines and hand me the trigger rope.”

  Chapter 22

  Okay, changed my mind. If this was a cruel ruse meant to make me talk, it was now officialy working. Boy, would I talk. I’d talk

  until my tongue cramped, make shit up, say whatever I had to. Just as soon as he took this damn gag out of my mouth and let me.

  Twisting and squirming, I tried to convey my newfound sense of cooperation to my captors. Either Per wasn’t buying my

  change of heart or, more likely, he didn’t care. He puled the trigger rope, and the men holding me let go and scrambled sideways.

  My mind refused to accept what my eyes had seen. No way had he realy done that. It had to be a fake rope, one rigged to

  look like the trigger. Stil, I couldn’t rip my eyes away from his face during the oddly elongated pause. He stared back in near

  orgasmic delight.

  Then I was gone, yanked backward with a force that left my stomach behind. Up and over, like a kid living the dream of

  completing a loop around the swing set, only taken to nightmare proportions. Somewhere past the top of the arc, the hook

  disengaged from the engine’s arm and I was launched, trailing the rope like a kite tail.

  Instinctively, I tucked my knees up and my head down, squeezing my eyes shut against that last nasty image of Per’s face.

  Unable to scream, or to flail my bound arms and legs, I tumbled end over end, dizzy and disoriented.

  The space between my heartbeats fluctuated wildly. Faces flashed in my head. Bily with his teasing grin. Mark with dove-gray

  eyes. My parents. My brothers, aunts, uncles, every aura I’d ever assumed—al strobed in and out, vying for possession of my

  final thoughts.

  In the end, they al lost out to the great big overriding OH, CRAAAAP!

  I slammed into the water butt-first, with a whack that made Nils’s earlier smack on my bottom seem like a caress. A smal,

  dispassionate part of me wondered, for a split second, if I had just set the world record for cannonbal dives. Then the pain hit,

  paralyzing me, and the icy shock of the water squeezed the remaining breath out of me like a fist, shriveling the frivolous thought.

  I sank, at first unable to move my limbs at al, utterly undone by the hurting, until something—sheer panic, I suppose—kicked in

  and set my arms and legs in motion. Ignoring the pain, I grappled with the ropes around my wrists for a frenzied moment before it

  occurred to me to employ the same technique I’d used to slip out of the handcuffs. Concentrating, I caled up Moly’s aura once

  again.

  The sleeves and hem of my dress accordioned with my shrinking limbs, held in place by my bonds. My shoes fel off. I worked

  my arms back and forth franticaly, until the rope released its grip.

  Hands free, I mermaid-kicked to the surface. Ripped the gag out of my mouth. Sucked in air, frankly surprised to be alive.

  Pushing aside my gratitude—no time, and besides, it could be premature—I shoved my sleeves up and set to work on my legs.

  The rope clung to the coarsely woven cloth of the tunic like squid to its dinner. I slipped under, over and over again, spraying the

  salty Baltic out of my mouth and nose every time I resurfaced.

  I finaly freed myself, only to have the sea immediately grasp my oversized clothing, stretching it wel below my legs, dragging

  me down. Crap. I’d have to shed that, too.

  Except I couldn’t, because the leather harness was stil on me. The knots, puled tight from the stress of the launch, and now

  soaked through, were impossible to work loose with my frigid fingers. I tried slipping the whole contraption over my shoulders,

  but Moly wasn’t quite narrow enough for that.

  Shit! Damned if I was going to die like that asshole expected me to. I switched back to myself so the dress and tunic would be

  more manageable, and to conserve the little energy that projecting an aura takes. The clothing was stil a weight on me, but at least

  I’d be able to keep my head above water longer than I would as Moly.

  I spun slowly in place, orienting myself. There was a sailboat that might be close enough to hail, but for al I knew it was loaded

  with more Vikings. I hoped I hadn’t already been spotted.

  When I turned further, and spotted the shore, my heart sank. It was farther away than I’d hoped, judging by the apparent size

  of the men standing at the water’s edge. Per’s merry macho maniacs were al lined up, looking outward. Probably checking to see

  if my body would sink or float. Swimming directly toward land might get me out of the proverbial fire, but I’d be right back in the

  frying pan.

  I scanned the coast for an empty spot. My arms and legs were rapidly tiring—no time to waste on decision making. To the right

  was the city, where God knew how many more Vikings waited. Striking out to the left seemed the more prudent choice.

  I kept my arms low, barely lifting them above the water, not wanting to draw attention to myself with broad movements.

  Maintained a course paralel to the shore, hoping the waves would block a clear view of me.

  If I could get far enough down the coast before I headed for land … if I could make it out of the water … if I could run to the

  cover of the trees without being noticed … then I might actualy survive.

  Of course, my briliant plan would only work if I could keep my arms and legs moving—an “if” that was looking more doubtful

  by the second. I couldn
’t even gauge my progress reliably. The island was too far away, and too large, to use as a marker. For al

  I knew, I was swimming in place.

  Shut up, Ciel. Thinking like that won’t help.

  I put one arm in front of the other, digging through the water, focusing on getting back to dry land alive. Finding shelter. Finding

  Bily and Mark. And, above al, finding a fucking way to come down on Per like a sledgehammer.

  Unfortunately, no amount of focus could make my legs any less heavy. Within minutes I couldn’t tel if they were moving at al.

  My feet were completely numb. Fingers too. I knew my arms were working only because I saw them continue to rise and fal.

  Breathing had become a problem, too. I was inhaling more of the sea with each stroke, and wasting valuable energy ridding

  myself of it. It would be so much easier if I didn’t need air. If I could just slip under the water and glide along like a fish, emerging

  only when I was beyond sight of the horde. If I didn’t have to fight so damn hard to stay at the surface.

  In fact, that seemed like a pretty good idea, when I realy considered it. Logical. Swimming mostly underwater would conserve

  energy, which meant I wouldn’t need to take as many breaths. It made perfect sense. Not only could I move along much faster,

  but it would be a cakewalk compared to what I was doing now.

  My arms concurred and I drifted under. It felt glorious to stop, just for a minute, to take a short break. It was helping already,

  too, because I didn’t even feel so cold anymore. Sure, it was a little dark, but that was okay, dark wasn’t so bad …

  Then I was going up again, and it was easy, even simpler than I had hoped it would be. I should have thought of this sooner. It

  was so effortless, in fact, that I kept right on rising even after I broke the surface.

  Huh. Something about that wasn’t exactly right. In a second I’d open my eyes and see if I could figure it out.

  “Ciel!”

  How odd. It sounded like Mark. Muffled, but Mark. Then again, maybe I was dreaming. It kind of felt like a dream.

  “Ciel!”

  No, it was definitely Mark. I wiled my eyes to open, and found myself face to face with the hul of a sailboat. I pondered that,

  but my waterlogged brain couldn’t seem to make sense of it.

  “Ciel, can you hear me? Let me get the boat hook off you, then I’l get you up here. Ciel! Stay awake!”

  Okeydoke, I thought. I would’ve said it out loud, but it seemed like too much trouble to take the necessary breath. When the

  tension on my harness slackened I slid down, not realy caring much. It hadn’t been so bad beneath the water. Kind of nice, realy.

  A hand grasped my upper arm, hard, and puled me up far enough for an arm to secure itself around my waist. I fel forward

  over it as I was hauled aboard, and promptly vomited seawater al over my legs.

  Mark laid me on the deck and pushed me over onto my side.

  “That’s right—get rid of it,” he said, gently rubbing my back.

  I did as he told me, emptying my stomach, feeling the water, and possibly my lungs, pour out of my mouth and nose. I gasped

  as I finished, swalowing convulsively. It burned.

  “Al done?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Let’s get you inside.”

  He carried me into the cabin and set me on a vinyl-covered seat in the dining area. I leaned on the table, resting my cheek on

  the warm Formica, and began to shiver violently.

  Mark fished in his pocket and came out with a Swiss Army knife, which he used to saw through the sodden leather straps of

  the harness. It was a huge relief to get it off me. Only then did I feel free of Per’s grip.

  “Wait here,” he said, and left me. Like I was going anywhere, except maybe to sleep.

  But he was back before I could get my eyes shut. He tossed a towel over my shoulders, unzipped a sleeping bag and spread it

  out on the banquette sofa across from the table. An instant later he was back to me, rubbing my hair briskly with the soft terry

  cloth.

  “We have to get you out of those wet things. Can you stand for just a minute?”

  I tried. Realy I did. But my arms wouldn’t push me up, and my legs … wel, I stil couldn’t quite feel them.

  “Never mind.” He opened his knife again.

  “Whuh … whuh…” I said, rasping it out, having trouble making my mouth function. Seems it was in league with my arms and

  legs.

  “Shhh … it’s okay.”

  He leaned me back and, starting at the neck, sliced downward through the dress and tunic in a series of short, smooth motions.

  Then he put the knife aside, slipped an arm between me and my clothes, puled me up to his chest, and peeled the sodden

  garments off me. While my back was exposed, he unhooked my bra. After he laid me on the sleeping bag, he removed both the

  bra and my panties.

  Great. At long last naked in front of Mark, and I looked like a plucked chicken. A cadaverous blue plucked chicken. And I

  was shivering like a Chihuahua at the North Pole. A half-dead, blue, plucked-chicken Chihuahua, with teeth chattering like

  castanets. Could it get any worse?

  I sneezed, spraying snotty saltwater al over myself and Mark. Wonderful. Never, ever, question if it can get worse. It can

  always get worse.

  “Gesundheit,” Mark said. He wiped his face with his sleeve, gave me a vigorously impersonal swipe with the towel, and closed

  the sleeping bag over me, zipping it partialy shut. Then he stripped off his clothing, quickly and efficiently, and crawled in beside

  me.

  “Wh-wh-what are you d-d-doing?” I croaked when I finaly found my voice. This wasn’t exactly the encounter of my dreams.

  “It’s al right,” he said, zipping us in. “Shared body heat. It’s the best way to bring your core temperature back up.”

  “B-but … b-b-but…”

  “It’s either this or a warm-water enema.”

  Eeep. No, thanks. “Th-this w-wil do.”

  He turned me away from him and hugged me, spoon fashion, putting his top leg over mine and his arms around my torso. His

  body was heavenly hot, and I instinctively sank back against it, my incipient sigh of rapture disappearing into another spasm of

  uncontrolable shaking.

  “It’s okay. You’l be warm again soon,” he whispered, holding me closer.

  “P-p-promise?”

  “Yes. I promise. Now rest.”

  “Sh-shouldn’t you be st-steering the boat?” I said, hoping he could hear me over the rattling of my teeth.

  “Got someone on it.”

  “Oh.” I kept quiet for a minute, trying to clear my head. There was something I should—“Oh! I have to tel you—”

  “Later.”

  “It can’t wait.” I tried to turn toward him, but he held me fast.

  “Yes, it can. Don’t worry. Bily is on top of everything, and we have other agents in place, too. Relax.”

  “But we have to st-stop them before they start seling the t-t-toiletries,” I said.

  There was a short pause. “Care to run that by me again? You’re not making a lot of sense.”

  “The shampoo … body wash … lotions. Laced with steroids. I f-found out, so they had to get rid of me.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Per told me himself. He’s proud of the idea.”

  Mark believed me. I could tel by how he tensed up. “Son of a bitch. We knew they were plotting something, but we’ve been

  expecting a big, attention-grabbing Viking raid. We never thought they would strike commercialy. The bastards.”

  I tried to sit up. “Let’s go.”

  He pushed me back down. “You stay right where you are. You
aren’t going anywhere until you warm up.”

  “But—”

  “There’s time.”

  Since my mind was stil almost as sluggish as my body, I gave in and changed the subject.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Bily caled as soon as he saw Per taking you away from town. I was on the boat, waiting to ferry you away from the island. I

  thought taking it would be the fastest way to folow you up the beach. The plan was to meet Bily just beyond where the Viking

  ranks were gathered, and from there we were going to figure out a way to go in after you.”

  My heart thudded at the thought of how fortuitous my rescue had been.

  After a moment I asked, “Did you see it?”

  “Your flight? Did I ever. I was trying to get to where you hit the water, but I couldn’t see you in the waves. I realy thought I’d

  lost you. Again. After Hilda told me you’d been taken … damn, Howdy. You’ve shaved at least ten years off my life in the past

  few days.”

  The shared body heat technique must have been working, because suddenly I was feeling much warmer inside. “Did I make a

  big splash?” I said drowsily. “It’d be a shame if a cannonbal like that was wasted.”

  He chuckled softly. “Huge, Howdy. It was huge.”

  “You didn’t happen to capture it on video, did you?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Too bad. It would’ve rocked on YouTube.”

  Chapter 23

  The mirror in the head was smal, so I only had to see tiny chunks of sea-mangled me at a time. That was bad enough. Salt-encrusted hair sticking out at crazy angles, dark freckles polka-dotting a kabuki-white face, red-rimmed eyes. And my lips …

  ugh. Parched out of any semblance of their typical rosiness, so even my one good feature was letting me down.

  I had awakened a few minutes earlier, stil in the sleeping bag, with a couple of blankets piled on top for good measure, feeling

  good enough to be disappointed that a naked Mark was no longer sharing his warmth with me. I sighed. Skin to skin with him for

  that long and nothing had happened. Life is cruely ironic sometimes. It just goes to show, when you’re bargaining with the

  universe, you’d better be specific or the loopholes wil pop up and bite you on the ass.

  Clutching the blanket I’d wrapped around myself, I opened a smal cupboard under the sink and searched methodicaly for lip