The Viking Queen's Men

by Holley Trent

  SUMMARY

  Contessa Dahl has spent most of her life in a haze. A rudderless orphan, most decisions involved her fists and feet: should she fight or should she run? At twenty-eight, she’s ready to clean up her act, but Tess might be a bit premature because she’s destined to be a special kind of leader.

  Born into a group of desert-dwelling telepathic descendants of Vikings, Tess was meant to become a link for them all—their queen and conduit. Her kidnapping and the subsequent death of her parents meant her people, the Afótama, have had a hole in their web for too long. Now that she’s back at home, it’s Tess’s job to mend it. But, she can’t do it alone.

  She needs a perfect mate to fill in her psychic gaps, and two men claim to be fated for the job. Harvey Lang, her childhood champion, and the group outsider Oliver Gilisson would fight to the death to win her. However, to gain full control of her considerable power, she must find a way to keep them both.

  PROLOGUE

  The Viking longship rocked perilously on the roiling North Atlantic. Its hastily mended sail, ripped during the last storm, stuttered as the wind pelted the canvas.

  The thundering noise had been frightening to Muriel when it’d first started, because surely the stolen, battered ship couldn’t sustain the violent conditions for much longer. The sail would be knocked loose and blown back to Iceland. The wooden vessel would splinter and be dispersed by the currents along with the runaways trying desperately to steer it toward calm waters.

  It wouldn’t sink, though. At least not during this trip. The ship had sailed more than a thousand years ago, and most of its passengers lived to see the land they sought. They got their freedom.

  The storm and the unforgiving waves it stirred up were all figments of Muriel’s imagination. The ghost whom sat beside the weary queen near the mast, however, was not.

  Ótama, daughter of Alfarinn, clasped her many-times great-granddaughter’s hands and leaned in so their foreheads touched. “I know you are tired. You have been a good, strong leader for so long. You have earned your rest.”

  Muriel let out a shuddering breath. “Too tired. I lost hope of ever finding her. What if she’d died? Where would we be?”

  “Let us not dwell on what-ifs. She has been found, and the people will have their queen and conduit, separate from their matriarch. You are not meant to be one in the same.”

  Muriel had been bearing the weight of both roles since her mother died, and with her daughter dead as well, she’d held onto to the extra title for far longer than anyone had in the past. She’d been considering resorting to desperate measures. There was someone who could step in. She wouldn’t be a perfect fit, but even a bad queen would be better than no queen at all. Without the queen, they were lost.

  “They’re getting restless,” Muriel said with a sigh.

  “They have been patient and will continue to be. No one blames you for what happened.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way to me.”

  “Hindsight will certainly enlighten you.”

  “Let’s hope that’s true.” Muriel ran a hand through her uncombed hair and put her back against the mast. The ship rocked like a carnival ride, and Muriel tried to sweep the turmoil from her thoughts. Maybe the weather didn’t matter to the ghosts at the oars—they weren’t really there like Ótama, and were merely echoes of the dead queen’s past—but the weather had become a psychic barometer for Muriel. When she was optimistic, the boat sailed on smooth waters, and the people she governed were calm and happy. When she was stressed, like now, Ótama’s realm became a dark place, and Muriel’s people worried. They didn’t know why they worried, but they did. And when they worried, they sometimes left the fold. That rarely turned out to be a good idea for any of them.

  “What advice do the gods have for this transition? I doubt it’ll be a smooth one. She likely won’t remember anything about us. She’ll be skeptical, and rightfully so. She’s going to be asked to take on a massive responsibility in shepherding people she doesn’t even know.”

  Muriel had gleefully taken on that responsibility as a younger woman, but things had been different then. She’d had her mother—the matriarch—to counsel her, and her daughter on deck ready to learn. Muriel’s granddaughter would be coming home to find a significant hole in her family tree.

  “It’ll be within her rights to refuse.”

  Ótama closed her eyes and canted her head as if tuning in to voices in the wind. After a few minutes, during which Muriel stared at the bleak gray horizon, Ótama straightened up. “Their advice is the same guidance they dispensed regarding your daughter forty years ago.”

  Muriel rolled her eyes. At nearly seventy, it was a habit she’d yet to break. She remembered that advice all too well, and at times wondered if heeding it was the reason her only daughter was now dead. “To let her find the man worthy of ruling beside her, as he’ll give her the tools she needs to govern our people.”

  Ótama nodded.

  Muriel’s people—the Afótama, literally “of Ótama”—were a matrilineal community. They hadn’t had a king or chieftain since Alfarinn.

  New World, new rules. In all the time since that longship had landed in Vinland, the queens had acted as governors and mediators. They saw to it that their people were provided for, and in the twenty-first century in dusty New Mexico where the thriving, though endogamous, group now lived, that job belonged to Muriel.

  She wasn’t just a politician, though. She was their conduit: she had a psychic link to everyone in her charge, and because of her, they were connected to each other. Some more than others. She kept a finger on the pulse of the group, and sought out discord and wanting.

  She fixed what was broken, and propped up the psychic web where it sagged so everyone was content.

  Of course she was tired. She was like a network server turned on all the time. Naturally, after twenty years of acting as both queen and matriarch, she was burning out. She needed her granddaughter to step in, but that wasn’t the only reason she wanted her back.

  Contessa was all Muriel had left of her daughter.

  “I will try not to get in the way of the gods’ will being done,” Muriel said.

  “And you will be highly favored, as always, child of mine.”

  Muriel offered her smile and tried to put her heart into it, but she was just so tired. She was certain it was a weak one. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to have your calm seas and cloudless sky back.”

  Ótama’s stunning grin was wide and genuine. It was no wonder her husband had given up so much to spirit her away from the land where she and those like her were persecuted. “I believe I have grown fond of the rough waves.” She placed a hand atop her swollen belly and rubbed. “It is to the baby’s liking as well.”

  “It’s sure a wild ride. No surprise she was born a daredevil.”

  “With her father being the warrior he was, there is no surprise at all.”

  They touched foreheads once again, then Muriel closed her eyes, and pulled out of Ótama’s realm.

  The place had been Ótama’s gift from the gods when she’d died at sea during childbirth—a place where her daughters and granddaughters could find her and seek her guidance. She’d be there as long as she had daughters to serve, and that suited her just fine.

  Muriel hoped she could be just as good a counselor to her returning granddaughter as Ótama had been for her. Contessa would have the weight of their world on her shoulders.

  Gods willing, she’d have a consort strong enough to bear it with her, because she wouldn’t be able to do it alone.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Contessa Spry bent to fix the fishnet stockings that had begun sagging at her ankles after six hours of wear. She didn’t know why she bothered wi
th the things at all, really. They didn’t prevent her feet from blistering in her borrowed stilettos, nor did they provide any protection for her legs from the unseasonably cold breeze off the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe it was that they provided the illusion of coverage. Men were much more likely to keep their hands off her ass when she wore them, though she still got groped far more often than she liked. She hated being touched.

  A vehicle to her left honked, and she rolled her eyes. A bad habit, for sure, but she had worse ones. She hadn’t been brought up to have manners. She’d grown up fighting for security and a sliver of personal space. There’d always been someone in her face. If not her social workers, her foster “parents.” Also, cops, court-appointed lawyers, and judges.

  Whatever. None of them got it. She was just another hardheaded bitch with no respect for her elders. Not that they’d ever shown her any respect. She’d never asked to be coddled or spoiled. She’d just wanted enough trust to be left alone when she needed it, because her mind was such a tangled place. She was smart, she’d swear on a stack of Bibles that she was, but no one believed her when tests said it wasn’t ADHD or dyslexia. But she knew better. She thought of too much at once and couldn’t organize it all when people were breathing down her neck. She needed space and quiet to decompress and process it all, but she was never given it, so she ran. A lot. She didn’t even have a hometown because she ran so much.

  “Not that kind of girl, buddy,” she mumbled toward the vehicle following her. She gave up on fixing the fishnets and straightened up to tighten the belt on her trench coat.

  The car honked again, and she started a brisk pace. Maybe they wouldn’t follow.

  “For fuck’s sake, get lost.”

  All she wanted after a long night on her feet serving drinks to men who should have been taking their money home to their wives was to soak in her tiny tub and maybe finally get that pile of laundry off her bed. It’d been out of control ever since she’d picked up the second job, and she’d had to pick up the second job because she’d gotten so far behind on her bills after coming off probation.

  She felt like she’d been paying off the bail bondsman forever, but really, it’d only been a year. The entire legal system was a ridiculous racket. She’d only been in jail for a couple of days on that bullshit charge, but still, she had to pay, and pay, and pay some more. There were the fees to her probation officer every two weeks. Rent. The monthly payment for the few pieces of furniture she leased. Oh, and somehow, she had to feed herself. A girl couldn’t live on bar pretzels and wasabi peas.

  She rounded the corner of Bourbon Street in the opposite direction of her apartment and quickened her pace. Stealing a glance behind her, she saw the large, dark SUV creeping slowly toward her.

  The only people she knew that drove like that were undercover cops, gangsters, and child abductors. At least it couldn’t be the last thing because, while she may have looked really fucking great for twenty-eight, her hips and sway should have made her adult status very clear to anyone with functioning eyeballs.

  Could have been a cop, though, trying to get her to solicit him so she’d get locked up yet again for some minor crime she hadn’t actually intended on following through on.

  “Nope. Nopity-nope,” she sang to herself, and turned right again. If they wanted to follow her in circles until she could sneak away—so be it. She had all night, and the only things holding her back would be her barking dogs. She’d abandon the shoes if she had to, though her coworker undoubtedly wanted them back.

  The SUV honked yet again, and she shook her head. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want,” she shouted without turning.

  “Tess, please stop.”

  That voice.

  She knew it…or had known it once.

  She turned, because it couldn’t be him. After the way they’d parted company the last time, she didn’t think she’d ever see or hear from him again.

  And she would have deserved it.

  Sure enough, Harvey Smith leaned out of the back right window, and grinned at her in that knowing way he always did. Of course he would. He knew way too much about her, or had up until a couple of years ago. She hadn’t changed any of her old tricks since then, though. Maybe she never would.

  “Aren’t you going to say hi?” He gestured for her to approach him, but Tess couldn’t move. She was frozen in place in her painful shoes and ill-fitting fishnets.

  He couldn’t have possibly changed that much between twenty-eight and thirty, so maybe she’d had her head too far up her ass to notice. They’d known each other for too long and had come up through the Texas foster care system together. She’d known him as a scrawny little boy, and later knew him as a tall, capable adult, and all the stages in between. But, she’d never really paid any attention to the fact that he’d become a man.

  And holy fuck, he was a man, and of the rare please bend me over and fuck me without saying hello sort. There was something about that captivating green gaze that took her breath away and scrambled her already scattered thoughts. His dark blond hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and he wore a dress shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar. That was all she could see, but if she had to guess, she’d say he was wearing immaculately pressed pants and shoes that weren’t scuffed.

  Unlike Tess, he’d always had ambitions beyond juvenile hustles and short-term gigs. He’d even gone and gotten himself a damned good education. Brown University. He’d claimed he only picked it because it was by the sea, but Tess knew better. She knew what kind of school it was, even if she didn’t let on that she did.

  She couldn’t get jealous about such a thing, and knew she wouldn’t thrive there even if she could get in. She’d never been cut out for structure. Or maybe structure wasn’t cut out for her.

  “Doll, come here.” He waved her over, and her cheeks burned at hearing that old nickname reprised.

  He’d always called her “doll” when they were kids because he’d always thought she’d look like a china doll with her pale skin and huge halo of curly hair. She figured one day she’d cut it, but it had become a bit of a security blanket during her adult years. It was familiar and predictable and probably the healthiest relationship she’d ever have.

  She approached the curb, eying the big beast of a vehicle warily. The dark tinted windows gave her pause, but perhaps it was a hired car. Or maybe Harvey was doing far better for himself than she’d initially thought.

  He opened the door. “Don’t be shy. You look like you could use a lift, so get in. I was just headed to the airport. Come on and chat with me. Let’s catch up.”

  “Airport? Leaving already?” She climbed up into the vehicle and brushed past Harvey’s long legs.

  He closed the door, and as she sat, the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and prickled.

  She turned and sighted the redheaded woman sitting at attention in one of the third row bucket seats. She wore her hair shaved up on one side, and a colorful, intricate tattoo licked up her neck from her exposed collarbones. Her tank top’s collar dipped low enough that Tess could see a boat’s square sail jutting up from a mast drawn between her breasts. The tat must have been massive if there was a ship to go along with that striped sail. It probably wrapped around her torso, and the work must have hurt like a bitch.

  Tess must have been staring too long at the woman’s chest, because she cleared her throat. Tess looked up to see the woman raise her chin in what seemed to be a begrudging acknowledgement.

  “Um. Hello.”

  The redhead fixed her gaze pointedly on the window to her left.

  “All right, then.”

  Harvey draped his arm over her shoulders as she turned to face forward. Had anyone else touched her, she might have shrunk away. Anxiety would have had her clinging to the door handle, but Harvey had always been like a buoy for her. Not only that, but her buffer from the world.

  She took his free hand and squeezed it. “Who are your friends?” she whispered, eying the men in the front
seats. Like the woman, the driver had a shock of bright red hair. He wore mirrored Aviator glasses and an open smile. He caught her stare in the rearview mirror and waved. “I’m Joe.”

  She let go of Harvey’s hand and gave Joe a small wave in return. “I’m Tess.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  Tess looked to Harvey for an answer, but his expression gave nothing away. His fingers danced along her left cheek as he twined them in her loose hair.

  Closing her eyes, she leaned into his caress and accepted his tacit offer of comfort. It had always been that way between them. It’d start with twirling of her hair or a massage of her palm. He always knew exactly what she needed based on her response, whether her need be a chaste night spent inside his arms, or just holding hands for a few minutes.

  But now his touch was different. Although it still conveyed a promise of comfort, it also stirred up an unfamiliar longing. Her breath left her body in a long exhalation as he skimmed down her neck and fingered the collar of her coat. His fingers seemed to ask, “What’s in here?” and she had one mind to show him.

  Her nipples jutted painfully against her bra’s lace, and a heavy warmth spread down her core and settled in low. She shifted uncomfortably, silently cursing her fishnets’ torturous chafing of her engorged clit. She’d picked a hell of a day to not wear panties.

  “You all right?” his quiet voice should have conveyed concern, but the press of his right hand on her thigh suggested he knew what was wrong with Tess and that he liked being the cause of it.

  She dragged her tongue across dry lips and swallowed. “Feeling a bit…claustrophobic.” She looked toward the front seat again, and this time caught the man riding shotgun looking back. One of his dark eyebrows inched up to the bottom of his knit skullcap, and his full lips pulled up ever so slightly at the corners. Whether he was suppressing a smile or a grimace, she couldn’t tell. There was no privacy barrier, no wall between them. He could see where Harvey’s hands were and guess from her surely red cheeks how she felt about them.