Deep, Dark & Dangerous

by Jaid Black

  Chapter

  Thirty-two

  Another week passed by and still there was no word as to Otar’s well-being. Every hour that ticked by made Madalyn impossibly sadder. She had no idea whether he was dead or alive. All she knew was that she missed him terribly and wanted him to come home.

  The coins were gone—all of them. The women had spent what little money they’d had left purchasing the necessary items to make mead and food that they could sell at their burlesque strip show for quadruple the cost. Madalyn had been hoping Otar would come home before the show was scheduled to debut, but he hadn’t.

  Growing up in Alabama, her family hadn’t possessed much in the way of material goods. Madalyn had thought she understood what poverty was but realized she didn’t have a clue until this past week. Facing starvation was a real eye-opener. It made her wish she’d done more to help those in need when she lived above the ground.

  “The alehouse is cleaned, the costumes are prepared, and the buzz in the colony is that every pervert and his brother are planning to turn out tonight. We’ll have a packed audience.” Drake breezed into the hut. “Who’d have thought anybody would pay money to see my tits? Dumb schmucks.”

  “Sweet Odin,” Agata breathed out as she walked into the hut with her mother. “There are crowds already forming outside the alehouse!” Her eyes were rounder than two moons. “The show does not begin for nigh unto five hours.”

  “We rock,” Drake said. “Tonight, ladies, we become famous in New Sweden.”

  Madalyn snorted at that. “More like infamous.” Inside, she was giddy with excitement. This felt just like the old days, with fans lining up to meet her. She tried not to dwell on the fact that the men standing outside the alehouse were just horny and wanted to see her boobs. A performance was a performance; she tried not to think on the rest.

  “’Tis disgusting,” Annikki muttered. “Leastways, Drake was correct—men are pigs.”

  Drake high-fived Otar’s mother. “Don’t worry. We’ll dance for a few minutes, collect our coins, and send those oinkers on their merry way.”

  “What if men we know put in an appearance at the show?” Agata asked, still wide-eyed. “I would like as not faint did my brother or Uncle Vardo see me prancing about naked.”

  “There’s no chance of that,” Madalyn reassured her. Though if Otar showed up to see a bunch of women tantalizingly take off their clothes, but couldn’t be bothered to send home word that he was all right, there would be problems, all right. Big, fit-throwing, burning-bed, be-afraid-to-fall-asleep problems.

  Annikki harrumphed. “Never fear, daughter. They would like as not faint, too.”

  Agata looked ready to vomit. Her face, ashen, was growing impossibly paler.

  “I don’t think you’re helping matters any,” Madalyn told Annikki. “Remind me to never ask you for help with pre-stage jitters. Agata,” she said, patting her gently on the back, “You will be all right. This is a one-time deal and we’ll never do it again. Who cares that anyone thinks?”

  It took a minute, but finally Agata started to calm down. “Mayhap you are right.” Agata sighed. “I just want to do this and be done with it.”

  Madalyn flashed her a grin. “Just look at the bright side. You’ll be one of the most coveted women in New Sweden in a few hours.”

  Agata whimpered. “I will be the talk of the colony, but for the wrong reasons.”

  “Nah.” Drake patted her on the back. “Other women will hate you and want you dead, but every man will want you. Tell her how it is, Maddie Mae.”

  “Nobody will think that! Look,” Madalyn huffed, “we are touting this show as sort of a burlesque USO. We’re just a bunch of rebel patriots who happen to take off our clothes in an effort to support our troops.” Weirder things had happened—maybe.

  “If they buy that, then we deserve their money.” Drake grinned.

  “Madalyn is correct.” Annikki nodded definitively. “’Tis the emblem of Lord Ericsson that will be covering all of your woman parts. Very patriotic indeed.”

  “Emblem?” Madalyn’s nose wrinkled.

  “Yep,” Drake explained, “His emblem is the dragon. Annikki made us little dragon pasties. Ingenious, huh?”

  Actually, it was. It would help pull off the patriotic flavor of the show and perhaps let them salvage some respectability. Madalyn didn’t care about herself, and Drake didn’t give a hang what anybody thought about her, either.

  Agata, on the other hand, cared deeply. She’d lived in Lokitown all of her life, and she aspired to marriage one day.

  “Let’s practice our dances and forget the rest,” Madalyn said. “In another few hours this will be done and over with—and we can get on with life.”

  “Who knows,” Drake said, “we might become such wanted women that they pay us big bucks to perform again.”

  Agata smiled. “’Twould be heady.”

  “’Twould not happen,” Annikki chided. “Leastways, it depends on just how many coins we are discussing here.”

  Madalyn grinned. “So even Annikki has her price, huh?”

  “Of course, dearest.”

  “ERIKK?” Otrygg’s face was mottled red with fury. “How dare you! My nephew has too much to lose, does Toki retain his power!”

  He approached Otar threateningly, as if wanting to fight. ’Twas ridiculous, for Otar was in his physical prime, while Otrygg was advancing in years.

  Nikolas stepped between them. “Enough! Otrygg, you will listen to what was found out. ’Tis significant, whether you like it or not!”

  Otrygg’s nostrils were flaring, his every muscle tensed, but he backed off. Truly, Otar respected the elder warrior immensely and disliked causing him grief.

  For a week, Luukas and Otar had kept tabs on Erikk’s comings and goings. All signs pointed to a relationship with Toki. Doubting himself, even after seeing Toki’s friend Nothrum pat Erikk affectionately on the back, Luukas had brought his findings to Nikolas three days ago. Niko had handled things from there.

  “Neither I nor Otar took our suspicions lightly,” Lord Ericsson said. “Out of respect for you, I set up a test for Erikk.”

  Otrygg closed his eyes and sighed. He looked at Nikolas. “And?”

  “He failed,” Nikolas murmured. “’Tis sorry I am.”

  “Your nephew was fed false information on where Niko would be at a given time,” Otar said. “Not once, but twice. On both occasions, Toki’s soldiers showed up for a hopeful assassination.”

  “Gods.” Otrygg looked nigh close to weeping. “I do not understand. How? Why? What could he possibly have to gain?”

  “Toki promised him a lordship,” Nikolas informed him. “We are certain of that fact.”

  It took Otrygg a long moment to absorb it. With Erikk’s sire dead, the elder warrior had cared for him as though he were his own son.

  “Where is he now?” Otrygg quietly asked.

  Nikolas said, “We’ve acquired information which suggests that he plans to show up at Shanty Row this eve.”

  “Shanty Row? Why would he go there? He knows Otar is at war.”

  “We don’t know. But you can believe we will find out.”

  Otrygg dropped into a nearby chair. “I feel ill,” he muttered.

  “I will apprehend him,” Otar promised. “I would not ask you to do that.”

  “I will go with the deuce of you,” Otrygg said firmly. “’Tis my nephew and thereby my shame.”

  “Nobody blames you,” Otar said softly. “You said yourself there was no way to know beforehand which way a man’s loyalty would fall.”

  “That was before I found out ’twas Erikk,” he seethed. “This time, ’tis personal.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-three

  “Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire! Check out that crowd, Maddie Mae!”

  Drake looked giddy. Madalyn’s giddiness had long since faded. There was a world of difference between baring her breasts in a closed studio with a few cameramen and a dire
ctor present, and putting them on prominent display live and in front of a bunch of horny men. In a word:

  Yuck.

  Sneaking a peek on the other side of the curtain, Madalyn swallowed hard. There were at least two hundred men packed into an area supposed to hold half as many. Every single table was filled, with more men crowding around those fortunate enough to obtain a seat.

  Madalyn took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She hoped their show was worth it. Nothing raunchy was going to happen, so she prayed nobody demanded their money back.

  Clothed waitresses were serving mead and foodstuffs, with coins being dispersed left and right. Yes! This was just what they had hoped for—enough cash to take care of every woman on the Row throughout the Revolution. At the rate items were being sold, it looked like their plan just might work.

  The show was scheduled to start in five minutes, and from the boisterous male chatter, it was clear they were ready and waiting.

  “How do I look?” Agata asked, her voice breathless. “Passing fair?”

  Madalyn smiled. “Way better than passing fair. You look gorgeous!”

  All of them looked great. Annikki had managed to scavenge some velvety cloth and created sexy dresses. The bodices brought to mind Elvira costumes, with cleavage hoisted up and placed in prominent view, and long, slinky slits that traveled from each ankle to each thigh. Madalyn wore a black dress, Drake a green one, and Agata was in burgundy.

  Beneath the dresses were leather bras and G-strings Annikki had crafted from a pair of Otar’s braes. The bras were scandalous, the G-strings even worse. All three G-strings were held together by a dragon emblem at the mons.

  Hair and makeup had taken a long time. There were no hair-styling products in Lokitown, so they’d spent hours teasing their tresses into sexy dos. Makeup hadn’t taken long to apply, but a few days’ time to make.

  They were ready. Scared shitless, but ready.

  Madalyn turned to her mother-in-law and took a calming breath. “The announcer’s up first. Just remember to work the crowd.”

  Annikki nodded. “’Twill be good practice for the stage.” She patted her sexily disheveled hair and straightened her spine in a haughty manner. “The audience awaits me.”

  Madalyn grinned. “Go get ’em.”

  THUS FAR, Erikk had neglected to make an appearance. But leastways, the men now understood why Otrygg’s nephew planned to spend his eve in Shanty Row—’twas to watch a group of wenches take off their clothes.

  The only wench Otar had a desire to see naked was the one he missed sorely—his wife. He was happy that duty required him to venture to the Row this eve, for he would surprise Madalyn with a visit after Erikk was apprehended.

  Four of them sat together at a tiny alehouse table. Iiro was seated to Otar’s left and Nikolas and Otrygg to his right.

  “Do you see him yet?” Iiro murmured.

  “Nay, not yet.” Otar glanced over at Lord Ericsson, who was dressed in a hooded cowl that made it impossible for anyone to know ’twas him. “I’ve soldiers stationed everywhere. He will be apprehended.”

  “Good,” Nikolas said. “Then mayhap this war can finally end.”

  Otar was ready to respond when the lights in the alehouse dimmed. Most structures in New Sweden did not possess glowing bulbs of light. They were typically found only in large areas of assembly or on warships that trolled the Underground waterways. The majority of dwellings contained oil-based lanterns powered by whale blubber. Only the wealthiest men could afford the glowing bulbs in private dwellings.

  A blue spotlight shone on the stage and the male crowd began to cheer. Otar’s gaze narrowed as he visually scanned the alehouse for Erikk. A second later, a female voice echoed from the stage, the structure of the cantina providing ample acoustics for her booming voice.

  “Greetings, our rebel countrymen!”

  The crowd went crazed, cheering and hollering.

  Otar’s head jerked around, eyes honed in on the stage. He nigh unto swallowed his tongue when he saw his beloved mother.

  “Holy gods,” Iiro muttered. “That is Annikki, aye?”

  He sounded as dumbstruck as Otar felt. It took him a long moment to respond. “Aye.”

  “Welcome to Shanty Row!” Annikki shouted, a full smile on her lips. Otar feared he might expel his last meal did his mother begin removing her clothing. Some things a son was not meant to see. “Sit back, order a mead and some of our fine, home-cooked food, and enjoy the show.” She batted her eyelashes. “We’ve three gorgeous rebel wenches who will exhibit their patriotism for your viewing pleasure.”

  The crowd went wild as the blue light slowly faded to black. Throbbing music began to play, an old Viking battle song that had been geared up to fit the eve’s theme.

  The blue light slowly waxed, dim yet bright enough to reveal who was on the stage. Otar choked on his mead when he recognized the three wenches who were going to remove their clothes.

  Madalyn stood in the middle, Agata and Drake to either side of her. Otar’s nostrils flared as whistles and catcalls erupted, and jealousy the likes of which he’d never before experienced swamped him.

  “I’m going to kill her,” Iiro ground out, his gaze fixed on his recalcitrant wife. He threw his hands up. “’Tis over the khakis, you can best believe!”

  Otar’s expression was grim as he watched his wife, sister, and sister-within-the-law begin to dance, their arses swaying back and forth seductively. Madalyn gyrated her hips in the fashion she used in bed, slow, tantalizing circles no man but he should ever see. The audience was enthralled, dead silent as lust consumed them.

  “’Tis Victoria,” Lord Ericsson said, shocked. “I did not realize she’d been captured.”

  “’Tis my wife,” Otar ground out. “I hadn’t planned for you to make her acquaintance in quite this manner, milord.”

  Nikolas chuckled. “Will you stop her?”

  “Nay.” He couldn’t. Not without drawing attention to himself—the very last thing he wanted to do with Erikk lurking about in the shadows. “But believe me, she will receive a tongue thrashing and mayhap more when this show is over.”

  The dancing continued, all three wenches jiggling their breasts in wanton manners as they slipped out of their dresses and revealed…

  Leather straps for clothes that induced the crowd to shout and go crazed yet again. Verily, Otar had never seen men so worked up into fits of lust in all of his life. ’Twas not the lack of clothes so much as the teasing way they shimmered out of them that was causing the ruckus.

  “I must throttle her anon,” Iiro ground out, his voice sounding like a predatory animal. “My hands fair itch to do it. What is that farce that she wears beneath her dress?”

  Otar didn’t know, nor did he care. He was too busy thinking of ways to make his wife pay for her own scandalous outfit. ’Twas made of leather—what little there was of it—and a dragon clasp was all that covered her mons. Unable to bear looking upon Agata, he concentrated his full attention on Madalyn.

  Possessiveness knotted his gut. He couldn’t stand to hear the whistles and cheers. Otar’s jaw clenched as he was forced to sit still and watch, when he wanted nothing more than to run up on stage, throw his wife over his shoulder, carry her home, and spank her plump little arse.

  “When Erikk is captured,” Nikolas said, seeing Otar’s fury, “I give you leave to be gone for a day.”

  “I thank you, milord.”

  Madalyn had better pray that she had a damned good explanation.

  MADALYN HAD NEVER BEEN SO LIVID in her entire life. She had spotted Otar almost the second she’d ascended the stage. Relief that he was alive was quickly displaced by fury. He could pay to see a bunch of women he thought he didn’t know strip out of their clothes, but he couldn’t send coins back home to prevent this night from happening in the first place?

  Oh yeah. Burning bed, big time.

  Furious, hurt, and feeling a thousand other emotions, Madalyn wiggled out of her bustier bra and flun
g it to a soldier seated near the stage. The crowd went wild, hooting and hollering, several men throwing coins up on the stage.

  She hoped like hell Otar was mad. That would make for an excellent knock-out, drag-out fight later on.

  THE SON OF A BITCH OINKER WAS HERE. Drake briefly considered leaping over several tables to cold-cock him, but decided that pissing him off was far better punishment.

  Taking things a step further than her sister had, Drake not only took off her bustier, she also sauntered off the stage to a roaring crowd, picked a nearby soldier, and wrapped her discarded bra around his neck. She jiggled her breasts in front of him, a big smile pasted on her lips.

  Coins flew on stage; cheers of approval erupted. Oh yeah—the Alien Butthead was majorly pissed. Good.

  AGATA HAD NEVER BEEN SO NERVOUS in all of her life. ’Twas enough to make a wench swoon when hundreds of men cheered as she took her clothes off.

  Her eyes scanned the crowd as she seductively removed her bustier. She had to do a double-take, not believing she saw him.

  Lord Aleksi Pontus…here?

  Her pulse picked up, her heart pounding in her chest. She had loved him since she was but a child, a wee girl who dared to dream that the dashingly handsome noble would bid for her on the auction block and take her as his bride.

  But after Toki forced the Thordssons into Shanty Row, Agata never laid eyes on Aleksi again. For years she had prayed he would be interested enough to seek her out, if only to see how she fared. He never had. He had probably been wed for years by now.

  The devil inside Agata demanded that she show the noble what he’d missed out on. Mayhap he didn’t think her good enough for him, and she reveled in him witnessing so many males hoot and holler their appreciation of her form.

  Agata went further than either Madalyn or Drake had. Her bustier off, her nipples stiff for any man to view, she slowly put her hands on the dragon. Teasing the crowd as she massaged Lord Ericsson’s emblem, she unhooked it from the G-string, holding it in place as the rest of the bottom piece fell to the ground.