by Kris Tualla
Explaining that a Viking apparition was constantly at her side and actually ended up saving her life was probably information best held back at this time.
George Oswald appeared in her office doorway. He was smiling.
“Mom, I have to go. Give Dad my love.” Hollis hung up the phone. “What?”
“First of all, the plea agreement was accepted by the judge. Doctor Everett Sage will serve three years in prison without parole, in a combined sentence covering the Class Four aggravated assault and the Class Six felony theft.”
Hollis frowned and did not look at Sveyn. “That doesn’t seem like very long…”
“It’s not. It’s about a third of the time he could have received.” George shrugged and his smile dimmed a little. “But that’s what a plea agreement does.”
Hollis gave a reluctant nod. “I understand.”
“The state also offers up to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in victim restitution,” he said. “But we’re not taking that.”
Hollis frowned at George. “Because?”
“Because he’s loaded.”
“You know that already?”
George chuckled. “That’s based on preliminary findings. I believe we’ll be able to quadruple that amount—at the least.”
Hollis went limp. “Really?”
“Really. I’ll keep you informed.” He turned to leave.
“Hey George?” He faced her again and she asked, “What about the icon?”
“The museum gets it.”
“Thanks.”
The lawyer turned to leave again and Hollis called out to him once more. She held up her cell phone. “You can call me, you know. You don’t always have to tell me in person.”
His face flushed red. “I do enjoy the company in this office. It’s no bother.”
Hollis laughed. “Stevie’s in the new wing.”
George saluted and left the office.
“He is deeply smitten,” Sveyn observed.
Hollis’s smiled faded. “Yes. He is.”
Monday
November 23
Benton sent his legal team to retrieve Sage’s half of the icon from the Phoenix police only after the bulletproof case was delivered to the museum and installed. Hollis and Stevie cleaned the heavy case and laid their half of the icon in its place, along with the label explaining the object’s history and legend.
When the team returned with the other half, Sveyn hovered so close to Hollis that if he possessed a physical body she would have been pinned by his weight.
“Get back,” Hollis grumbled.
“Do not connect the two, Hollis,” he warned. “Do not even get them too close, in the event they try to join themselves.”
As silly as his words sounded to her, Hollis knew that Sveyn was completely serious about his concerns.
He claimed that the icon, impossibly carbon-dated at six thousand years old, was made by the sons of God—beings who, according to the book of Genesis, walked the earth in ancient-even-then Biblical times.
When she expressed her doubts, he challenged her. “Have you not heard of Thor? Apollo? Zeus? The Egyptian sun gods? Where do you believe these stories have come from?”
Hollis couldn’t buy into the belief that any one of these accounts was specifically true, but she had to admit that cultures all around the world did have very similar elements in their legends and oral histories
Sveyn pushed her further, claiming that structures such as Stonehenge, the Easter Island stone heads, and the Great Pyramids were all built with the help of these creatures’ super-human strength.
In the end, she had to admit that she couldn’t confidently refute those beliefs. Not when a Viking apparition suddenly appeared in her life, claiming to have been transformed after being run through by a broadsword in the year ten-seventy.
“Don’t lay them too close,” she said to Stevie who was handling the icon with cotton-gloved hands. “We want to give the impression that the legend is true and they can’t touch each other.”
Stevie placed Everett’s half about eight inches from the one that Ezra owned. “How’s this?”
Hollis waited for Sveyn to either approve or object.
“A little farther,” he said.
“Hmm…” Hollis tilted her head. “I think they will look better if they are a little further apart.”
“And maybe offset a bit?” Stevie adjusted the two similar-looking pieces. Both were made of wood and steel—which pierced the wood in ways that seemed impossible to craft—and both were carved with Nordic runes and other symbols even Sveyn didn’t know the meaning of. “How’s this?”
Sveyn stared at the display, his brow furrowed. “That will do.”
“That looks great, Stevie.”
Stevie pulled her hands back and Hollis lowered the heavy acrylic top. The lock required both a key and a combination to open the case—a safety feature which Benton planned to make quite public. Hopefully, that knowledge would discourage would-be thieves.
Hollis looked at her watch. “I have to go. Can you finish up?”
“Sure. Do you have a date?” Stevie’s tone was as hopeful as her expression.
“I have an appointment,” Hollis replied. “And that’s all I’m going to say.”
*****
Hollis stood in the costume shop that George recommended and allowed herself to be buttoned into a high-waisted, scoop-necked, narrow-sleeved, floor length dress made of lightweight, butter-yellow wool.
“It’s a bit revealing, isn’t it?” she asked as she considered her image in the mirror. The swells of her breasts were distractingly pushed above the décolletage of the dress by the snug bodice.
Hollis looked at the gal helping her and pointed at her own face. “I’m speaking to a group and I do want their eyes up here.”
“You’ll need a scarf, then.” The shop girl disappeared from the changing room, and reappeared with a length of cream-colored silk. “Wrap it behind your neck, and tuck the ends in your cleavage.”
That’s better.
“Too bad.” Sveyn was leaning in the changing room doorway, his arms folded and his attention locked on Hollis. “I liked it better without the drape.”
“This is more professional,” she said to Sveyn. “I don’t want to be distracting.”
“I understand,” the girl said. “And the color is perfect for you.”
Sveyn smiled softly. “I do agree with that. You look very beautiful in that dress.”
Hollis tilted her head, still examining her reflection. “How accurate is the style?”
“Very,” Sveyn confirmed. “I remember it well.”
“It’s very accurate. This dress was made from a pattern, which was created from a disassembled dress from that period.” The girl smiled. “We have a lot of JASNA members who buy from us.”
Hollis met her eyes in the mirror. “But I’m renting this, right?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And how do I dress myself?”
The girl lifted Hollis’s left arm. “There’s a secret zipper here, for ladies who don’t have a companion to help them.”
Hollis unzipped the hidden fastener and the bodice fell slack. “And then I pull it off over my head instead of stepping into it?”
“Exactly.”
Hollis nodded. “Okay. This’ll do.”
*****
“You were stunningly beautiful in that gown, Hollis.”
Hollis smiled at the Viking riding in her passenger seat. “Thank you, Sveyn.” She pulled into a family-owned pizza shop’s parking lot. “Are you coming in?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll put this on.” Hollis reached in her purse and retrieved the Bluetooth earpiece which allowed her to converse with Sveyn in public without looking like an insane person. She slipped it over her ear. “Let’s go. My mouth is already watering.”
“Yes. The garlic bread knots.” Sveyn grinned. “I know that well.”
Hollis got out o
f her car and locked it as Sveyn moved through the passenger door. When she stepped inside the shop, the warm and pungent aroma of roasted garlic washed over her.
She inhaled deeply. “I wish you could smell this.”
Sveyn had an odd look on his face. “What does it smell like?”
How do I describe it?
More to the point, did the Viking have a frame of reference for the little bulb?
“Did you have garlic in Norway?”
His brow furrowed. “I do not believe so.”
Hollis shrugged. “Then I really don’t know how to describe it. It’s…sharp. Sort of stings your nose. But it doesn’t make your eyes water like an onion does.”
She stepped up to the counter and ordered a personal pizza and half-a-dozen garlic knots to go. After she paid for her order, she sat at a small table to wait.
Sveyn was walking around the shop, examining the food. He went into the kitchen and stuck his face into the oven.
“What are you doing?” Hollis asked softly. She knew Sveyn always heard her voice, no matter how far he was from her. Just like she couldn’t not see him, he couldn’t not hear her.
“Sniffing,” he said.
Hollis laughed. “Why? You don’t breathe.”
“To discover if I am imagining things.”
Hollis froze. “Imagining things? What do you mean?”
Sveyn left the kitchen and walked to the table where she sat. His eyes were wide and intense under a lowered brow. His hands were in fists. He lowered himself into the chair opposite her.
Hollis’s sense of dread kicked into high gear. “What’s wrong, Sveyn?”
The apparition looked like he had seen a ghost of his own. “I believe I can smell it. The garlic.”
Chapter Six
Hollis didn’t speak again until her number was called. She grabbed her order and hurried out to her car, too stunned to know what to say.
When she first met Sveyn back in September, he told her his existence was like living in a dream. He could see and hear, but he couldn’t taste or touch—or smell—anything.
In spite of that, both she and he experienced a faint electrical tingle when their hands were close to each other’s skin. Hollis would have believed it was her imagination if Everett Sage’s electromagnetic sensor hadn’t registered a reading when Sveyn was standing near it.
The apparition was definitely real.
And, it would seem, was now becoming realer.
“Can you smell it now?” Hollis asked. The garlicky aroma had mixed with the yeast of the pizza crust and tang of the tomato sauce and filled the interior of her car with nasal deliciousness.
“I am not certain,” he replied. “It is not like it was.”
“Maybe it was a temporary thing.” Why that possibility made her sad, she wasn’t certain. But it did.
Sveyn said nothing.
“Tell me if it happens again.” Hollis’s eyes were determinedly fixed on the road. “Will you?”
“Yes.” It was almost a grunt.
Hollis pulled into the condo complex and parked. Battered briefcase in one hand, and dinner in the other, she still managed to unlock her door and go inside. It would be nice if Sveyn could help, but his hands passed through anything he tried to grab.
“I might recognize certain aromas.”
Hollis watched Sveyn as she set her burden on the dining room table. “What do you mean?”
He tilted his head a little. “I mean that I might remember some scents if I experienced them again.”
“Like a test?” The idea was fascinating—and rife with the very real possibility of devastating disappointment.
Sveyn nodded.
“What scents do you think you’d recognize?” she asked, considering the earthy smells of medieval Norway versus the industrial scents of modern day Phoenix. Would anything smell the same?
“Horse shit. Smoke. Fish.” Sveyn rubbed his brow out of habit, though he told her he couldn’t feel his own body. “Ice. Rain. Pine sap.”
Hollis unwrapped her food. “Some of those I could manage, maybe.” She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “I’ll think about it.”
She settled on the couch with her supper, as was her habit. Sveyn normally sat beside her, but this evening he was fidgety.
“Tell me about the Regency period,” she said on sudden inspiration. “Did you manifest to anyone at the beginning of the nineteenth century?”
He stilled and looked at her. “Yes.”
“Where?” She bit into a garlic knot and briefly closed her eyes. Heaven.
“London. Well, the outskirts, more accurately.” He rubbed his forehead again. “He was a magistrate in a small town called Twickenham.”
Fascinating. “How long were you there?”
“Just short of five years.”
An abrupt thought made her stop eating. “Did you—I mean he—ever meet Jane Austin?”
Sveyn’s brow furrowed. “No. Not that I recall.”
Hollis knew it was a long shot but was still disappointed. Sveyn’s various manifestations over nearly a millennium made him an eye witness to so much history that she suddenly wanted to quiz him about everything he saw.
Not that I could cite him on anything, of course.
But his observations could be used as a jumping-off point for further research. If only he could write down his experiences.
Another abrupt thought shoved her dinner aside and catapulted her toward her phone. “Can your voice be recorded?”
Sveyn’s obvious surprise made her laugh. “I do not know. No one has ever tried.”
“Not that they could, of course.” Hollis opened a voice recording app. “I mean they could in the nineteen-forties, but only with cumbersome equipment. And not everyone had access to it.”
She held up her phone. “Tell me your name.”
“You can record me on that?”
“Yes. What is your name?”
“Sveyn Hansen.”
“How old are you?”
Sveyn lifted one brow. “Thirty-four? Or should I say nine hundred and eighty, give or take.”
“How many years have you spent manifesting overall?” Hollis asked—partly out of curiosity, and partly to keep him talking.
Sveyn shrugged.
Not helpful.
“Will you make a guess?” she prodded.
He looked irritated. “Twenty two times before this, ranging from five hours to twenty-seven years? I cannot be expected to remember.”
Good point. “Let’s say the average was, what? Five years each? Ten?” she coaxed.
“Seven or eight, I would think.”
“Okay, good.” Hollis did the math in her head. “So you have walked the earth about one hundred and seventy-five years altogether.”
“Then I am either thirty-four, two-hundred-and-nine, or nine-hundred-and-eighty.” He lowered his chin and stared at her. “You choose.”
Hollis stopped recording. “Let’s see what we have.”
When she played back her recording, her voice was clear. And while Sveyn’s voice wasn’t there, something was.
“I need better options,” she said. “I’m emailing this audio file to myself so I can download it onto my laptop and open it in an editing program.”
Sveyn huffed a wry chuckle. “And I shall pretend that I understood everything you have just said.”
Hollis glanced up at him, smiling. “Don’t worry about that. Just pray that it picked up something.”
He looked puzzled. “Why?”
Why, indeed.
Because I want to tell people that you exist.
Turn back, Hollis. Not a safe path.
“I don’t know,” she admitted as she pulled her laptop from her briefcase. “I guess in my heart of hearts I do want people to know about you.”
Sveyn stepped closer. “They may very well find that evidence when they come exploring at the museum.”
“Do you think that’s possible?” Hollis ope
ned her email and downloaded the file.
“I think,” Sveyn said slowly. “That if I wish to be found, I will be.”
Her head jerked up. “Because of the videos?”
He nodded. “And that machine of Sage’s that beeped.”
Hollis stared at her Viking apparition. “What will happen if your existence is proven?”
A flood of unpleasant images surged through Hollis’s mind. She saw herself as an even bigger media commodity. She saw people asking her to ask Sveyn all sorts of things about the past, or anything else for that matter. He might even be tapped to be that proverbial but invisible fly on the wall for the FBI or CIA or something—as long as she was close enough for his tether to allow him adequate distance.
She shuddered. “I’m not sure we want you to be found.”
“Neither am I.”
“But they’ll have to find something or they’ll never stop coming.” Hollis knew that was true. And Mr. Benton would beat that horse long past its death.
Maybe she could use that as a negotiating tool to be hired permanently, but with a big raise.
Sveyn pointed at her laptop. “Shall we start?”
Hollis nodded and opened the audio file from her phone in the media center program. When it played the file, there was a very slight wiggle in the line when Sveyn was speaking.
“I’ll have to cut out the parts when I am speaking, because they are so loud by comparison.” She highlighted and deleted a section. “That way, I can make the rest of the recording really loud without blowing out my speakers with my part.”
“Hmm.” Sveyn watched over her shoulder.
When she was finished, she saved the new file. “Okay. Here we go.”
There were five distinct wiggles on the indicator for Sveyn’s five sentences, which coincided with an unintelligible hum. Hollis turned up the intensity, and played it again. This time, she heard the deep tone of Sveyn’s voice.
She saved changes, reopened the file, and turned it up again. Now she heard the pulse of his words.
“Can you hear that?” she asked the Viking as she saved and reopened the file once more.
