Under A Viking Moon

by Tami Dee

  A breeze rustled the folds of the curtains adorning the room's only window. The room darkened. A sharp chill filled the air. Apprehension slid down her spine. Kat dropped the book to her lap and clutched her ears, vainly trying to block out the distant cry echoing from somewhere deep within her. Her gaze flew to the window.

  It was closed and the mid-afternoon March sky was clear and bright.

  "Listen carefully child," her grandmother muttered. "I don't know how long my thoughts will be clear."

  Fighting back the surge of irrational terror that held her in its tight grip, Kat leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on Amma's arm.

  "Did I wake you?" she asked softly.

  Her grandmother's familiar blue eyes regarded her intently.

  Oddly unnerved by the steady gaze, Kat averted her eyes and drew her hand away, placing it atop the page she had been reading.

  Amma pointed an arthritic finger toward the book on her lap.

  "Within those pages lies your legacy, Katla. After all these decades you are the first girl with raven hair and sea-blue eyes born in our line. The instant you were placed in your mother's arms she knew you were special. It was with her last breath that she named you after your ancestress."

  The room grew quiet again as Amma rested, just the simple act of speaking tapping her low stores of energy. Sadness tugged her heart as Kat watched Amma struggle to collect her thoughts.

  "Leif the Conqueror was dealt a terrible injustice," she continued. "His people suffered greatly because of it. Your ancestors and all the people of the village died as a result of your namesake's treachery. It is up to you to make amends, to both his people and your own."

  Frustration welled in Kat's breast at the familiar charge. How could she fix the past?

  "Amma, I don't know how..." her words trailed off as Amma strained to reach into the bureau drawer next to her bed. Withdrawing a small silver key attached to a chain, she pressed it into Kat's hand.

  "The past is here," she said in a voice shaken by emotion. "When he comes, you must not let him return without you. You must save Katla's infant, or all will be lost."

  Kat stared at the small key. This was something new.

  "When who comes, Amma?" she asked. "Where do you want me to go?" Kat watched, disheartened, as Dagmar stared into space, the conversation forgotten as she slipped away again, into her own world. A world where she didn't know her own granddaughter or remember the lucid instructions of just moments before.

  Tears stung behind her lids. What had she meant? How could she possibly save an infant who lived over a thousand years ago? And why did her grandmother believe that Katla's child needed saving in the first place? They were his descendants. He had to have survived long past infanthood to father children.

  Emotionally exhausted, Kat leaned down and kissed her wrinkled cheek. Amma smiled absently and patted her hand. She was being polite again, as polite as she always was to strangers.

  "I love you, Amma, I'll see you next time." Kat managed to keep her tears in check until she stepped into the sterile hallway and closed the door softly behind her.

  Kat glanced at her watch. If she didn't hurry she'd miss her train back to the city. Absently, she signed out at the front desk and set off toward the BART station.

  As she walked the well-known route, Kat clicked her tongue ring against the back of her teeth and mulled over the familiar Saga. It was a legend Kat could recite in her sleep.

  The key in her jacket pocket suddenly felt heavy. Kat frowned. Her grandmother had said, "The past is here."

  A surge of excitement gripped her. Could it be that what this key kept safe was the pendant that Katla had given to her son?

  Kat scoffed at her own imaginings. Impossible.

  That pendant was over a thousand years old, more than likely buried deep in the heart of a glacier. Stopping in the middle of the tree-lined sidewalk Kat pulled the small key from her pocket and held it in the palm of her hand. Sunlight glinted off the thin metal and it felt cool against her palm.

  It was a safe deposit key. Of that she was certain. But to which bank? There were hundreds of banks in San Francisco alone, not to mention all the outlying areas.

  Nibbling her bottom lip she thought about going back to Peace Haven. Should she try and talk to Amma again, ask her where the safe deposit box was located, or more importantly, what was in it? She glanced back toward the facility. No, she dismissed the idea with a sigh, she knew from experience that Amma wouldn't be back in the present again today.

  Resigned, she slipped the key back into her pocket. "I'm making too much out of this." It was crazy to even consider that a thousand year old pendant could be in her grandmother's safe deposit box or that it could somehow save a hidden baby that lived centuries earlier. Kat swallowed through the burning in her throat. Clearly her dear Amma's mental state was declining. As much as she hated to admit it, that was the only explanation for this afternoon's stranger than usual conversation.

  Reaching the BART station, she swiped her BART Plus card at the gate and made her way onto the train amidst hurrying passengers before sinking into a seat towards the back. She settled her tote onto her lap and folded her arms atop it.

  As Kat leaned her head against the plastic headrest the train started to move, quickly picking up speed. Looking past her shallow reflection bouncing off the lightly tinted window she watched the deep-green foothills whisk by until her lids became heavy and she started to doze off.

  It was then, through half closed eyes, that she saw something that made her cry out. Her heart beat madly as she stared past her reflection in the window.

  The image of an ancient Viking warrior, wet, bloodied and bruised, stared back at her.

  Chapter Two

  Hyde Street Pier

  San Francisco, CA

  One Week Later

  Leif Nabboddrson's lungs were locked in an iron fist. He needed air. Desperately. Suddenly his nostrils were being pinched together and someone's lips touched his. Small hands pressed against his chest.

  "Please don't be dead," a woman's voice pleaded. "Oh, please. Please. One. Two. Three." She counted and again he felt pressure to his chest.

  He coughed and choked, water spurted from his mouth. The burning, relentless grip on his lungs lessened before disappearing completely. Air. Sweet tasting air filled his mouth, slid down his throat and exploded into his lungs. He breathed in great gulps of the life-sustaining element.

  "It worked. I can't believe it worked. You're alive."

  The shadow hovering over him slid away and sand flicked his cheek.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry." A small, breathless laugh followed the apology as her shadow covered him once again. "It's just that I've never done that before, saved anyone's life I mean. I have to tell you, seeing you lying there dressed up like an ancient Norseman, all bruised and bound, well, at first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me again."

  He tried to speak, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth and his thoughts were jumbled. What had happened to him?

  "I have to get these bands off you. I noticed them right away, but you weren't breathing..."

  The last word hung in the air. He nodded his head and tried to ignore the dizziness that accompanied the action. "'Tis reasonable thinking," he gasped, raising his bound hands. "I have air aplenty filling my lungs now, so if you please, lady."

  His rescuer's hair fell in a glossy blanket of midnight over her shoulder and across her cheek as she fumbled with the water-swollen straps binding him. Her slender, milky white fingers were warm and soft as they brushed against the chilled skin of his wrists.

  "Lately I've been seeing Vikings every time I turn around."

  Leif's senses swirled as her breath caressed his cheek even as he questioned why seeing a warrior, one who had obviously been in a recent battle, would be so remarkable to her. After all, it was the lot of all women to tend the wounded men in their lives, whether their husbands, fathers or brothers.

  "At least
this time you're flesh and blood." She gave his forearm a slight squeeze, as if to confirm the fact. "The last time I saw a Viking, the train was going at least eighty miles an hour and he was absolutely glaring at me through the window.

  "Freaked me out for days. Rosie says I was dreaming. She insists that all my Amma's talk of ancestors and betrayals finally got to me."

  She paused and leaned back onto her heels, taking, in his opinion, a much needed breath.

  "But it sure didn't feel like a dream. And really, how could it have been? I wasn't even asleep at the time."

  He struggled to keep up with her decidedly strange, one-sided conversation. Unbidden, images of his new wife's betrayal and the resulting bloodbath swam behind his closed lids. Grisly memories of his fallen brothers rushed to his consciousness. Balmung, Ofeig, Davyn, gone. Outnumbered and slaughtered.

  An anguished roar tore out of his throat, a tear slipped out of the corner of his eye.

  "There, there now." She soothed him while lifting his head to her lap and gently cradling it. The steady seabreeze picked up her loose hair and tossed it about her like a dark storm cloud. It was a beautiful sight and Leif could not help but wonder if the face the thick mass continually concealed from him was as lovely.

  A bewildered sigh escaped him and the tension in his aching muscles seeped from his body.

  She smelled of sunshine, apples and woman... an intoxicating mixture. Contentment washed over him, as if he had just come home after an extended absence. Under her tender ministrations, for now she was brushing his damp hair from his temple, his defenses melted away like the tips of an iceberg on a midsummer day. Somewhere in the back recesses of his mind, he knew she spoke a foreign language, yet he understood her perfectly. How could that be?

  She hugged his head closer to her breast and rocked him as if he were a cherished child.

  "You're all right now. Rest a bit and then I'll take you to a hospital. You should have a doctor look at you. You're really pretty banged up."

  She ran a gentle finger along his sore jaw, her fingernail lightly scraping against the thick whiskers of his beard, causing him to shiver with manly awareness.

  "Is there someone I can call?"

  "Call?"

  "Yes, call. I don't have a cell phone, but there's a pay phone in Ghirardelli Square. Just tell me the number and I can call for you."

  Pay phone? Call for him? If he wanted to call someone, his own mighty shout would carry much further than hers.

  A shrill, loud sound like the mightiest of blow horns sounded somewhere away from them, and his body involuntarily tensed. He could not recall ever hearing a noise so loud. Where was he? A ball of unease tightened his stomach. Leif replayed the morning's treachery in his mind. He had been thrown overboard by Rollo's men. He was certain that the only reason his heart had not been pierced by the point of a sword before they did so was because his hands and feet had been bound. How was it he had not drowned?

  He tugged at his wrists with jerky movements. He had to be freed. Likely, his enemies were nearby and he must be able to protect himself and the soft-spoken woman who had saved his life with a remarkable kiss.

  "Oh! I'm sorry!" His head hit the sand with a thump and stars exploded behind his lids as she scooted from beneath it and renewed her efforts to free him. Her fingers were clumsy in their haste and Leif bit back an impatient groan, wishing he could help her.

  Her words were unceasing as she worked.

  "Was someone really trying to kill you or were you involved in some sort of Viking re-enactment that went terribly wrong? These weapons you've got strapped everywhere look so real. How is it that you didn't lose them when you took your... ah... swim?"

  If she would have paused between questions Leif might have been able to form answers for her, but she did not. Her concern was clear, but how he wished she would give him a moment to gather his thoughts.

  "You have bruises everywhere. Do you think anything is broken? Who did this to you, anyway?"

  He waited a pair of heartbeats. Silence.

  "My wife," he answered through gritted teeth.

  Her fingers stilled and she leaned back onto her heels.

  "Your wife? Are you sure?"

  The nervous twitter of her voice had shifted to something tenser, softer.

  Relieved that she had at last loosened the ties from his wrists, Leif slipped his hands free and, sitting up, he pulled his knife from his belt and quickly cut the straps at his ankles.

  His head spun with the sudden movements. He squeezed his eyes shut until the sickening sensation abated. At last steady, he ran his gaze down the length of his body, confirming the accuracy of the girl's words that he still carried his weapons.

  Scipio's gloating voice echoed in his mind. "How humiliating to have an arsenal at your fingertips and be unable to use even one weapon to free yourself!" he had taunted just before the mockery of his wedding had been performed. Leif's treacherous wife-to-be, Katla, stood expressionless at his enemy's side. Pushing the all-consuming need for revenge aside with great effort, Leif turned to the woman who had saved his life.

  Fury consumed him like a flame to dry kindling then blasted into an inferno of outrage. Katla!

  In one deft movement, he flipped the woman on to her back and pinned her beneath him, holding his knife a hair's breadth away from her throat.

  She screamed and a seagull flying above screeched in response.

  Those captivating long tresses that the wind had taunted and teased but moments ago now spread about her on the sand, as dark as a starless night. Wispy bangs fell across her forehead, softening the elegant perfection of her face. Her smooth, flawless skin was almost translucent, paled by fright and her big eyes were wide and dilated with terror. Seeing her -- feeling her crushed under him, knowing she was completely at his mercy filled him with remorse.

  Guilt? Nay, never let it be! Leif snorted in disgust. It mattered not that she was exquisite, fragile and frightened.

  She was a murderess!

  Her chin trembled as she struggled to form words.

  "Please, get off me, you're hurting me," she pleaded, struggling.

  He smiled cruelly, the warrior in him fully engaged. He imagined he could simply keep his weight upon her and watch as his body squeezed the life's breath out of her. Until she lie as eternally still as his brothers and warriors.

  "Shed your tears, wench. Agonize over whether I will kill you fast, or prolong your agony." He could almost taste her terror. She had much to answer for.

  Her sharp intake of breath at his words was a small reward. Good. Let her ponder her fate until he put an end to her miserable life. The blood of his brothers stained her hands, the blood of his warriors. If she had succeeded in murdering him, he realized with a fresh wave of rage washing over him, she would have been responsible for the death of his father as well. Yes, she would pay for her crimes.

  He narrowed his eyes. Before he finished with her, she would answer his questions.

  "Why did your father order the ambush of my ship?" he demanded hoarsely. "If he wished me dead, why did you save my life just now? What game do you play, lady?"

  She went completely still. She seemed to have stopped breathing. Leif felt a stab of panic. Perhaps he had crushed the life from her small, treacherous body. He resisted the urge to adjust his weight. She deserved to die.

  After a moment, and to his illogical relief, she heaved a ragged breath. The mysterious pools of her sea-blue eyes darkened and tears glistened on her long lashes, sparkling like crystals of ice. Such a great actress was she, he thought scornfully. Such a skillful liar even without using words.

  Words or no words, it did not matter. He was in control now and she would answer his questions. He pressed his face against her cheek and hissed into her ear. "Answer me."

  Her small form jerked under him, her tears spilt and ran in a stream down her pale cheeks. "No, I didn't hurt you!" She shook her head in denial. "Oh god, this just isn't possible," she cried, the
n pinned him with a desperate, pleading gaze. "I know you think I'm her, but I'm not. I swear! Just look around you. Does this look like where you came from?"

  Leif ignored her hollow claims of innocence. He refused to allow her near hysterical sobs to sway him. He closed his ears to her pleas, only to hear his own questions tumble over themselves in his mind.

  Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He could feel it. He glanced towards the ocean. Where were the tips of the icebergs that dotted the waters as far as the eye could see? Where had his ship gone? What had been done with his dead? Had his brothers' bodies been sent back to Denmark so his father could bury them? Would his father even know the bodies presented before him were those of his sons?

  "Dude, get a room."

  It was a boy's voice. The comment was followed by gales of female laughter. Looking up, Leif saw a strange looking pair of youthlings walking aimlessly down the otherwise deserted stretch of beach. A stretch of beach, he realized with a knot of dread churning in the pit of his stomach, untouched by snow.

  The couple, still laughing, now headed straight toward them. The girl had a spiked collar about her neck like a captive slave from the Far East, while the lanky boy walking next to her wore his hair twisted into spikes. Both their faces were white, as if having been deprived a lifetime of sun. Perhaps they were diseased, Leif thought in alarm, noting that even their lips had an unnatural black cast to them.

  He moved the knife at her throat out of sight as, with the other hand, he grasped her hair, a silken haven, as though they were in an impassioned embrace. She wrenched in his grasp and her eyes darted from him to the approaching youths.