by Sandra Hill
“Oh, great! I don’t see one black person here. I hate it when I’m the token homeboy.” This was Sly, who was African American.
“I’m sticking around here for two hours. Then I’m outta here,” Torolf declared, sticking a finger under his tight collar.
“Hilda expectin’ you?” Cage asked.
“Hilda has been expecting me for two days.”
“Pissed, is she?”
“Royally. But I have a little gift for her that I hope will cheer her up.” The worried expression on his face must have alerted Cage.
“A ring! You bought Hilda an engagement ring!” he guessed, and all the guys stopped and stared at him, big ol’ grins on their faces.
I should have known. Cage might be my best friend, but he’s got the biggest mouth this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.
“When’s the wedding, cher? Can I be best man?”
Of course, you can be my best man . . . if there is a wedding.
“I get dibs on plannin’ the bachelor party.”
Oh, no! The last time Pretty Boy planned a bachelor party, there were lap dancers and cops involved.
“I hope you have the ceremony at your dad’s vineyard. The one we went to there was so cool.”
Yeah, that was cool. Ragnor and Alison. And, oh, shit, Dad is gonna kill me if I tell everyone else before him, and then Madrene will be ordering me around, telling me everything I should do, and Kirstin will be weeping because I’m getting married before her. It will be a god-awful mess. “Really, guys, you’re jumping the gun here. Hey, I haven’t even asked her yet. She might say no. In fact, she might very well say no.”
On and on his buddies went, ignoring his disclaimer, razzing him, but he didn’t care. He loved her, she loved him, they were going to be together, somehow.
I hope.
After the buffet dinner, some agonizing speeches, and the start of the dancing, Torolf glanced at his watch. A half hour to go. To while the time away, he asked Mary Jane Potter, the eighteen-year-old daughter of a state board of education member, to dance. She was cute and bubbly and not Hilda.
Was Cinderella this nervous before the ball? . . .
Hilda, Lizzy, and Sarah were walking up the steps of the Hotel del Coronado, and she was shaking in her three-inch high-heeled shoes.
“Mayhap this was not such a good idea,” she said, gazing with awe at the massive white building with its red roof. “’Tis a castle. Even the Saxons do not have such splendor.”
Lizzy and Sarah laughed at her, already getting accustomed to her strange ways.
It had taken more than two hours to prepare themselves in the lodging place. They all looked wonderful, and Hilda felt like a veritable princess. A princess in a wanton red gunna. The gown was “strapless.” That meant it bared the shoulders and arms. Who would have thought that her meager breasts could hold anything up? But it had a built-in device that not only held the gown up, but her breasts as well. The gown hugged her slender form down to the ankles, though it had a slit all the way up to the thigh, which exposed her leg in sheer hose. And, on her feet were the red high-heeled shoes, which she had protested heartily, being overtall already, but they assured her the shoes made her look statuesque, though why anyone would want to resemble a statue, she had no idea. Her hair was big and curly, as it had been at Spike’s birthday feast, and her lips were painted bright red to match her gown.
They entered a huge hall where music was playing and people were dancing . . . a hundred or more, and all of them dressed in colorful gowns, some more scandalous than hers. Many of the men were dressed in white raiment. She could not wait to tell her women back at The Sanctuary about warriors in white. That thought made her glad-some and sad at the same time. Will I be going back?
Lizzy and Sarah took glasses of clear wine from a tray carried about the room by a man dressed all in black. No doubt another kind of uniform. She declined, just wanting to find Torolf. She walked among the dancers, being careful not to bump into any of them. Was that Ragnor Magnusson over there, dancing with a beautiful woman, also dressed in the white uniform? If it was, his jaw was hanging open with disbelief, gawking at her as if she were a ghost. Moving on, she saw Cage, dancing with an elderly lady with gray hair. He jolted back with surprise, then waved, pointing to his left.
And then she saw Torolf. And the lout was engaging in foresport—that slow dancing men in this country employed—with another woman. She was young and not nearly as tall as Hilda, with shiny black hair and honey-colored skin. She was lissome in all the ways that Hilda was not. And he was holding her close, laughing at a mirth-some thing she said to him.
A buzzing began in Hilda’s ears as she stood stock-still, staring. The lout. The cruel, cruel lout. How could he do this to her? She waited, uncaring of the spectacle she was making, for the instant when he would see her.
And then he did.
Shock caused him to stop dancing and stare, eyes wide.
You should be shocked, you slimy maggot.
He looked at her, then he looked at the woman still in his arms, then he looked back at her, as if in apology.
That was answer enough for her.
When clueless men ask, “What? What have I done?” . . .
Torolf was stunned speechless. Like a slow-motion slide show, he registered that:
• Hilda was here.
• Hilda looked screw-me-silly sexy in a strapless red gown with red screw-me-silly lipstick.
• Hilda’s eyes looked happy, then so sad.
• Hilda thought he was with another woman.
• Hilda was gone.
I’ll show you, bozo . . .
Hilda spun on her heel and walked proudly across the wide expanse of the dance floor till she got to the doors. Along the way, she ignored Cage’s plea to stop and talk to him. To Lizzy, she said, “I’ll meet you in the car. Do not leave on my account. Enjoy yourselves.”
Once out the door, she began to run, which was difficult with the high-heeled shoes. So she stopped and took them off. Then she ran, tears streaming down her face.
I did not tell him of the baby. I will not now.
He is with another woman, even as he claims to love me. Why am I surprised? He is a man, like any other.
What a fool I have been! Never again!
When she reached the vehicle, she discovered something unfortunate. It was locked.
With a sob, she sank down to the ground, leaning against the cool metal. That is when a man with red hair walked up to her and asked, “Mzzz Berdottir? You don’t know me, but I’ve been looking for you.”
I’m sick of this frickin’ hide-and-seek game . . .
Protocol was everything in the Navy. As quickly as he could, he apologized to the young lady he was dancing with whose name he could not remember. Then Cage, bless him, came over and asked her to dance.
Seeing his commander on the other side of the room, he walked up to him and stood stiff as a board until the captain recognized him. “Request permission to leave, sir.”
The captain arched a bushy gray eyebrow at him.
“Emergency, sir.”
The old guy must have noticed the tension in his body and said, “Excused, Lieutenant.”
As quickly as he could manage, he was out the door. What a fool he was to think Hilda would have been just standing out here, waiting for him to get his shit together and invite her back inside to the ball.
For fifteen minutes, he searched the area. Then, for another fifteen minutes his buddies searched with him. The only sign of her was the red shoes on the hotel steps. Next, they found Lizzy and Sarah, who told him that Hilda said she was going to wait for them in the car. So they hiked over to the parking lot. No Hilda.
Where could she have gone?
It was silly, he would find her . . . eventually, somehow . . . but still this felt, ominously, like an ending. Oh, my God! What if this is the way she’s being sent back? No. Hilda is just being Hilda. Stubborn.
“Look, guys, thanks for
all your help, but I refuse to chase all over kingdom come to find her. She’ll show up when she’s ready. In the meantime, I’m going back to Hog Heaven. I think that’s where she’s gone.”
She was in an alien place . . .
Hilda awakened groggily, not knowing where she was.
As she slowly emerged from her fogginess, she heard male voices in an adjoining room. Glancing down, she saw that she was lying on a bed, naked. What happened to my red gown? And she was tied to the bed . . . arms, waist, and legs. I am captive. Ooooh, if the lout is trying more of his sex games with me, I will kill him.
Suddenly, she recalled the last time she had seen the lout. The lying, unfaithful son of a troll. She was a strong woman. She had to be to have survived Steinolf. She would be again.
“Help!” she screamed.
Three men came running into the room.
So, it was not the lout.
“Do . . . you . . . speak . . . English?” the one man asked, the one who had accosted her beside Lizzy’s car.
What a dolt! “Yes . . . I . . . speak . . . English. Dost . . . speak . . . Norse?” she said in the same slow manner he had addressed her. Hilda should be embarrassed by her nudity, but she had more important concerns than her modesty, like where she was and how she was going to get away.
“Mzzz Berdottir. My name is Dick Phillips, and these are my . . . uh, associates, John Dorney and Greg Olsen. Just relax. Do you want something to drink?”
“Nay, I do not want a drink. I want you to untie me this minute.” Dick? That is the name that men here give their manparts. Oh, good gods! The fool has taken the name of his manpart. ’Twould be like calling oneself Cock or Breast. The vanity of some men!
“I can’t untie you . . . not till my boss gets here.” He tried to pat her on her shoulder, but she shrugged away as best she could. “Did you say Norse? Do they speak Norse on your planet?”
She rolled her eyes. “So, you are the demented person who has been following me. You think I come from another planet?”
“Yes.” He nodded his head vigorously and smiled as if she had given him a compliment.
“Well, I do not. So, release me.”
“I can’t.”
“You will be sorry if you do not. I have many friends in the military of your country. They will come after me.” I hope.
“We know about those SEALs. Well, we’ll just stay in hiding here till the boss arrives. Then we’ll be off to the lab. They’ll never find you once we get there. I don’t even know where it is.”
“She has awfully small tits,” one of the men remarked to Dick. “Do ya think all the women on her planet have small tits?”
“No, every woman in my land does not have small breasts, but we do have powers . . . witchly powers that can shrivel manparts.”
The eyes of all three men went wide, and then they glanced down at their private parts.
“Do ya think she’s telling the truth?” one of them asked.
“Hell if I know, but I’m not takin’ any chances,” the other replied.
Both stepped back several paces.
“I also can give you warts all over your bodies, and webs betwixt your fingers and toes, not to mention turning all your teeth to rot.” She figured she’d best stop there. She did not want to go too far in pushing the bounds of credulity.
The three men glanced at each other with question and concern. Then one of them said, “I’m outta here.”
“Me, too,” the other said, leaving only the Dick person.
“Why do you comb your hair that way?” she asked him as he wrung his hands, no doubt wondering if he should stay out of the range of her eyes.
Dick’s ruddy face went ruddier. “What way?”
“As if you are trying to hide the bald top. Really, it just calls attention to it.”
“Are men bald on your planet? Do they know how to regrow hair there?”
“Aaarrgh! I am not an ale-yen. By the by, what did you give me to make me fall into such a deep sleep? It better not be anything that would harm my baby.”
“Oh, no!” Dick’s shoulders drooped. “You’re pregnant. Who’s the father? Alien or earthling? Oh, this complicates things. We wanted to impregnate you ourselves.”
Hilda did not understand what he meant, except something about him wanting to impregnate her. What an odious man! She would die rather than have him enter her body.
Dick’s black box rang, and he picked it up. “Yeah, I have her right here. Uh-huh. John and Greg left, but it’s okay. The target is restrained. And talking. Isn’t this exciting? She can talk. I wonder what other things she can do. No, no, I won’t do any testing on her till you get here tomorrow.” After Dick completed his conversation, he looked at her and said, “Mr. Atkins has been delayed.”
“How long?”
“Twenty-four hours. Don’t worry, I’m going to give you a little more of this chloroform to settle you down.”
“Noooooooo,” she screeched, her voice becoming increasingly fainter as the deep sleep overcame her again.
Torolf, where are you? Come for me.
Chapter 23
Give me a clue . . .
Torolf was so blistering, hair-pulling angry, he could barely speak.
Cage tried to talk to him. “Settle down. We’ll find her. It’s only been eight hours.”
“Eight hours! She could be dead in eight hours.”
“Be negative, why don’t you?”
“Stop trying to be a freakin’ Norman Vincent Peale.”
“Stop being an asshole.”
He stopped his pacing in the narrow confines of the trailer and looked at his good friend. There were probably tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. You owe Ralph and Pete apologies, too.”
He nodded. He’d fired the two bodyguards the minute he’d gotten back for letting Hilda escape.
“Hilda is going to peel your skin off for blaming them.”
Please, God, let her come back and peel my skin off.
The rest of the guys were back in Coronado searching for any traces of Hilda. The police and FBI had been called in, and due to some SEAL connection, they’d been willing to forgo the usual waiting time before calling it a kidnapping. Authorities were already over at the National Center for Alien Research, trying to confiscate files that might give them leads. The chairman was missing. Torolf didn’t want to think about what his absence meant. Hilda’s face was plastered on California TV stations, although it was the middle of the night, and who the hell was seeing it? Nobody, that’s who.
Serenity came stomping into the trailer then, without knocking. She had a bathrobe on and fuzzy slippers. Her hair looked like it had been combed with a mixer.
“For land’s sake, what’re you doin’, boy? Go find her.”
“I’m trying.”
“Doesn’t look to me like you’re tryin’. There’s no need for you to sit here twiddlin’ your thumbs. Go back to where she was taken. I’ll keep a watch here in case she shows up.”
“Thanks.” He and Cage looked at each other and nodded. They both still wore their dress whites, now filthy whites. He checked his cell phone for the millionth time. Nothing. “Why do you think she was taken . . . that she didn’t just take off?”
“ ’Cause the girl loves you, that’s why. Even if you are a dumb schmuck. She wouldn’t go away like this, not in her condition. She woulda made plans, careful plans, and she woulda told you first.”
Torolf was only half listening as he gathered some gear together, but one word struck him. “What condition?”
Serenity gazed at him critically, as if unsure about answering him. Then, she revealed, “Hilda is pregnant.”
Torolf ’s stomach dropped down to his feet, and the blood drained from his head. He felt faint. “Pregnant? That’s impossible. I used protection.”
“That’s what she said. And I’ll tell you the same thing I tol’ her. No, I didn’t say that accidents happen, if that’s what
you think. I told her miracles happen.”
Torolf put a hand over his mouth to stifle a moan.
This FUBAR just got worse and worse.
They were halfway back to Coronado, with the sun just coming up, when Serenity called him.
“Is she there?” he asked quickly.
“No.”
Bile rose in his throat.
“Lizzy called me and said something that might be helpful. She said that they got a room at the Days Inn last night, about an hour away from Coronado. And, if this screwball has been following Hilda, maybe he got a room there, too.”
“It would be stupid of him if he did. To take her to the same hotel where Hilda and her friends registered?”
“How smart could anyone be that believes in aliens?” Cage interjected.
“You’ve got a point there.”
For the first time in the last eleven hours, Torolf was hopeful. He called Slick and the other guys. They were all equidistant from the hotel and should get there in an hour. “Drive faster,” he told Cage.
“I’m already going eighty.”
“Go ninety.”
Please, God, let her be there. Let her be safe. Let her be willing to listen to me. Let her forgive me. And let her still love me.
He could swear he heard a voice in his head say, Not asking for much, are you, buddy? Probably his conscience.
Prince Not-So-Charming, better known as Prince Lout, to the rescue . . .
Hilda was kicking and biting and digging in her heels the best she could to prevent these two demented men, Dick and his boss, a Mr. Atkins, from taking her to some lab. She was not such a lackwit that she did not now understand what dissection meant, even if they did couch it in terms like “research.”
She would have been screaming, too, but they had stuffed a cloth in her mouth before releasing her restraints. Although her hands were free, the gag was tied so tightly in back, she was unable to remove it . . . yet. They had thought that, between the two of them, they could get her dress back on and escort her to their vehicle without drawing too much attention.
