The trip to Norway was thirteen hours in the air, with a layover in Newark. After a cramped eight hours sandwiched between the tallest person I’d ever seen and the fattest, I arrived in Oslo. There I switched to yet another plane for the short flight to Bergen, where my grandmother would pick me up at the airport. By the time the captain announced our approach and imminent landing, I was dying to get off the plane. Even the rinky-dink town of Skavøpoll would be a welcome sight after that epic bout of confinement.
My grandmother was waiting for me at the baggage claim. At six foot two, she was easy to spot. Even in a country where everyone was astonishingly huge and fair, she was striking. Her bobbed bright white hair was a beacon, guiding me through the sea of heads and right to her side.
“Elsa,” Grandmother said, kissing both cheeks. “You’re getting so tall. Almost as tall as me.” Graham and I took almost completely after her side of the family, resembling not only our father but also his mother, Hilda Overholt—I realized it more and more every time I saw her.
“Well, about four inches shy,” I replied, amazed that my grandmother still looked so young. Despite her white hair and old-lady spectacles, only a handful of wrinkles creased her face, and they were only visible when I searched for them. Grandmother Hilda was gorgeous.
“You’ll get there, sweetling,” she said, linking her elbow through mine. “Taller, that is. Then we’ll see you in those fashion magazines.”
“Right,” I muttered. The last thing I needed was to be even more freakishly tall.
“Or tearing apart Tokyo?” she suggested, towing me through the crowd toward the exit. “Don’t worry, Ellie, Godzilla still has an inch or two on me.” She clucked her tongue. I’d forgotten how she did that when she was teasing. And that she’d always been able to read me too well. I had to laugh, pushing aside my jet-lagged crankiness.
Suddenly, I saw the two months stretching in front of me in a whole new light. Not that it wasn’t always fun to visit her, but last time I’d been here was the summer before I started high school. I’d been just a kid. This time, things could be different. Grandmother Hilda had always been cool. She let me wander through town at all hours, no questions asked. That was never permitted in LA, under my mother’s ever-watchful, all-seeing eyes. Even Graham would have more freedom in Skavøpoll, with the nonexistent drinking age.
That line of thought opened up a whole world of unwelcome anxieties, like whether Graham would loosen up. And how on earth I’d share a roof with Tucker Halloway for two weeks straight. But I knew I’d manage somehow. I always had.
MY GRANDMOTHER LIVED on the top of a hill a mile outside of town, in an old gray farmhouse nestled at the edge of a pine forest and surrounded by gardens that would put most professional landscapers to shame. A stone fence taller than Graham traced the property line, surrounding all two acres, making it feel almost magical, like we were set apart from the rest of the world. The calm and quiet of her house were so consuming that the day before Graham arrived was really the first time I ventured out for anything other than a morning run through the surrounding fields.
The morning was bright and warm, and after my run, I decided to explore the town. Not much had changed during the two years since I’d last visited Grandma Hilda. Downtown Skavøpoll was still a long row of family-owned shops lining a narrow main street. One side of the road backed into the water, while the other was built along the base of a slope that stretched up behind the town, dotted with homes and farms until it disappeared into the mountain. The stores along the water’s edge were scattered, fading into docks and rickety fishing sheds.
I wandered toward the wharf and waterfront, where the fishing crews were unloading their morning catch. With every step I thought about my grandfather, who had taken me down to those same piers each morning when I was young. We’d buy warm croissants from the bakery and watch as salmon the size of German shepherds were wrestled out of the cargo holds and tossed ashore.
The fishing crews had been up since the early hours of morning, hauling in nets full of fish, and it was amazing to see how much work they’d already done. While the rest of the country was still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the fishermen had already unpacked their wares and were preparing the fish to be frozen and shipped all over the world.
The men patrolling the decks and hauling on ropes and pulleys were every bit as barnacled and battered looking as their weather-beaten boats.
Or so it seemed.
As I leaned forward over the metal railing along the dock, watching the work progress, I felt someone watching me. So I turned. A boy, an older boy, was on the deck of a boat farther down the pier.
Words utterly failed me. Except “wow.”
Disheveled blond locks peeked out from beneath his baseball cap. He grinned when he caught my eye—a flash of pearly white in an otherwise tan face.
I looked down, wondering if I’d been staring or if he had. Even though he’d seen me first, I’d definitely given him more than a casual glance in response.
I started to walk away, down the pier, but I heard a deep voice behind me, slightly out of breath from jogging and saying something incomprehensible. My stomach dropped, but I managed to look composed as I turned to face the blond boy. He smiled expectantly, waiting for me to reply to whatever he’d just said.
“I—I only speak English,” I said, ashamed that most of the Norwegian I’d picked up over the years was food related. I was hardly going to ask that boy to pass the bread.
I finally looked up to meet eyes that were the breezy blue of a sun-drenched tropical sea, which was ironic in such an arctic climate.
“You’re Hilda Overholt’s granddaughter?” It was more of a statement than a question, delivered in flawless English. He could have been a boy from any town back home, with that Wonder Bread smile. Maybe from a small town in the Midwest where they hold their vowels just a second longer.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m here for the summer.”
“I thought so—I saw you running the other day, up in our neighborhood. I’ve been meaning to stop by. I live just down the road.”
I nodded.
“We met once before. But you were about eight years old. You probably don’t remember.”
I shook my head. It was surprising that I could forget a face like his, even if I’d been just a kid.
“You know,” he said, covering for my awkward silence, “you look just like your grandmother did when she was young. At least, in her pictures.”
I felt warm. Once upon a time my grandmother was supermodel caliber. The pictures on her wall made that more than clear. I didn’t really know what to say. But I rarely did when I was talking to boys other than Graham and Tuck—and they hardly counted.
Fortunately he didn’t seem to notice. He extended one hand. “I’m Kjell,” he said, then repeated it, “Ch-ell,” carefully enunciating the first part, since the Norwegian ch sound is harsher than its English counterpart. “I’m here for the summer too.”
“Really.” I was determined not to blow a chance to make a friend. Better yet, a boy who didn’t see me and think of Graham. So I took a deep breath and forced myself to be bold. “And where do you spend the rest of the seasons?”
He laughed. It was a noteworthy event—his teeth were so straight, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he said he’d had braces twice. But his smile was crooked. It was the best possible combination.
“Oslo,” he replied. “At the university. I’m studying medicine, so eventually I’ll work summer shifts at a hospital. But for now, I’m navigator on my father’s boat. There.” He pointed to a newish-looking fishing boat a hundred feet down the pier.
“That’s not at all impressive,” I said. “I mean, I’ve been a doctor since I was twelve. And nautical navigation? Kid stuff.”
His smile took a playful turn. “I’ve heard you Americans mature quickly.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Given our obvious age difference, it triggered an uncomfortable association with the romantic disasters my mother’s art students got into during her summer program in Europe. It seemed that older Italian men also thought that Americans matured quickly. That comment wound away into awkward territory, so rather than replying, I pretended to be interested in the crates being lifted off the boat in front of us.
“Are you free tonight?” Kjell asked rather abruptly. Then, a touch embarrassed, he added, “Some friends are going to a pub. Nothing fancy, but it’s better than sitting around Hilda’s doing nothing.”
“I don’t know,” I said on reflex. Hanging out with a boy, even in a group, meant wanting it bad enough to fight for it. On the one almost-date I’d had that year, Graham and twenty of his closest friends had miraculously ended up at the same movie. As if my bio lab partner had been plotting for weeks to murder me in the dark.
It took a second for it to sink in that there was no one there to stop me. Graham was five thousand miles away. And what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I felt a smile building inside as I realized I was free to do whatever I wanted. “I don’t usually go out with strangers,” I said, even though I had every intention of doing just that.
“But I’m not a stranger to the rest of your family,” he replied. “Your grandmother used to babysit me.”
Even though it was beginning to sound less like a date and more like my grandmother had nudged him into taking pity on me, I held my smile and said, “Okay.”
He rewarded me with another flash of straight white teeth. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Before I rounded the corner and he disappeared from sight, I glanced back at Kjell. He was already at his father’s boat, easily stepping over the four-foot span of water that separated the deck from the pier.
He was tall, cute, and smart enough to be in medical school. What more could any girl ask for? I paused to imagine what Graham would have done if he’d been there to witness the whole exchange. If he scowled when I was asked out by boys he’d known since kindergarten, I couldn’t imagine what he’d think if a college boy asked me out—a heart-wrenchingly adorable college boy. Graham’s certain disapproval was a point in Kjell’s favor.
But Graham wasn’t there. And until he showed up, I didn’t have to play obedient little sister. Or listen to his comments about boys and their one-track minds. As if he wasn’t one too. For now, I was Ellie Overholt, an American girl in Norway, and I’d finally get to do things my way. Even if I wasn’t sure exactly what that was quite yet.
I just knew that I, for one, couldn’t wait to find out.
I HAD PLANNED to jog back to Grandmother’s house, but after my encounter with Kjell, I decided to prolong my window-shopping, savoring my newfound feeling of freedom. The bakery still had a few fresh croissants displayed in the window when I passed, and even if Grandmother had probably eaten breakfast five hours ago, I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist our favorite treat.
When I pushed the door open, everybody turned and stared. And by everybody, I mean the three old women occupying one of the two café tables, sipping espresso from doll-sized cups, and the two burly fishermen still sporting orange rubber pants misted with seawater. I pretended not to notice how they watched my every move. In a small town, newcomers are endlessly fascinating.
So I wasn’t surprised when one of the old ladies rose and wobbled toward me, her carved birch cane tapping along the checkerboard floor.
The baker leaned forward with a polite, expectant smile. He must have known who I was, because he didn’t bother trying to talk to me in Norwegian. Instead he nodded mutely as I pointed at the croissants and held up two fingers.
The old lady reached me, so I turned and smiled, struggling to remember how to say sixteen in Norwegian, since holding up fingers for my age hadn’t cut it for a while.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her English was thickly accented, and it took a moment for the words to register, even though the malice behind them was unmistakable. “Stay out of our town.”
I took a step back, my eyes flashing to the fishermen for help. Maybe this woman was senile. Or maybe she thought I was someone else. But whoever she thought I was, the fishermen were similarly mistaken. Because they narrowed their eyes in suspicion like they expected me to rob the place.
“I don’t understand,” I said. I truly didn’t. Last time I’d been in Skavøpoll, people had stopped me on the street to ask questions about life in LA, listing celebrities I might have spotted or wondering if I knew their distant cousin who lived in Tennessee. Sure, Grandmother kept to herself, but that didn’t stop the town from being curious about me.
The baker turned, handing me the package of croissants. His voice was sharp as he said something to the woman in Norwegian. I heard my grandmother’s name, but that was all I caught. The old woman scowled back at him. Whatever the baker had said made her even angrier. She muttered something about my grandmother that didn’t sound like a compliment as she lifted her cane and slammed it down on my foot. Hard.
Pain shot up my shin.
The fishermen burst into laughter.
“Stay away. Or you’ll be the next to disappear.”
There was a lump in my throat the size of a croissant as I realized everyone but the baker was rejoicing in my humiliation. They were all in on whatever strange inside joke was unfolding around me.
The old woman turned and waddled back to her friends. The baker’s eyes were apologetic as they returned to me. “Tell Hilda she still has friends. Not all of us believe the rumors.” He shook his head, refusing the money I slid across the counter toward him. “Run home, and don’t pay her any notice.” He inclined his head toward the table of old ladies, who looked like they were contemplating a second assault.
The baker certainly didn’t need to tell me twice. I had no intention of staying to be abused by a crazy old lady. Or mocked by a bunch of rude fishermen. It seemed that even if the town looked the same, some things about Skavøpoll had changed.
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that night, there was a soft knock at the door. I’d told my grandmother about what had happened at the bakery, and she’d laughed like it was the best joke she’d ever heard. Apparently the old lady was angry about something that happened at last year’s garden show. She’d spread rumors that Grandmother had cheated. Attacking me seemed like an over-the-top reaction, but as Grandmother showed me daily, flowers are important to old ladies.
When I mentioned my plans with Kjell, Grandmother didn’t seem at all surprised. Even though it confirmed my suspicion that Kjell was acting under her coercion, nothing prepared me for her behavior once Kjell finally arrived. She could be a bit abrupt with most people outside our family. Which, come to think of it, might have had something to do with how the rest of the people at the bakery had acted that morning.
Grandmother rushed through the entry hall to greet Kjell before I was even halfway out of my chair. She opened the door and pulled him into a bear hug—which was no small undertaking.
I tried to understand what they were saying but only got the general gist that he’d been back for just a few days and she hadn’t seen him since the holidays. Kjell was clearly a favorite.
I stood there, feeling stupid and silent, until finally my grandmother mercifully switched to English. “I’m so glad you two met,” she said. “And I know you’ll take good care of my Ellie.”
“Of course I will,” Kjell said. “But she seems like the kind of girl who can take care of herself, too.”
His response earned him more than a few points. As did the fact that Kjell looked even better when cleaned up—and far too sophisticated, in his dark slacks and sweater, to be seen with someone like me.
“Ready?” Kjell asked.
“Let me just grab a jacket.”
I ran upstairs and dug through my suitcase for a sweater that would make me look slightly less like a high school girl who had no business hanging out with a cute college boy. Which was impossible. I finally found a black sweater that Tuck always said made me look like a little old lady. Far from ideal, but at least that meant it made me look older.
When I was halfway down the stairs, I heard Kjell and my grandmother talking in low voices. Something about their tone made me reflexively pause to listen, even though I wouldn’t understand. I strained my ears, but the only words I could pick out were Odin and Valhalla. And only because I recognized them from my grandfather’s bedtime stories.
Whatever Kjell said made my grandmother break into a peal of laughter. Oddly enough, it sounded forced. I wasn’t sure what could be so funny anyway, given that Odin was basically the grim reaper in Norse mythology and Valhalla was his home. From what I remembered, anything involving Odin was pretty creepy and gory.
The step beneath my feet creaked as I shifted, trying to creep closer. Their conversation ended abruptly.
One look at Grandmother’s arched eyebrow as I walked down the stairs told me that my attempt at stealthy eavesdropping had failed, to say the least.
I wouldn’t have given their whole exchange a second thought … well, maybe not a third … if my grandmother hadn’t stood there a moment longer, blocking the door.
“Just be careful, Kjell,” she said, switching to English and snaring my curiosity once and for all.
Kjell nodded, giving Grandmother a loaded smile. “I promise I won’t disappear. I’m too big for the fairies to carry away.”
“Even ridiculous rumors spring from a seed of truth,” Grandmother said.
“What rumors?” I asked. If she didn’t want me to know, she shouldn’t have dangled a big juicy carrot in front of me.
She shook her head and smiled as she tucked my hair behind my ear.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” she said.
I turned to go. In the reflection in the window beside the door, I saw Grandmother slip a small velvet envelope into Kjell’s hand, the kind that jewelers use. He upended it, and something silver slipped out onto his palm. Both of them clearly thought I hadn’t seen. But I was tuned into every single thing she did, given the way their conversation had made me reconsider Grandmother’s explanation of what had happened in the bakery. Rumors and disappearances seemed to be the new theme in Skavøpoll, and something told me they had nothing to do with last year’s garden show.
“WE’LL HEAD TO the pub in a bit,” Kjell said as we climbed into his compact European hatchback. “First we have to pick up my friends.”
We drove through town and stopped in front of a narrow alley that snaked uphill, disappearing into an older part of town. I heard the rattling metal under their feet before I saw the two shapes scampering down a fire escape and jumping the last four feet onto the uneven pavement below.
“Look, Elsa, if they—if they say anything strange, just ignore it,” Kjell said. I could see his lips pressed into a thin line. He was nervous. “I’ve known them forever. And they’re great once you get to know them, but ever since I came home, they’ve taken up some, um, strange ideas.”
“No worries,” I said. “I’m sure they’re great.” Out of everyone in the whole world, I was the last person to judge his friends.
It can be hard to find people you can trust, and when you do, you hold on to them, imperfections and all. Most of my supposed friends were wannabe Graham groupies who didn’t make the cut. Even my best friend always flirted like crazy with Graham’s friends. Especially Tuck. I hated how much that bothered me—forcing me to admit things to myself that it was far safer to suppress.
By then, the two shadows had reached us and were cramming themselves into the narrow backseat. One was a girl with a round face framed by chin-length red hair. There was something wholesome and open about her wide brown eyes that made me like her at once. Kjell introduced her as Margit. The boy, Sven, was standard-issue Norsk—blond, blue-eyed, and with teeth so white they practically glowed in the dark. Margit whispered something, making Sven smile and lean in close to hear the rest.
Was this some sort of double date? Butterflies in my stomach were stretching their wings, preparing for flight.
Margit slipped a nylon backpack from her shoulders and set it in the middle of the backseat. The bag was straining at the seams, its taut fabric struggling to swallow something roughly the size and shape of a microwave.
“You’re joking,” Kjell said, sticking to English. “You aren’t bringing that with us.”
“You bet I am,” Margit replied. First in Norwegian, then repeating it in English, presumably for my benefit, even though, surprisingly, I’d understood her the first time. She pulled roughly on the zipper until it opened just enough to reveal a bulky electronic box. Then she reached further inside and slipped a smaller object out of the bag that looked like a tiny remote control, only it was made of clear plastic decorated with fluorescent yellow trim. She pressed a flat green button on the front of it, and a white light inside snapped on like a flashbulb. Sven leaned in close and whispered something in Norwegian. I could tell they were testing it, making sure that whatever it was, it was working.
“What is that thing she’s holding?” I whispered to Kjell
Kjell sighed as he glanced over his shoulder. “That’s a personal locator beacon,” he explained. “We use them when we fish. If you get thrown overboard, lost, you activate it. That way the rescue helicopters can find you.” He paused. “And in the backpack is an old radio she pulled off her father’s boat. Seriously, Margit, don’t tell me you’re bringing those. This is taking it too far.”
“You never know when you’ll need to call for help,” Margit snapped. “I have some extras—you might consider carrying one, too. It’s not like I’m the one who should be worried.”
I couldn’t help it; a laugh slipped right out before I could stop it. “I think I’ll pass on the rescue choppers, thank you. Pepper spray will suffice,” I said, patting my pocket. The most dangerous thing that could happen to me in Skavøpoll was a mountain goat attack. Still, Grandmother had insisted. But then Margit’s comment settled into place next to my grandmother’s cautioning Kjell to be careful, and suddenly Margit’s behavior wasn’t quite so funny. Perhaps Kjell was actually in some sort of danger.
Margit peered at me from around the side of the headrest. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, like I’d repulsed her somehow.
“Elsa Overholt.” Margit said my name like it belonged to a celebrity whose claim to fame was eating live puppies. “You look like your grandmother.” It felt like an accusation, so I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her hair was a vibrant scarlet.
“So I’ve heard,” I said, deciding to proceed carefully since she was predisposed to hate me. One sideways look at Kjell reminded me that he was definitely someone worth being jealous about. But it wasn’t like I hadn’t marched a million miles down that road—with all the time I spent with Tucker, feeling irrationally jealous of other girls when I knew I had no right to be. Fortunately for Margit, I was pretty sure she was misreading Kjell’s level of interest. “Personally, I think my brother looks more like that side of the family than I do,” I said, settling on the most innocuous thing that crossed my mind.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Margit snapped back. “My grandfather always said your grandmother is a witch. That a pretty face doesn’t say a thing about what’s inside a stone-cold heart. You’d do well to remember that, Kjell.”
I sat bolt upright. Even if Kjell was the love of her life, I wouldn’t expect this kind of hostility. I’d spent less than fifteen minutes with him.
“Margit!” Kjell hissed, followed by something gruff in Norwegian.
Back home, I wasn’t the type of girl who fired back, unless it was against Tuck. Maybe it was because being Graham’s sister meant I’d never really needed to, or maybe it was because I’d never done something daring enough to really garner this sort of reaction. Either way, a whole new Ellie simmered beneath the surface, rising to meet Margit’s challenge.
“It’s funny you bring that up,” I said. “In some countries, red hair was considered a sign of witchcraft. They actually burned people at the stake for it. Can you imagine? Just goes to show that a little ignorance can go a long way—if you let it go unchallenged, that is.”
The entire car went silent, and for a moment I wondered if I’d gone too far, and if every one of them could hear me struggling to swallow the nervous lump in my throat. Then Kjell threw his considerable weight behind me.
“You’re way too sweet if you feel guilty.” He shot me a reassuring big-brother smile that made me think of Graham. “She deserved it.”
While I was grateful for the moral support, I would have preferred he keep his eyes on the road as the car started the steep ascent into the narrow mountain lane outside of town.
For the first time that night, but far from the last, I wished I’d just stayed home. Particularly when I peeked in the rearview mirror and saw the sulky, bitter scowl on Margit’s face. The hate in her eyes when they met mine told me she had no intention of letting me off so easily.
We drove around a dark and narrow road that traced the fjord, past shallow rowboats bobbing at the ends of rickety docks and stilted boathouses clinging to the shore. An occasional fishing trawler, anchored close to shore, cast a dark shadow across the shimmering water. Not a single car passed us during the drive from Skavøpoll to the tiny town of Selje, its nearest neighbor.
What Kjell had called a pub was actually the bar of the only hotel in town. And it was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday night. Kjell found a barstool for me, after Margit somehow managed to straddle two stools, making sure I couldn’t sit near her. And I was uncomfortable when Kjell then ended up standing himself. Especially when Margit scowled at me, like I’d forced Kjell to do that.
Margit immediately launched into a hushed conversation with Sven, who cast a few apologetic looks at me and more than a dozen at Kjell. It made me feel even worse, since she was making a fool of herself over a boy and alienating him at the same time.
After one last questioning glance at his friends, Kjell seemed determined to make up for Margit’s behavior. He kept me entertained—so entertained, I was surprised to glance at my watch and see it was already eleven. I’d promised Grandmother I wouldn’t be out too late, since we had to leave for the airport first thing in the morning to pick up Graham.
When I looked up again, something in Kjell’s face gave me pause. He was staring over my shoulder, his mouth slightly ajar. His expression was slack and distant, as if his brain had gotten up and walked away, leaving a vacant body behind. It was unsettling. Which is why it took me so long to notice that Kjell wasn’t the only one staring at the door. Sven and Margit were similarly fascinated by something or someone directly behind me.
Naturally, I turned.
Two girls roughly Kjell’s age were framed in the open doorway, scanning the interior of the bar with cold, appraising eyes.
The first thing I noticed was their appearance. They were impossibly beautiful. And tall. While Norwegians are known for both qualities, these girls decimated anyone I’d seen during all my time in Norway. Or anyone I’d seen in any magazine or movie screen—ever. They were breathtaking and heart-stopping all at once.
They walked slowly into the bar, letting the door close soundlessly behind them. Every movement was lithe and graceful, yet with an edge of casual confidence that seemed almost predatory. Like lions circling their prey.
Both girls were dressed strangely. That was the second thing I noticed. They were wearing all leather—from the plunging necklines of their skintight jackets to their knee-high, fur-trimmed boots. Not the slick black leather of a biker or even the shiny metallic leather of Eurotrash nightclub girls. This leather was beige and natural, a coarse, untanned suede. While I’m personally an Ugg boot addict, there was something off-putting about an entire Ugg catsuit.
There had to be a logical explanation for their clothes. Parts of Norway are still rustic in the most charming way. Herds of goats wander the mountain roads and constitute traffic jams. Entire families live in houses so remote, they can only be reached on snowshoes. Perhaps these girls didn’t look as odd to the rest of the room as they looked to me. Maybe that was normal attire for hardy Norwegian mountain folk who happened to look like supermodels.
One quick glance around the bar told me I was hardly the only curious one. There was something extraordinary about those girls. Extraordinary and terrifying. I watched, transfixed, as, one by one, heads turned throughout the bar. Conversations faded into silence, punctuated by the occasional speculative whispers, until the bar was dominated by the obnoxious American country music pumping through the speakers and the loud guffaw of the man in the corner who was too drunk to notice anything except the pint of beer in his hand.
The girls stepped forward, scanning every face as if they’d need to re-create each one from memory when they got home. If they noticed the effect they were having, they didn’t care.
As she stepped to the side to get a better view of the booth in the corner, the first girl’s jacket slid open just enough to reveal a gun secured against her hip in a low-slung holster. There was a long serrated knife strapped to her calf by a thin leather cord that snaked all the way up her leg. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, a strange voice sounded in my head, one that was me and wasn’t me. Like it came from a new part of my consciousness I hadn’t had the chance to meet yet. It told me she was an expert with both weapons. Lethal. Her companion was similarly dangerous, but not nearly as skilled as the blond one. It was the way the other girl stood, bearing too much weight on her left leg. And her holster was half an inch too low. The fraction of a second she’d waste drawing her gun could mean the difference between life and death.
And I had no idea where that knowledge came from. I’d never even held a gun. But the truth of it was undeniable. Seeing those girls was like pulling a muscle I didn’t even know I had. It stirred something that terrified and electrified me. I felt as if I was fully awake for the first time in my life.
Then the rational Ellie weighed in, reminding me of where I was and how unbelievably strange this moment was. Especially when I glanced back at the lobotomized expression on Kjell’s face.
“Is this some sort of local militia?” I whispered, watching the girls move toward the bar, their eyes scanning the room, ever vigilant. Kjell didn’t reply. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken.
Before I had a chance to nudge Kjell back into the present, the drunk, guffawing man took three wobbly steps right into one of the girls, the blond one, and stumbled backward, dropping to one knee to catch his balance. He must have been stupid as well as drunk, because somehow he missed the weapons strapped to that model-perfect body. As he rose to his feet, he gave her a very thorough once-over. When his eyes finally reached her face, a lewd smile spread across his lips as he reached out and let his fingertips trail along her thigh.
The blond girl’s retaliation was fast as lighting and every bit as deadly. She grabbed him by the hair. Her knee came up as she slammed his head down. There was a sickening crunch as his face met bone. The move was as graceful and smooth as a ballerina’s pirouette, but no one could mistake the brutal, incalculable force contained in those long limbs. Or the cold blood pumping through Blondie’s veins.
The man crumpled at her feet when she released him, blood pouring from his shattered nose and pooling into a puddle on the floor.
“Kjell,” I whispered. “Your medical training … shouldn’t you help him or something?”
Kjell’s eyes never left those girls, even when I shook his arm hard, trying to snap him out of it. He was staring at them with an odd sort of determination. The set of his jaw told me that now he only had eyes for those two.
“Kjell?” I repeated, annoyed and a bit scared when he swatted me away with one arm. “If you’re staying here to watch the ultimate fighting floor show, can you at least tell me how to get home? Can I call a cab or something?”
When Kjell finally looked down at me, his eyes were as cloudy as opals. The boy at Graham’s party had looked the same way, right before he almost pushed me into the pool.
As Kjell stared at me, his eyes cleared, and he recovered enough to remember his manners. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head the way you do when water is trapped in your ear. “I seem to have dozed for a sec.”
Right. Years of hanging out with Tucker and Graham had taught me more than enough about boys and their attention spans. Particularly when supermodels were wandering around. Kjell was hardly in danger of falling asleep anytime soon with those two sirens in the room. But for the moment, his eyes were back on me. And I needed to seize the opportunity to secure my ride home. I wanted out of there immediately.
I’d barely opened my mouth to speak when manicured, fire-red fingernails curled over his shoulder. One of the leather-clad bobsled girls was standing at his side, her lips framing a devastating smile.
“How old are you?” she asked in Norwegian. It was one of the few complete sentences I knew. Hopefully, next she’d ask for the time or directions to the airport. But I had a feeling this conversation was about to soar past my repertoire of memorized phrases.
“Nineteen,” he replied in a flat, monotone voice.
Really? I thought. Graham would die. A nineteen-year-old boy had taken me out. To a bar. Even if the story was about to end with that boy ditching me for someone more in his age category, I almost regretted I’d never get to see the look on his face.
The beautiful girl shifted closer as she trailed her fingers from Kjell’s shoulder down his chest, probing, as if she’d find buried treasure beneath his shirt.
I had to admire the speed with which she closed in on what she wanted. But the way her fingers continued to expertly weave across his torso reminded me more of a butcher inspecting a side of beef than an attempt at seduction.
I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. In light of the man still washing the hardwood floors with his blood, a groping session seemed ill timed. At home, the LAPD would be all over the place by then. As I glanced around the bar again, no one seemed particularly bothered by any of it.
The catatonic expression had settled back over Kjell’s features, like he wasn’t fully cognizant of what was happening.
The second girl joined her companion. She curled one hand over Kjell’s cheek and started saying something in Norwegian. It was about time, I thought. In my book, a few words of small talk ought to precede a full body massage.
I caught the word doctor. Somehow they knew about medical school. Perhaps these were Kjell’s friends from Oslo? Kjell tipped his head to the side, watching the blond girl in absolute rapture. Beautiful as she was, it was wrong. So wrong. She pulled him two steps forward, leading him toward the door like a puppy on a leash. I knew I had to do something about it. I had to stop them.
“Kjell, are you okay?” I asked, putting my hand on his wrist protectively.
Instead of replying, Kjell glared down at me. Like he had no idea who I was or what I was doing there. But I held his gaze, steady and trying not to be frightened by the furious intensity in his eyes. He blinked, three times, fast, as if waking out of a dream.
Frantically he dug for something in the pocket of his jacket—something small and silver. It looked like the tiny object my grandmother had dropped into his hand earlier that night. It was a small metal disk, with a series of raised lines and curves that resembled letters, only from no alphabet we’d ever learned in school. Kjell held it out in front of himself. Like a priest exorcising the devil. Except his eyes were firmly closed, clenched tight.
His other hand reached out and found mine, his fingers snaking in between all the digits, squeezing so tight I thought my knuckles would pop like balloons.
The blond girl took a step back, staring scornfully at the object resting on Kjell’s palm. Her hand flew out as if she was planning to snatch it away from him. But the instant her fingers touched metal, she whipped them back like she’d been burned. Then her eyes shifted to me. She looked me up and down as the strangest feeling flooded me, a surge of power and knowledge nipping at the periphery of my consciousness, fighting to get in.
A slow, cruel smile spread across Blondie’s face. I felt as if I was an amusing, albeit annoying, pet. One that she was about to back over with her car. On purpose.
She extended her index finger and pressed it hard against my forehead. My skin burned under her touch, but I was paralyzed by whatever current seemed to flow between us. And for a horrifying instant, it made me question whose side I should take in this encounter. After all, I barely even knew Kjell, and these girls were something truly remarkable. Longing filled my heart, a burning desire to go with them. To follow the blond girl anywhere she chose to take me.
I fought against the intrusive urge, because it came from someplace that I didn’t trust. I grabbed her wrist but couldn’t knock her finger away.
“Valkyrie,” she said in clear, ringing accents. The word unleashed a double roller-coaster ride of exhilaration in my veins. It was so foreign, yet so familiar, both the word and the feeling it trigged. The effect must have been plain on my face, because the blond girl smiled. While her expression was far from warm, it was the first thing she’d done that didn’t chill me to the bone.
My hand flew to my forehead when the blond girl released me. The skin where her finger had been was still hot to the touch.
Everyone in the bar was watching us by then—maybe because of the gorgeous supermodel who’d practically burrowed her finger into my brain, or maybe because they’d noticed that an underage American was in their midst. Either way, the eyes that met mine were a strange milky white. I swallowed hard, fighting back panic, as I realized that Kjell and I were alone with those lunatics in a room full of vacant, slack faces.
The blond girl said something else, a torrent of angry Norwegian that left me confused, breathless. “I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “But I think you should leave.” After a moment, I added, “Blad.” I’d either told her to leave or called her a car.
“How fascinating that you exist,” she said, switching languages effortlessly. Her accent was different from that of everyone else I’d met in Norway. Antique. Like she’d studied English three hundred years ago. “Information so valuable that I’ll forgive you this once.”
“Astrid,” her friend said, a protest brewing in her voice. Something flashed between them as their eyes met. I felt the silent argument roll back and forth the way you can sense motion in the water even when it’s far away.
Astrid glanced from me to Kjell as if weighing her options. So I took a step in front of him, like I’d actually be able to protect him from those two if they were determined to hurt us.
“No.” Astrid surveyed my defensive posture and gave me a patronizing half smile. “Let her live. There’s no justice in punishing the ignorant. And they understand just enough to carry an important message home.” She locked eyes with me. “Consider this a one-time courtesy.” The last word stuck to her tongue as if it were the vilest combination of letters in the dictionary. “Next time you won’t be so lucky. When I hunt, I kill anything that gets in my way—predator or prey.”
Astrid turned on her heel and strode toward the door without hesitating and without looking back. Her friend fell into step behind her but cast one last angry glare in my direction. Their boots pounded against the hardwood floor in unison. With military precision. It was the only sound in the bar other than my shallow jackrabbit breathing.
The moment the door closed behind them, Kjell leaned forward onto the counter and exhaled as if he’d been holding it in for an aeon.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he whispered. He stepped forward, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I don’t know how you did that. But thank you.” Then he kissed me, quickly, so lightly, on the lips.
“You sure?” I challenged, keeping my tone casual and hoping to distract everyone from the fact that all the blood in my body had just relocated to my face. “Tuck, er, my friend, would scream at me right about now—say that I got in his way when he could have gotten laid.”
“Laid?” Kjell made the word sound even dirtier than it was. “Is that what you think was happening?”
If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was being talked down to. “I don’t know what to think,” I said frostily. “And I really don’t care. I just want to go home.”
“I see.” Kjell was looking at me like I was four years old, which was the other thing I couldn’t stand. “Didn’t your grandmother tell you about the rumors? Your brother arrives tomorrow, right? After what happened here tonight, he’ll need to be very careful.”
“What rumors?” I asked. “And what do Graham and my grandmother have to do with you picking up girls?” I said it even though I was beginning to realize that there was more at stake here, there were deeper implications that I couldn’t even begin to grasp. Like denying it would make it go away.
Kjell’s eyes widened in surprise. Or maybe it was disappointment. “It has nothing to do with picking up girls, and I think you know that. They would have kidnapped me if you hadn’t stopped them. I owe you my life.”
“Dramatic much?” I pulled my hand away when he reached for it, alarmed by his sudden intensity. “Look, you don’t owe me anything,” I said. He clearly did owe me an explanation, but I was willing to wait until we were in the car, especially if he was going to act so peculiar in public. “Except maybe a ride home.”
“Anything you say.”
Fifteen minutes ago, he had observed a careful enough distance that I figured the age difference was too much for him. But those baby blues now told me they were seeing me in quite a different light. It was such a complete one-eighty that I couldn’t help wondering how much of it was beer goggles or some sort of misplaced gratitude for supposedly saving him. Either way, I didn’t like it one bit.
Kjell’s blue eyes were still bright with excitement as he turned to Margit and Sven. “We should go.” In all the chaos of the last few minutes, I’d forgotten they were even there. “I believe you now,” Kjell said. “But we’ll be okay. Elsa just drove them off. She saved me. It was incredible. You saw, right?”
Margit was glaring at me with so much loathing, I was surprised I hadn’t felt it, even with my back turned. Sven, who’d seemed nice enough before, was now staring at me like I’d just sprouted bat wings and a third head. I almost touched my shoulders to make sure I hadn’t.
Kjell didn’t seem to notice their less-than-enthusiastic reactions. He was already pulling me forward. “Let’s get out of here.” As the people around us were shaking off the strange fog that had settled over their pupils, they started conferring in whispers. More than a few unfriendly faces had already turned my way. “C’mon, Margit, Sven.”
“We’re not going anywhere with her.” Margit stood, shaking her head. “She’s one of them.”
Kjell and I had reached the middle of the room, and Kjell fired back an angry torrent of Norwegian. The words were fast and furious, and I was surprised to find I could catch a few. Kjell was calling Margit stupid, demanding to know why I would have stood up for him if I was one of them.
Whoever they were.
The important part, the touching part, was that Kjell was begging Margit to give me a chance. I looked back at Margit, more curious about her reaction than anything else. Given the undercurrent of jealousy that had swept through the evening, I was pretty sure Kjell was making it worse by defending me.
“Don’t you even look at us,” Margit snarled, covering Sven’s eyes with one hand. “You already have my brother. Isn’t that enough? Besides, Sven’s too young, remember? That’s what they said last time. You have to be eighteen.” She took four quick steps until she was right in front of me, dragging Sven behind her.
“Too young for what?” I backed away, right into Kjell. “And I’ve never even met your brother. I just met you tonight.” I couldn’t believe I’d been stupid enough to get myself into this position. I was alone in a bar in Norway with a weird boy talking in riddles and a paranoid stranger who was preparing to wring my neck.
Margit’s finger was in my face, practically poking my eye out. “She can’t be trusted.” She hurled the words at Kjell. “I told you. What she did proves it. She’s just like her grandmother.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I shot back, surprising myself yet again that night.
Margit was dying to hit me. But that wasn’t what scared me. I was horrified by the image that flashed through my mind, courtesy of the new voice that had stirred to life inside me. My retaliation would be swift and brutal if she even tried.
Sven shook his face free of Margit’s hand and grabbed Kjell roughly by the shoulder.
“We can’t let you leave with her,” Sven said. “You’ll thank us for this tomorrow.”
“Back off.” Kjell knocked Sven’s arm away and shoved his chest, just hard enough to send him back a few paces.
Margit pulled the personal locator beacon out of her pocket.
“Don’t you dare,” Kjell hissed.
But without even hesitating, Margit pressed a flat red button on the front. This time, a red light on the top blinked to life, flashing in time with my thundering pulse.
“Turn that off,” Kjell said, taking a step toward Margit and making a grab for it. Sven blocked him. “You’re gonna have the Royal Navy out looking for you,” Kjell said. “That’s not a toy.”
“No,” Margit said. “We changed the frequency to one the navy won’t pick up. You can’t pretend this isn’t happening now,” she added, suddenly all smug self-satisfaction. “You’ve seen it too. No more thinking you’re so much better than us, Dr. Perfect back from Oslo, acting like you know everything.” The tangible resentment in her words surprised me and made me wonder if I’d been misreading Margit’s behavior all along. Because bitter wasn’t the best way to sweet-talk your crush.
“I know what I saw,” Kjell said, rubbing his forehead with his palm. “But that doesn’t mean Ellie’s part of it. She has no idea what’s been going on.”
“Fine.” Margit glared at me, and I started inching my way toward the door, pepper spray in hand. “If she’s innocent, she can prove it to the others when they get here.”
“What others?” I asked.
But Margit’s focus had shifted back to Kjell, who made one more grab for the emergency transmitter in her hand.
“Turn that stupid thing off,” he said. Sven pushed him away. Hard. “If she was part of it, why would she have saved me? Think. You’re letting prejudice cloud your judgment.” Sven and Kjell glared at each other, hands balled into fists, teetering on the brink of an actual punch-throwing fight.
“Interesting that you’re defending her.” Margit’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Snap out of it. She’ll seduce and kidnap you too.”
“Seduce?” I asked as a flush crept up my neck. That accusation was certainly a first. “Kidnap?” I whispered.
“Kjell.” Margit’s voice broke over the plea. “Please.”
And then I knew, all at once, that her hostility toward me had nothing to do with an unrequited crush. She was scared for Kjell. She truly thought she was protecting him. The scraps of odd behavior I’d collected over the day, from the angry old lady in the bakery to Margit’s flaming hostility, were shuffling inside my mind as I tried to piece together what everyone was so afraid of.
“Let’s go,” Kjell said, pulling me behind him. “Before their new friends get here.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Who’s coming?” I didn’t like the way Margit was standing, hands on her hips, a smug smile on her face, like we were stupid if we thought we were going anywhere.
Kjell’s long strides dragged me to the door at a half run, and he didn’t slow down when I stumbled, which was when I realized maybe there was a reason we needed to get out of there fast. Whoever Margit had summoned with that transponder was someone Kjell wasn’t all that eager to meet.
It was impossible to ignore the stares that followed us across the bar, but I kept my eyes glued to the door, counting down the distance between me and safety with each step.
“Hope we see you tomorrow, Kjell,” Margit called after us. “But if not, at least we know where to find her.”