BJORN BLINKED as his sword met naught with any fleshy resistance. Thrown off balance, he staggered a step or two, perplexed by the sudden disappearance of his enemy.
At his feet, the sands soaked up Jorund’s blood, the only evidence Bjorn had been fighting a man and not a ghost. Spinning in a circle, he scanned the beach, but all he could see were long stretches of pale, empty sand.
Jorund was gone.
“Bjorn?”
He spun again, Skullsplitter still clutched in both hands. Only a lifetime of training kept him from swinging it. Chase would never know how close he stood to death at that moment.
“What happened? Where did he go?” Chase asked, his eyes wide and face so ashen Bjorn could see the veins beneath his skin. He was trembling, as if his legs kept him upright only by strength of will.
“The amulet.”
“What?”
Bjorn sighed, suddenly exhausted, feeling as if the weight of everything that had happened bore down on his shoulders. He sagged to the beach, letting Skullsplitter fall to the sands. “My father’s amulet. Jorund took it from him when he killed my father. It was the mark of Jarl, and ’twas said to be a gift from Njord, god of the sea. Perhaps Njord saw fit to return it to the shores of Norge, and Jorund with it.”
“You’re hurt!” Chase suddenly cried, as if he’d just noticed the blood that coated Bjorn’s skin. Bjorn found himself cradled in Chase’s arms, one hand soothingly stroking his brow.
“Ja, ’tis naught but a scratch. A lucky blow.”
“But you’re bleeding!”
“That is what happens when sword meets flesh, Chase. The blade usually wins.”
“Wherever he’s gone, I hope he fucking rots!” Chase hissed vehemently, tentatively touching his fingertips to the blood that streaked Bjorn’s arm.
Bjorn chuckled. “Nei, I hope not. I hope he survives and knows that no matter what riches he acquires for his coffers, it will never match the wealth you have here. Perhaps that is why Njord’s amulet left me here but took him back.”
“Huh? I’m not following you, Bjorn.”
“I have yet to move anywhere.”
“No, I mean that I don’t understand you.”
“Ah. Njord is the god of the sea, the waves, and the wind. But he is also the god of gifts and wealth, and he would not take kindly to his gifts being stolen. Perhaps he sent me a-Viking to this strange place in recompense for what Jorund has taken from me. I should have been Jarl after my father.”
“Jarl… that’s like a prince, isn’t it?”
“Ja. It would be most fitting for Jorund to see the wealth Njord has laid at my feet,” Bjorn continued, waving toward the sparkling buildings that lined the shore, “then be returned to live among the wattle-and-daub huts of Lagarvík that he has stolen from me.”
“I suppose,” Chase said. “But I still hope he dies a long and painful death afterward. C’mon. Let’s get you back to the room and see if we can patch you up. Although I think I’m going to need to run to the drugstore for supplies. That cut looks nasty.”
Stifling a groan, not having the strength to decipher what a drugstore was or what Chase might think to sew on him for patches, Bjorn allowed Chase to help him up and back over the sands to the castle Marry-Ot.
“BJORN, WILL you please put that down and take a look at these sketches? We have to decide on the design for the longboat!” Chase grumbled, his finger tapping impatiently over a sheaf of papers on his desk.
Bjorn arched an eyebrow at Chase, swinging a plastic reproduction of Skullsplitter through the air with expert skill. He grinned and lunged, his thrust ending with the tip of the sword touching Chase’s Adam’s apple.
“Funny, Viking. Can we get back to work now?” Chase said, rolling his eyes and pushing the tip of the sword away from his neck with one finger.
The real Skullsplitter had been mounted to a plaque that hung over their fireplace. A place of honor, Chase insisted, although at times Bjorn could swear he heard his sword crying out to him, angry at having been turned into so much bric-a-brac.
Still, Bjorn had learned much of the new world he’d found himself stranded in. First and foremost being the people here did not care for Vikings roaming their streets with broadswords strapped to their hips.
Chuckling, Bjorn tossed the plastic sword onto a small sofa in the corner of their office and leaned over Chase’s shoulder, staring down at the drawings.
Having found himself lost in a world where warriors no longer stormed beaches or fought with sword and skill for what they could plunder, Bjorn had had to rely on Chase for his survival. It had grated on him, his pride ripped to shreds.
Then Chase had suggested that they go into business together.
Bjorn? A merchant? He had fought that idea almost as vehemently as he’d fought Jorund on the beach. But he had to admit Chase had been correct. Together, they forged a company that produced authentic reproductions of Viking weaponry and longboats. Bjorn still shook his head in wonder at the prices people would pay to own them.
By the same token, Chase’s idea had saved Bjorn’s pride. It was Bjorn who ultimately approved the designs, often changing details so minute that no one other than a Viking would have noticed them. But that, as Chase so often told him, was what made their wares unique.
“This dragon’s head does not look as it should,” Bjorn said, pointing to the artist’s rendering of the Dragonslayer. “Its teeth were not so long and jagged. And is that man supposed to be me? No Viking I knew ever wore a helmet with horns! I look like a goat!”
Chase laughed. “All right, I’ll have them change it. No horns. Got it.”
Bjorn leaned in, burying his nose in Chase’s hair and inhaling deeply of his scent. Aftershave, he reminded himself. That was what Chase called the liquid he splashed on his face after taking a shower. Dolce and Gabbana, Light Blue. It did smell good, but Bjorn preferred Chase’s natural smell, the one that reminded Bjorn of musk and sea, and could only be found at the apex of Chase’s thighs or buried like treasure between his asscheeks.
Thinking of that made Bjorn’s cock jump, thickening under his faded, worn jeans. Gah! The clothing of this new world was so uncomfortable! He much favored his old homespun leggings. At least a man’s cock had room to breathe in them.
For that matter, Bjorn preferred going naked as often as possible, the way the gods had intended man to be. Chase had repeatedly scolded him for doffing his clothing at the office. Evidently in this time, merchants did not show their skin while at work.
They hadn’t in his time either, but Bjorn deemed it not necessary to inform Chase of that fact. Instead, Bjorn stripped bare whenever they were alone, then laughed and caught Chase in his arms when Chase inevitably sought to admonish him for it.
Then Bjorn would kiss him until Chase forgot why he had been scolding Bjorn for being naked. Soon enough Chase’s clothing would be added to Bjorn’s on the floor, and Bjorn would go a-Viking on Chase’s flesh, plundering his body with his fingers and tongue until Chase cried out his name.
“Other than that, there’s nothing you’d want changed?” Chase asked, bringing Bjorn out of his thoughts.
“Nei. ’Tis exactly how the Dragonslayer looked when last I saw her.”
“You still miss the sea, don’t you?” Chase asked, his fingers warm and gentle on Bjorn’s cheek.
“Ja, sometimes,” he answered truthfully. “But there are things here that would keep even the greatest Viking ashore.”
“Ah, like pizza and pay-per-view porn?” Chase chuckled. He never failed to tease Bjorn about what he considered Bjorn’s two greatest weaknesses. He indulged himself in both whenever the opportunity arose.
“No, like you.” Bjorn smiled and turned his head to place a soft kiss on Chase’s palm. Truly, if there was anything Bjorn had become obsessed with since his arrival, it was Chase. The way his body felt beneath Bjorn, the way he tasted, the sound of his laughter—Bjorn found him utterly addictive. “I could sail forever and never find another like you. In all my years a-Viking, you are the greatest treasure I have ever found. Come, get naked with me.”
“Is sex all you can ever think of?” Chase asked, laughing.
“Ja, of course,” Bjorn answered. “I am a Viking.”