RUN, SAGA. JUST RUN.
The words echoed somewhere deep inside my head—probably the part charged with ensuring I didn’t succumb to death by Viking slaughter. Since the murdering was still going strong on the beach, I released my grip on the tree and retreated into the forest.
“Ouch!”
I winced as I leaned against a nearby birch to extract whatever sharp object had pricked my foot—because the universe had gifted me the world’s bulkiest dress, but no shoes. Bending over, I carefully removed a rock from my heel, and wiped the blood against the coarse fabric of my gown. A quick scan of the forest revealed a tapestry of fallen branches and an infinite number of angular rocks—a veritable landmine for naked feet. Droplets danced on the leaves, meaning it had recently rained in whatever timeline I’d hallucinated myself into. I could count on a thick layer of mud beneath the razor-rocks, which would make running in this too-long dress doubly difficult.
Super.
“Arugh!”
The cry from the beach reminded me I did not have time to strategize—not unless I wanted to meet the wrong end of a broadsword. With a big breath, I gripped my skirt in my hands, turned away from the bloodshed, and ran. Pain shot through my feet with each ill-placed step, but rocks and twigs paled in comparison to the head of an arrow . . . or an axe . . . or whatever other weapons were being brandished behind me. Willing myself forward, I lowered my head and ran faster. I managed to put some distance between myself and the beach before a low snarl stopped me cold.
I dug my heels into the mud and reached out to steady myself against a nearby branch. When the snarl sounded again, I flattened my back against the tree’s trunk and held my breath.
There were definitely animals in the woods behind my grandmother’s cabin—squirrels, deer, and the occasional moose. But whatever had just made that noise wasn’t anything I’d heard before. In fact, it sounded almost like . . .
Another snarl echoed through the woods, followed by a pronounced growl.
Oh, skit.
I peeked around the trunk, and bit down hard on my bottom lip. I did not want to scream with a massive bear nearby. Forget being slaughtered by Vikings; death by bear-mauling sounded infinitely more terrifying. Not to mention, infinitely more painful.
My heart jackhammered against my ribs. Tree bark dug into my flesh as I pressed myself against the trunk and let out a silent breath. Think, Saga! I’d been camping with my cousins a few times. My uncle always told us to make ourselves really big if we ever ran into a bear. Then pray like mad.
But something told me this bear wouldn’t be easily intimidated. He lived with axe-wielding, mass-murdering, enormous Vikings. Weaponless, five foot seven, curly haired me wouldn’t be much of a threat. Even if I did wave my arms and cry roar like Uncle Jon taught me.
I peeked around the trunk again, trying not to scream at the sight of the beast stalking through the woods. Running was out of the question—at this distance, he’d overtake me in seconds. Climbing the tree was a no-go—I wouldn’t make it ten feet up in this stupid dress and besides, couldn’t bears climb anyway? And going on the offensive wasn’t an option—I didn’t have the first clue how to wield a dagger, and while my archery skills were impressive, I was sorely lacking in bows and arrows.
Maybe I could just hallucinate again, and wake up back on the beach. In the real world.
Please?
A feral roar sent my heart rate rocketing again, and I peeked around the tree to find the bear creeping toward me. Oh, God. They can smell fear. His head tilted as a silent scream escaped my mouth, and his lips pulled back to reveal pointed fangs. He bent lower to the ground in what looked alarmingly like a hunting crouch, and I knew I was out of options.
I had to run like hell.
My brain was a blank slate of terror as I bent my knees and launched from my hiding spot. Mud squished beneath my toes while I put as much distance between the bear and myself as I could manage. The ground trembled as massive paws thundered atop the earth, and I could have sworn his hot, hungry breath was blowing on my neck. Angry snarls bounced off the trees, each rage-filled roar closer than the last. But I didn’t turn around.
I didn’t want to see death coming.
I was so focused on survival that I failed to notice the two huge Vikings until I’d plowed right into one. My butt struck the ground with a jarring thud. My hip shrieked with the pain of landing on my dagger’s hilt, and my head snapped backward, landing in the mud and sending a nausea-inducing wave of pain across my skull. The sky danced above me, a swirl of leaves and clouds, as a second Viking drew a series of arrows and fired them over my head. A roar from behind let me know he’d hit his target . . . and the ensuing growl and the deafening boom of the beast’s fall assured me the bear was no longer my primary threat.
That honor belonged to the axe-wielding leather-pantser towering over me.
The Viking’s gravelly voice was quiet as he leaned down and snarled, “Get up.”
With the world still spinning and hammers pounding at my temples, getting up was a tall order. I placed a palm to the more pain-wracked side of my head, and tried to roll onto an elbow. The movement sent a fresh wave of dizziness coursing through me, and I flopped back onto the ground with a painful thud.
Ow.
Leather Pants must have mistaken my hesitation for defiance. He wrapped rough fingers around my forearm and wrenched me up. My body screamed in protest, but I dug my toes into the mud and steadied myself. If escape was going to be an option, it would have to happen now . . . not after these two dragged me back to Murder Beach.
“Are you from Clan Ragnar?” the Viking barked.
Who?
I snuck a glance at the second Viking, who’d busied himself recovering arrows. “Uh . . .”
“Answer me! Did those thieves send you here?”
Right. Clan Ragnar must have been the intruders in the boats.
The ones lying dead on the beach.
Oh, God.
“Nope,” I blurted. “Definitely not. I’m not with them. I’m, uh . . .”
A time-traveling hallucinator from the distant future hardly seemed like the answer that would earn my release.
Leather Pants tightened his grip around my wrist and jerked me closer. My nostrils flared at the twin stenches of sweat and old fish. My stomach churned as he placed his hand around my waist.
“Markus,” he sneered. “Look at this dress. I think we just captured Clan Ragnar’s heir.”
“You sure about that?” Markus stalked toward me, abandoning his attempt to retrieve arrows from the bear’s carcass.
“This is Ragnar’s weapon, ja?” Leather-Pants tightened his grip around my waist and tugged. I winced as my belt came undone, loosening the dress at my waist and releasing the dagger from its holder.
“Dunno.” Markus pulled the dagger from Leather Pants’ hands, and held it up. The once-rusted weapon gleamed against a beam of sunlight; the edges of its formerly-scuffed hilt now sparkling with red and blue jewels. What the hell? “But whoever she is, she must be important to have a weapon like this.”
“And a dress like this.”
My breath hitched as Leather Pants fingered the fabric at my waist. The Viking’s muddy, brown eyes clouded over. In that instant, he was infinitely more terrifying than the bear. “If she’s not Ragnar’s heir, she’s of great value to somebody in that tribe. Wonder how much she’s worth to them.”
“Not half as much as she’s worth to us.” Markus’ eyes gleamed. “I haven’t been on a raid in months.”
“Neither have I.” Leather Pants sidled closer, making my gut clench. The Viking’s palm tightened around my waist as he forced me to his side. “Chief Olav may have forbidden contact with our own females until Lars selects his bride, but he didn’t say anything about captives.”
“No.” Markus’ lips parted in a sneer. He wrapped thick fingers around my loose, blond curls and wrenched my head to the side. “He didn’t.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. I already had two brutes to outrun—I didn’t need their entire clan knowing where to find me.
Think, Saga. Markus held the dagger just out of my reach . . . not that I’d have been able to wrench it from his iron grasp. I wasn’t going to be able to scrap my way out of this one. But if I was lucky, I could outsmart my captors.
I hoped.
“Release me,” I ordered, willing my voice to hold steady. “As the rightful heir of Clan Ragnar, I order you to return me to Chief . . . to my Chief. Failure to do so will result in your immediate deaths.”
“Oh yeah?” Leather Pants tightened his grip. “At whose hand?”
At the question, a flash of light illuminated the forest. Markus immediately released my hair, and let out a cry. “My gods!”
I turned my head toward the source of the light to find the dagger glowing brightly in Markus’ hand. The beams from its blade shot clear to the treetops. What the actual hell?
Never mind, just go with it!
“You will die at my hand,” I declared. “Release me or my dagger will, uh, slay you.”
“It’s burning me!” Markus cried. He shook his wrist, the dagger swinging back and forth in his grip. “Knut, do something!”
“What am I supposed to do?” Leather Pants squeezed my waist so hard, I winced. “Just let it go!”
“I can’t!” Markus yelled. “Knut!”
“Release me, Knut,” I warned.
“No,” Knut growled.
“My arm!” Markus cried again. “It’s on fire!”
He wasn’t kidding. Golden flames lapped their way up Markus’ arm. They danced across his torso, entombing him in a sparkling, yellow orb for what looked like an agonizing moment before consuming him entirely. The Viking’s screams of terror pierced the forest as he disappeared in a flaming swirl of dust. The instant he was gone, the dagger clattered onto the mud.
Holy freaking mother. This wasn’t just an alternate timeline—this was an alternate universe, with actual magic.
“Markus?” Knut shouted.
Now, Saga. Escape now.
“Release me.” My voice belied a calm I so did not feel. “Or you’re next.”
Knut’s eyes darted between me and the pile of ash that had recently been his friend. All traces of lust were gone from his eyes. Now he looked positively murderous.
“Are you a magic wielder?” he spat.
So that was a thing here.
“Release me,” I repeated.
Keeping one hand on my waist, Knut reached down to scoop up my dagger. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.”
“If you kill me, Clan Ragnar will wage a war upon your tribe unlike anything you’ve ever seen,” I lied. “Your insolence already cost Markus his life. Are you so ready to seal the fate of your chief?”
Hatred spewed from Knut’s eyes as he shoved my dagger into his belt and pulled a length of rope from his pouch. He forced my wrists in front of my waist and tied them together. Then he pulled the axe from his back and shoved me forward.
“Walk. Chief Olav will decide your fate. And if he casts you out . . .” Knut stepped closer, wrapping his fingers around my curls in a rough yank, “. . . you’re mine.”
I shoved my fear deep down, wrenched my head from his grasp, and marched determinedly forward. I hoped the Viking mistook my silence for strength.
How in the hell was I going to get out of this?