Blood Enchantment (60 page)

I was.

I lie, but it is the truth as I know it. “No. I am here to save you.”

Another tense beat of silence sweeps between us.

She shudders, seeming to relax, and I release her.

She stands, and the streetlight casts its blue light on her face. My mouth hangs agape. I forget Tallinn is a few meters away. Dead or alive—I do not know.

I am speechless with surprise.

It is Greta, the girl from the elevator.

Shame fills me that I hurt her.

“I am Lisbeth,” she announces quietly. “I imagine you knew that.”

I go from shocked guilt to instant confusion. I shake my head as I stand, never taking my eyes from her form.

“No. I did not.”

Tallinn groans.
Gracias a Dios
. He will survive to annoy another day.

I don't look away from the woman who claims to be Lisbeth—the woman I'm supposed to murder, came to save instead, and who almost had me at her mercy in an alley in Norway.
An environmental scientist who is expert in hand-to-hand combat
?

The question I ask as I look into her face:
Who is she?

Greta

I twist the stem of the water glass between my fingers, and glance at Tor through my lashes.

“You were sneaky.”

His expression blanks. After a moment, emotion flows over his features like water.

“Ah,” he says, tipping his head back as understanding lights his eyes. “I was underhanded.”

I think. “Not exactly, but close.”

“English is challenging. There are ten different words with as many shades of meaning for the single definition.”

I laugh easily. “So true.”

Leaning forward, I manage to resist the last crumb of my dessert off the plate. Norwegian baked custard is one of my favorites. My love for the creamy delicacy can be compared to the Americans’ love of mac and cheese,
but in dessert form.

“You didn't tell me you'd sealed the deal already.” I don't accuse him, but I'm curious. Tor is an enigma to me.

He shrugs a shoulder, and an image of Paco superimposes itself over him, stealing the gesture. I shake my head a little, as though I can get rid of him.

No luck.

I shouldn't be distracted by guy
A
when I'm out with guy
B
. Bad Greta.

“I did not. My assistant did.”

I lean back, resting my elbow over the back of my chair. The silk of my thin blouse draws taut across my breasts and Tor's eyes track the movement.

I smile, feeling confident in a new way.

It's liberating—fan-effing-tastic. “A technicality, Tor.” I raise an eyebrow. “You made Charlie's day, and mine,” I admit. My happy bubble just can't be popped.

He spreads his hands out at his sides inoffensively. “I aim to please.”

The gesture triggers something.

My lungs suddenly hold scorching breath.

Tor sits up straighter, his relaxed expression becoming alarmed.

Something hidden and deep stirs. Like a fabled monster, it rises from the depths of my emotions, and my body bucks, remembering.

No sound.

Noiseless raw fear saturates me.

They move around me, securing my hands tightly to the bottom of bedposts—and am summarily ignored.

Bright light tosses its uncaring glare on the scene of my degradation.

I look down my body and see the first man.

His penis stands at rigid attention, and I can't… free myself.

Though my vision swims because of the drugs they fed me, I scream, loosing a shriek of unfiltered despair.

He moves between my legs; the proof of his torture bobs obscenely as he draws nearer.

His hands spread apart as his mask, a grotesque parody of a clown, cocks to the side as though considering my worth. Then an open palm lands on my cheek, silencing me instantly.

The taste of copper pennies fills my mouth.

I can't move as he tears into my unprepared, dry body.

The next scream is smothered by a gag. His sweat drips on my body like the salty tears I can't shed.

“Greta!” Tor calls loudly above me.

My eyes roll in their sockets, seeking his.

I blink, lying on the floor of the restaurant while strangers stare down at me.

Tears are cooling against my hot skin as they slick my face with their liquid sadness.

“There you are,” he says gently and scoops me up against him. “I-I am sorry. I don't know what happened. I was unsure what to do.”

Panic attack with a chaser of blackout to seal the emotional deal.
My next
breath rattles loose.

Tor stands with me in his arms. He looks around at the audience, and a hot tide of shame floods me.

“I think she's all right,” he says in Norwegian, and I allow myself to settle against him.

I'm always spent after an attack. I haven't had one in three months. I thought they were done.

Obviously not.

“Please, Tor, set me down.”

Without a word, he does.

His hands stay on my shoulders and I repress a shudder as I regulate my breathing.

I spot a softly lit sign with a woman's outline in a skirt. “I'm going to the restroom,” I say in English and he nods.

“Do you need me, Greta?”

Our gazes meet, and I offer a weak smile, shaking my head as I walk slowly to the bathroom.

I ignore the stares of the curious, keeping the door in sight as though it’s an SOS donut tossed into a stormy sea.

I open the door, move inside, and close it before throwing the bolt. The flat of my palm rests against the smooth birchwood veneer. My forehead is hot against its coolness.

I stand for seconds that become a minute.

I push away, walking mechanically to the wash basin, and turn on the cold water tap.

Two bright spots of color decorate my cheeks as though I've been slapped. The rest of me is ghostly pale.

I splash the rushing water over my face then drink some from my cupped hands.

This has to stop.

The problem is with the triggers themselves. I don't always know when some innocent smell or gesture or random sight will cause me to tumble down the slippery slope of memories. My exhale shudders out of me.

“Greta?” Tor asks through the door.

I realize I made a rhyme, and a hysterical bubble of laughter leaks out.

God.

“Just a moment,” I manage.

I can feel him waiting just outside the barrier between the outside and the cocoon of the bathroom. I have to face it all.

The knob is cold, my fingers icy.

I twist the knob and robotically open the door. His arms are spread wide, hands gripping the threshold. He studies my face, missing nothing. “Let's leave, Greta. I'll have Oliver drive into the city. We can talk.”

I don't know if I want to talk. I feel terrible, unsexy and unnerved.

I open my mouth to give him this version of my thoughts, and he puts a gentle fingertip over my lips. “Don't say anything. I would have to take you back to the hotel in any event.” He leans in; he's so tall, his forearm braces his body as his mouth tickles the shell of my ear. “Let me help you, Greta. Let me do as I said I would.”

His promise to my Father.

As I nod, my hair comes undone from the ornate twisted and shaped braid at the nape of my neck. I let the curtain of my hair shield my face, and Tor steps back. “Please.”

I crane my neck to look at him. My trust is so unsure. “Okay.”

He takes my elbow and leads me out of the restaurant.

*

Black sky stretches before us. Splotchy, midnight blue and true black mingle with stars scattered over the velvet of their union.

I shut my eyes, letting the smooth ride of the limo soothe my torn nerves.

Tor's voice breaks in. “Talk to me, Greta. What happened at the restaurant?”

“It's from the attack.” I understand I'm being vague. It's a means of self-preservation. Gia would recognize it a mile away.

“We were enjoying dessert, Greta.”

I hear his frustration in those five words. I open my eyes, and Tor leans forward, grasping my hands.

He waits.

I brace myself. “They didn't talk. They wore masks.”

I swallow hard, flicking my eyes to his, then glance away. “My senses were deprived. It has been difficult to give the police anything to go by.”

“Your attackers—they remain at large?” His voice is devoid of emotion.

My breath freezes inside my lungs. I grapple, using the centering techniques Gia taught me.

My eyes are wide, and Tor moves closer.

“No, let me deal with it.” I inhale deeply, centering myself with my go-to memory—the good kind.

I envision that long-ago summer day. My legs are pumping in the swing as Father’s strong arms push me higher. Butterflies twirl beyond the tips of my toes as crickets make the music of the season. The sun heats my skin slowly. The fragrance of summer is all around me: grass, flowers, a child's sweat, and soap. Strong hands brace my back then leave it with each push.

My heartbeat returns to normal. I open my eyes and can finally look Tor in the face.

Inhale. Exhale.

“Yes, they're somewhere.” I shrug, twisting my hands ceaselessly. I flog the panic that threatens to rise with acknowledging the one horrific fact. “Without an ID, voice recognition—they used…”

I can't say it.

“Protection?” Tor supplies in a matter-of-fact way, which I'm grateful for.

“For themselves. They didn't have me in mind at all.” I shiver, cupping my elbows. It keeps my restless hands busy.

One did not
. He wanted my defilement complete.

“DNA would be a way for their capture,” Tor says thoughtfully.

If he were in the system.

I nod miserably, not meeting his eyes. “Yes,” I whisper. “Now, all I have are these strange triggers. Fragments of memory, nothing concrete.”

“Greta.”

My gaze moves to his face. Pools of light cast by the streetlamps strike his features rhythmically as the limo speeds along.

“They say scent is the strongest memory trigger of all.”

I don't reply.

Tor knits his fingers between his knees, and they dangle there. He points to me with them steepled together. “It could be these criminals will yet be brought to justice. Say the police have suspicions…”

A smile crosses my lips briefly at his language gaff. “Suspects.”

He inclines his head. “Yes, suspects. They have suspects, bring them in. They are blindfolded, and you could get close enough to…” He doesn't finish his thought.

The idea of scent recognition is actually a brilliant—though terrifying—idea. Panic edges in, but I beat it into submission again. I try on a smile. “You know, that's the best thing I've heard in a long time.”

Tor smiles back, and I realize it's been a miserable date for him. I freak out—then we talk about my gang rape. Then he comes up with the first decent solution I've heard—
ouch
.

The cops just sort of gave up. My assailants hadn't spoken. They'd camouflaged themselves. They'd worn condoms and gloves—except for one, whose DNA couldn't be typed. It had been brightly lit, but none had any identifying marks I could remember.

What I did know is all four were Caucasian, with blond hair and eyes in shades of the sea. Not innocuous. Deadly. Cold.

They beat me into unconsciousness. I can't touch on the memory of how I was found for even one moment.

“Greta.”

The police discovered me naked, violated and with an IV bag of saline solution pinned to my arm. Their intent was to wreck me, but keep me alive.

Absolute success
.

“Greta?”

I look up from my hands. My fingers are clenched so tightly the knuckles have bled to white.

He covers my hands with his own. I notice their size and push away the negative images of hands on my body without my permission.

This is Tor.

He made a promise of protection to Father. He's a client.

I grab his hands like a lifeline and smile. “Thank you.”

He raises my hand to his mouth. “No thank you is necessary, Greta.”

His lips are warm on my skin.

Paco

She is as lovely as her photo. She also looks exactly like Greta.

Lisbeth Wesbestad scrutinizes me as closely as I do her. Tallinn walks toward us.

“Well that hurt like a bitch.” Tallinn gently rotates his neck, hand at his nape. “Did you judo chop my ass?” He gives Lisbeth an accusing look.

“What?” she asks, a quizzical wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows.

I step away, wincing slightly at my body's injuries. “Definitely,” I answer with a single sarcastic word.

Lisbeth puts slim hands on her hips. “This is not the place for disseminating information.” Her Nordic accent is light.

I agree.

Tallinn scans the area. “Yeah.” He shoots a sour look at Lisbeth.

“Greta, right?”

It is not just me who sees it.

Lisbeth's eyes round. “What did you say?”

Tallinn rolls his eyes. “Listen, lady, we just met you in the elevator earlier. I remember you said your name was Greta. I'm thinking you're not gonna forget my man here, Paco.”

Her face turns to me, utterly blank of understanding. “I have never met either one of you. And if I had, I would not soon forget.”

I shake my head, noting subtle differences. “This isn't her, Tallinn. She speaks differently. Moves differently.”

He circles her, and she pivots to keep her eye on both of us. “Not going to do you like you did me, sister, but man—it's almost irresistible.”

“Do not put that on me. You two were skulking in the dark, dressed like hoodlums.”

I laugh in disbelief. “Really? And you just happened to be here at the same moment, partaking of a similar activity, attacking first Tallinn then myself.” My hand comes to my chest then falls away. I shake my head. “No, tell us what is really happening here. And do not think to censor it. I believe we're beyond that.”

“Give it to us straight.”

She frowns.

“Tell us the entire version of the truth,” I clarify.

“First, who are you?” she asks.

“I am Paco, and this is my associate, Tallinn.”

She wags a finger at us. “You two don't impress me as being friends.”

Tallinn grunts. “I'm his guard.”

Lisbeth chuckles. “Excellent job back there.”

Tallinn's hands fist. “Don't push it.”

She whistles. “I live for
pushing it
, as you say.”

I can see that.

I hold up a palm to stave off their apparent animosity. “Do you have a place we can go and talk?”

“Yes.” She turns and strides away.

We follow.

She moves through the dark; only her blond hair guides us. Tallinn and I are constantly on guard for whatever other surprises might spring before us like ghostly jack-in-the-boxes.

After twists and turns so numerous we lose our sense of direction, she leads us to
a small stone cottage crammed between two great houses. Stilts hold their fronts over the water. The waves lapping at the great wood poles are the only noise in the clinging silence.

Lisbeth enters the back door of the small stone house and jogs down a staircase of rock so steep, it's more a ladder than true stairs.

As we descend, absolute darkness engulfs us. The scent of the place is musty. I can smell the sea leeching through the stone walls.

Sudden, harsh light blinks on.

Lisbeth is holding a kerosene lantern high and to her left. The brightest part spears her temple like a glowing wound.

Taking in my surroundings. I squint at the sudden brightness. We appear to be in a loose catacomb of stone tunnels.

“A little further,” Lisbeth says and Tallinn shrugs. He moves first, and I follow. A minute of travel ends at a stone archway. I am well and truly lost now.

Lisbeth sets the lantern on a roughhewn wood table, so ancient it has grooves where a thousand elbows have rested.

“Sit, please.”

I observe Tallinn's uneasy scan of the only exit.

She sighs. “Father can't protect us anymore,” she says as introduction.

“Okay,” Tallinn throws up his hands. “Color me confused.”

Her gaze nails Tallinn. “You thought I was Greta?”

We nod.

“When I was very small, Father and Mother separated my twin sister and me. At the time, he was the wealthiest clothing merchant in Norway. He was very protective of us.” Her blue eyes look down at her feet, and she shakes her head softly, as though wiping away mental cobwebs.

Her head rises, and those blue eyes pin me to my seat.

“Greta Dahlem is my sister, and she has been told I died.”

I internalize my shock, thinking of the woman in the elevator. She looks exactly like Lisbeth, but Greta possesses a vulnerability that is absent from Lisbeth. I can't name what it is or why, but it is there.

“Father made sure to hide one of his heirs—as a protective measure.”

“Why?” I ask, intrigued, despite the million questions fighting for position inside my brain. I shift my weight, my ribs creaking with the movement. I clench my teeth against the discomfort.

“He was partnered with someone he did not trust.” She paces back and forth. “He felt that hiding one of us would protect his line. Father had me classically trained in combat and weaponry and schooled in science, as well.”

“
That
we know,” Tallinn interjects in a sour voice.

Her features sharpen at his inference. “Then you must know my name's a fake.”

“We know Paco has been sent to kill you.”

Lisbeth looks unsurprised by Tallinn's words.

“I am supposedly a relative of yours,” I add.

She gives an inelegant snort. “Absolutely not. You're a Spaniard, or possibly French. There is not a drop of Nordic blood there.” She flips her palm at me, and I see a faint bruise on her forearm. I remember spinning her with that arm.

Guilt rushes in, but I squelch it. Lisbeth would have taken me out if she could.

“I don't know; Paco's a tall dude.”

She ignores Tallinn. “Who sent you?”

Tallinn gives a rough grunt at her dismissal.

“The drug criminals of my country.”

“America?” she asks.

“No, I am Mexican.”

“You do not have the look of a Mexican.”

“I know,” I concede.

She paces away, hand cupping her chin. “Something is not right.”

Tallinn laughs, giving her his version of disdain. “Oh, really? Ya think?”

She returns his look with one of her own.
Then shifts her laser stare to me. “So you came to save me like some American superhero?”

It sounds ridiculous when posed like that. “No. I-I wished to solve the mystery. The narco has threatened to make things unpleasant if I don't murder you.”

Her features arrange into a classic expression of confusion.

“But why would a Mexican drug cartel concern themselves with an heiress in secret?”

“For reasons unknown. But it behooves us to find out. They have outed you to us, and who knows who else.”

Lisbeth puts her nail into her mouth and gnaws at it. The apparent habit is the first nervous gesture I've witnessed during our brief acquaintance. “I received a message that my cover was blown and assassins were on their way.”

Tallinn sits up straight. “When?”

Her gaze lights on him. “Two days ago.”

Tallinn and I glance at each other. “Somebody's playing us all. Lisbeth has been in secret all this time, her identity protected until forty-eight hours ago. You were pegged to do her at the same time? It's too neat.” Tallinn throws up his hands. “How this Greta chick is involved, I don't know.”

“Wait,” Lisbeth asks, holding a hand up. “I've just now thought of it. How are you acquainted with my sister?”

“The one who thinks you're worm food?” Tallinn drawls, folding his arms across his barrel chest.

“That's not helpful,” I comment.

Tallinn's expression melts to sullen. “We met her at the hotel. She looks just like you,” Tallinn says.

“Obviously, we're twins.”

I study her face, hitting on something. “That is not the concern, is it?”

Lisbeth meets my stare openly, naked fear making her beauty ugly.

I push off from the brick wall I was leaning against. “What is it?” My eyes score her features.

“She is in terrible danger here.”

All the connection I felt with Greta for the three minutes of surreal time in the elevator crashes into me.

The irony is: I have none with Lisbeth.

I grip her shoulders, and she smacks my hands, spinning away.

“Why?” I ask through my teeth. “What makes it so?”

Her formal English is enunciated with curt syllables. “Because it was my father who told me she was safe, but only if she remained in America and not return to Norway, and I stayed hidden.”

“I'm lost,” Tallinn says from behind us.

She exhales in a rough rush of anger. “Father and Mother were in a terrible auto accident just two years ago. Mother died immediately.” The solemn confession creates a tense silence before she continues, “Father… lingered.” Lisbeth swipes at eyes that bleed water. Her sadness etches a pathway down a face hardened by the life she's lived. “He lost his voice. But before he did, he told me his suspicions.”

This is the crux of it.
I know it.

“Father’s business partner had threatened him with mortal harm if he didn't relinquish majority stock in the company.”

“What did your dad say?” Tallinn asks.

She laughs. It is not a happy sound, but a mournful one. “
No
, of course,” Lisbeth whispers.

My mind gives birth to a dark idea. I can't stop it. “When did this
business partner
give this ultimatum?” I ask.

Her gaze finds Tallinn first then lands with unflinching intensity on me. “Two days before the crash.”

We stare at each other. “It was no accident,” I state with certainty.

“Yes,” she agrees.

*

The correct thing to do in this circumstance would be to confess my participation in Club Alpha to this woman.

She is in hiding
, and her sister, a woman I can't wipe from my mind, is in imminent danger.

However, it is unclear if the entire scenario
is
part of Club Alpha’s scheme. What is certain: I’m too profoundly entrenched to extradite myself at this point. The narco threat is like a noose around my neck while a woman who is obviously not a relation has just revealed that an old business partner who might have murdered her parents has possibly targeted her sister for revenge.

Essentially, Lisbeth lives only due to her anonymity.

What of Greta?

Lisbeth breaks into my thoughts. “I have not even dared to Google my sister. I know nothing of her life in the States. I'm worried, now that she's here in Norway, there is some way that my father's old rival will find her.”

Tallinn puts his hands on his hips. “Okay, why does hurting Greta make any difference? Your dad said
no
to the shares.”

Lisbeth nods. “Yes.”

“As his business partner and minority shareholder, upon your dad's death, ownership of the company
would automatically default to him.” Tallinn lifts his shoulders and lets them fall sharply.

I frown, trying to make sense of it all. “It must have. Forgive me—your parents are dead, so Greta's endangerment, your hiding, should be a moot point in the now.”

“He is dead.”

“The dude who was the minority shareholder?” Tallinn asks.

She inclines her head. “He died shortly after my parents’ accident.”

Tallinn swipes his head in an irritated caress. “I'm confused.”

Lisbeth sighs, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, and the motion
instantly reminds me of Greta, though Greta's hair had been in a braided knot of some kind.

“My parents”—Lisbeth ducks her head for a moment—“were killed.”

Tallinn nods.

“Then shortly after my father passed, his partner perished in an accident, as well.”

I frown, cupping my chin, and stand. I step away as the wheels of my mind spin. “What type of accident?”

“Chartered jet. He was killed, along with the small crew.”

My hand falls. “I don't like it. It's too much coincidence.”

“Got to agree with you, Paco. I smell a rat.”

My eyes shift to hers once more. “Who is bequeathed your father's holdings now?”

“I am in hiding, and as of now, if I do not reveal myself, it could only go to Greta. Billions.”