Victoria's Demon Lover (12 page)

     “He told me not
to.  He says you are not ready yet.”

     “I insist. 
Besides, we made a pact.”  She showed him her finger.  “Did you make a pact
with him?”

     He looked
uncomfortable.  “No.”

     She walked over
to the closet and picked up the pink pumps with the cubic zirconia heels and
swung them on one finger.  She watched his eyes sway back and forth.  She
raised an eyebrow.  He put his little monkey lips together in a straight line
and shook his head.  Without taking her eyes from his she bent and picked up
the red pumps with the fur bows.  Jasper began to tremble.  “Both,” she offered
as she swung all four shoes from both hands.

     The little
monkey demon jumped up and down in his chalk circle.  “He will be angry if I bring
you back!  He said he will hurt me!”

     “I once walked three
blocks in these,” she showed him the pink ones, “wearing real silk stockings.”

     Jasper nearly
peed himself.  “Done!  Done!”  His little hands reached for the shoes.  “But I
can’t be there when he sees you.”

     “Done,” she
agreed.

     This time she
appeared in a gloomy landscape somewhere in the northlands.  No trees near the
ford, but farther up the sides of the mountain.  Very north.  Was there a
northern part of Hell?  She looked down at herself.  She had been clever to put
on the boots and the vest, but now she wearing a long woolen dress of homespun
gray with a wide apron and leather flats on her feet with ties around her
ankles.  Jasper cringed close to her knees and clutched his precious shoes to
his chest.  His eyes were big when he looked up at her.

     “He is over that
hill.  There is a farmstead there.  He is inside.”  With that Jasper
disappeared in a puff of smoke, only a faint sulfur scent remained.

     Victoria
remembered what Mr. Magnus had said about courage.  She straightened her dress
and began the slow hike over the hill.  The mist dampened her hair and by the
time she crested the hill and began down the other side she was dripping wet. 
The breeze that came off the distant fjord bit her through the wool.  Her teeth
chattered and she wished for warmth from the fires of Hell.

     The longhouse on
the shore had gray smoke spiraling up from a hole in the center of the roof.  
No one was in the yard.  The sun was a weak glow on the horizon and there was
no sky, just a thick and low overcast.  It was probably going to snow soon. 
She hugged herself and stepped up to the narrow window that was tightly
shuttered with rough boards.  She peeked through a crack.  She was surprised
the animals were inside.  The longhouse was basically a barn with a place for
people at one end. 
I guess that makes sense,
she thought. 
Who wants
to go out in a blizzard to feed the animals?  Why not have them inside with
you?
 The manure piles and body heat of the cattle and horses would help
with the heating bills.  She was trying to stand on a rock so she could see a
little closer to the central fire pit when she felt a hard hand on her arm.

     She was spun
around and lifted off her feet.  She hung there in the grip of a huge Viking.  But
not her Viking. He squinted down at her, obviously as surprised as she.  He had
a long yellow beard and longer hair.  His eyes were icy blue and he had lost
some of his teeth in a blow that left a ragged scar from his lower lip to his
cheek under the opposite eye.  He smelled like old butter and sour milk.  She
tried to smile a greeting, perhaps use some of her high school German on him. 
She didn’t know any Norwegian.

     “Guten…abend.”
It was evening now, for sure.

     “Bah,” he
sputtered.  “What the Hell are you doing here?”

     Appropriate use
of language, though it couldn’t possibly be English.  She gave it a try.  “I am
looking for someone,” she answered truthfully.  “And I got lost.”

     In answer he
dragged her to the double doors and kicked them open, causing a chicken or two
to flutter to the rafters.  “Look what I found outside!” He roared.

     Three men of
various ages stood from their places around the fire.  A middle aged woman
stood as well and came forward.  Victoria began to wonder if Jasper had
double-crossed her.  The men were bearded Norsemen like the one who had her in
a death grip.  They had been busy with various tasks and held their tools in
their hands.  They looked her up and down.  The woman put down a basket of
apples and came forward.

    “Lars, put her
down.”

     Lars let go. 
Victoria rubbed her arm and tried to look friendly and harmless.  “I am lost
and looking for someone,” she said.

    “I am Sigrid
Eriksdattir.  Who do you belong to?”

    It seemed like a
reasonable question.  The woman asked it with no malice and only a little
curiosity.  She was being practical.  Victoria would tell her who she belonged
to and one of these huge men would take her home.  But Victoria did not know
the answer.  Any answer would be wrong.  And if she made up a name there was
the chance that family lived just on the other side of the valley.  She
smiled.  “I am Thor’s woman.”  As good an answer as any.  No one named their
kid “Thor”.

     “Thor
Thorkellsson or Thor Magnusson?”

     One of the men
set down his knife and rubbed his cheek.  “What about Thor Stevensson?”  His
brother nodded.  “Could be Thor Eriksson.  I heard he just got married.”

     They all looked
at her expectantly.

     “Ah…” she
blinked.  She was now in dangerous territory as any of these Thors could be
promptly fact-checked.

     She looked
around the inside of the longhouse for a clue for something to say.   Anything.

     Sigrid tried
again, “What is your name, girl?

     She said the
first name she could think of that was not her own.  “Maggs.”

     There was a
crash and the sound of breaking boards in an unseen room at the end of the
longhouse.  The men dropped their tools and rushed toward the sound.  Sigrid
frowned and sighed as she followed them with her eyes.  She turned back to
Victoria.  “Come in, Maggs.  Let me get you dry and warm.  We will take you
home tomorrow.  It is going to storm tonight.”

     Victoria was led
to a seat on a bench beside the rectangular fire pit in the center of the
floor.  She looked up to see the smoke disappear through the central hole. 
Some water dripped down, but not enough to put out the fire.  A warm cup of
something fragrant was pressed into her hand and Sigrid picked up her basket of
apples and sat on another bench.  From somewhere behind her, Victoria heard the
sounds of a fight.  She took a sip of what tasted like warm cider.  It was
good.  Someone was getting soundly beaten in another room.  She looked at the
woman.  Sigrid met her eyes briefly with a half smile then returned to paring
the apples.  Apparently people were beaten up in her house all the time.

     Victoria set her
cup down.  Now the sounds included muffled cries and groans of pain.  Soft
thuds and hard whacks punctuated loud curses.  She cleared her voice and asked
softly, “Is something wrong?”

    Sigrid smiled
again.  “No.  The boys have to keep him quiet.”

    “Ah,” she said as
if that made sense.  “Who?”

     “Torgal”

     “Oh.”  Victoria
lifted her mug of cider and sipped it as another blow was landed.  This one
sent a body against the inner wall, causing some dust to sift down from the
thatch.

     There was a
moment of brief quiet, then a door flew open and a man stumbled out and fell
against the far wall.  He slumped to the floor, breathing hard enough to be
heard at their end of the house.  He dragged long thick chains from each of his
wrists.  The ends of the chains still had pieces of boards attached to them.

     Victoria and
Sigrid both stood.  Sigrid cried out when she recognized the man and ran for
the front door.  Victoria just stood there blinking.  This man was not one of
the four she had met.  This must be Torgal.  Sigrid was gone.

     The front door
was wide open and the cold rain blew in and rattled the shutters.  Torgal
limped to opening and leaned out, looking both ways before backing in and
shutting the door against the weather.  He turned around to face her.

     She gasped.  “Thor!”

     He glared at
her.  “It’s Torgal.”

     His eyes were
not yellow, but a clear blue.  A heavy iron band circled his throat with a protruding
hinge on one side and a circle on the other that held a fragment of chain
hanging to his waist.  He had been chained like a dog, and now was loose.

     “Oh my God.”

     “Victoria.  What
are you doing here?”  There was an exasperated sound to his voice that was not
welcoming in the least.

     “I could ask you
the same thing…but I won’t.”  She went back to the fire and got her cup of
cider and gave it to him.  He looked terrible. Blood dripped down his chest
where the collar of iron chafed him.  It had been there a long time.   His eyes
were puffed and black from his beating and blood still dripped from a broken
nose.  His eyes thanked her before he drained the cup, the chains clanked.

     “Should we run
away?  Sigrid will be back with the neighbors.”

     He glared at her
again and went to a barrel behind her for more cider.  “Nearest neighbor is
five miles away.  Uphill.  It is dark and storming.  We have time.”  He drained
a second cup and a third.  His throat bobbed behind the iron band as he swallowed.

    Victoria stood
there feeling foolish.  She was glad to see him.  Sort of.  She tried to
remember him the way he looked in her car that time at the Mall, and later when
the two of them spied on Jack and Maggs on their wedding night.  He had been ruggedly
handsome then.  Now he just looked rugged.  His blond hair hung limp and
unwashed and tangled over his shoulders.  His clothes were rags and there were
huge welts on both wrists under the heavy manacles.  A wave of pity washed over
her and he looked up sharply from his mug.

     “Don’t pity me,
Maggs.”

     She couldn’t
help it.  She imagined he had just beat four men unconscious or worse.  He
looked like he needed a bath and a massage.  And bandages.  And antibiotics.
Maybe surgery.

     He gave her a
short laugh.  “Very well.  Come on.”  He set his mug down and reached for her
with a bloody hand.  The knuckles were raw and bleeding. “Let’s go before
Sigrid comes back with her brothers.”

     They went out
into the rain.  By the time they reached the fir trees of the thick forest the
rain had washed his wounds.  They stopped some hours later at a huge boulder
that was set at enough of an angle to offer some shelter from the increasing wind
and the rain that had turned to sleet.  The fir trees provided a screen and a
windbreak on the other side.  Torgal spread several branches on the ground. 
They were surprisingly smooth and very fragrant.  He drew her inside the tiny
shelter and took her in his arms.  He felt hard and powerful. He was warm, but
the links of the chains that touched her were frosty.   She didn’t feel the
least bit afraid of Sigrid’s brothers or of the storm or of bears or anything
else that lived in the woods.  She leaned close to him and inhaled his warmth.

     After they both
had rested he breathed into her hair, “Why did you come, Maggs?”

     “Why did you
stop coming?”  She lifted his heavy arm and set his wrist on her knees, turning
the manacle in the dark, feeling for how it was made.  She felt the hinge and
the keyhole.  She felt the links of the chain, each as large as a hen’s egg. 
Just lifting each arm…she guessed ten pounds.  As much as a sack of potatoes at
the market.  She wondered if she could pick the locking mechanisms and free
him.

     “I was delayed,”
he answered in the dark.  He shook his wrist and made the chain clank.

     Victoria leaned
in closer to his chest, hoping to hear a heartbeat.  Just silence.  He
breathed, however.  She could hear him breathe.  She shifted to get even closer. 
And he was warm.  It was cold outside and he was warm.  “How can you be chained
if you are a spirit?” she asked him softly as a gust of wind shook their little
shelter.

     “Have you not
read
A Christmas Carol
?  Do you not remember Marley’s ghost?”  He
snorted in the darkness.

     Victoria enjoyed
the irony that Dickens’ famous story would not be written for some centuries…if
she had her history right.  She figured she was in ninth century Norway.  “This
isn’t real, is it?  Like
A Christmas Carol
isn’t real.  It is fiction. 
We are playing in a story.  That is why I’m not afraid here. How can I be
afraid of a Viking when I am from the twenty-first century?  His axe would go
right through me, like in a dream.  How can you know about
A Christmas Carol
if you live in the ninth century?”  She fingered his chains.  “These aren’t
real.”

     “Feels real
enough to me,” he said and his voice was rough.

     Victoria
regretted her last remark.  His blood and the raw flesh under the manacles
looked real.  He seemed to be in real pain. The heavy band around his throat
would leave a wide thick scar once it was removed.  But dreams can be terribly
frightening.  People always wake up, though.  She wondered.  Maybe some don’t. 
Maybe when you are in Hell, you don’t wake up from nightmares.