Page 35 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

She checks her phone again. That makes twice in five minutes. Either somebody is waiting on her, or she’s waiting on somebody. On a walking tour built entirely around pastry, neither option is innocent. Nobody checks for messages when there’s a cinnamon bun on the itinerary. I certainly wouldn’t.

“I should probably head back. I could really use some coffee, and I think there’s one more café stop coming up.”

Now she’s speaking my language. If interrogations came with pastry, I’d have this case solved by Stockholm.

“Naturally,” Marina says. “Thanks for talking with us.”

“Anytime.” Sienna gives us a small wave and heads back toward the main street, her auburn frizz bouncing with each step.

Anytime. That’s what people say right before they start ducking behind flower carts to avoid you. And I watch her do exactly that on her way up the street. The woman detours around a cart of tulips to avoid passing a cluster of Velvet Vikings. I’d be offended on their behalf, but mostly I’m taking notes.

The moment she’s out of earshot, Magnus speaks. “Well. That was enlightening.”

“Was it?” I glance around but don’t see a single silver shimmer, and Marina clamps onto my arm twice as tight in an effort to hear our otherworldly guest. “Magnus?”

He materializes directly in front of me, close enough that if he were solid, I’d be pressed against his bare chest. And it’s a lot of hairy chest. Somewhere out there, a fur trader is missing his entire inventory.

“You called, little one?”

I step back. “Personal space, please. It’s a modern invention. You’d hate it.”

“I already do. In my day, personal space was reserved for enemies.” He drifts closer, all grin and glow. “And you and I, Trixie, are the furthest thing from enemies. In fact, if you ever tire of your security man, I have a very roomy cloak and a thousand years of pent-up⁠—”

“Magnus.”

“—conversation. I was going to say conversation.” He presses a hand to that bare chest, deeply wounded. “The gutter is that way, madam, and you dove in headfirst.”

Marina makes a strangled sound beside me. “Is he always this much?”

“He slow-danced me around an empty lounge about a minute after we met. There was mood music. Don’t ask where it came from, because I still don’t know. I’ve checked the vents.”

“I have range,” Magnus says.

“You have nerve,” I correct. “Now. Sienna. She didn’t tell us anything useful.”

“She told us to talk to Poppy,” Marina points out.

“Which either means Poppy’s the killer, or Sienna wants you to think she is.” He crosses his arms over that acreage he calls a chest. “This is delicious. I love mortal mysteries. So much deception. So much drama. So many beautiful women, and only one of me to go around.”

“Somehow they’ll all survive,” I say.

A shriek echoes from the main street. Nettie’s shriek, specifically, followed by laughter and what sounds like applause.

My stomach drops straight down to the cobblestones. Nothing good has ever followed one of Nettie’s shrieks. Nothing good for Bess, anyway. The last time I heard that exact pitch, a conga line broke out where no conga line belonged, and Nettie sent Christmas cards with a picture of it. Two years running.

Magnus perks up. “What was that?”

“That was Nettie doing something inappropriate,” I say, already heading back toward the noise. I don’t know the details yet, but I’ve known the woman long enough to play the odds. If Vegas took bets on Nettie, I’d never have to work another day in my life. I’d simply sit back and collect.

We round the corner to find Nettie perched on top of a massive wooden Viking statue, easily twelve feet tall, waving at the crowd of book club members gathered below. She’s climbed all the way up and is now sitting sidesaddle on the Viking’s shoulders with one arm wrapped around his carved head.

“This is Harald!” she announces to her audience. “And he’s my new boyfriend!”

Bess stands at the base with her head tipped back, studying the situation the way judges study a dive. “She didn’t set down her purse,” she reports as we arrive. “She summited with the purse. In kitten heels. I watched the whole thing, and I couldn’t look away.”

“Should we be worried?” I ask.

“About Nettie? Never,” Bess says. “About Harald, absolutely. That poor man has no idea what just landed on him.”