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The voice was right behind him, impossibly close. He knew the voice, and he knew what it meant. So he didn’t try anything stupid, like reaching for his pistol, or spinning around quickly. Instead, he just froze, the egg held in front of him in both hands.
“It’s not really my favorite,” the voice went on. “I mean, to be honest? I’m not crazy about any of the Fabergé eggs. They’re kind of garish, aren’t they? Still, if you like that sort of thing—and a lot of people do. Myself? I’m more of a painting guy. Impressionists are my favorite—you know, the palette and the texture that—”
“Make it quick,” the fisherman said. “Go on, get it done.”
There was a brief chuckle. “Why, Arvid, what on earth are you talking about?” the voice drawled.
“You’re here to kill me,” Arvid said. “Go ahead. I took a chance, and I lost. Just make it quick.”
A sigh. “Arvid, really, what must you think of me? I’m not going to kill you.”
A small ripple of hope surged up in Arvid’s breast. “What, then?”
“I’m going to take back my property.” A hand snaked over Arvid’s shoulder and plucked the egg out of his grasp.
“And then?” Arvid said. “You’re just going to walk away? I don’t believe you!”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because,” Arvid said. “I betrayed you. I took your prize. You would let that go?”
“Oh, I won’t let it go,” the voice said with amusement. “But I won’t kill you, either.”
“You won’t?” Arvid said, and his heart was pounding furiously.
“What you did was very bad. But it’s not for me to judge you, Arvid.”
“But, what—the police?” Arvid stammered.
“No, Arvid,” the voice said. “I’m going to leave your fate to the gods.”
“What?” Arvid said—and then he felt the shock of a needle plunging into his neck. He reflexively reached for it—but long before his hands got there, Arvid had already swirled down into deep and heavy darkness.
* * *
—
Fishermen are early risers. Those who lived in Thorsang were no exception. But on this morning, it was not their battered alarm clocks that woke them.
It was the screams.
Horrible, throaty screams, guttural and savage sounding, as if they were coming from some deep, prehistoric place in the soul of a man in such terrible agony that he had been transported out of himself and into a primeval realm where supernatural torment ruled.
And the screams would not stop. They went on and on, rising and falling—growing weaker but never going away. They woke Per Hakansson from his sleep, in his cottage at the edge of town. His wife was already awake, standing at the window and staring out in horror. Per staggered out of bed and stood next to her. “It’s coming from the harbor,” she said.
They listened together for a moment. Then Per turned and pulled on his pants, boots, and jacket. “I will go see,” he said.
“Per—” But when he looked at her, she could only shake her head and then turn back to the window.
Per was not the first to arrive at the harbor. It looked to him like half the town was already there, clustered out on the jetty and looking up at the statue of Njord. In the dimness of predawn, Per could not tell what was so goddamn interesting about it, nor what the screaming was about. He squinted; was there something wiggling at the top of the statue? Not possible. Per moved closer to see better.
H
e came to the knot of people gathered on the jetty and stopped. Their faces—the faces of his neighbors and friends, faces he knew nearly as well as his own—they were all knotted into the same look. It was an expression he had never seen before, and he didn’t like it. Shaking his head, he pushed through them, getting closer to Njord, to where he could finally get a clear look—
“Herregud—!” Per blurted as he saw.
Yes, there was something up there. And yes, it was wriggling, jerking about like a hooked cod. And yes, that was what was screaming, too. It was a man—easy enough to be sure of that, since he wore no pants. And he was screaming and wriggling for a very simple reason.
