Page 48 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Sienna, with her frizzy auburn hair and a desperate air about her as she tries way too hard to fill Astrid’s tyrannical shoes, claps her hands for attention.

Funny thing about those shoes. Three days ago, she told Marina and me she was never in Astrid’s inner circle, just a woman who attended events and read the books. Now she’s running the show as though she’s been rehearsing for it. Grief does strange things to people. So does opportunity.

Then again, her hands haven’t stopped trembling since she clapped them. Whatever else Sienna Caldwell may be hiding, she’s a woman holding herself together with hairpins and willpower, and my heart goes out to her. My suspicion and my sympathy are simply going to have to learn to share.

“Ladies!” Sienna’s voice carries across the courtyard, pitched with so much pep it borders on a threat. “In Astrid’s honor, we continue our traditions! Today, in this place of kings and crowns and power, we celebrate the queens within us!”

Seeing as the last club tradition ended with Astrid face-first in a blue cocktail, I might have voted for a nice quiet moment of silence instead. But then nobody asked me.

A roar of boisterous screams goes up as the book club applauds their newfound royal standing, and we clap right along, because nothing says undercover like enthusiasm.

“I already celebrate my inner queen,” Nettie doesn’t mind telling everyone within earshot. “Frequently and with company.”

“We’re aware,” Bess mutters. “Too aware.”

Sienna presses on, vibrating with the effort of keeping the whole club on script. “Now, a little exercise in Astrid’s memory. I want each of you to declare it, loud and proud: What sort of Viking queen would I be? Speak from the heart. Channel your inner shield maiden. Let the palace hear you!”

Behind those gilded windows, an actual royal family is presumably wondering why fifty velvet-clad Americans are preparing to shout affirmations at their house.

The Velvet Vikings murmur their approval, smoothing their sleeves and clearing their throats, a courtyard of women preparing to crown themselves on royal ground.

One of these soon-to-be queens has already issued her first royal decree, and Astrid didn’t survive it.

Long live the queen.

Her enemies aren’t so lucky.

CHAPTER 12

Say what you will about the Velvet Vikings, but the women know how to pick a venue for their delusions of grandeur.

The Royal Palace courtyard here in Stockholm, Sweden, hums with tourists and ceremony. Guards stand at rigid attention, drums echo from somewhere deep inside the palace walls, and the scent of somebody’s expensive perfume mixes with the salt air drifting in from the harbor. The morning sun warms the cobblestones beneath my feet as I stand between Wes and Marina, watching the book club prepare for their next ritual.

Bess and Nettie have already wandered deeper into the crowd, and I’m not the least bit worried about them. They blend right in with the shirtless-Viking-lover set.

Well, Nettie blends. Bess tolerates.

Magnus floats over and settles in beside me with the giddy energy of a man holding front-row seats to his favorite show. “Oh, this will be delicious. Mortal women declaring themselves royalty while one of them is a killer. I adore your species. So much fire packed into such soft, perishable packaging. If my hands still worked, I’d volunteer for a closer inspection.”

“My species?” I inch back and gawk at him for a second. The man is dead. If anyone’s species is up for debate around here, it’s his.

“What’s happening?” Wes asks quietly, watching the group with the wary focus he gets whenever he suspects we’re up to something.

Smart man. We are, in fact, up to something.

“It’s just a book club ritual,” Marina explains. “This is a very committed crowd.”

“Committed to what?” Wes looks genuinely perplexed.

“Viking aesthetics and questionable decision-making,” I’m quick to tell him.

Sienna has just instructed the group to step forward one at a time and declare what sort of Viking queen they would be. Because nothing honors a murdered founder quite like a round of competitive self-coronation.

Poppy Lindgren steps forward first. She’s wearing crimson linen that wouldn’t dare wrinkle, her honey-blonde bob is perfect despite the breeze, and her whole energy radiates calm competence in soothing, spa-quality waves.

“I’m a devoted queen,” she says, her voice warm and steady. “I serve with strength through loyalty. I earn respect through dedication to my people.”

Her smile is gentle. Her posture is impeccable. She could be accepting a peace treaty on behalf of a grateful nation. I’d trust her to rule my country. Then again, I once trusted my ex, Stanton, to behave himself at a dental cleaning, so my judgment comes with an asterisk.