Page 52 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Justice first. Cinnamon buns later. A queen knows her priorities.

Magnus strides beside me, invisible to everyone else and clearly having the time of his afterlife, ranking the women we pass on their suitability for his mead-drinking binge. Out loud. With unabridged commentary.

Wes falls into step on my other side. “You know we’re tailing a murder suspect through a foreign capital, right? This is insane.”

“You’ve met me,” I point out. “Insanity is my brand.”

“You said it, not me.”

Marina catches up on his other side, slightly breathless. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s brilliant insanity.”

Wes glances at her, and the hard line of his jaw eases. “It’s still insanity.”

“But brilliant,” she insists, smiling up at him.

“I’m outnumbered,” he mutters, but he’s smiling back, and neither one of them seems in any hurry to stop.

Poppy turns down a narrow alley lined with ocher and rust-colored buildings, and we drift in after her, doing our very best impression of casual tourists while being absolutely nothing of the sort.

The queens have had their coronation. Now comes my favorite royal tradition.

The interrogation.

It’s time to stop playing queen and catch a killer.

CHAPTER 13

I’m tailing a murder suspect through the oldest streets in Stockholm, and I’d like the record to show I look fantastic doing it.

Gamla Stan’s cobblestones twist through the city’s medieval heart with all the logic of a ball of yarn after the cat’s had her way with it, and I’m navigating them while trying not to lose sight of Poppy Lindgren’s honey-blonde bob twenty feet ahead.

The air smells of fresh cinnamon buns and coffee drifting from the local cafés, mixed with that crisp Scandinavian freshness the Swedes really ought to bottle and sell. They could call it Cozy Delight. It would fly off the shelves.

Buildings in shades of ocher, rust, and mustard yellow crowd in on either side, their windows filled with hand-blown glass and Viking memorabilia. Tourists cluster at every corner snapping photos, and their voices create a multilingual hum that makes it easy to blend in.

Wes walks on my right, Marina on my left, and Bess and Nettie trail behind us, all five of us pretending we’re casual sightseers and absolutely not tailing a murder suspect through one of Europe’s best-preserved medieval city centers.

We’re nailing it, too. Nothing says inconspicuous like traveling in a herd.

Nettie spots a life-size Viking statue in front of a boutique and makes a beeline for it with the same focus she gives the lava cake station on formal night.

“Nettie, no,” Bess calls out.

“Nettie, yes!” she calls back, already wrapping her arms around the wooden warrior. “Look at the shoulders on this man. He’s been standing out here all day waiting for me.”

“We’re in public!” Bess scolds.

“So is he! And unlike the last man I hugged, this one can’t press charges!”

“He can’t consent either!”

“He’s four hundred years old, Bess. He’s seen things!”

Bess closes her eyes and lets out a sigh with real mileage on it. “Eighty-something years on this earth and she’s out here necking with lumber. I’d better go make sure she doesn’t assault any mannequins.” She hurries after Nettie, muttering something about no dignity and lots of restraining orders.

Ten bucks says Nettie has heard both of those phrases before and never gave either a second thought.

Poppy pauses at a coffee stand and buys a cup of java and a small bag of pastries, completely oblivious to the parade trailing her.