Page 6 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“Subtle,” I say, taking in the full glamour of Viking life.

“Effective,” Nettie corrects, already beelining for the nearest cardboard Viking. “Come on, Bessie. We’re taking some serious selfies with all the hotties this place has to offer.”

Music pulses through hidden speakers, something with heavy drums and horns that’s aiming for Nordic and landing somewhere closer to a spin class. The scent of expensive perfume mixes with champagne and something buttery coming from the buffet table, and fifty or so women mill around the room in various states of excitement. Think frat party, and then think louder. Although in this case, the frat boys have been relegated to cardboard.

Honestly, it’s an improvement.

The buffet deserves its own spotlight. Possibly its own security detail.

An ice sculpture of a Viking warrior dominates the center, easily six feet tall, complete with carved beard and battle-ax, and the whole thing glows an ethereal shade of blue from lights underneath. Even the ice around here is ripped. Charcuterie boards fan out on either side, loaded with meats, cheeses, olives, and crackers arranged in concentric circles. Delicate finger sandwiches march in tidy rows. Cucumber, smoked salmon, chicken salad. But then things get hearty. Swedish meatballs in cream sauce. Braised lamb shanks. Lingonberry-glazed pork tenderloin. Roasted root vegetables glistening with butter. And presiding over the entire spread sits a boar’s head sculpted out of lard and dyed a rosy pink, an apple tucked into its snout. Someone gave it eyelashes. Long, curled, flirtatious eyelashes.

Nothing says Viking feast quite like a pig batting its lashes at the meatballs. Although I’ll admit the apple is a nice touch. Even the centerpiece came accessorized.

The desserts, however? Pure decadence. And oh wow, chocolate-covered strawberries the size of my fist. Layered cream cakes drizzled with caramel. Miniature tarts filled with berry compote. A towering croquembouche dusted with powdered sugar. Fudgy-looking brownies cut into perfect squares. And a flaming custard situation that’s currently making guests nervous every time someone walks past it.

I plan to visit each and every one of these desserts personally before the night is through. It’s called dedication. And according to my hips, I am quite dedicated to the cause, always and often.

I shoot a quick glance at the entry to the lounge. I know for a fact that Wes is up on the bridge doing captain things, and Ransom is briefing his security team somewhere below deck.

Only a few people on the ship know about my supernatural quirk, and that small circle includes Bess, Nettie, Wes, and Ransom. And as of last week, Marina. As it stands, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as supersensual, which basically means I can see the dead. Not all of the dead, just the ones who come back to help me solve a case. And each time a ghost shows up on the scene, someone inevitably bites the big one.

Some women get hot flashes in midlife. I get homicides.

Oh, who am I kidding? I get hot flashes, too. Lucky me.

Anyway, that whole ghost thing would be why Ransom swore up and down that his team would swarm the ship in an effort to thwart whatever homicide is headed our way. He can’t exactly tell them a killer is in our midst, but with our track record, his team can do the math. But I digress. Both Wes and Ransom promised they’d swing by the party this evening as soon as they were free to do so. Which means I’m currently flying solo with Bess and Nettie. Also known as unsupervised.

The term buckle up comes to mind.

“Selfie time!” Nettie announces, dragging Bess toward a particularly well-oiled Viking cutout. “Get in here, Trixie!”

I join them reluctantly, and Nettie angles her phone for the shot.

“Say pillage!”

“Pillage,” we chorus, and she snaps seventeen photos, minimum.

“Perfect. Now with this one.” She moves to another Viking, this one holding a sword above his head. “Oh, he’s a looker.”

“They’re all the same,” Bess says.

“Excuse you, they are not. This one has better cheekbones.”

“They’re cardboard,” I say.

“So?” Nettie looks affronted by my segue into reality. “Cardboard can have good bone structure.”

“So can a shoebox,” Bess says.

“Show me a shoebox with cheekbones like these, and I’ll date it,” Nettie fires back.

“You dated worse in ‘78,” Bess says.

“And I’d do it again. Groovy Gary had personality.”

We all share a laugh just as Marina appears in the doorway, still in her crew uniform, that tablet of hers clutched like a security blanket. Her hair’s slightly disheveled, her lipstick’s faded, and she looks freshly steamrolled. Tinsley’s handiwork, no doubt. She spots us and navigates through the crowd.

“You made it!” I pull her into a quick hug.