Page 11 of The Last Viking

He snorted with disbelief but still, proceeding warily, he held the box up to his ear.

“Who is this?” a feminine voice asked.

His head jerked up with surprise. “Geirolf,” he responded tentatively, though he felt rather foolish talking to a box. He rubbed the talisman clasp for aid. “Who are you?”

“Jillian. Meredith’s sister in England. What’re you doing there?”

The box actually talked, claiming to speak from the land of the bloody Saxons. Merry-Death must be a more powerful witch than he’d thought possible. “Well, I just took a shower, but—”

Merry-Death groaned and put her head between her hands.

“A shower?” the voice hooted. “Meredith just came from the shower, too. Were you in there together?”

“Well, yea, we were both in the shower, but—”

“Give me that phone,” Merry-Death hissed, but he sidestepped her clawing hands.

“What do you do for a living, Geirolf?” the box asked.

“I’m a Viking.”

“A what?”

“Viking. Have you ne’er heard of Nordmanni…a Norseman? Is everyone addled in this godforsaken country?”

“Oh, God, this is too hilarious. My sister and a Viking!” She giggled. “And where are you staying, Mr. Viking?”

Geirolf misliked the condescending tone of the woman’s voice, and he refused to answer.

“Are you and Meredith lovers?”

“’Tis none of your concern who shares my bed furs.” Geirolf had never been a man to boast outside the bedchamber, and he would not start now.

The box was laughing, hysterically. He threw it to the floor with disgust, and Merry-Death quickly picked it up.

“Jillie, I’ll call you back later,” she said. “No, he’s not my lover. No, I’m not fixing you up. No, he doesn’t have a big—” she looked up at him where he stood, hands on hips, and she blushed—“boat.”

Hah! He would show the wench good and well, and soon, the size of his…boat.

A half-hour later, Meredith sat at her kitchen table across from her “Viking.” He filled out her brother’s T-shirt and sweatpants as Jared never had. His long hair—light brown, sun-streaked with blond now that it had dried—was pulled back at the nape with a rubber band that she’d had to show him how to use.

She’d changed into another silk blouse and slacks before returning to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Rolf sat picking at his charred rabbit, eyeing the plate of pasta sitting in front of her with a side of Caesar salad. They both had glasses of ice water.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather share my meal? There’s plenty,” she offered.

He hesitated. “It looks like white worms covered with blood.”

She smiled. “Yes, but it tastes delicious.”

“You are not quite so plain when you smile, Merry-Death. You should do it more often.” He propped an elbow on the table and braced his chin in the cupped palm, watching her intently.

Her heart lurched oddly at the backhanded compliment and his hot scrutiny. Then he spoiled the effect by adding, “And you have good teeth.”

“Like a horse?”

He grinned. “Nay, not like a horse.”