Page 35 of Hot & Heavy

The magic bird landed on a large field where there were many other birds at rest. Madrene could finally unclench her fists and let out the breath she had been holding.

I just flew. Holy Thor! High up in the air. Holy Thor! Now that they were on the ground again, Madrene was able to smile at the experience she'd just had. Not that she ever intended to do it again. I wish my family were here so I could tell them about this. Torolf and Ragnor would be so envious.

It was sad, really, that there was no living person with whom Madrene could share her excitement.

Except for the troll.

How exciting is that?

Ian and the other "seals" jumped out of the bird onto the field, where they were hugging other similarly attired men and clapping each other on the back. Just like men in her country. On return from battle, they liked to boast of all their feats of bravery. Male exaggeration flowed like mead at a Frigg's Day feast.

Madrene gazed out the window of the bird. The skies were dark, but the field was well lit, almost like daylight. Everywhere she looked, she saw people in uniforms, men and women alike. Some of the uniforms were made of the same woodland fabric as Ian's and his fellow "seals." Others were a drab light brown or all blue. And the women… by Odin!… many of the women wore braies.

She had to admit that she'd half expected the metal bird to land in the cold north seas where Ian and his men would then turn into the seals they claimed to be. She was not disappointed that they hadn't.

None of these people had blackened faces like the "seals" who'd brought her here. Were they a separate clan of fighters?

Jamal, the now cursing terrorist restrained at wrists and ankles, was handed down to stern-looking, stiff-postured soldiers in brown, carrying magic clubs—guns, Ian had called them. They walked him slowly toward a large building to one side of the field.

Altaira, the poor Arab girl, was put on a rolling bed by white-clothed men and women. They also headed toward the building, which apparently housed a hospitium.

Madrene was the last person to exit the bird. Ian held out his arms to help her down the short ladder.

"I can walk myself," she snapped, and almost tripped over herself getting down.

Ian snickered.

The troll!

"Come this way," he said, taking her by the elbow, even though she would have liked to shrug him off.

"That's General Adams up ahead. And those are the CIA boys who will have a few questions for you."

"What is a general?"

Ian groaned. "A general is a high-ranking military officer."

"Higher than you?"

He laughed. "Way higher."

"And the see-eye-aye?"

"CIA is Central Intelligence Agency. You know, um, information gatherers."

"Spies?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

"Why did you not just say spies, then?"

He squeezed her elbow in punishment for her sass. "Settle down and behave yourself. Don't speak until you are addressed first."

"What kind of male jest is that?" She mimicked his deep voice, repeating, "Don't speak until you're addressed." The man was too full of himself by half. Then she said, "Ha, ha, ha!"

"Believe me, there's nothing funny about this."

The seriousness of his face and tone forewarned her. She looked from him to the group ahead. Of a sudden, she understood. This was not a welcoming group about to offer her hospitality. They regarded her as an enemy.