Valkyrie Rising Read online

  But Graham wasn’t there. And until he showed up, I didn’t have to play obedient little sister. Or listen to his comments about boys and their one-track minds. As if he wasn’t one too. For now, I was Ellie Overholt, an American girl in Norway, and I’d finally get to do things my way. Even if I wasn’t sure exactly what that was quite yet.

  I just knew that I, for one, couldn’t wait to find out.

  I HAD PLANNED to jog back to Grandmother’s house, but after my encounter with Kjell, I decided to prolong my window-shopping, savoring my newfound feeling of freedom. The bakery still had a few fresh croissants displayed in the window when I passed, and even if Grandmother had probably eaten breakfast five hours ago, I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist our favorite treat.

  When I pushed the door open, everybody turned and stared. And by everybody, I mean the three old women occupying one of the two café tables, sipping espresso from doll-sized cups, and the two burly fishermen still sporting orange rubber pants misted with seawater. I pretended not to notice how they watched my every move. In a small town, newcomers are endlessly fascinating.

  So I wasn’t surprised when one of the old ladies rose and wobbled toward me, her carved birch cane tapping along the checkerboard floor.

  The baker leaned forward with a polite, expectant smile. He must have known who I was, because he didn’t bother trying to talk to me in Norwegian. Instead he nodded mutely as I pointed at the croissants and held up two fingers.

  The old lady reached me, so I turned and smiled, struggling to remember how to say sixteen in Norwegian, since holding up fingers for my age hadn’t cut it for a while.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her English was thickly accented, and it took a moment for the words to register, even though the malice behind them was unmistakable. “Stay out of our town.”

  I took a step back, my eyes flashing to the fishermen for help. Maybe this woman was senile. Or maybe she thought I was someone else. But whoever she thought I was, the fishermen were similarly mistaken. Because they narrowed their eyes in suspicion like they expected me to rob the place.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. I truly didn’t. Last time I’d been in Skavøpoll, people had stopped me on the street to ask questions about life in LA, listing celebrities I might have spotted or wondering if I knew their distant cousin who lived in Tennessee. Sure, Grandmother kept to herself, but that didn’t stop the town from being curious about me.

  The baker turned, handing me the package of croissants. His voice was sharp as he said something to the woman in Norwegian. I heard my grandmother’s name, but that was all I caught. The old woman scowled back at him. Whatever the baker had said made her even angrier. She muttered something about my grandmother that didn’t sound like a compliment as she lifted her cane and slammed it down on my foot. Hard.

  Pain shot up my shin.

  The fishermen burst into laughter.

  “Stay away. Or you’ll be the next to disappear.”

  There was a lump in my throat the size of a croissant as I realized everyone but the baker was rejoicing in my humiliation. They were all in on whatever strange inside joke was unfolding around me.

  The old woman turned and waddled back to her friends. The baker’s eyes were apologetic as they returned to me. “Tell Hilda she still has friends. Not all of us believe the rumors.” He shook his head, refusing the money I slid across the counter toward him. “Run home, and don’t pay her any notice.” He inclined his head toward the table of old ladies, who looked like they were contemplating a second assault.

  The baker certainly didn’t need to tell me twice. I had no intention of staying to be abused by a crazy old lady. Or mocked by a bunch of rude fishermen. It seemed that even if the town looked the same, some things about Skavøpoll had changed.

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that night, there was a soft knock at the door. I’d told my grandmother about what had happened at the bakery, and she’d laughed like it was the best joke she’d ever heard. Apparently the old lady was angry about something that happened at last year’s garden show. She’d spread rumors that Grandmother had cheated. Attacking me seemed like an over-the-top reaction, but as Grandmother showed me daily, flowers are important to old ladies.

  When I mentioned my plans with Kjell, Grandmother didn’t seem at all surprised. Even though it confirmed my suspicion that Kjell was acting under her coercion, nothing prepared me for her behavior once Kjell finally arrived. She could be a bit abrupt with most people outside our family. Which, come to think of it, might have had something to do with how the rest of the people at the bakery had acted that morning.

  Grandmother rushed through the entry hall to greet Kjell before I was even halfway out of my chair. She opened the door and pulled him into a bear hug—which was no small undertaking.

  I tried to understand what they were saying but only got the general gist that he’d been back for just a few days and she hadn’t seen him since the holidays. Kjell was clearly a favorite.

  I stood there, feeling stupid and silent, until finally my grandmother mercifully switched to English. “I’m so glad you two met,” she said. “And I know you’ll take good care of my Ellie.”

  “Of course I will,” Kjell said. “But she seems like the kind of girl who can take care of herself, too.”

  His response earned him more than a few points. As did the fact that Kjell looked even better when cleaned up—and far too sophisticated, in his dark slacks and sweater, to be seen with someone like me.

  “Ready?” Kjell asked.

  “Let me just grab a jacket.”

  I ran upstairs and dug through my suitcase for a sweater that would make me look slightly less like a high school girl who had no business hanging out with a cute college boy.

  Which was impossible. I finally found a black sweater that Tuck always said made me look like a little old lady. Far from ideal, but at least that meant it made me look older.

  When I was halfway down the stairs, I heard Kjell and my grandmother talking in low voices. Something about their tone made me reflexively pause to listen, even though I wouldn’t understand. I strained my ears, but the only words I could pick out were Odin and Valhalla. And only because I recognized them from my grandfather’s bedtime stories.

  Whatever Kjell said made my grandmother break into a peal of laughter. Oddly enough, it sounded forced. I wasn’t sure what could be so funny anyway, given that Odin was basically the grim reaper in Norse mythology and Valhalla was his home. From what I remembered, anything involving Odin was pretty creepy and gory.

  The step beneath my feet creaked as I shifted, trying to creep closer. Their conversation ended abruptly.

  One look at Grandmother’s arched eyebrow as I walked down the stairs told me that my attempt at stealthy eavesdropping had failed, to say the least.

  I wouldn’t have given their whole exchange a second thought … well, maybe not a third … if my grandmother hadn’t stood there a moment longer, blocking the door.

  “Just be careful, Kjell,” she said, switching to English and snaring my curiosity once and for all.

  Kjell nodded, giving Grandmother a loaded smile. “I promise I won’t disappear. I’m too big for the fairies to carry away.”

  “Even ridiculous rumors spring from a seed of truth,” Grandmother said.

  “What rumors?” I asked. If she didn’t want me to know, she shouldn’t have dangled a big juicy carrot in front of me.

  She shook her head and smiled as she tucked my hair behind my ear.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” she said.

  I turned to go. In the reflection in the window beside the door, I saw Grandmother slip a small velvet envelope into Kjell’s hand, the kind that jewelers use. He upended it, and something silver slipped out onto his palm. Both of them clearly thought I hadn’t seen. But I was tuned into every single thing she did, given the way their conversation had made me reconsider Grandmother’s explanation of what had happened in the bakery. Rumor
s and disappearances seemed to be the new theme in Skavøpoll, and something told me they had nothing to do with last year’s garden show.

  “WE’LL HEAD TO the pub in a bit,” Kjell said as we climbed into his compact European hatchback. “First we have to pick up my friends.”

  We drove through town and stopped in front of a narrow alley that snaked uphill, disappearing into an older part of town. I heard the rattling metal under their feet before I saw the two shapes scampering down a fire escape and jumping the last four feet onto the uneven pavement below.

  “Look, Elsa, if they—if they say anything strange, just ignore it,” Kjell said. I could see his lips pressed into a thin line. He was nervous. “I’ve known them forever. And they’re great once you get to know them, but ever since I came home, they’ve taken up some, um, strange ideas.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’m sure they’re great.” Out of everyone in the whole world, I was the last person to judge his friends.

  It can be hard to find people you can trust, and when you do, you hold on to them, imperfections and all. Most of my supposed friends were wannabe Graham groupies who didn’t make the cut. Even my best friend always flirted like crazy with Graham’s friends. Especially Tuck. I hated how much that bothered me—forcing me to admit things to myself that it was far safer to suppress.

  By then, the two shadows had reached us and were cramming themselves into the narrow backseat. One was a girl with a round face framed by chin-length red hair. There was something wholesome and open about her wide brown eyes that made me like her at once. Kjell introduced her as Margit. The boy, Sven, was standard-issue Norsk—blond, blue-eyed, and with teeth so white they practically glowed in the dark. Margit whispered something, making Sven smile and lean in close to hear the rest.

  Was this some sort of double date? Butterflies in my stomach were stretching their wings, preparing for flight.

  Margit slipped a nylon backpack from her shoulders and set it in the middle of the backseat. The bag was straining at the seams, its taut fabric struggling to swallow something roughly the size and shape of a microwave.

  “You’re joking,” Kjell said, sticking to English. “You aren’t bringing that with us.”

  “You bet I am,” Margit replied. First in Norwegian, then repeating it in English, presumably for my benefit, even though, surprisingly, I’d understood her the first time. She pulled roughly on the zipper until it opened just enough to reveal a bulky electronic box. Then she reached further inside and slipped a smaller object out of the bag that looked like a tiny remote control, only it was made of clear plastic decorated with fluorescent yellow trim. She pressed a flat green button on the front of it, and a white light inside snapped on like a flashbulb. Sven leaned in close and whispered something in Norwegian. I could tell they were testing it, making sure that whatever it was, it was working.

  “What is that thing she’s holding?” I whispered to Kjell

  Kjell sighed as he glanced over his shoulder. “That’s a personal locator beacon,” he explained. “We use them when we fish. If you get thrown overboard, lost, you activate it. That way the rescue helicopters can find you.” He paused. “And in the backpack is an old radio she pulled off her father’s boat. Seriously, Margit, don’t tell me you’re bringing those. This is taking it too far.”

  “You never know when you’ll need to call for help,” Margit snapped. “I have some extras—you might consider carrying one, too. It’s not like I’m the one who should be worried.”

  I couldn’t help it; a laugh slipped right out before I could stop it. “I think I’ll pass on the rescue choppers, thank you. Pepper spray will suffice,” I said, patting my pocket. The most dangerous thing that could happen to me in Skavøpoll was a mountain goat attack. Still, Grandmother had insisted. But then Margit’s comment settled into place next to my grandmother’s cautioning Kjell to be careful, and suddenly Margit’s behavior wasn’t quite so funny. Perhaps Kjell was actually in some sort of danger.

  Margit peered at me from around the side of the headrest. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, like I’d repulsed her somehow.

  “Elsa Overholt.” Margit said my name like it belonged to a celebrity whose claim to fame was eating live puppies. “You look like your grandmother.” It felt like an accusation, so I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her hair was a vibrant scarlet.

  “So I’ve heard,” I said, deciding to proceed carefully since she was predisposed to hate me. One sideways look at Kjell reminded me that he was definitely someone worth being jealous about. But it wasn’t like I hadn’t marched a million miles down that road—with all the time I spent with Tucker, feeling irrationally jealous of other girls when I knew I had no right to be. Fortunately for Margit, I was pretty sure she was misreading Kjell’s level of interest. “Personally, I think my brother looks more like that side of the family than I do,” I said, settling on the most innocuous thing that crossed my mind.

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Margit snapped back. “My grandfather always said your grandmother is a witch. That a pretty face doesn’t say a thing about what’s inside a stone-cold heart. You’d do well to remember that, Kjell.”

  I sat bolt upright. Even if Kjell was the love of her life, I wouldn’t expect this kind of hostility. I’d spent less than fifteen minutes with him.

  “Margit!” Kjell hissed, followed by something gruff in Norwegian.

  Back home, I wasn’t the type of girl who fired back, unless it was against Tuck. Maybe it was because being Graham’s sister meant I’d never really needed to, or maybe it was because I’d never done something daring enough to really garner this sort of reaction. Either way, a whole new Ellie simmered beneath the surface, rising to meet Margit’s challenge.

  “It’s funny you bring that up,” I said. “In some countries, red hair was considered a sign of witchcraft. They actually burned people at the stake for it. Can you imagine? Just goes to show that a little ignorance can go a long way—if you let it go unchallenged, that is.”

  The entire car went silent, and for a moment I wondered if I’d gone too far, and if every one of them could hear me struggling to swallow the nervous lump in my throat. Then Kjell threw his considerable weight behind me.

  “You’re way too sweet if you feel guilty.” He shot me a reassuring big-brother smile that made me think of Graham. “She deserved it.”

  While I was grateful for the moral support, I would have preferred he keep his eyes on the road as the car started the steep ascent into the narrow mountain lane outside of town.

  For the first time that night, but far from the last, I wished I’d just stayed home. Particularly when I peeked in the rearview mirror and saw the sulky, bitter scowl on Margit’s face. The hate in her eyes when they met mine told me she had no intention of letting me off so easily.

  We drove around a dark and narrow road that traced the fjord, past shallow rowboats bobbing at the ends of rickety docks and stilted boathouses clinging to the shore. An occasional fishing trawler, anchored close to shore, cast a dark shadow across the shimmering water. Not a single car passed us during the drive from Skavøpoll to the tiny town of Selje, its nearest neighbor.

  What Kjell had called a pub was actually the bar of the only hotel in town. And it was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday night. Kjell found a barstool for me, after Margit somehow managed to straddle two stools, making sure I couldn’t sit near her. And I was uncomfortable when Kjell then ended up standing himself. Especially when Margit scowled at me, like I’d forced Kjell to do that.

  Margit immediately launched into a hushed conversation with Sven, who cast a few apologetic looks at me and more than a dozen at Kjell. It made me feel even worse, since she was making a fool of herself over a boy and alienating him at the same time.

  After one last questioning glance at his friends, Kjell seemed determined to make up for Margit’s behavior. He kept me entertained—so entertained, I was surprised to glance at my watch and see it was already
eleven. I’d promised Grandmother I wouldn’t be out too late, since we had to leave for the airport first thing in the morning to pick up Graham.

  When I looked up again, something in Kjell’s face gave me pause. He was staring over my shoulder, his mouth slightly ajar. His expression was slack and distant, as if his brain had gotten up and walked away, leaving a vacant body behind. It was unsettling. Which is why it took me so long to notice that Kjell wasn’t the only one staring at the door. Sven and Margit were similarly fascinated by something or someone directly behind me.

  Naturally, I turned.

  Two girls roughly Kjell’s age were framed in the open doorway, scanning the interior of the bar with cold, appraising eyes.

  The first thing I noticed was their appearance. They were impossibly beautiful. And tall. While Norwegians are known for both qualities, these girls decimated anyone I’d seen during all my time in Norway. Or anyone I’d seen in any magazine or movie screen—ever. They were breathtaking and heart-stopping all at once.

  They walked slowly into the bar, letting the door close soundlessly behind them. Every movement was lithe and graceful, yet with an edge of casual confidence that seemed almost predatory. Like lions circling their prey.

  Both girls were dressed strangely. That was the second thing I noticed. They were wearing all leather—from the plunging necklines of their skintight jackets to their knee-high, fur-trimmed boots. Not the slick black leather of a biker or even the shiny metallic leather of Eurotrash nightclub girls. This leather was beige and natural, a coarse, untanned suede. While I’m personally an Ugg boot addict, there was something off-putting about an entire Ugg catsuit.

  There had to be a logical explanation for their clothes. Parts of Norway are still rustic in the most charming way. Herds of goats wander the mountain roads and constitute traffic jams. Entire families live in houses so remote, they can only be reached on snowshoes. Perhaps these girls didn’t look as odd to the rest of the room as they looked to me. Maybe that was normal attire for hardy Norwegian mountain folk who happened to look like supermodels.