Elsker - The Elsker Saga (2 page)

“Wales it is then.” Ardis nodded her head firmly. “Now we just have to make sure you actually get on that plane.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, let me think, Miss Art History major – because that’s not the perfect degree to take over the family antique shop or anything.” Ardis jabbed me with a sparkly fingernail.

“It just so happens that I like art.” I did.

“True or false? You come home every weekend to study instead of staying on campus and actually having a good time.”

“I have a good time at home!” My protest fell on deaf ears.

“True or false? You’ve literally never been more than ninety miles from the spot you were born.”

“Well that’s just because–”

“Buzz, time’s up!” Ardis giggled. “Kristia Homebody Tostenson, you win one personal escort to the airport to make sure you actually do something exciting for once in your life!”

“Fine,” I nudged her with my boot. “But you’re going to miss me when I’m gone.”

“You know it.”

Four months and one very bumpy plane ride later, I was seriously questioning this whole big-adventure plan. I was thousands of miles from home, hurtling through the air in a bouncing box. How exactly was this a good idea?

“Fasten your seatbelts, and return your seats and tray tables to their full and upright positions as we begin our descent into London, Heathrow. Weather is a pleasant fifty-five degrees with a light rain.” Thank heavens. The turbulent flight was almost over. “Seat up, Miss,” tusked the flight attendant, and I adjusted my chair guiltily.

“Sorry Ma’am,” I murmured to her retreating back, small-town manners a compulsive response. I leaned over to peer at the approaching countryside. Green pastures dotted with tiny sheep stretched as far as I could see, with farmhouses lining the landscape at sporadic intervals. The green was a stark contrast to the gray of the sky. I was staring down the barrel of a very soggy year.

This suited me just fine. I liked rain. The summer sun did not favor the pale. Besides, cold weather gave me an excuse to sit in my favorite reading chair with my beverage of choice – Earl Grey, one milk, two sugars. As we bounced through the sky, I tried to focus on what kinds of tea they’d have at Cardiff University in Wales, my home for the next nine months. Lots of fancy ones, I was sure. If I survived this flight, I’d get a whole year in Europe and a shot at a fresh start. Nobody knew me at Cardiff – for the first time
ever
, I wouldn’t be Crazy Kristia, the poor, weird girl who saw things. Maybe for once, I could just be another coed. It was my fervent wish to blend into the scenery.

I took a deep breath to soothe my sudden panic as the flight attendants opened the doors and my fellow passengers rose to exit the airplane. The great unknown suddenly seemed very scary.

I stood across the street from the Heathrow bus queue and glanced at the paper in my hand. According to the very detailed notes I’d written back at my desk in Nehalem, I had thirty-three hours until I boarded a train bound for Cardiff via Paddington Station. Thirty-three hours to see the British Museum, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, and Shakespeare’s Globe. To eat bangers and mash, whatever those were. To mind the gap. I jumped back onto the curb as a truck careened past, honking its horn – to avoid getting killed by the traffic driving on the other side of the road.

Oops. My cheeks flushed as I looked down, now seeing the bold letters painted on the street, directing me to LOOK RIGHT. Oh well, at least I wasn’t the first tourist to make that mistake. I crossed the street with care and boarded the bus headed into town, practically pressing my nose to the window until the bus stopped three blocks from my hotel.

With thirty-two hours to go, I dropped my one suitcase in the modest hotel room and ran a brush through the tangled mess formerly known as my hair. I tied a charcoal scarf around my neck and raced downstairs into the brisk fall air. Outside, I breathed in the unfamiliar scent of exhaust fumes. It was the first new smell I could remember in a long time, and I fell instantly in love.

The buildings were so tall, the sidewalks so busy. Vendors pushed their carts, and big, black taxicabs paused to pick up passengers. The men had serious faces, and the women were so glamorous, sashaying in their stylish heels, with big handbags swinging at their sides. People rushed past the storefronts without seeing the take-out restaurants, Internet cafes, and coffee shops. The caffeine trade was thriving here, too. This tiny bit of familiarity was comforting.

With thirty-one hours and forty-five minutes to go, I climbed onto the double-decker bus touting FULL CITY TOUR in block letters. My scarf caught on the door, and I tugged until I set it free.

“Welcome, love. Ticket?” the bus driver asked. I fumbled in my purse until my fingers grasped the paper I’d printed out back home. “Excellent. Have a nice one, love.” I climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the bus and sat in the open-top. The air was just cool enough that I was glad I’d worn my heavier coat. Although I tried to listen to the tour guide, I was too excited to focus. I was riding on a double-decker bus. In London. This was surreal.

My plan was to ride around the city so I could tell Ardis I’d seen it all, but when we pulled up to the British Museum, the art called to me. I all but ran down the spiral staircase, thanking the driver as I jumped out of the bus. I caught myself just before I fell face first onto the street.

“Cheers, love,” called the bemused driver. I dusted myself off and waved over my shoulder.

“Cheers,” I muttered amicably as I checked for damage. All limbs intact. No blood. I wasn’t always that lucky. I walked as carefully as my excitement allowed and stopped inside the museum. This place held more art and artifacts than I ever could have imagined. Where to begin?

Thankfully, intuition took over. With determined steps, I strode to the Upper Level, taking in the sea of sculptures as I made my way along the corridors. Upstairs, my eye was drawn to something small and silver. It glinted in the overhead lights, a sparkling contrast to the worn pieces surrounding it. Without breaking my stride, I made a ninety-degree turn and walked toward the small case filled with coins and old jewelry. I squinted at the tiny pieces, focusing on each in turn until I came to the simplest one. The silver charm looked like it could have been worn on a necklace. It had the likeness of an eagle in the center, with curving waves making a circle along its borders. The symbol of Odin, Father of the Norse Gods – I recognized it from my grandmother’s stories.

I tugged fondly at the silver hammer I wore at my neck – a replica of Mjölnir, the hammer of Odin’s son, Thor. It was my most treasured hand-me-down from Mormor. She’d worn it every day and passed it to me when I graduated from high school. Right before she died. Mormor’s charm was about the same size as the one in the case, and it was exactly the same shade of silver. The card beside the charm said it was found in Scandinavia and was probably made in the Viking Age.

As I stared at the case, I felt the familiar sensation that needled me day and night back in Nehalem. My gut tugged, confirming my suspicion – I was being watched. If the prickling at the back of my neck hadn’t tipped me off to the stranger’s presence, the positively massive shadow darkening the case would have done the trick. It only took me a second to pivot on the heel of my favorite black riding boot, but a second was plenty of time for my heart to leap soundly into my throat.

My eye-level hit at his chest where a dark sweater barely concealed the muscles of a well-defined torso. His thumbs rested casually in his pockets, and his arms strained against the sweater. I looked up, and up some more, until I finally reached his face. He stood a whole head above even the tallest visitor in the museum, and I was ashamed to admit, my jaw opened just a little as I took in his features.

A shock of tousled, blond hair rested atop an exquisitely-sculpted face. He had eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, cheekbones as chiseled as pictures I’d seen of the Alps, and lips the pale pink of my grandmother’s roses. His jaw was square and strong with a hint of stubble, and his nose looked like it was lifted off a Roman statue. It was more beauty than any one person should have.

Heaven almighty, was this guy for real?

Although Mormor had done her darndest to raise a lady, right then I was entertaining some very unladylike thoughts. I struggled to mind myself, determined to do her proud. She wouldn’t have fallen apart at this gooey feeling of familiarity. In my hormone-addled state, I could swear I knew this guy from somewhere.

Yeah, right. If I’d met him before, I would certainly remember it. I could pretty much guarantee that nothing this attractive had ever come through Oregon.

I waited a whole half-minute so I wouldn’t be obvious, disproving Ardis’ accusation that patience wasn’t my strong suit; then I snuck a quick glance. The stranger stared back at me with a look so intense I wondered if he was trying to read my thoughts. Not that I could have formed any right then. I forced myself to inhale. It would be just like me to meet the man of my dreams and pass out cold before he could ask for my number.

He offered a wry smile, so brilliant even in its offhandedness that I had to remind myself to breathe again. The old Kristia, the one Nehalem had written off as the Village Crazy, would have slunk out of the museum before she could embarrass herself in front of such a hunk. But this was the new me – the me who’d moved five thousand miles from home to experience adventure for the first time ever. I was determined to see how far this newfound spirit would take me. I lifted my chin and gave him my most winning smile. What did I have to lose? My hand raised in what I hoped was a casual wave, and I managed to squeak out my greeting. “Hi.”

The stranger opened his perfect, pale lips as if he were about to speak, then closed them. His eyes dropped to the hollow of my neck, where my necklace rested calmly despite my violent pulse. I touched the old-fashioned hammer self-consciously, feeling its familiar coolness. His eyes dimmed with sadness, then anger. He glared at my necklace, his gaze terrifying in its ferocity. I took a step back.

Suddenly, I was in a forest, sprawled across the dusty earth. Pain overwhelmed me, and I had trouble focusing. Two men fought in the distance. One, dark-haired and wiry, waved his hand. Sparks shot from his open palm. They struck the broad–shouldered, blond Adonis standing ten feet away, knocking him to the ground. He stood and shook himself, charging at Sparky. His blond hair was a blur as he leaped on his opponent, fists flying in a frightening display of aggression. He was beating the thinner man senseless; any normal person would be dead by now. But the wiry man just laughed, the crazy sound filling the forest with its cruelty
.

Oh crimeney, another vision. My strangest one yet.

When I came to, I eyed the handsome stranger. It was obvious he was the blond from my hallucination. I knew I should be afraid of him, but I just felt confused. If he’d noticed my quirky outtake, it hadn’t done anything to lighten his mood. He turned on one designer heel and faced the exit, his body practically shaking with rage.

“I’m sorry, have I done something to offend you?” I probably should have kept quiet, but this whole interaction was beyond weird. Though I was ready with an apology for whatever wrong I’d committed, the stranger just squared his shoulders and stormed down the hallway.

“Whatever,” I muttered to his back. If he wanted to be ill-mannered that was fine by me – the last thing I needed was some uncouth, European guy ruining my museum day. Even if he was beyond gorgeous.

I shook my head. Who cared what some half-baked Viking thought of me? I brushed off the feeling of being the last pumpkin left in the patch and deliberately turned for the stairs. I’d never have admitted, even to myself, that I was keeping an eye out for the stranger. I admired the original Magna Carta and snuck a glance at T.S. Elliot’s poems to his godchildren – the ones that became the musical
Cats
. I don’t know how long I wandered, ogling things I thought I’d only ever see in books, but when my stomach rumbled I knew it was time to go.