First to Burn (33 page)

The loss of his lips under hers was instantly compensated by the depth of his penetration when their bodies finally fully merged. Up and down, her thighs pushed her those inches that drove her pleasure. Under her hands, his chest shuddered. He gripped her hips tighter and bucked in a lover’s rhythm of thrusts and pulls, punctuated by the slapping sounds of their sweat-slicked bodies. At the moment she quivered, ready to collapse onto his chest, he lifted her nearly off the bench as he drove deeply and shouted her name.

For a long time, neither of them spoke or moved. She breathed against his shoulder. He stroked her hair. They had no strength to do more.

“I’ll miss you.” His voice sounded thick and sleepy.

“Hmm?” It took a moment for his words to penetrate her lethargy. “What’d you say?”

“I’m flying to Copenhagen tomorrow. To find the sword hilt.”

Her stepfather had given her a passport, but she didn’t know if her ankle charger would work with European voltage and outlets. She might need an adapter.

“You’ll be safe here with Ivar.”

“What?” No way was she waiting in New York while he shot off to Copenhagen. She pushed away from his damp chest, but in the absolute dark, she couldn’t see his expression. “Finding the sword hilt was my idea. You’re not going without me.”

“But—” He stopped.

“But what?” Had he learned nothing about her?

“Ahh, I like your butt?” His voice rose while his hand stroked until he found the ticklish crease above the back of her thigh, making her giggle while he stalled. “A lot.”

“You can’t wiggle out of this.” The conviction she managed to put in her voice was completely undermined by the reflexive way her lower body rubbed against his.

“It’s much better when
you
wiggle—” he gripped her waist and shifted her to where she could rub on his erect cock, “—
on
this.”

“I’m going with you to Copennnn—”

His teeth found her nipple in the dark and tugged with exactly the right pressure, sending her head back and her whole body arching into the pull, but she wouldn’t give up.

“—haaaahh—”

He guided himself to her entrance and pushed in again, gliding past an ultrasensitive spot as he filled her.

“—gen.” His smooth withdrawal and slow return were so pleasurable on her twice-primed body that she wondered if she’d survive a third.

No way she’d let him disappear without her, not after
this
.

Chapter Twenty-Six

When Wulf spotted Cruz, earbuds in and eyes half-closed as if napping in the airport waiting area, he whispered to Theresa, “If you recognize anyone, don’t acknowledge.”

“
Should
I recognize someone?” she whispered back. Even his arguments about other immortals had failed to talk her out of joining him on the trip to Denmark. When Ivar supported her position by saying she added balance, he’d given in to her insistence, but he’d need his team more than ever to keep her safe. Maybe he should have invited Deavers and Kahananui.

“Forgot to tell you.” The first class boarding announcement for their flight momentarily interrupted him. “I called in the team.”

Her mouth made a little O of surprise, but she recovered while he grabbed both carry-ons. He was prepared to steady her if she stumbled on the inclined jet bridge, but she stepped smoothly over the gap from the gangway and moved briskly to their spacious leather seats. It was a good beginning, one that kindled hope that, with her research and his friends at their backs, they’d pull this off.

Near the end of boarding, a man dressed in anonymous khakis and an unzipped ski parka eased sideways up the aisle behind a Hindi-speaking family. Wulf didn’t need to see his face to know his former commander. He coughed hard into his hand, intentionally making a sound that resembled a profanity, but he didn’t care who he offended. Deavers deserved to be called a bastard for this stunt, and if Deavers was here, no doubt Wulf would also catch a mountain wearing a flowered shirt squeezing past all the people stuffing duty-free bags in the bins.

As Deavers shuffled past, he also sneezed. It sounded remarkably like he’d said,
You too.

Confirmation that they hadn’t listened to his warnings didn’t anger him as much as he’d vowed. Since he’d erased himself in that Afghan river, every day had felt like he was missing a lung that never grew back. He’d sweated through Morocco alone, although he needed a pack as much as his namesake. So he was a selfish man, and he felt guilty too, but in his gut he’d known how this would roll even before he’d dialed. A truthful man would also admit that he wanted friends at his back because he was scared of winding up like Ivar.

Two hours into the eight-hour flight, dessert had been cleared from their tray tables and the lights dimmed. He lifted Theresa’s hand to his lips. “You know the seats recline almost flat in first class? And there’s a privacy partition.”

With her chin tucked to her chest and her eyebrows raised, she glanced left and right and then shot him a dubious look. “You can’t be serious.”

He adopted a puppy face. “We could just cuddle?”

Her lips twitched and her nose flared, as if she was fighting to hold in laughter. “Right.”

Just cuddle.
At least Cruz was too far in the back to hear how low he’d sunk.

She focused on her paperback, but all he could process was the word
Licking
written in glowing type on the cover. It reminded him of their sojourn in the sauna, and he let his eyes settle on the rise and fall of her breasts under her pink sweater. The sweater looked soft, and her skin underneath would be smooth and warm. Perhaps if he put his hand on her thigh—

“Quit staring,” she muttered without removing her eyes from the page. “Do you need something to read?”

“No, thanks.” He retrieved
The Face of Battle
. If anything could compete with the scent of oranges surrounding the woman next to him, it would be John Keegan’s three hundred fifty pages.

“How much longer?”

Theresa’s question pulled him away from the screaming horses at Waterloo and the stinking mud of the Somme. Surprised by how long they’d been reading, he double-checked his answer. “Less than two hours. With the time difference, we land in Copenhagen about 0730.”

She was concentrating so hard on massaging her leg, all ten of her fingers digging into the meat of her quad, he couldn’t be sure she’d heard.

“Charley horse?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Here, I can help.” Starting at the top of her thigh, he pressed his thumbs until he found the rock-hard muscle, then traced it along her leg. Her response was a combination groan of pain and moan of agreement. Back to the top of her leg and down again, he kneaded as hard as he thought she could take, over and over, until her neck finally slumped forward and the lines on her forehead smoothed. He lightened the pressure to a gentle massage. “Good book?”

“Guilty pleasure.” She spoke slowly, as if she’d sunk into relaxation—exactly what he wanted. “Barbecue, donuts and New Jersey.”

“Sounds delicious.” Maybe she was tired and loose enough to open up about her injury. “You have many spasms like that one?”

“Not often these days.” She shifted in the seat, as if to withdraw, but there wasn’t anywhere for her to go because he blocked the aisle. “I shouldn’t have sat for so long.”

His hands maintained their soothing rhythm on her thigh. “How’s the leg now?”

The pause stretched so long he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. That would be ironic—him trying to get her to unwind and talk about her injury, but instead succeeding in rendering her comatose.

“The stump’s probably swollen, like people’s ankles get on long flights.” If he hadn’t been completely focused on her, he wouldn’t have heard her barely audible reply over the engine noise. “And I have an increased risk for deep vein thrombosis. No big deal.”

Her
no big deal
bent him like a two-hundred-pound ruck on his shoulders.

* * *

The glitter of late morning sun on the foot of snow that had stalled Copenhagen heightened the postcard view of the inner harbor from Wulf and Theresa’s suite, but not Wulf’s pleasure. He didn’t enjoy feeling exposed, and the light might interfere with Theresa’s nap, so he closed the room-darkening blinds. Then he removed the back of his phone to swap in a clean disposable SIM card. Time to locate their less legitimate supplies.

Reaching Guleed by phone was easy, because they’d talked many times over the last forty years, and rehashing how they’d met in Mogadishu brought back memories that had improved with time. Only eight years old, Guleed had chased Wulf through a slum to demand he pay the bar bill after the messy death of a mercenary Wulf had considered to be a friend. The ambitious boy wouldn’t let his mother lose a day’s profit, because those pennies bought school uniforms and books.

“Anything, anything you name, I do it for you,” Guleed promised when Wulf asked for a favor of the kind best kept strictly between friends who’d shared bad times in worse places. “You have saved my family a thousand times by finding for me a visa to this country.” As Guleed described his chain of grocery stores dotted throughout the Copenhagen suburbs, he sounded so much like the eight-year-old with grand plans that without being able to see confirmation of his gray hair, Wulf found it hard to believe the boy he’d helped now had grandchildren.

In Somali, Wulf described his needs: winter gear, night vision equipment and weapons.

Guleed didn’t hesitate. “I know a man or two, they probably have certain objects. Most are undoubtedly old and worthless, only for museums or collectors, nothing else, of course.”

“Of course, of course.” This type of business with this type of man necessitated a lot of chat. “But there are friends in Somalia who collect such items sometimes, no?” He hoped Guleed didn’t pop up with an antitank weapon. That would be more than Cruz could resist.

“Sometimes, yes, but now there are many rules about exportation of private collections. Those who are law-abiding like you and me, my friend, find it hard to manage equal support against the militias.”

“This is a shame.” Wulf had to agree.

“Shame indeed. My son and I call it a paradox of democracy. Luckily, we also practice many benefits of capitalism. Did I not tell you I bought a house in Mykonos, near the beach?”

Befriending him hadn’t ruined Guleed. The boy had built a life to be envied, with a big family, good health, properties. Not all those Wulf cared about were doomed.

“It reminds me of Mogadishu as it was years ago, only the plumbing is much better.” Guleed was still talking about his beach house. “The views, and the Greek women. You are my most honored guest, at any time.”

Theresa might like the sunshine compared to February in New York...if he could avoid face time with Guleed, who wouldn’t understand why his oldest friend still looked twenty-eight.

Once he’d navigated the complicated arrangements and farewells, he stood in the connecting door watching Theresa. Asleep, she’d lost the exhausted look from the plane, and her flawless skin glowed against the white pillows and duvet. Much as he itched to be moving, he’d made the right choice to tell everyone to rest.

He studied the room service menu. Although it was after breakfast and before lunch, finding Beowulf’s sword hilt might seem more manageable after a platter of meatballs. His finger had already started to dial when he heard a knock in the team’s signature pattern.

Seconds later he had Deavers locked in the buddy hug he’d been storing for seven months. “Where’re the others?”

“Big Kahuna’s getting a car—the legit way, no less—and Cruz is checking out a hooker hotel near the main station.” Deavers took in the white leather couch, the streamlined furniture and the shiny red entertainment console. “Less pricey than these digs. And more anonymous.”

“Good. I located more op gear. Should be ready tonight.” Pacing to the closed window blinds, Wulf shared the unease that had been growing since the flight. “I keep feeling this trip has been too easy.”

“Roger that. It’s why I sent Cruz scouting.” Deavers flopped into one of the cube chairs and stretched his legs across the geometrically patterned carpet while eyeing the basket of rye crackers and bottled water. “Got something better than gerbil bedding to eat? Or is the minibar here more expensive than a plane ticket?”

“I was about to order meatballs. We have a couple hours until I wake up Doc.”

“Double down. I’m too married for Scandinavian models, but a man’s never too married to step out on Kristin’s meatloaf.”

* * *

Wulf masked his edginess with a joke as Kahananui maneuvered the rented taxi van through nearly empty streets. The sun set early this far north, and daylight was fading fast. “Where did a Hawaiian learn to drive in snow?”

“First post was Fort Drum, New York, bro.” Acing a corner at the perfect speed and angle, no fishtailing, the big guy guided the van to a stop at the Danish National Museum. “Here you are.”

“You’re not coming in with us?” Theresa asked. Her excitement distracted him from thoughts of what might be inside. Part of him wanted to find the hilt and see if this curse he’d lived with for fifteen hundred years could be undone, but hope always seemed to beat a path to disappointment. Better to focus on the woman next to him and the here and now than on another what-if.

“Ma’am, this country is so
mucho
haole, guys like Cruz and me blend best by driving a taxi.”

A fresh-shoveled path led through the courtyard of the former palace. The worker at the admissions desk seemed to be startled that visitors had arrived through the snow, and more so that they wished to speak to the head of the prehistory department. But she couldn’t have been as unprepared to see them as he was to come face-to-face with a life-size poster celebrating a statue of Jurik. The Saint was perpetually killing the last dragon. On its back, the beast still had the fight to grasp the broken lance.

If he could do anything to shape his destiny, today would end better than that day.

“Dr. Haukssen?” Theresa advanced to greet the white-haired gentleman who came to meet them in the museum’s Great Hall. “We’re pleased you could see us on short notice. We’re researching Beowulf for a documentary on the truth behind the myth.”

“An appointment would permit me to prepare.” His English had the clipped accent typical of some Northern Europeans as he stared over his reading glasses. “The snow discouraged my staff. Today I am left alone.”

“We sincerely apologize.” Theresa explained their cover story. “But our funding came through only thirty-six hours ago. The donor offered us frequent flier miles for the trip, and we had to arrange our flights and photography equipment quickly.”

“Airline miles.” Still unsmiling, the director of Danish Prehistory nodded his complete understanding of donor peccadilloes before turning to Wulf. “Are you a photographer?”

“No, he’s stuck in Reykjavík.” Wulf strove to look envious of an imaginary assistant stranded on a frozen volcanic rock. “He said he was going to try
hákarl.
I almost gave up my ticket to stay with him. Have you tasted it?”

“
Ja
, I have.”

Wulf widened his eyes and faked enthusiasm for the fish dish he’d avoided for the last thousand years. “What’s fermented shark meat like? Sushi? Or kimchi?”

Dr. Haukssen’s mouth twisted. “I do not know kimchi, but I would say
hákarl
is like chicken left in the waste can for three months.”

“Ahh.” Wulf sighed deeply and raised his gaze to the ceiling. “An authentic cultural experience. I wish—”

Theresa stepped between them. “Let’s focus on our assignment,
Millard.
”

Ouch.
That name hurt. Next time he’d choose his own alias.

“We’re interested in sword hilts from approximately 500 A.D.” Behind her back, she waved one hand at the floor in a patting motion.

Tone it down
?
Not a chance
,
babe.
I
want to see you laugh.

“Today is a slow day because of snow, so I have time to show you a few to consider. You may follow me.”

As the director led them through the three-story atrium and then in and out of a series of rooms filled with car-size rune stones, ships pulled whole from the peat and gold treasures, Wulf’s head spun with memories. Not all were good, so he cut ahead of Theresa and focused on Dr. Haukssen instead of the helmets suspended lifelessly in cases. “You must hold excellent dinners here.” He lifted his hands to create a mock frame around a case of golden horns. “I see a bar for small-batch herb-infused aquavit in this corner. You must have a wood-fired oven for whole-grain rye bread in the courtyard. And butter churning! Women love butter churns!”
If Cruz and Kahananui could see this act.