Page 32 of Fire and Ice Cruise

The next stop on our excursion is the lava fields. The bus deposits us at Námaskarð, and the moment I step off, I’m hit with the unmistakable scent of, well, rotten eggs.

“Oh my word.” I cover my nose. “Who died?”

“Well, you are here.” Tinsley rolls her eyes. “It only makes sense that a body would follow.”

“Very funny,” I say.

Elodie shrugs my way. “It sort of is.”

“That smell would be the sulfur,” Bess says, consulting her guidebook while somehow managing to breathe through her mouth. “Hydrogen sulfide gas is a natural byproduct of geothermal activity.”

“Smells like someone’s digestive system gave up and exploded,” Nettie announces while sniffing freely.

“That’s one way to put it,” I grunt.

She nods. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Everywhere I look, the earth is cracked and steaming, rust-colored and alien, like the planet forgot to finish this particular patch.

The landscape stretches out before us, otherworldly in every direction. Steam vents hiss and billow white clouds into the gray sky, bubbling mud pots make unsettling glooping sounds that remind me of oatmeal having a nervous breakdown, and the ground is stained with sulfur yellow and rust orange mineral deposits that look like someone spilled paint across hell’s front yard.

There’s not a single plant in sight. No grass, no trees, no scrubby little bushes trying to make a go of it. Just barren, otherworldly terrain that could double as the set for the apocalypse that seems to stretch in all directions.

Wooden walkways snake through the geothermal field, keeping visitors from stepping on ground hot enough to melt shoe soles. Warning signs are posted every few feet: STAY ON PATH. BOILING WATER. DANGER. And yet the barren landscape with its red and yellow dirt, its gaping mounds of what looks like ash—there’s still something very serene about it all.

“This is gorgeous,” I breathe, and I mean it.

Ransom raises an eyebrow. “Your definition of gorgeous concerns me.”

“It’s gorgeous in an end-of-the-world sort of way,” I tell him. “Something so raw and powerful it reminds you the planet doesn’t need us to survive.”

A low laugh rumbles from his chest. “That’s dark, Mrs. Baxter. But it’s beautiful, much like you.” He lands a kiss to my temple.

“I can’t help it,” I say as he squeezes me tight. “I’m feeling philosophical today.”

The group naturally splits up as everyone gravitates toward different areas of the geothermal field. Elodie spots a cluster of tourists about fifty feet away—several tall, blonde men in hiking gear who look like they stepped off the cover of Vikings Weekly—and her entire demeanor shifts. She smooths her hair, checks her lipstick in a compact mirror that materializes from nowhere, and adjusts her designer puffer vest to maximum cleavage advantage.

“Ladies,” she announces, “I’m off to catch myself a Viking. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, assume I’ve been swept off to a fjord and send my belongings to South Africa.”

“What if they don’t speak English?” Bess asks.

“Darling, attraction transcends language barriers,” Elodie shoots back. “Besides, I know three crucial Icelandic phrases—hello, you’re handsome, and where’s the nearest hotel.”

“You learned those specifically for this trip?”

“I learned those specifically for this moment.” She fluffs her blonde bob one more time. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck,” Nettie calls after her. “You need a lasso!”

Elodie winks over her shoulder and saunters toward the Viking candidates with the confidence of a woman on a lusty mission.

Tinsley spots Wes and Marina standing near a particularly active steam vent, their heads bent together as Wes points out something in the landscape. Her eyes narrow, she clutches her phone tight to her chest, and she marches over to insert herself between them with all the subtlety of a volcanic eruption.

Meanwhile, Bess and Nettie wander toward the largest mud pot, bickering the entire way.

“This is what hell looks like,” Nettie declares, peering into the bubbling gray sludge.

“How would you know?”