Page 2 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“It’s a scientific system,” Nettie says.

“It’s a laminated chart,” Bess says.

“Everyone’s seen the chart,” I assure Marina. “It’s practically peer-reviewed. Bess added footnotes.”

“I annotated,” Bess corrects, sounding exactly like the former Vermont schoolteacher she is. “Somebody had to fix her methodology. She had Mr. Heavy Pour on the lido deck ranked third.”

“Mr. Heavy Pour is third,” Nettie balks.

“Mr. Heavy Pour is second, and deep down you know it.”

Nettie doesn’t argue. That’s how you know Bess is right.

Marina shoots me a look that screams help me.

“Consider this your initiation,” I tell her. “There’s no ceremony, but there is, apparently, a ranking system.”

Ransom strolls over, looking lethally handsome in his typical Head of Vessel Security uniform—dark suit, crisp white shirt that does things for his chest and shoulders, and cobalt blue eyes that are drop-dead serious as he scans the crowd for trouble. He has dark hair with a touch of salt-and-pepper around the temples that gleams under the light streaming through the atrium’s glass ceiling, and I get to look at him guilt-free because I married this man. Best decision I ever made, even if it came with a body count.

He drops a kiss on my temple. “Playing nice?”

“Define nice.” I nod toward Marina’s predicament. “Bess and Nettie are having a custody battle.”

He watches them tug her back and forth, a human wishbone at Thanksgiving. “Should I intervene?”

“Absolutely not. At this point, it’s practically a tradition. They got hold of me the very same way just over a year ago. I lost circulation in both arms and gained two best friends. It was a win.”

A trace of a wicked grin twitches on his lips. “I’m glad they convinced you to stay.”

“I am, too.” I bat my lashes at him as he lands a far more heated kiss on my lips.

Wes stands a few feet away in his captain’s uniform—white jacket with gold buttons, navy pants, the posture that says he’s commanded ships through storms and budget meetings and come out victorious. His dark waves are combed into submission, his green eyes scanning the boarding passengers because he knows exactly how fast chaos can spiral. He’s been captain of the Emerald Queen of the Seas for years, and it shows in every measured movement.

“Ladies.” He glances at the Marina situation, which is starting to garner more attention than it should. “Are we terrorizing our new crew member already?”

“We’re welcoming her,” Nettie corrects.

“Thoroughly,” Bess adds.

“With footnotes,” I say.

“I’m fine,” Marina manages, her voice only slightly strangled. “This is completely fine.”

And by the looks of it, it’s anything but. Her ponytail has already lost the will to live. I’d offer to hold her tablet, but I’m afraid Nettie would rank me next.

Tinsley appears on heels that should come with a liability waiver, her chestnut hair falling in waves over one shoulder. She’s clutching her ever-present clipboard and vibrating with enough espresso-fueled energy to jump-start the ship’s engines, and she looks every bit as grumpy as she does professional in her uniform.

“Positions, everyone.” She doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Big smiles. Enthusiastic greetings. And Trixie—” She points her pen at me. “No mentioning last cruise’s homicide. No discovering new bodies. No supernatural incidents in front of paying guests.”

“It’s not like I discover bodies on purpose,” I protest.

“Semantics.” She takes a moment to glower at me.

I’d argue the bodies discover me, but Tinsley isn’t big on nuance. And for the record, I’d be thrilled to follow all three of her rules. The rules have never once returned the favor. Neither have the bodies.

Suffice it to say, Tinsley Thornton isn’t in my fan club. Come to think of it, the meetings are getting smaller every year.

My name is Trixie Troublefield Baxter. I have shoulder-length blonde hair with more than its fair share of tinsel these days, and no, the irony of that word is not lost on me. I stand at a perfectly average five-foot-five, I live on this glorious ship, and I happen to be married to the hottest ex-FBI-agent-turned-head-of-vessel-security on the planet. Oh, and I also happen to have an oddball supernatural quirk that allows me to see ghosts. Not every ghost, mind you—just the ones who come back to help solve a homicide. And yes, I’m something of a body magnet, too. As far as talents go, I’d seriously love a refund. Heck, I’d settle for store credit. I’m not picky.