Page 69 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“What happened to him?”

Freya shrugs. “No idea. He moved away, I think? Or maybe he died? I can’t remember. Astrid stopped talking about the LARP group after a while. Moved on to the book club and left that whole scene behind.”

Or maybe he died. She says it the way you’d wonder about a casserole recipe.

I look at Magnus, who’s standing very still, his expression stuck somewhere between mortified and furious.

“Well,” I manage. “That’s interesting.”

Interesting. The smoldering specter who’s been strutting around my ship in furs used to itemize deductions for a living. All this time I’ve been getting haunted by a man whose battle cry was once let’s talk about your withholdings.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just... researching. For a thing.”

I’m a terrible liar. A thing. Somewhere, my husband’s entire federal career just shed a single tear.

“Thank you for sharing,” I tell her. “About everything.”

“Thank you for listening.” Freya squeezes my hand. “And for not immediately calling me a terrible person.”

“We’ve all got complicated stuff,” I say. “Yours just happens to involve an affair and a murder investigation.”

“Lucky me.”

If she only knew the ghost of the club’s old tax preparer was hovering three feet away, she’d amend that statement.

Sienna’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Ladies! Break’s over! Please return to your seats for our dramatic reading portion!”

Freya and I head back toward our chairs, and I notice Magnus isn’t following. He stands at the windows, staring out at the ocean, his body radiating tension. Then he disappears with a roar, a sound equal parts rage and humiliation, and a shower of silver stars scatters across the Observation Lounge before fading into nothing.

Even his exits are dramatic. The man committed to the bit so hard he carried it into the afterlife.

Women settle into their seats, mimosas refreshed, ready for whatever steaminess is about to be read aloud in accents of their own invention. My money’s on Nettie for worst Viking growl. She’s been practicing all week, and it lands less Norse warrior, more washing machine with a sock caught in the drum.

Nettie leans over as I sit down. “Where’d you go?”

“Talking to Freya.”

“Learn anything good?”

“More than I bargained for.”

Sienna stands at the front, clapping her hands to regain order. “All right, ladies! Let’s continue our discussion. Next question—what’s the most morally questionable thing your favorite Viking hero has done that you absolutely forgave him for?”

Nettie’s hand shoots up immediately. “Kidnapping!”

The room erupts in laughter.

“Elaborate,” Sienna says, grinning.

“In The Berserker’s Conquest, Ragnar literally throws the heroine over his shoulder, carries her onto his ship, and sails away while she’s screaming about property rights and consent.” Nettie’s eyes are sparkling. “And by chapter three, I’m rooting for him. The man is a menace, but he’s her menace.”

“That’s Stockholm syndrome,” Bess mutters.

We were docked in Stockholm two days ago. I’m choosing to believe that’s a coincidence.

“That’s romance!” Nettie counters.