Page 6

“Excuse me?”

“Look at the spindle, Holly.” As if hypnotized, Holly looked. “There’s a man who needs you back in the ninth century. He will help you find answers to all your questions, and his love will heal the cracks in your heart.”

The spindle began to move towards the surface of the tree, as though pushed from within the trunk. Holly gasped, and as the spindle popped out of the surface completely, she automatically reached out her hand to catch the falling object.

The old lady’s words reverberated through her whole body: “There is a man who needs you back in the ninth century. Your roots lie with the Vikings…but also your future.”

Something invisible grabbed Holly’s hand and pulled, something warm and hard and woody. Holly screamed and began struggling as she was pulled into the tree. She dug her heels into the ground, but the force was too strong. Then the trunk closed around her.

And darkness enveloped her.

Daylight blinded her as she was thrown forward with a violent jerk, as though someone had pushed her from behind. She fell to the ground, scratching the skin of her palms.

Screams rang in the air. The acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils. Fear kicked her in the stomach. Adrenaline gathered her nerves like hair and pulled at them. She was still on what looked like the same Scottish coast and cliffs, except there was no Ms. Verdandi and no tree. About ten feet from her stood round stone houses with thatched cone-shaped roofs—and they were burning. Behind them, there was a medieval village on the green slope of the cliff leading towards the white-sand beach.

And among the houses, people dressed in medieval clothes fought. Some had axes and even swords, others only sticks and pitchforks.

But they not only fought, they also killed. They hauled people towards the beach. Down there, men carried sacks, furs, and even people towards three ships that looked Viking.

What the hell was this? The old woman had said Holly would travel to the ninth century.

The ninth century?!

But Holly could not actually travel in time, could she? This was ridiculous. This must be some hallucination or trick, or a prank. Maybe some sort of movie set.

But the air was thick with the iron tang of blood, and the weapons were metal, not plastic or rubber, because they cut flesh and spilled blood. There were no cameras, no directors, and no one telling the actors to run or stab or do any of that.

Holly’s throat clenched, and she jumped to her feet, obeying the instinct to run and hide.

Frantically, she searched for an escape, for some way—

A man with a bloody ax and a predatory look stared right at her. The ground sank under her feet. He was tall and broad, his shoulders like boulders.

As he walked towards her, a single braid that came from the middle of his shaven head swung. His beard couldn’t hide a sly smile.

Holly turned and ran. Away from the village, back towards the small packed-dirt road where Ms. Verdandi had parked the car. If only she could get to the car…

She ran and ran, wind whistling in her ears, but he was closing in on her. And the road was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the car.

He grabbed her, and she stumbled and fell. Then he got on top of her. The impact kicked the air out of her. Pain radiated from the center of her stomach, and she choked under his weight. He turned her to face him, his pale-blue eyes piercing her. The ornate dragon tattoos on his shaven skull glistened in the dull light.

“And who do we have here?” he whispered, putting the bloody handle of his ax to her throat. His beard tickled her chin. “A witch. Are you a völva? I saw you appear out of thin air. Tell me.”

She finally gasped in a breath. He was speaking some foreign language, her mind registered distantly. Holly had only learned Spanish in high school, and this was not Spanish. How was it possible that she understood him?

“No matter. You shall tell me on the way to the Orkneys.”

He stood and picked her up as though she didn’t weigh anything, putting her over his shoulder.

“Let me go!” Holly yelled. She kicked and drummed her fists against his back. But it was as though the giant didn’t feel a thing. He just spanked her on her behind, so hard her whole body hurt.

“Shut up, witch. I thought Odin had forgotten Thorir Treebeard, but he sent me a witch. Odin loves men who dare destiny. And what better way to do that than sacrifice a völva to the one-eyed god?”

Chapter Two

North Ronaldsay, Orkney Islands, May 7, 880 AD

“There they are.” Einar crouched behind a boulder.