Zen and the Art of Vampires (16 page)

Ulfur pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “I'd give you my coins, but they washed out to sea with the rest of the village.”

I shook my head, thinking over my options. Wire home for money? That would probably require identification to pick up the funds, and my wallet had no doubt been confiscated. Steal it?

“Does anyone here have any thieving experience?” I asked my little gaggle of ghosts.

“Aye, Hallur does,” the old lady named Agda called out. “He can take a chicken out of its nest without ruffling a feather.”

“That's a lie!” he yelled, rounding on her.

“Anyone else?” I interrupted before they got started.

Everyone shook their heads. “Great. Me, either. I wouldn't know how to go about stealing money in this day and age of high-tech security.” I chewed on my lip a bit more.

“Can you borrow some coins from a friend?” Ulfur asked, stroking Ragnar's head.

“I don't have any friends here—” I started to say, then remembered Magda. She wasn't a friend per se, but she was very friendly, and seemed an understanding sort of woman. The question was, would she help me, or turn me over to the police?

I shook my head at the notion of trusting my life to someone I didn't really know. Magda may seem like a nice person, but what proof did I have that I could trust her in a time of need?

I'd just have to find someone else.

“There's your husband,” Marta said. “You could ask him for money.”

“I'll ask Magda,” I told the ghosts, coming to a snap decision. “But I can't go traipsing around with you all on my heels. We'd better find somewhere to park you that you'll be safe from the soul-sucking Ilargi person.”

I contemplated trying to make my way around town without being spotted by police, fellow tour members, Kristoff, or the Brotherhood folk, but a few moments' consideration left me shrugging at the building in front of me. Why not? I hustled my little group into the library and told them to vanish. The library was due to close almost immediately thereafter, but with a cunning that was heretofore unknown to me, I managed to hide myself beneath a stack of beanbag chairs in the children's area, and remain there until the building was closed.

I lay there for another two hours while the employees puttered around, alternately listening to my stomach growl, dozing, and wondering what the hell I was going to do if Magda wouldn't help me.

An idea started to form. It wasn't anything I was proud of, and it definitely went against my better judgment, but if push came to shove, there might be a way out of the situation. I felt a little bit better when, two hours later, I crawled out from my beanbag cocoon and rallied my troops.

“Right, I'm going to go see my friend and pray she won't turn me over to the police. You guys stay here. If this bad reaper is human, like I am, he shouldn't be able to get in to the building to get you guys.” I glanced around the darkened library, only a couple of security lights illuminating the interior. “I sure wish ghosts could read books and use the computer terminals. A little research into reapers and Ostri might be very helpful.”

Karl looked from his wife to me. “But we can read books. I don't know about this computer terminal you mentioned, but I can read.”

“I'm sure you can, but what I meant was more I wish you guys had the ability to interact with physical things.”

“We can,” Ulfur said. Ragnar nodded his head and snorted before munching the fabric of the nearest beanbag chair.

“Really?” I reached out to touch him, my hand passing right through his arm. “Um . . .”

Ulfur smiled and the air around him shimmered. His body slowly solidified, going from its bluish translucent state to that of a solid form.

“Holy Jehoshaphat,” I said, reaching out with a tentative fingertip. It met solid cloth. “I didn't know you could do that!”

“We can't for very long. It takes a lot of energy to have a physical presence, but if it will help you, we can try looking for some information.”

“That would be immensely helpful,” I said, relieved. “I don't suppose any of you can operate a computer?”

I wasn't surprised when no one offered to use the nearby computer. I suspected that drifting around aimlessly for a hundred years or more didn't lend itself to techno-savvy.

“Oh, all right, I'll do it,” the snarky teen said when her mother, the woman named Ingveldur, gave her a none-too-gentle shove forward.

“You know about computers?” I asked the girl dubiously.

She
tch
ed and plunked herself down in that boneless way teen girls have. “I'm not stupid, you know. People do come to the village with laptops and mobile phones and Game Boys. What am I looking for?”

“Does that computer have Internet access?” I asked peering over her shoulder. She solidified and tapped on the keyboard. “Oh, excellent. Google Ostri, would you? And maybe reapers. And the Brotherhood of the Blessed Light. And while you're at it—”

She gave me a look that told me I was trying her nerves.

“Just Google whatever you can and print out anything that looks important. Will the rest of you be all right?”

My words were spoken to an empty room. Ulfur and Karl had taken charge of the villagers and spread them out to search the library for any books that might help.

“I'll be back as soon as I can,” I told Marta as she came with me to the window. It didn't show any signs of being wired for an alarm, which I took as an indication of the low crime rate of this area. “Close the window after me, and don't let anyone in who isn't me. OK?”

“All right. But, Pia, the old sailor is still out there,” she said worriedly.

“If I see him, I'll send him this way. Don't look so glum,” I said, swinging my legs out the window and jumping down to the well-tended flower bed below. “I think our luck is about to change.”

That seemed to pacify her. She smiled and waved as I glanced down the street, muttering softly to myself, “And I just pray it's not going from bad to worse.”

 

Dalkafjordhur at night was surprisingly busy. I didn't know if it was the white-night phenomenon of twenty-four hours of sunlight, or if the town was just like that normally, but there were a lot of people out. Luckily, I knew where I would find the tour group—we were supposed to be attending a reenactment group's dinner in a Viking longhouse, complete with Old Norse poetry readings, and scenes enacted from historical sagas of the period.

I didn't have any trouble finding the fake longhouse, since it was a popular tourist site located near the park. I didn't even have any problem slipping in the back way, through what I assumed was the employees' entrance. But as I peeked out from behind a curtain marking the stage, I faced nothing but trouble. The longhouse center was taken up with long tables, at which my tour mates sat stuffing their faces with delicious-smelling salmon, fresh bread, and at least a half dozen other dishes.

My stomach growled with increasing loudness.

I ducked into a small room at the sound of voices coming out of the area I figured was the kitchen, a slow smile emerging as I eyed the various bits of Viking period costume.

“Well, you're not going to fool anyone knowledgeable,” I told my reflection a short while later as I examined the ensemble I'd cobbled together from bits and pieces of costumes that would fit my abundant self. “But with the lights out, and everyone focused on the stage, you may get by with it.”

I grabbed a wig of long black hair and clapped it onto my head, gave the wraparound linen apron dress that I'd pulled over my own gauze sundress a tug to hide as much of the modern flowery print beneath as possible, and grabbed a box filled with small bottles of water, hefting it to my shoulder to hide my face.

When I emerged from the back depths, the stage show was just starting, and the lights, as I had surmised, were lowered to highlight the actors. I scurried around the back of the tour group, pulling the long black hair around my face as I sidled forward with a murmur of “Water?” to the nearest members.

No one sent me a second glance. Denise sat tapping with irritated fingers on the table, looking sourly at the actors as they demonstrated a Viking ritual. Audrey was next to her, looking tired and miserable. I had a pang of remorse for that, feeling certain she'd been through hell after I had run off.

Magda was at the far end with Ray. I hunched over and offered water to him first, then to her.

“Water?”

“No, thank you,” Magda said without looking.

“I think you are going to want some,” I said softly, leaning a bit closer to her while keeping an eye on everyone else.

“No, thanks,” she repeated, still not looking at me.

I sighed to myself and nudged her on the back with the box. “Water is good for you. Take some.”

She turned around with a slight frown, her eyes growing huge when I pulled the hair away from my face enough so she could see who I was.

“Take the water,” I said softly, braced for flight. If she shouted and screamed, I'd throw the bottles at everyone and make a fast retreat back to the safety of the library.

She did neither, however, simply took the bottle of water I held out and watched me with huge eyes.

“The bathroom is in the back. You may need it after drinking all that,” I said softly, with a meaning I was sure was clear.

She nodded and I slipped backward, into the shadows of the room, quietly making my way out to the rear rooms.

I didn't have long to wait. Magda entered the bathroom with a backward glance, carefully closing the door before turning on me. “Pia, what on earth is going on? What are you doing in that atrocious black wig? Why is Denise saying you murdered someone? And why were the police questioning everyone about you and a man you were with last night?”

I blinked at that last bit, irrationally focusing on the least important thing. “They know I was with a man last night? Who said so?”

“Who do you think? Miss Nosy-Pants Denise, that's who. She said she saw a man stealing away from your room in the early hours of the morning.”

“Just what was she doing hanging around my room, watching for men?” I asked, suddenly outraged at the invasion of my privacy.

Magda crossed her arms. “There's a dead woman in your bathroom, and all you can do is get pissed at Denise's nosiness? What happened, Pia? I don't believe for one minute that you killed the woman, like Denise said. You're not a murderer. You don't have that sort of an aura.”

I slumped against the sink in relief, pulling off the itchy black wig, ruffling my hand through my hair to fluff it back up. “Oh, thank god. You don't know how many horrible things I envisioned you saying to me. No, I didn't murder her, although I do know who she is, and I have a suspicion—” I bit off what I was going to say, not wanting to put my worst thoughts into words.

“You have a suspicion you know who it was?”

I nodded.

Magda came over to me and put a hand on mine. “Pia, sweetie, who was that man you were with? Do you think it was him?”

“I don't know,” I said miserably, wanting nothing more than to pour the whole story out to her, but knowing she wouldn't believe half of it. “His name is Alec, and it's possible he killed her, although he didn't seem at all like the violent sort of person.”

Not until I knew he was a vampire, that is. Not until I learned how much the vampires hated the Brotherhood, and then it made all too much sense.

“Then again, Kristoff said he didn't kill her, but can I really trust him now? I just don't know!”

“Who's Kristoff?” Magda asked.

“Another guy. Alec's friend.”

“You haven't gone to the police? I really think you should. If that guy you hooked up with is bad news, you don't know what he will do next. He might come after you.”

I shook my head. “I wish I could, but it's . . . complicated.”

“Complicated how? Pia, are you in love with this Alec? Because if you are, I'm here to tell you—”

“No, no, it's nothing like that,” I said, blushing at the memory of the kiss I had shared with Kristoff. “He's a nice enough man, and I really don't think he murdered Anniki, although he might have. . . . Oh, it's so muddled, Magda. There are other people involved, a religious group, for lack of a better description, and Kristoff said he didn't, but what if he was lying? But if he did, how could I want to kiss him? I mean, wouldn't you know if someone was capable of murdering someone else?”

She blinked at me in incomprehension. “Just by kissing him? I don't know. I haven't kissed any murderers. Wait a minute—you kissed your lover's friend? Oh, honey, we
really
need to have a talk.”

“No, it's not like that. At least . . . No, it's not. I'm married to him, but I don't like him.”

Her mouth dropped open a little bit. “Whoa, back up a few steps. You're married? Since when?”

“This morning. I was forced into it. Kristoff bribed some people and had his friends witness it falsely. But I don't like him at all. He murdered a man in front of me, for heaven's sake!”

“Another murder?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes, although Karl says that Kristoff was just trying to protect me from him.”

“Who's Karl?” she asked, a puzzled frown wrinkling her forehead. “A third lover?”

“No, he has a wife,” I said, not wanting to get into the issue of just exactly what he was. “And Kristoff isn't a lover. He's just my husband, that's all.”

“Then, who did this unwanted husband kill?”