Miranda's Viking Read online

  Her body stilled as a tingling sensation skittered over her nape. The tiny hairs there stood upright, and suddenly Miranda knew they were not alone. She felt the presence as surely as she felt the cold air on her face. Behind her. Directly behind her. She turned very slowly. Her legs became jelly, and as all the air escaped her lungs in a slow, involuntary rush, Miranda sank to her knees.

  He lay upon a table of stone, his skin as perfectly pale and rigid as if he were carved of white marble. His hair gleamed the light's reflection, making it seem silvery, but as stiff as the rest of him. It was long, and as her eyes adjusted, she saw it was a deep golden blond, rather than the pale silver it had at first seemed. His face was all but concealed behind a bushy, reddish beard that curled wildly. He wore a brown tunic over a well-worn shirt that might once have been blue but now was gray. The long sleeves of the shirt covered his arms, and the shorter tunic sleeves came only to his elbows. A wide black belt with a tarnished buckle that might prove to be silver if it was polished encircled his middle. His legs were encased in tight-fitting black leggings that clung to his form. Miranda's throat went suddenly dry as she studied thighs like tree trunks and calves apparently banded with steel. On his feet were furry boots laced tightly with leather thongs.

  Her father had heard her gasp, seen her sink to the floor, and he, too, turned to stare in wonder at the slumbering giant before them. "It's him," he said in the darkness.

  Miranda forced herself to stand and look at her father. "It can't be… Russell, look at him. He's… perfect." The last word was a whisper. She shook herself. "He can't have been lying here for nine centuries."

  "It was the vacuum, Miranda." He spoke with certainty. His hand came up, his forefinger extended. "Look."

  She moved her gaze to the direction he pointed and saw the weapon that lay at the giant's feet. The sword's blade was at least four feet long, and from all appearances, without rust, though the iron seemed dulled with time. The gilded hilt added another foot to its length, and was decorated with intricate patterns and engraved with shapes that might have been letters, words. She moved closer, leaned over it, somehow unable to make herself touch the beautiful piece. She frowned when she recognized the symbols. "Runes." Frowning harder, she studied the ancient writing and tested her memory, as she tried to translate. "Hefnd. Vengeance," she said slowly.

  "Look, Miranda. The battle-ax, the shield."

  She looked, and shook her head in awe, knowing what her eyes were showing her, but still not quite convinced. The fanciful Miranda within would have been alive with excitement, but that one was allowed no access to the real world. She was reserved for those times with the books, late at night when she needed to fight the loneliness.

  The scientist, Miranda O'Shea, was a skeptic. "All the things you'd expect to find with a Viking," she conceded. She looked closely at the sword. "It looks genuine, but—"

  "What we have here, Miranda, is the perfectly preserved remains of what was once a Viking warrior… may be our Viking warrior." He shook his head. "This is the find of the century. It has to be him, Miranda. The Plague of the North. The man banished from all of Scandinavia for treason against Knut the Great, and who wreaked havoc in his vengeance." He paused. "I'd say his sword was aptly named."

  She turned to face her father, amazed he would believe so easily. He set his light on a stone protrusion, opened his journal, and pulled a pencil from his coat's deep pocket.

  He sat down near the man and began writing furiously, effectively shutting her out.

  Miranda studied the giant again and an uneasiness crept over her. She wasn't sure why, but she suddenly felt she was committing a sacrilege by being here. Genuine Norseman or not, his appearance was that of a god. No wonder the Inuit had treated him with such reverence. His size alone would have made him appear like some supernatural being to them. With that glorious golden hair, in contrast to their naturally dark features, and the sword, he must indeed have seemed godlike.

  It seemed wrong to defile the grave of such a magnificent man.

  Her doubts made no sense. She'd come to terms with those kinds of feelings years ago. She knew that her work was for the benefit of mankind. Somehow, though, this was entirely different.

  She moved closer to the man… specimen, she corrected herself, and examined his chiseled face. His eyes were closed, his frozen blond lashes touching his hard cheeks. He was huge; she guessed at least six foot seven, and well over two hundred fifty pounds. His arms and shoulders bulged beneath the material that covered them. His chest was as wide, she thought, as a small table. His hands had a span that could easily surround her throat without much effort.

  Too perfect to be real, she thought.

  Miranda tugged off her gloves and thrust them into a pocket. She reached forward and ran her fingertips over his cold, unresponsive, huge hand. She curled her fingers around his and squeezed. A shiver worked its way through her wrist, upward to her elbow, a tingling sensation so mild it was barely perceptible. She jerked her hand away and blinked rapidly. "I don't think we should take him." She'd blurted the words before she knew she was about to speak them.

  "What?"

  She shook herself and tried to give voice to the uneasiness settling more heavily upon her with each moment she spent here. "I just… I don't know, something doesn't feel right."

  Russell sighed and set his journal aside. He got to his feet with an effort. "This doesn't sound at all like you, Miranda. You've never been superstitious. You're a scientist."

  "It's not superstition. I'm not sure what it is. There's something wrong here. I feel it."

  His face, as he searched hers, hardened. "I thought you were beyond this type of sentimental nonsense. I am aware that with a specimen that looks as… human as this one, well, it can be difficult. To an amateur. A beginner. A student. Not to a scientist of your caliber, Miranda. Shake it off and let's get on with this."

  She wanted to tell him what she was feeling, to ask him to help her understand, to share with him. But she knew better. He cared little for feelings. His own, included.

  "To leave the body would be to destroy it," he went on, no longer looking at her. "The seal's broken now. The air and the moisture have invaded the cave. There'd be nothing left if we came back in a few years. Nothing. Is that what you want?"

  She frowned and shook her head. The idea of leaving the great warrior—if, indeed that's what he was—to the merciless elements was just as unpalatable as the thought of taking him from his sacred place and disturbing his rest. It was too late to back out now, and to be honest with herself, the guilt she was feeling made no sense. She'd do better to ignore it and get on with her mission.

  She sighed, wondering where the weak sentimentalism that sometimes reared its head within her could possibly come from. She'd had no one with that type of bent in her life since her mother. "You're right. I don't know what's wrong with me." She forced a smile but it felt shaky. "Shall I call Darryl?"

  "Go ahead, but warn him to take care. Nothing is to be touched or disturbed in any way until we've photographed, measured and mapped every inch of this chamber."

  "Darryl knows all of that." Her voice, she thought, lacked any hint of enthusiasm for the task.

  "He might need reminding. If he has any sense at all he'll be half-crazy when he sees this find." Russell shook his head, then sucked a sharp breath through his teeth.

  Miranda tore her gaze from the man—the specimen—and knelt by her father's side when he sat down abruptly. "What is it?" She knew without asking that he was having chest pains again.

  He grated his teeth; she could tell by the tight line of his jaw. "Nothing. It's nothing. Just go on with what you were doing. Get some measurements."

  Fear streaked through her. Cold though he was, her father was the only living being left with whom she had any sort of connection, any bond. She didn't want to lose him, too. "Dammit, Daddy, tell me."

  He glared at her. "You call me by my name. You want your colleagues to regard you
as a scientist, or as Russell O'Shea's little girl?" He fumbled in his coat pocket, pulled out a pill bottle and attempted to remove the cover. She reached to take it from him as he struggled, but he jerked his hand away and managed to extract a pill on his own. She blinked against the tears she knew her father hated, but not before he'd glimpsed them. "You have to get over this, girl. One of these times the chest pains will come, and they won't leave until I'm dead. You know that. I know that. There's no use crying over what can't be changed."

  She bit her lip. "I know."

  "I've had a good life. And as of this minute, I've achieved every one of my goals. We don't live forever. It's just the way it is."

  Miranda nodded.

  Russell reached into her pocket and removed her gloves. He pressed them into her hand. "Put them on, your hands are freezing."

  It was the most affection he'd shown her in years. It nearly made her sob. Instead though, she simply put the gloves on. "You'll be the most respected archaeologist in the field by the time you hit fifty. Take my word for it."

  It wasn't praise. It was more like an order. "I know," she chanted from long habit.

  He took his specs from a deep pocket and slid them up on his nose to resume making notes in the journal. His relaxed facial muscles were the only indication that the sudden spasm of pain had passed.

  Miranda went to the entrance and passed along her father's orders.

  With the jet chartered by the university, it was only a matter of hours until the warrior was safely installed in the climate-controlled room that took up half the basement of their huge Georgian-style home, two miles from Beaumont University in Mourning Bluffs, Maine. Under lock and key—or rather a high-tech, digital lock—he continued his peaceful slumber, undisturbed by Miranda's careful ministrations.

  She unlaced the tunic's neck to apply the sensors to his broad, hairless chest. She ignored the shiver of unease that danced over her spine as her fingers moved over frigid flesh. She was a scientist. That shiver had been felt by someone else, someone who should be banished from this room. But for some reason, it was more difficult than ever to shut her out.

  She pushed the tangled blond hair away from his face to attach more electrodes near his temples. In the adjoining room, a bank of control panels and monitors lined the walls. Here, in this refrigerated tomb, there was only the sheet-draped table, as hard, she thought idly, as the slab of stone on which they'd found him.

  On another table, near the farthest corner of the windowless room, were his double-edged broadsword—Vengeance—his well-worn shield, his battle-ax, the heavy, gold pendant in the shape of Thor's hammer and the leather thong that had held it around his thick, corded neck. A small rawhide pouch rested there, too, and inside it, Norse coins. Some were round, some half circles, some pie-shaped wedges. The silver had been exchanged according to its weight, and coins were often cut to the proper heft for a purchase in the early eleventh century. She had all the proof she required now that it had been his time. She no longer doubted. She only marveled.

  Miranda pulled her lab coat more closely around her and removed her gold-framed reading glasses. They steamed up every time she exhaled. Russell had fallen asleep in the control room, his journal open on the desk before him, his chin pillowed by his chest. No wonder. Neither of them had eaten or slept from the moment they'd discovered this wonder in the Arctic.

  She paused near the table—his bed—and scrutinized the warrior's face. But the person looking through the scientist's eyes was the one the scientist wished would go away. She was the one who whispered very softly, as if he might be able to hear her, "I'm almost tempted to give you a shave, see what you look like without all that hair." She caught her hand moving nearer, as if about to stroke his whiskered face. She stopped herself, frowning. "Listen to me, talking to a frozen Viking. I'd be drummed out of my profession if word got out." She felt a foolish grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "I don't suppose you'll tell, though, will you?"

  She caught herself in a firm grip and ordered her practical side to take over. She needn't waste time speculating about such trivial things as what his voice might have sounded like or what he'd looked like when he'd smiled. She focused on important matters, examining him closely for signs of deterioration. She saw none.

  She shook her head in wonder. What had come over her? She was the most sedate, levelheaded person she knew. Oh, sure, she occasionally felt that little girl inside trying to get out, but it had never been a problem. Since when did she engage in one-sided conversations with one of her finds?

  She felt silly. Lack of sleep, she supposed. Or maybe the high of helping to realize her father's dream. "You," she said sternly, "are nothing but a specimen. You're an experiment, and nothing more." Saying it aloud did nothing to make it seem true. "I suppose some part of me recognizes what else you are… the one man I can't scare away. Most of them find me exceedingly unappealing, you know."

  Releasing a slow breath, Miranda lifted a sterilized instrument and placed it against the exposed flesh of his chest. With a single, efficient stroke, she cut a snippet of flesh the size of a saccharine tablet from him. She winced as she did it, even knowing he couldn't feel any pain. "There I go again, giving you all sorts of attributes you don't possess. I need that for the radiocarbon testing, and you certainly won't miss it. We want to know just how old you are."

  She placed the sample in its prepared receptacle and frowned. "Where was I? Oh, the men who find me unappealing. Those are the ones with good eyesight, I imagine. Won't be a problem with you. I'm too tall, too thin, too clumsy. I don't suppose you notice any of that, though. My eyes are set too far apart and they're the most perfectly dull shade of dark gray." She shook her head. "Those few men bold enough to get past all my physical faults run screaming when they learn that I don't particularly enjoy sex."

  She pulled a tall stool nearer the table and perched herself upon it. She studied him. "This is kind of nice. I can say just about anything to you, can't I?"

  She sighed hard, wishing she were an insomniac. She wanted to do everything herself tonight—run every test conceivable before she had to share him with the world. Beaumont's agreement was to return the specimen to Canada after a year of study. So little time. But already exhaustion began to slow her. "I shouldn't be talking to you like this. I'm just overtired. You're just a specimen… not a man." She tilted her head to one side. "I've never dealt with one that seemed so…"

  What? So human, so real? Yes, as if you had just lain down for a nap and might wake and smile up at me any minute. What color are your eyes, I wonder? What is your name?

  She pressed her fingertips to the front of her throat in alarm. This was getting out of hand. She quickly rose to her feet, but her eyes seemed determined to remain focused on him. The rest of the testing would have to wait, she decided at once. She no longer felt sure of herself, or her abilities.

  Tomorrow he'd need to be bathed in fungicide to prevent any fungus growth on the body. His clothing would be carefully, painstakingly removed. It would be studied, tested, and eventually put on display somewhere, along with his sword and other belongings. He would be CAT scanned, autopsied, DNA tested. Before the professionals were through with him they'd know what he'd eaten, where he'd lived, how he'd died, and even the names of his closest living descendants. Studying him would be the dream of every scientist in the world. The university would charge exorbitant fees for photo opportunities. Russell would probably write a book on him, and Miranda would no doubt be asked to do articles and go on lecture tours. And after a single year of study, as per their agreement, the Ice Man would be shipped back to Canada, where the process would begin all over again.

  She sighed once more, wondering why she felt so incredibly sad at that thought, and forced herself to leave the room.

  It was past midnight when something woke her. Some sense of unease in the house. Frowning, she shoved back her covers, knocking her paperback to the floor in her haste. She stepped over Shadows of Love, and
pulled on her heavy, terry robe. She'd fallen asleep right after the dark, mysterious hero had pulled the defiant heroine into his arms for a desperate kiss. She shook her head, wondering why she felt the need to entertain herself by reading such nonsense. No one loved like that in real life. That kind of passion… it simply did not exist.

  Then again, neither did the monsters Stephen King wrote about, and plenty of people read his books. Fantasy was fantasy. There was a place for it in life. She reached for her glasses, belatedly remembering she'd left them lying beside a large, forever-still hand in the basement.

  She padded barefoot into the hall and toward Russell's room. The door hung wide. The rumpled bed lay vacant. Frowning, she switched direction and hurried downstairs. She didn't bother checking the rooms on the first floor. If Russell were up at this hour, she had little doubt where she'd find him. She walked softly. She'd just peek in to be sure he wasn't ill again. He'd be furious if he knew she was checking up on him. Her light steps took her fluidly down the basement stairs. She saw light gleaming from the slightly ajar control-room door.

  As she moved through it she realized something was terribly wrong. In the space of a heartbeat, her eyes took in the disarray. Chairs were toppled, files scattered over the floor, spilling from open drawers. Then she saw Russell, crumpled on the floor, a trickle of blood spider-webbing across his forehead, over his closed eyes.

  She took a step toward him, her heart leaping painfully, but whirled as she sensed the blow coming at her from behind. Her sudden movement caused the fist to miss its target and crash down on her shoulder rather than her head. The force of the blow knocked her to her knees and wrung a cry of pain from deep in her chest. She caught only a vague impression of a dark silhouette as the intruder fled. She heard heavy steps on the stairs and the door slamming hard. She blinked back tears of pain and fear, and drew a calming breath.