Cara MIA - By Book One of the Immortyl Revolution - By Denise Verrico Page 0,58

in the lock. I went to the door and tried it. It locked from the outside. I crossed to a window and looked out at the frozen fiord and the mountains beyond. The Northern lights danced overhead. Waves of color shimmered on the horizon, floating veils of harem dancers, but this place was as far removed from sultry courts of the ancient east, as I was from the mortal world, an odalisque in a fortress of ice.

Machinery hummed and ground, as a curtain of metal came down over my eyes, obscuring the view, as the hatches were battened down against the approaching daylight. I turned away from the window and moved to unpack my things. The large fireplace was unlit. The air was slightly damp and uncomfortable. Despite furnaces roaring below, the temperature was like a morgue. Brovik always preferred the cold.

Matches and kindling were stacked in a large basket on the hearth, so I set about lighting the fire, a necessary skill I’d learned at Caithness. It crackled and hissed and soon the room grew tolerable. Removing my clothes, I placed them neatly on a chest. The smell of wood smoke was satisfying and comforting. I jumped into the bed and dove under the thick down comforters, pulling them up under my chin. As I reached turn off the lamp, I heard raised voices, arguing in a language I didn’t recognize, Ethan passionately protesting, Brovik calmer, but firm. It sounded like Ethan was being raked over the coals. The argument abruptly ended. I could only imagine how.

The next evening I was awakened by voices in the main room. The pillow beside me was smooth. Ethan never made it to bed— at least not to mine. I rose, quickly bathed and dressed and then sat at the dressing table to brush my hair.

“She’s awake,” Ethan said.

Brovik chuckled low in his throat. “Bring her to my room.”

“Let her hunt first, and we can work up to it. The heat of the kill will overcome any objections.”

A low laugh rippled from Brovik. “In my day they followed their masters to the funeral pyre. You would have enjoyed the rites Ethan. First the girl visited all the man’s kinsmen, and fucked them. It was our duty to show our love for him. We looked forward to funerals in those days.”

“Viking barbarism!” Ethan sputtered. “I don’t want to hear anymore about your quaint customs.”

“You forget the source of your blood, the Norman conquerors. Noble scion of the house of Sinclair, your Victorian sensibilities didn’t trouble you when you tumbled black slaves, my fine lord of the manor.”

“We did not require them to die with us. Damn you, Brovik! You just want to work on her mind with your little games. Funeral pyre indeed.”

“She knows exactly why you made her. All your romantic talk is folderol. Your high-minded plans will eventually backfire. The falcon will turn on her master.”

“You are playing with my mind.”

Brovik only laughed more as Ethan unlocked the door and called, “Mia, are you dressed yet?”

I came to the door, wearing burgundy velvet. Brovik looked up, smiling. “How lovely you look, my dear. I’m very interested in the things Ethan has taught you, and would very much like to see the Bird of Prey in action. We’ll go into town to the theatre, and afterward you can bring down some prey for me, what do you say?”

“I’d be glad to.”

“Ethan will drive,” Brovik said, offering me his arm. “You’ll be enchanted by our little theatre.”

Ethan fetched my mink, draping it over my shoulders. “He built it.”

Brovik helped me with the coat. “To amuse Ethan. He always found it dull here. Our little acting company is quite good. I pay them too, but anonymously. It is a charming town, but nothing compared to Oslo for entertainment. Kurt and I go down frequently for the symphony. You like music? You must hear our Kurt play.”

“I’d like to very much.”

Brovik gave Ethan a meaningful look. “It will be arranged.”

Ethan scowled, but said nothing as he hit the button to the elevator. Brovik continued to engage me in small talk as Ethan got the car. He was very charming, but I was wary about the invitation to his room later. Just what was in store?

After the ferry docked on the mainland, we drove along icy roads to the town and Brovik’s quaint little theatre. The play was Ibsen of course, but not The Master Builder, or even The Wild Duck, it was A Doll’s House. Had