Day of the Vikings. A Thriller. (ARKANE) Read Free Page B

surface before flinging it to the floor. The crash brought another collective gasp from the hostages. The woman took out the second staff, examining it with jerky movements, like an addict desperate for a fix.
    “Where is it?” she said, quietly at first, her voice a Scottish lilt. “Where is the real staff?”
    The woman spun around and Morgan saw burning fury in her eyes, her hands clenched into claws.  
    “Bring the curator here.”
    As two of the big men dragged the curator from the floor, Morgan knew she only had seconds to make a decision. The woman wanted the staff of Skara Brae, but once she had it, what would she be able to do with it? Not so long ago, Morgan would have given up the lump of iron with no question. She would save these people from harm and the witch would leave with her staff. But Morgan’s perception of the world had changed after what she had seen with ARKANE. Sometimes darker things were at stake.
    The men pushed the curator to his knees before the woman.  
    “The staff of power isn’t here,” she whispered. “Where is it?”
    “How dare you come in here and threaten these people!” the curator blustered, straightening his spine, words infused with the pride of the British Empire. “This is the British Museum, a place for everybody to see these wonders, not your private shopping center.”
    Morgan’s heart thumped in her chest at his foolhardy words. Couldn’t he see the intent in the old woman’s eyes? Could he only see a group he had laughed at with his colleagues this morning? With her military training, Morgan could probably stop some initial harm coming to the man, but there were too many of the Neo-Vikings and no backup. She was powerless to stop whatever might happen. She felt movement behind her and breath on her neck. Blake was at her side, watching through the gap over her shoulder. Adrenalin surging and senses heightened, Morgan felt the heat of him standing close to her, and smelled a hint of clean soap on his skin.
    The old woman laughed and then began to chant, her voice morphing into that of the völva, the shamanic priestess. Her fingers wove in the air, spinning and dancing, as she spoke words of power that had long lay dormant. The Neo-Viking men looked at the floor as if scared to watch, but the others in the room were captivated, staring at the woman. She looked mad, unhinged. Then, the rattle of bones filled the air and a gasp of horror rippled around the room.
    From the pit of the slaughtered Vikings, the bones rose into the air, disjointed skeletons spinning above the hollow Viking ship, beginning to knit back together before their eyes. Morgan heard Blake’s sharp intake of breath next to her ear.  
    “I am the Valkyrie,” the woman said. “I am the Corpse Goddess who decides who lives and who dies, who comes to feast in Valhalla until Ragnarok.”
    Some of the skeletons were missing heads, but they began to move in the air regardless, flexing bony joints, as if just waking up. Morgan blinked and rubbed her eyes. Part of her understood that the priestesses were fabled experts of illusion, but she could smell the decay; she could see the hacked ends of the men’s fingers, where they had tried to defend themselves against the slaughter so long ago.  
    “Your security has been overpowered,” the Valkyrie said. “All visitors and employees have been evacuated except for you, and my men will be spreading out through the museum. You’re all my hostages until I get that staff. Give it to me now, old man, and perhaps I won’t release the einherjar amongst you all.”  
    The curator’s eyes widened at this, and Morgan remembered from her research that the einherjar were a band of warriors who had died in battle and awaited the day of Ragnarok to herald the final war cry. Were these skeletal figures truly the vanguard of the woman’s ghostly army, or was it all just illusion?
    Morgan pushed the door shut. There was no time to wait any longer. The curator