Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel Read Free Page B

farther.”
    “Where are we going?” John hangs limp from her hands; even raising his voice is exhausting.
    “Anywhere not here. Look at your feet, John.”
    John looks down. The tracks left by his heels are quickly wiped out by the wind. His body feels like a dead weight anchored to his consciousness. The wind is no longer cold or hot; all he feels is the pressure of the gusts. This worries him. Snow is supposed to be cold, or at least uncomfortable.
    “I’m naked,” John says, too disoriented to be embarrassed.
    “Of course you’re naked,” the woman replies. “That’s not what I meant. Look at the ice , John.”
    John shifts his focus to the dark surface where it is visible through the snow. Black fissures are shooting through the ice, cracking and snapping like shadow lightning bolts.
    “The ice is breaking,” John says.
    “It is indeed.” The woman pauses to swipe her forehead. “My maker, you’re heavy. Are you sure you can’t walk on your own?”
    “I can’t feel my legs. I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t worry.” The woman grunts and continues to drag him towards the mountain wall. “I’ve carried heavier loads than this,” she says. “More often than I care to remember.”
    “Where are you taking me?” John asks, hoping she can hear him above the wind.
    Her laugh is strained. “I could ask you the same,” she says, “but getting you off the ice is a good start.”
    John looks back at the ice, now a dense web of cracks and crevices. “I never learned how to swim,” he whispers.
    “You can’t move,” the woman points out, “so how could you possibly swim anyway?” She shakes her head. “Besides, that’s not water under the ice.”
    John tries to frown, but his forehead is too numb. “Then what is it?”
    “Something much worse.”
    They reach a short stretch of uneven stone between the ice and the base of the mountain. The woman stops, lowers John to the ground, puts down the lantern, then crouches close beside him. They have cleared the lake, but they have no cover.
    The woman looks around. “We have to get out of this storm. Think, John. Don’t you want to hide?” she asks. “Somewhere cosy and safe, and maybe warm? If you can, a place with hot chocolate?”
    John, naked and curled up on the frozen stone, twists his head a fraction to look up at her face. “Are you joking?” he stammers. “Of course I want to hide.”
    A majestic shudder rocks the lake and the surrounding mountain walls, sending splinters of ice cascading over John and the woman. Sheets of snow land with dull crashes around them.
    “In your own time,” she says with a pained grin. “But right now would be good.”
    John moans and leans his head on the rock. Nothing makes sense. He tries to think beyond the cold and the dark, but there is nothing but shadows where his memories used to reside, ghosts of scents and motion escaping his attempts to catch them. All he has is a name, a failing body, and the company of a woman who is talking in circles. No past, a painful present, and a short future.
    The woman talked about a hideaway. Any form of cover would be a blessing, but he sees nothing around him that can help him. A frozen lake at the feet of forbidding rocks capped with night. And the ice is giving way to something underneath. He cannot picture anything worse than the cold, but the woman stares fixedly at the lake, her nostrils flaring in fear.
    But one string of certainty holds John suspended upright: He is not dreaming. There is a sense of finality to the lake, a brutal and unyielding realness to the cold and the rock. The lake, though, is different, more a doorway than a pool. Up here, he can breathe and think, but he knows there will be no place or time for reflection if he falls through the ice.
    His eyes dart around the lake, searching the cliff walls for a crack, a cleft, a ledge, anything to ward off the cold and to get away from whatever is ascending from the bottom of the lake. His thoughts race