"Aren't you worried?"

"What would my being worried do?" he returned, sounding tired.

"We have to make someone look into the fact that she's missing."

"I believe the police are looking into her disappearance."

"What makes you think so?' "

He hesitated. "I called."

"Oh."

"Look, I'll go down there and insist they find out about Tiff tomorrow, all right?"

She nodded, pleased. Their waiter brought the check; Ragnor paid and they started out.

The streets were quieter now, but with him, she saw no shadows.

And heard no whispers.

"You really insist they do something?" she asked as they walked.

"Yes."

When they returned to the hotel, he followed her to her room. She watched as he went through all the motions he had gone through the previous evening.

"You're more neurotic than I am."

"I've told you that I'm worried about you."

She was silent a moment as he watched her. Then she asked, "Are you staying?"

"Yes," he said softly.

She bolted the door.

A minute later, she was in his arms.

Later that night, hours later, she turned to him and asked, again, "Who are you- really?"

He was silent for a moment, stroking her hair. "I've told you the truth. I am from Norway; I have lived all over the world. And my name is Ragnor Wulfsson." He drew her against him, as if falling asleep.

But he wasn't asleep, she thought.

She pulled away slightly. It was very dark in the room, but she could see the planes of his face. She traced them, thinking that his features were exceptionally fine, that he was an incredible lover, and that she liked him, liked being with him .. .

That she wanted to know him more, that she loved his touch . ..

That she had never felt as she did when she was with him.

Except that...

"Okay, then, what are you?" she asked very softly.

"A man," he murmured. "A man."

He didn't stir again.

Yet, she thought, he still wasn't sleeping.

CHAPTER 13.

When he was a small child, he was unaware of the world of violence and cruelty into which he had been born, of the strange heritage due to come his way.

His village by the sea was productive and peaceful. Fanners tilled the earth; fishermen went to sea; shepherds tended their flocks. In spring and summer, the fields were rich, and the forests were filled with game. During the long, cold winters, men carved fine images from blocks of wood, and the storytellers entertained young and old alike with tales of the daring of the G.o.ds, the wars with the giants, the follies of all creatures upon the earth.

There was law and order among his people; disputes were settled in the great central house, where his great-uncle had the final word. Sometimes, of course, a grievous complaint would be settled in battle, and the clash of arms was like a war among G.o.ds in which Odin blew the north wind and Thor, in his fury, sent down lightning and thunder.

There was no dishonor in dying in such a battle, for Valhalla was open only to those who fought with the greatest courage and defied the realm of Hel, G.o.ddess of the underworld.

Religion and storytelling were one and the same.

Despite the richness of his village and the customary peace and domesticity within it, he was, from an early age, taught the rudiments of battle. His father was nephew to the jarl and held a place of honor within this realm. His father was also greatly feared as one of the most powerful of the warriors; he was often gone, and his name was spoken softly and with a strange whisper of both awe and dread. As the seventh son of this incredible man, the boy was watched expectantly, and he knew, from the time he could talk and walk, he would one day go forth into the world, where he would be required to outdo other men with his prowess and courage. He would not be allowed to fail. This in itself was not in the least strange, for most young men of n.o.ble families were taught the virtues of strength and power. Despite the fine location and lush fields of his homeland, it would remain rich, and give plenty only if its sons went out upon the seas, settled new homelands, and brought back the wealth of others.

He always knew he would go a-Viking. It was a way of life. His brothers before him had gone, and they returned, sometimes years later, to boast of great conquests, to bring back foreign gold and art. They told about the monks who had inscribed the books they brought back, helpless fellows who cried to their one G.o.d but received no help from him as they battled the men they called demons who had come to their sh.o.r.es.

Often when his father was gone, his mother would speak of her husband, then lower her head and whisper a prayer to Freya. As he grew, he began to wonder whether she prayed that her husband would return, or that he would not.

As he neared his thirteenth birthday, he was already taller than most of the men, and they were a tall breed. He was also singularly adept in his training with arms.

Some of his first memories were of going to the docks to see the returning warriors, bold men, fierce men, berserkers among them, who had sailed the seas through wind and storm to strike the coastal towns of other peoples. There they sought gold and treasure, wreaked havoc, and sometimes returned not just with riches, but with a cargo of humanity as well, slaves to work for n.o.ble men's wives, to till the fields, gather the harvests. Theirs was an intriguing community, for dauntless valor and steadfast bravery were the greatest traits in a man, and a slave who proved his mettle might one day become one of them, and strike out upon the seas himself. When the warriors returned, the longhorns would sound, and the village would come out to welcome the returning heroes, to hear their stories of battle and conquest, and marvel at the goods from civilizations across the seas.

At thirteen, he was to sail with his oldest brother, Hagan. They would stop in the islands north of Scotland, held by Norse jarls, then head south and raid a village along the Hebrides where it was rumored that monks had come from France with reliquaries of gold fashioned by fine goldsmiths in Paris. The Nors.e.m.e.n had no interest in the fragile pieces of bone and ash so reverently contained in the gold vessels; they only wanted the precious metal.

Sailing was good; he loved it. He didn't mind the backbreaking labor of rowing the great dragon-p.r.o.nged ship when there was no wind, and he loved a storm at sea. The wind sweeping the sky, the roiling gray, the black toss of the waves, all created a tempest that made him feel very alive, a warrior against the obstacles set forth by the G.o.ds.

The islands where his distant cousins ruled, slave-masters of many of the original inhabitants were intriguing. He had never seen so many different peoples: many were short, dark-haired, and spoke a strange language that he found fascinating. There, on the isles, they were refitted for their travels; they practiced with arms, and held contests to win women, armor, weapons, and shields. All was going well until one of their hosts heard word of the treasure they had come to seize from farther south; the inhabitants of the isles felt that the treasure was more rightly theirs, and heated arguments arose, near to a drawing of swords and an all-out ma.s.sacre between them. But rising from his seat around the huge fire in the jarl's circular hall, Hagan boasted that his brother had been born under a special sign, therefore he could best a man twice his height, and twice his size. His brother, seventh son of the seventh son, born beneath the black moon of deep midnight, would fight their strongest, most able man. They would fight to the death, and the men of the victor would be the warriors to seek the prize.

Ragnor was stunned-as stunned as those laughing at him-and though he could not humiliate his brother, he wasn't at all sure why it seemed his brother was intent on his murder. The jarl a.s.sessed him carefully. Ragnor informed him that this destined prowess of his had yet to be tested, but the jarl demanded that the fight should follow as Hagan had suggested. He called to one of his champions, a man called Olaf the Giant.

Olaf had been aptly named; he appeared as wide as he was tall, and his height was staggering, but there was nothing in the man run to fat or drink. His breadth was muscle. At thirteen, Ragnor was lean despite his customary work with heavy weapons and the monotonous labor of rowing. The G.o.ds expected courage when he stood before Olaf the Giant, but Ragnor could not meet his soon-to-be slayer without a look at his brother that indicated his feelings of betrayal. He knew, however, that it would be far better to fall to one of Olaf's ma.s.sive blows than to act the coward and face the fury of his fellow Vikings.

He stepped onto the dirt patch before the fire that was a.s.signed as the fighting place. He was granted three shields and three weapons. He chose an axe, a mace and a sword.

He had barely stepped forward, barely hoisted his wooden shield, when Olaf bore down on him, vowing to give him a quick and painless death and allow him a "child's" place among the G.o.ds. Olaf's one simple swing of his battle-axe shattered Ragnor's shield into splinters. He retreated, taking up the next shield handed to him. The shield was barely in his grasp before Olaf was coming toward him again, raising his battle-axe.

This next time, Ragnor leaped aside; Olaf's swing missed, and his giant axe swung hard into the earthen flooring.

"Kill him now! It's your chance!" his brother roared.

But all he had known thus far was the role of student, and so Ragnor hesitated. Olaf brought his weapon from the ground and came at him, swinging again.

Ragnor ducked and circled around, to the great amus.e.m.e.nt of the onlookers. When Olaf shattered his second shield, Ragnor dropped the mace as well as the remnants of protective wood; he then picked up his sword.

When the giant came forward, laughing and drawing back his axe, Ragnor sped forward, striking instantly and with dead precision.

Ragnor caught him in the throat. Olaf, amazed, dropped his weapon and clasped his throat with both hands.

Blood gushed through the man's fingers. For seconds that seemed an eternity, Olaf stared at Ragnor.

Then he fell dead to the floor.

Men all around him cheered. His brother rushed forward and hoisted him on his shoulders. He should have felt the elation of his fellow men. He felt hollow instead.

That night, the Jarl of the isles gave Ragnor a shield fronted with silver, an ancient bequest brought back from the ruins of an ancient Roman village on the mainland far to the south. The jarl awarded him two women as well, presents from a group who had gone a- Viking all the way to the lands of the yellow people.

He didn't mind the gift of the women at all. They taught him things he had never imagined. But despite the drink he consumed and the energy required from the women, he didn't sleep that night.

He should have died.

The next morning, he accosted his brother.

"You were quick to risk my life."

"I never risked your life."

"He was twice my size, brutal."

"But you are our father's seventh son."

"So I'm immortal? A child of the G.o.ds?" he scoffed.

Hagan put out a finger, touching him directly on the forehead. "The seventh son of the wolf, who is the seventh son of the wolf. And a child of deep midnight, conceived of the hour, born of the hour. You have the cunning of the wolf, and the hunger, and the loyalty."

"And that kept me alive?"

Hagan shrugged with a broad grin. "Well, I had heard that it would do so. And now I have proof."

"You risked my life!" Ragnor said again angrily.

"A Viking does not live forever. And his place in the halls of Valhalla is great only if he has performed great deeds on earth."

The following day, they left, striking out for the rich treasure they sought.

When they came ash.o.r.e, Ragnor was sickened by the carnage. His brother's men set upon the little community of monks with a vengeance.

Men with tonsures, clad in brown wool, raced about screaming, dropping to their knees, crying for their One True G.o.d. Hagan laughed and ignored them, slicing them as he approached their place of worship.

Ragnor followed behind, trying to remind himself that he was a youth here, that they would call him a girl, weak as a woman, if he decried the violence.

But they had set him up to battle a giant; he had some say.

So he shouted with such force that he caused them to halt and stare at him. "Leave them! Leave them be!" he demanded. And striding forward, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the skinny man his brother was about to skewer from Hagan's hands.

"You've come for treasure. Take the treasure."

"Are you a coward?" Ulric, one of the fiercest warriors shouted. "The seventh son of the seventh son- a coward?" Ulric roared with laughter.

"I haven't such courage as you, to slice up men who are not even armed. The G.o.ds would mock you. A warrior! A man who slays men who are like sheep!"

There was silence among them.

"Get the treasure!" Ragnor insisted.

The monks were too stunned to protest; he thought later that many would have died to save their relics. One stood at the doorway to the monastery, a very tall man. "Take the silver and gold, leave what means nothing to you-the bone and the ash."

"The bone and the ash are the earth's!" Hagan ordered.

"Leave them their talismans," Ragnor said. "I have heard of the halls of Valhalla, and what I have heard is that the greatest warriors know when to give mercy."

The Vikings swore as they let the remaining monks house their precious relics in the stoneware dishes which were surely meant for their meals. But the precious relics were left behind. Before they left, the tall monk found Ragnor perched on a rock, waiting.

"I had visions that you would come," the monk told him.

Ragnor looked at him skeptically. The monk smiled.

"Don't bother me, or I'll let them slit your throat."

"A lad with fire," the monk murmured, "but a lad, still, nonetheless."

"Not anymore."

"It will be years before you are full grown. But I prayed years ago, knowing that the Viking ships were busy again. And G.o.d answered me in a dream, telling me not to fear. You would come to protect us."

"I came to steal silver."

The monk shrugged. He pulled a pendant from around his neck and held it out to Ragnor. Ragnor nearly hit him when he reached out to pull it over his head.

"Silver, not stolen, but given. It is set with jewels- and a relic said to come from the very body of John the Baptist."