In the Company of Vampires(65)

She was silent for a moment, looking at my arm with a faint frown. At last she nodded and looked up at me. “It is my proclivity to warn you against the sort of beings that could have such an effect on you, but Sir Edward tells me that in this, I am wrong. The being who inadvertently did this to you needs you, Fran.”

I groaned. “Oh, great, that’s just what I want to hear—someone else wants me to fight dragons for them.”

“Not dragons, no. Liches. Or rather, Ilargis.”

“Well, whoever he is, he’s going to have to get in line. I have to find out exactly what’s going on with my mother, and take care of Loki, first.”

Tallulah gave me an odd look, but said nothing behind the reassurance that my hand and arm would be fine in a day or two, and that a sling wouldn’t be amiss if I desired.

I didn’t. Nor did I wish for the fuss that Imogen made over me, crafting a stylish sling out of a designer silk scarf, but she meant well, and I was warmed by her concern. By the time she had tied on the sling and gently tucked my weak arm into it, Ben had unburdened himself of several warnings about taxing myself when he wasn’t around.

You’re dangerously close to the line, I told him when he left to get some sleep in Naomi’s bed.

I know. He sighed. It’s difficult, Francesca. I wish to protect you, but I know that will only serve to drive you away.

I mused on that as I returned to my mother’s trailer, changing into a pair of sage-colored linen walking shorts and sleeveless tunic that Inner Fran hoped Ben would find attractive. A memory returned to me, that of me angrily telling Imogen I was leaving Ben because all he wanted to do was to run my life, and that he was arrogant, stubborn, and inflexible.

“He is a Dark One,” she had snapped back, her eyes flashing with ire. “Would you want him to change? Would you want him to become something he isn’t?”

I didn’t really want him to change. It wasn’t Ben himself that was at the root of my quandary—he was quite obviously trying to adjust himself to my needs, and that, more than anything, touched me. But was he doing that because he had to, driven by the same forces that matched us up, or was his motivation something more promising?

To be honest, I’m a bit surprised you’re not insisting on coming with me, I told Ben.

I thought about it, he answered, a sort of hesitant amazement tingeing the words. But you are more capable now, not so heedless. The incident with Imogen’s nightstand aside, I do not believe you will put yourself in danger.

You’ve come a long way, baby, I laughed into his head.

As have you. Once again I had the sense of surprise from him, as if he was adjusting his mental image of me.

Did that include warmer feelings? Something beyond the physical attraction? I shook my head, unwilling to spend the day trying to figure out something that would surely be made clear in time.

“Right,” I told the Vikings a little later, when I had assembled them in the trailer to organize the day’s plan of attack. “First of all, you have to change your clothes, all of you. Isleif, if you turn around one more time, I will send you back to Valhalla. Sit down. Oh dear goddess . . . cross your legs or something! Thank you. I know you guys are enjoying wearing modern clothes, and heaven knows, I’m no couture snob, but there are levels of decency that I think are being ignored, and that’s got to change. So you’re all going to change your clothes before we go into Breast Warts.”

“I told you she wouldn’t like the rod sack,” Finnvid said to Isleif. “I told him, goddess!”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Indeed. And why, if you don’t mind me asking, are you wearing a kilt?”

Finnvid looked down at his wool kilt, above which he wore a fishnet sleeveless shirt. “Imogen said women like men in a short skirt. She said they run after them and ogle them and try to see their rod.”

“There are times when I truly feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone,” I said to myself. “You’re a Viking, Finnvid.”

“Aye, I am.”

“Scotsmen wear kilts. Vikings don’t.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I nodded.

“All right.” Before I could do so much as blink, the kilt dropped to his feet with a fwoop.

“For pity’s sake . . .” I turned around so I wasn’t staring at his nakedness. “Put something on! Something decent! And you—” I pointed to Eirik, who was lounging against the wall, looking somewhat bored. “Put on a pair of pants. Yes, over the silk shorts.”

I waited until all three men were dressed in their previously worn bizarre (but decent) ensembles. “I think we all agree that I can’t go any further in locating my mother without the Vikingahärta.”