One of the heavy wood double doors creaked open with suitably atmospheric noise. I half expected to see someone in a full Dracula outfit answering the door, or at least a hunchbacked minion in a lab coat, but the man who stood at the door with a polite expression of query on his face was anything but standard monster movie fodder. He was a little taller than me, had sandy brown hair, freckles, and absolutely black eyes.
“Ja?” he asked.
It was the black eyes that gave him away. “You’re the lich, aren’t you? You’re . . . Ulfur?”
He blinked at me a moment, then answered in a voice with a slight Scandinavian accent, “Who are you?”
“The lich!” Eirik yanked me aside, sending me crashing into a large planter as he lunged forward, the other Vikings giving bloodcurdling cries of happiness as they rushed with him, their weapons in hand.
“No! Wait, guys—” Painfully, I scrambled out of the planter, about to order the Vikings to stand down their attack, but the words left my mouth as I flung myself to the side to escape the path of a screaming, rampaging horse that suddenly burst out upon us.
Isleif yelled something and ran over to protect me, while the other two Vikings started hacking away at the horse. I had a moment of sheer unadulterated horror as I imagined the worst had happened, but when I leaped out from behind Isleif’s bulk to stop the carnage, there was nothing to stop. Oh, to be sure, Eirik and Finnvid were fighting the horse, and he was a mass of flashing hooves and teeth-gratingly loud, angered screams, but there was no blood, no gore, nothing. I stared with fascination for a moment at the sight of the Vikings and horse before turning to the man who calmly watched the scene from the doorway.
“You live with a ghost horse?” I asked.
“That’s Ragnor. Yes, he is a ghost. My master refused to raise him when he had me raised.”
“You are Ulfur, aren’t you?” I asked, examining him for signs that he might be tainted by evil power.
“Yes, I am.” He turned his attention to the three Vikings, who had by now realized that the horse was insubstantial. “Those are ghosts, too, aren’t they?”
“We are Viking ninjas, lich,” Eirik said as he swaggered over to Ulfur. “We are here to protect the goddess Fran, so do not think to attack her, for we will cut out your liver and eat it before your eyes.”
Ulfur’s eyebrows went up at that. “I have no intention of attacking anyone, let alone a woman. Did you say goddess?” He gave me a once-over. “You don’t look like a goddess.”
“I’m not. It’s just a misunderstanding. I’m Fran. Francesca Ghetti. I believe you have something of mine, a valknut.”
Ulfur’s black eyes widened for a few seconds, then he glanced over his shoulder, hesitant, before stepping back and gesturing toward the inside of the house. “You may come in, but you must not stay long. My master isn’t at home now, but he does not like visitors, especially unexpected ones.”
The room he led us to was a surprise—I had expected that with a house this old, it would be filled with dark paneling and antiques. But this room, clearly one meant for entertaining, reminded me of something a hip, urbane Satan would have. The walls were rock, not wood paneled, the floor a glossy cream marble cut into diamond shapes, and the furniture was ultramodern, all scarlet in color, with uncomfortable-looking chairs, swooping, curved-seat love seats, and white, headless, armless statues of naked women dotted around the room.
I could see the Vikings appreciated the statues, but the room left me cold, literally and figuratively. Ragnor the ghostly horse followed us, his eyes narrowed, his ears back. It was vaguely disconcerting that his hooves made no sound on the marble floor, but I decided that was the least of my worries.
“We won’t stay long. Assuming you give me back the Vikingahärta,” I said, holding out a hand when Eirik, with a growl, started toward the lich. “Eirik, let’s try our party manners first.”
The outraged look Eirik shot me spoke volumes. “You said we could force the lich to do what we wanted. You promised us blood sport.”
Ulfur’s face paled, but he didn’t back up. He looked like he knew he was overwhelmed, but was going to stand his ground, regardless.
“I said you could persuade Ulfur if he refused to give me back the Vikingahärta, but he’s not going to refuse. Are you?” I kept my voice and expression sweet as I gave Ulfur an encouraging smile. I remembered well the unspeakable anguish that held him in an unbreakable grip.
His face tightened as if he was, in fact, going to refuse, but after what must have been an inner struggle, his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. “No. I will not refuse to return to you the valknut, although it will mean serious trouble with my master. Wait here. I will get it for you.”