Page 12 of Viking

His accent is strange. It’s not at all like that of my people, nor is it like the father and son holy men who so frequently visited our island bearing newborn babies. It’s smoother and rougher all at once, and he seems to swallow part of his words.

“Holy shit!” the man from the driver’s seat says and the vehicle swerves, knocking me from my position. The blade from my hand tumbles to the floor. I reach for it, but I’m suddenly pinned, his heavy weight merciless on top of me. I struggle, but I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I think my ribs may be broken.

“Give it up, bitch. You’re not getting another chance to slit my throat.”

The van comes to a screeching halt, and they throw open the back doors. “Shit, Prez. I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was awake.”

“Get me the fucking Propofol.”

A heavy-set man with a child-like face barrels into the van. He has an object in his hand, a cylinder with a silver needle attached, the kind my people use for the sewing of wounds of fabric when new garments need to be made. He hands the object to the man on top of me and a beat later; I feel a sharp sting in my neck.

My insides turn to mush, I can no longer feel my limbs and I do not fight when the man eases off me and turns me in his lap. I look upon his angry face, which is far more handsome than those of the Brotherhood or the Prophet. The unkempt beard and tattoos on his skin are frightening, but as I reach up and stroke my fingers over his cheek, he’s tanned and weathered, just like the people of my village. I toy with the braid in his beard, and I think I may even smile at how it feels.

“Where’d you come from darlin’,” he asks, his voice so gruff my skin breaks out in chills.

I point at the doors, my hand feeling too heavy for the gesture.

“From Meatball?” Prospect asks.

“From the sea,” the man holding me whispers.

“Fuck me, Prez went and got himself a little mermaid.”

“Where there anymore of those bitches lying around on the shore Prez?”

“Maybe we should go back?”

“What’s your name, darlin’?” The man asks.

“B-be free.”

“Did she say ‘be free’?”

“Arie,” I whisper, though the sound barely escapes my throat. “Be ... free.” I feel the soft tickle of his beard against my cheek, breathe in the spicy scent of him, and finally close my eyes.

CHAPTER TEN

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