Copenhagen Cozenage (12 page)

OK, look for a phone or just run?

The door stood wide open to the hall beyond.

I hobbled over to Freja and rolled her over with my foot. I stared down at my cousin, the family I had prayed for, the family I wished I had never found. She didn’t stir.

I hooked my good arm around her waist and tried to drag her. She slithered out of my grasp. I got down on my knees and attempted to shove her up the steps with my shoulder. Freja thumped over once and stuck. The pain in my arm throbbed in my ears and I had to lean against the wall to catch my breath.

There was no way I could drag her up those steps and through the door. We couldn’t escape together and besides that, my fairytale cousin, my precious relative, had betrayed me. What I could do was leave Freja here and go for help. No one would blame me for taking my chance to escape and coming back for her when I had a police officer or a firefighter or someone with a large gun or perhaps an industrial-sized flame thrower.

Maks was enormous—a fierce and capable minion.

I doubted the hotel staff would be sufficient to contain him. It would take someone with special talents that I did not possess. And he could awaken at any moment. Why should I stick around just to get pulverized? I closed my eyes, wanting my unconscious cousin out of sight for a moment.

She had betrayed me. She had worked with our grandfather and Maks to con me.

But leaning against the concrete wall with my eyes closed reminded me of that horrible moment in the hall when Maks stuffed me under his arm and slapped duct tape across my eyes.

Freja stood up to Maks for me and had been hurt because of it.

What if he woke up? What would he do to Freja?

I glanced across the dim room, searching for a brilliant plan that only required the use of one arm. What to do? I looked between Freja’s slumped form and the open doorway at the top of the stairs.

Go get help. That was my only option.

The crisp snap of men’s dress shoes against polished flooring made me drop to a crouch at the bottom of the steps. My heart thundered in my ears and my hands began to shake. Was it one of my grandfather’s minions? Or Axel Rasmussen himself?

I could not handle any more horrible relatives. I sank lower, hidden by the steps.

A tall man with brown hair zipped past the door. He was speaking into a phone clipped to his ear. He was dressed like the hotel staff, but what if it was a disguise? Should I risk calling out?

I started to straighten from behind the step, but my throat was so tight and dry I couldn’t make a squeak. I tried to swallow.

The man backpedaled and leaned through the doorway for an instant. He scowled as his gaze scanned the mess. I choked out some word that almost sounded like “help.” He slammed the door and locked it with a snap.

I stared up at the locked door. Terror crawled down my throat and burrowed in my chest. I scrambled up the steps and pounded with my good fist. Mistake. The jarring sent my world fading to black. By the time I could see again the man was gone. He was gone and both Freja and I were trapped with Maks the Malevolent. I stared at the door in silent horror as the minutes boomed past in my head. Finally, I remembered Maks’s phone.

The phone wasn’t in his pockets or on the floor beneath him. I turned in a circle. Could it have flown across the room? I checked every nook and cranny, and then sifted through the pastry carts. I finally found it buried in a sad smear of demolished éclair.

I snatched it up and dialed my own number. It rang three times and went to voice mail. I tried again. I left a message again, but the results were the same. Why wasn’t August picking up? I stared at the phone for a moment, and then dialed his number. I know, I know. I shouldn’t have been able to remember his number. But I was just that pitiable. I memorized it, OK? A cute guy hands me his phone number in the airport…I couldn’t help myself. And if he knew what was good for him, that insufferable flirt would pick up this instant.

Voicemail.

“August, this is Morgan. I’m trapped in the sugar cellar under the Nimb Hotel. Maks broke my arm and Freja won’t wake up and you have my grandmother’s watch. You owe me so much I don’t know where to start—
Beep.

I smashed the phone into a pear Danish and tried to put my head in my hands. The whole broken arm thing made that an agonizing mistake. I leaned against the wall and tried not to make any whimpering noises. When I had gained some semblance of control, I took a breath to clear my head and dialed 911.

A sharp beep pierced my ear, followed by a calm voice in Danish saying something about 112. My Danish-to-English dictionary was gone so I blazed forward in English hoping that the operator was bilingual. Right when I got to the part about Maks and the basement, a grating buzz made me cringe. The phone clicked and the screen went dark. What? I scowled at the phone and then glared over at Freja. I wiggled her shoulder with my foot.

“Hey Freja, how do you dial 911 in Denmark?”

No response.

I tried 111, 211, 311, 411 and so on but got nothing, not even a beep. How was it possible that Maks’s phone could be destroyed by a little bit of frosting? Mine had survived Dragon Boat Lake and a plunge from a pirate ship. I rubbed it on my dress, trying to get all the sugar out of the buttons. OK, it was a lot of frosting. But whatever the quantities of destroying confection, the result was the same. We were on our own.

I glanced over at the sleeping giant. Exactly how hard had he hit his head? His breathing was deep and steady. But eventually Maks would wake up and Freja and I would be there to greet him.

I spent several minutes hobbling around the cellar in frantic and useless activity. My arm was screaming at me to stop and despite my desperate search, no secret passageways or loaded firearms presented themselves. Finally, I was forced to admit that I had neither resources nor a brilliant plan. What I did have was fatigue, broken bones, and an empty stomach. Yay, me!

I scrunched up on my side next to Freja with two Danishes and croissant. At least it was a task I could bumble through using one arm. If I took half a moment to eat something, perhaps a brilliant one-armed-escape plan would present itself. I glanced down at my beautiful yellow dress. It was torn, bloodied, and coated liberally in frosting. No dog hair, though. My attempt to dress for success had been the kind of epic fail that inspired whole movie franchises. I could picture it now.

Fashionista Failure IV: She’s been covered in dog hair, lake water, and drool. Watch the latest addition to Morgan’s travails and see if blood, frosting, and sweet, fruity filling improve our heroine’s appearance.

Ugh. I was right back where I’d started. The only clean clothes my suitcase now contained were the ratty jeans and Star Jumpers T-shirt.

I took a bite of the apricot cream Danish. Delicious.

Running footsteps echoed down the hall above.

I clamped my teeth against the pain and pushed myself upright using the wall for leverage. Then I grabbed my mop, hobbled up the steps, and crouched once again beside the door.

A key rattled in the lock.

19

Theater Trick

The mop trap worked fabulously. The second attacker went airborne toward the pastry carts, and I realized that it was a bit too fabulous.

I had just launched August.

An image of an annoying flirt, broken and bloody and expiring upon a bed of mashed pastries flashed through my mind. I screamed some unintelligible bit of advice toward him and threw my mop to the side. My rush down the stairs turned into a slide. My broken arm thumped against an oversized bag of confectioners’ sugar and my screaming changed from unintelligible advice to cries of agony.

August did a tidy flip and landed in front of me in a crouch. He looked at my shocked face and grinned, brushing his shaggy blond hair back from his eyes. “I do stunts, too. Not just fake beards and plastic rats.”

I sagged back against the sugar sack and burst into tears.

His smirk melted away. August hesitated and then leaned forward as though he might touch my face or pick up my hand. Instead, he scanned my body until his eyes stopped on all the duct tape looped around my arm. “Is it your arm?”

“Charming and brilliant. How is it you’re still single, August?”

Maks groaned in his sleep and flopped over burying his face in cream filling. I couldn’t help myself. I scooted closer to August, despite my annoyance.

August glanced over his shoulder and then met my gaze again, looking grim. “We need to move.” August yanked a phone out of his pocket and dialed the police. He did not stay on the line as requested, but only gave them our address before snapping the phone shut. He braced his hands on his knees, assessing my face, and then offered me his hand.

I took it, grinding my cheek between my teeth to keep silent as he pulled me to my feet. The pain flared into a blaze. The room darkened and crackling static crept across my peripheral vision. I was crying in earnest now, that horrible ugly kind of crying that comes when you are enduring more than simple pain. They were the kind of tears that come with exhaustion and heartache and disappointment. Tears that speak less about injury and more about hurt. Was this God’s answer, then? An open door I couldn’t reach, an unconscious family member I couldn’t trust, and a handsome man who smashed into the room causing hurt and mayhem at every turn?

August scooped me up without a word and carried me to the top of the stairs. He sat at the top of the cement steps with his back against the open cellar door. Careful of my broken arm, he settled me against his shoulder and let me weep.

August was mumbling something against my hair. “The ransomed of the Lord will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away. I, even I, am He who comforts you. Who are you that you fear mortal men…let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.”

A cool, clear calm washed over me. I braced my broken arm with my good hand and sat up.

God had heard me. He heard my prayer and sent me this insufferable man to carry me up the steps and pray verses over me. The same verses He had sent to me Himself. The verses that I needed to hear, again and again and again. The verses God knew I needed to believe, if I was going to survive. I smudged the tears off my face with a soggy corner of August’s T-shirt and managed to smile up at him.

He was crying too. His eyes closed, his head leaning back against the door behind us. Hmmm, perhaps discovering that your new photography job has ruined the dreams of a geeky girl from Seattle is more stressful than I had thought.

I touched his shoulder and he stopped, opening his eyes.

He looked into my eyes for a moment, squeezed my hand and stood. “Let me get your friend.”

Freja sat up, slurred something about a herd of elephants in the lounge, and slumped against August’s shoulder as he carried her up the stairs. He set her beside me and rushed to a closet two doors down. He ran back, pushing an old wheelchair with the hotel’s logo printed on the green vinyl seat. He settled Freja and then turned and stared down into my face. I was absolutely certain that my visage was puffy and besmeared beyond repair. But nonetheless, August tilted my chin with two fingers, until I met his gaze.

My heart thumped along in a wild and haphazard manner, seemingly unaware that it needed to slow down and rest lest it pound itself to pieces.

“Better,” he said. His blue eyes had lightened slightly and laugh lines crinkled around them, though he did not smile. August stood there for a moment, as though he were about to say something profound. Then he sighed. “I can’t believe you bandaged your arm in duct tape. You have hidden talents, Morgan. I’m impressed.” He took a step back to shut the cellar door, and then paused.

“You left your shoes again.” He jogged down the stairs and stooped to pick up my delicate white heels.

I braced myself against the door, sagging and unsteady.

A crash and a grunt of pain came from the cellar below.

I scrambled to my feet and stared at August.

Maks stood, huge and hulking in the dim light. He must have thrown August into flour, for the air was full of white dust.

August groaned and rolled as Maks lunged for him.

I took a step forward.

August saw me. “No!” He coughed out. “Get to the lounge. The police are coming.”

I stood frozen. August had come for me. I couldn’t just leave him.

But August dodged back from Maks’s rush and met my gaze. “Please,” he mouthed as the massive man charged down upon him.

I stumbled and turned to brace against the wheelchair. I would be useless to both August and Freja if I ended up back on the floor bleeding and crying. Using my good shoulder, I shoved the wheelchair down the hall.
Oh, God, please help. Maks is going to kill him.

20

Fancy Schmancy

I shoved Freja and the wheelchair into the opulent calm of the Sunday Luxury Brunch. The wheelchair clacked across the smooth pinewood flooring, past tall purple flowers and glowing candles on clean glass tables. Two massive chandeliers glittered above us. Inviting clusters of plush gray couches and the crackling warmth of two blazing fireplaces made the room both high class and friendly.

That is, unless one entered the lounge hauling an unconscious passenger and bore obvious contusions upon one’s person. Nothing says luxury like champagne, caviar, charcuterie meats, and a screaming woman with blood and whipped cream all tangled up in her hair.

Axel Rasmussen gaped at us and reached for his phone.

All the police had was an address. If my grandfather gave his version of today’s events first, Freja and I were in serious trouble. We did not look even remotely sane, not compared to Axel in his tailored gray suit.

Well-dressed individuals stared at my unsightly hair and a visible shudder ran through the crowd.