Magic by Moonlight (11 page)

She pushed the thought aside, tossed her
purse on the sofa, and walked down the basement stairs and into the
control room. Russell wouldn't die, not yet. It was too soon, and
he was too stubborn to go in the midst of his greatest discovery.
And when he came back home, his first concern would be for that
discovery. So, she would care for it diligently. If anything
happened to the find, it would kill her father faster than any
heart attack ever could.

At first glance everything seemed just as
she'd left it. Files on the floor and a small bloodstain where her
father had fallen. She shivered and gave the monitors a cursory
glance...then sucked in her breath.

The digital temperature panel read
ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Panic knocked the wind out of her
as surely as a fist to the stomach would have done. The
climate-control panel must have been knocked askew in the struggle.
A quick glimpse at the setting confirmed her guess. Why hadn't she
checked it before? Why had she satisfied herself with a glance at
the readings, and not checked the settings? God, everything her
father had worked for could be ruined!

She punched numbers rapidly into the panel to
release the lock, threw the door open wide, and hurried inside.
Only the soft glow of the minimal lighting in the windowless room
guided her. The stifling heat slammed into her like a living thing.
But the Viking lay as he had before. His skin seemed less chalky,
but it might be the lighting or her fear making it seem so. Maybe
it wasn't too late.

She turned to go back to the control panel
and readjust the climate control to lower the temperature as
rapidly as possible. She froze in the doorway when her gaze locked
on the monitor directly opposite. The wavering white line across
the screen sent her blood to her feet. She blinked and
double-checked the label on the monitor. EEG. Electroencephalogram.
The meter of brain-wave activity, a formality, nothing that was
ever expected to register a reading. But it had to be
malfunctioning. It couldn't be reading what was there. It wasn't
possible for there to be—

The sudden, strangled gasp was drawn with
harsh desperation, and it came from behind her. Then silence.

She whirled and saw the body on the table
begin to shake. The huge arms and legs trembled convulsively. The
broad chest vibrated. The corded neck was arched and quivering.

In that moment, Miranda stopped seeing a
specimen. What she saw was a man on the brink of suffocation. A man
straining to breathe, but unable to do so. A man about to
die...again.

Her reaction was purely instinctive. Taking
no time to dwell on the unthinkable thing that was happening, she
was beside the table before she knew she'd moved. She gripped the
solid shoulders, fighting to hold him still as she pressed her ear
to his chest. Nothing. Clasping her hands together in one balled
fist, she brought them down hard on his sternum. He flinched.

Frantically she caught his whiskered face
between her palms and tipped up his chin. She pinched his nose and
covered his mouth with her own, breathing life into him, once,
twice, again. She blew hard to fill his massive lungs, then
returned to the chest, positioning her hands over his sternum to
massage a long-silent heart.

A rapid thud tapped against her palm, and it
seemed her own heart rate sped up until it echoed his. The fit of
convulsions slowed and died. She watched in utter awe as the huge
chest rose and fell, far too quickly, but regularly. Beneath her
hands, now-supple flesh gradually warmed.

He was breathing.

His heart was beating.

His brain was functioning.

She stepped backward, away from him and
turned in the doorway to scan the monitors. They confirmed the
impossible. Not one flat line among them. Not one.

An agonized moan, so hoarse it hurt her ears,
brought her around once more. His eyes were blue...the pale,
silvery blue of an icy sea, and they were staring right into hers.
She saw many things in those piercing blue eyes—confusion, pain and
an unfocused quality that told her he wasn't seeing clearly. He
remained on his back, just staring at her, silently asking her a
thousand questions, most of which she was certain she couldn't
answer.

She was in awe, in shock. Life's blood pulsed
through the formerly dormant body, giving color to his skin. She
took a step toward him, then another. Slowly, tentatively, she
approached him. He moved only his eyes, keeping them locked with
hers. Beside the table she stopped. In wonder, she lifted a
trembling hand and placed it with tender reverence upon his face.
Her fingertips brushed over the small expanse of his cheek
uncovered by beard. "You're alive." It was no more than a
whisper.

His response was to slowly lift one of his
large hands and thread his fingers through her hair, pulling what
few strands had remained pinned in place down to join the rest in
what she knew must resemble a pumpkin orange disarray. "Valkyrie."
The word came in a voice hoarse from disuse.

Her words, she knew, were foreign to him. She
understood his, though. It was almost laughable. If he thought her
one of the legendary demigoddesses, the Valkyries, who in Norse
mythology were said to greet fallen warriors at their deaths and
lead them to Valhalla, he must be incredibly disappointed.
Valkyries were supposed to be beautiful, strong, sensual creatures.
She saw herself as none of the above.

She stifled her amused grin and met his
wonder-filled gaze. "No." She shook her head. "Not Valkyrie.
Miranda." She frowned hard, searching her memory for the
Islensk
words.
"Eg heiti
Miranda."

She wished she had a more thorough knowledge
of the language. Not that it mattered. She wouldn't be able to tell
him anything, anyway. She had no idea how this had happened, but
she was absurdly glad it had. Her eyes burned and she had the urge
to laugh out loud. "You're alive." She said it softly, a sense of
wonder in her voice, and stared down at him, wondering what he was
thinking, what he was feeling. Was he in pain?

His hand clasped the base of her neck to draw
her nearer. He squinted, then blinked as if to focus his vision.
Suddenly the curious, reverent gleam left his eyes and they
narrowed in a way that made her heart jump in fear. His hand in her
hair turned cruel, twisting a lock around it until she thought he'd
rip it out. His mouth curled into a sneer and he uttered a single
word, "Adrianna." It was, she sensed, an accusation.

He rose slightly and with a brutal thrust,
pushed her away from him. His shove was so forceful she found
herself on the floor. Even as she fought panic and shock and began
to get to her feet again, she saw him leap from the table. He
loomed over her, spewing forth a stream of Norse words so filled
with anger and bitterness she could barely believe the strength of
them. How had she allowed herself to forget, even with all that had
happened, who this man was? The Plague of the North. He reached
down for her, his huge hand menacing.

She cringed, terror-stricken, but then he
stopped. His large body swayed slightly. One hand pressed to the
side of his head and he wobbled on his feet like a tree about to
fall. Miranda shot up, gripping his upper arm with all the strength
she possessed and slipping an arm around his waist when that first
effort was no longer sufficient.

"Easy. Come on. Lie down," she said in a low,
firm voice. He couldn't understand her words, but he might be able
to sense her intent in her tone. She trembled with fear, but
refused to give in to it. "I mean you no harm," she went on as she
urged him toward the table.
"Eg er...vinur þinn,"
she
managed. Unsure whether she had it right, but hoping it was at
least close. "I'm your friend."

He scowled darkly, and she thought he called
her a less than flattering name. He still remained unsteady on his
feet.

"You're sick.
Þið eruð veikur.

He hesitated, but finally he sat on the edge
of the table. He closed his eyes for a long moment and his voice
was almost sad but tinged with bitterness when he spoke again. The
words had the ring of despair and the lilt of a question. And again
he used that name—Adrianna.

"No." Carefully she touched his face, tilting
it upward so he would look at her more carefully, then quickly
drawing her hand away so as not to offend him. It would be in her
best interest to make him see she wasn't whoever he thought she
was. He seemed as if he'd like to throttle Adrianna, whoever she
might be. When his ice blue gaze, clearer now, fixed upon her face,
she said softly, "I am Miranda." She tapped her chest with her
forefinger. "Miranda."

He frowned and his eyes narrowed as he
studied her more closely. Again he reached for her hair and she
forced herself not to draw back in fear. He drew a lock forward and
rubbed it between his fingers. He shook his head and leaned nearer,
lifting the hair to his nose and inhaling its scent. His gaze
traveled over her face and he seemed confused. Not convinced,
though.

After a moment, he glanced at the room around
him, his brow furrowed. Then he lowered his head and pressed a palm
to it. When he noticed the electrodes taped to his chest, he
frowned harder and lifted a hand to tear one free.

"No." She laid her hand over his, looked him
in the eye and shook her head. "Let me. It will hurt if you just
rip them off." He tilted his head, seemingly just realizing she
spoke in a tongue he'd never heard. She clasped his hand and gently
moved it away. He allowed it, then watched curiously as she caught
the edge of a strip of tape and carefully peeled it back. As she
pulled it away, she winced, knowing the sting he'd feel. She
glanced up at his face to see if she'd hurt him.

To her amazement, he smiled at her. His eyes
glittered with unmistakable amusement. His huge hand came up again,
and imitating her, he picked at the edge of a strip of tape. Unlike
her, once he had it, he yanked it free in one quick motion, not
even blinking as he did so. He kept glancing at her as he repeated
the procedure until his chest was free of wires and sensors. He was
showing off, she thought, her mind reeling. He thought it funny
that she'd been worried about hurting him. She smiled back at him.
She couldn't help it.

Her smile instigated the return of the angry
glare in his eyes. He looked quickly around the room, made a
sweeping gesture with his hand and murmured a hoarse question. What
is this place? she imagined he wanted to know. Or where am I? How
did I get here? She made a helpless, shrugging gesture. Then she
touched his throat with her fingertips. Instantly his hand closed
like a steel trap around her wrist.

She stiffened, but didn't turn away from him.
God, but he didn't trust her. "Thirsty. You must be thirsty. That’s
all I was trying to say." With her free hand she made a circle of
her thumb and fingers to lift an imaginary glass to her lips.
"Drink," she told him. "Would you like a drink?"

Frowning, still looking skeptical, he
released her wrist.
"Eg er þyrstur,"
he said hoarsely.

"Right,
þ
yrstur.
Thirsty."
Miranda quickly left the room. She paused in the control room, her
hands gripping the edge of the sink as her knees, began to tremble
in reaction. For a moment, the enormity of what was happening hit
her like a whirlwind, but she had to keep calm, not think about it
too deeply or she'd lose her mind or have a fit of hysteria. Things
like this did not happen. "What in God's name am I going to do with
him?"

She shook her head, filled a glass with cold
water, and returned to the cold room, which had now become hot. The
table was empty. Startled, she swung her gaze around the room and
saw him in the corner, so large she nearly reconsidered her
determination not to be afraid of him. He held his massive sword by
its hilt, turning it this way and that. Miranda found herself glad
she'd painstakingly polished it, to ready it for viewing by the
archaeological staff tomorrow.

She swallowed hard. What on earth was she
going to tell the staff? And Professor Saunders? "Sorry, guys, the
find came to life. I'm afraid you can't have him." She rehearsed
the words silently in her mind, and her eyes widened as she
realized they would still want him. He'd be the most sought after
subject of study by every scientist on the planet when they
learned...
if
they learned.

He saw her and came toward her, his stride
not quite steady, but extremely confident. She held the drink out
and he took it. He held it up, frowning harder than ever as he
examined the glass and the clear, sparkling water it held. "Glass,"
she said firmly, tapping the outside with one short fingernail.
"Glass."

He nodded slowly and, his voice still coarse,
repeated the word, "Glass."

Miranda couldn't suppress a smile. She
nodded. He lifted the glass to his lips and began guzzling. When he
lowered it, Miranda said,
"Vatn.
Water."

He cleared his throat, and returned the glass
to her. "Water," he mimicked. When her hand closed around the
glass, though, he caught it and lifted it, examining her fingers
with close scrutiny. He even ran the pad of his thumb over the
edges of her unpainted, neatly cropped nails. He frowned. Then he
released her hand and studied her face. "Adrianna?"

She set the glass down. "No." She shook her
head firmly. "Miranda." She tapped her chest hard for emphasis.
"Miranda." She saw that she was at least making some headway. He
now wondered. She spotted her glasses where she'd left them the
night before, and automatically picked them up and slipped them
on.

A second later, they were removed by
amazingly gentle hands. He turned them this way and that, a frown
making parentheses between his brows. He drew them close to his
face and peered through the lenses.