she sat on the wheel well, staring at the glow-in-the-dark digital readout on her watch.
At 9:00 a.m. precisely, she took a deep breath and gripped the lid of the coffin. And yanked.
It didn’t come up, of course. It had been closed for a thousand years. It didn’t even budge. She felt her heart’s pounding move into her throat. If she didn’t get this open, then the girl might die, and then what? Then she really would have problems with a possible murder, although she had no idea how she would explain it to the police.
But Max would find a creative way to do it.
Max.
She shook her head. Max was a defense attorney. If things got that bad, she just might have to hire the bastard.
The thought made her try harder, and the lid moved. She felt an answering pressure from inside, thought she saw movement through the glass, and that gave her an adrenaline burst.
The lid groaned as it moved sideways. A small hand came through the opening, and inside a woman started yelling.
“I’m here to help you,” Nora said, hoping that the yelling would stop. The last thing she needed was some Portlander stopping by his storage unit, hearing screams, and coming to investigate. How could she explain the ancient VW, the glass coffin, and the living woman inside?
The yelling didn’t stop, but the hand turned and applied pressure to the lid. Then another hand popped out, followed by the most gorgeous head Nora had ever seen, and a pair of creamy white shoulders that she had once thought only existed in airbrushed magazine photos. A dress of homespun material hung off the edges of two perfectly sized breasts, just barely hiding the nipples.
The woman—and she was quite a woman—braced her hands on the sides of the coffin and squeezed the rest of herself out. After she escaped, she collapsed on the edge of the shag carpet and took several large breaths.
Nora was shaking. The woman had black hair the color of night, lips so red that they looked as if they’d been painted, and eyes the color of an angry sea. She was the perfect complement to Blackstone, the yin to his yang as the cliché went, and suddenly Nora understood why he had spent a thousand years trying to protect her.
The woman had gotten control of her breathing. She looked up at the ceiling, then at the windows, and then she rolled, looking out the back end of the microbus.
Nora tried to imagine the view through the eyes of a woman who had just gone from the Dark Ages to the computer age in the space of a single night’s sleep. Nothing would be familiar. There was asphalt on the ground, a Lexus (how would the pre-medieval mind translate that?), the storage units with their metal doors glinting in the morning sun. Even the air had to smell different. It probably, if Nora were honest with herself, smelled better.
The woman turned and in a voice so musical, it made Nora wince, asked—something completely indecipherable. It sounded like Danish, only Nora knew Danish, and it didn’t have any words like the ones the woman was using.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Nora said. “Could you try again?”
The woman pushed herself onto her elbows, then sat up. There was real fear in her eyes. She was understanding enough of this to know she was in a strange place with someone who didn’t speak her language. She leaned forward, earnestly it seemed to Nora, and said the same thing she had said before, only much, much slower, as if she were speaking to a very elderly person or a very dumb one.
The language still sounded like mutilated Danish.
Then Nora remembered the letter. “Wait,” she said, reaching into her back pocket. Step Two required her to repeat some words, words that clearly weren’t in English.
Nora wrapped her mouth around the letters, hoping she was pronouncing things clearly. The woman frowned at her. She started to speak again. The more panicked she got, the more her language sounded like baby gibberish. She reached for Nora just as Nora finished.
“…help
At 9:00 a.m. precisely, she took a deep breath and gripped the lid of the coffin. And yanked.
It didn’t come up, of course. It had been closed for a thousand years. It didn’t even budge. She felt her heart’s pounding move into her throat. If she didn’t get this open, then the girl might die, and then what? Then she really would have problems with a possible murder, although she had no idea how she would explain it to the police.
But Max would find a creative way to do it.
Max.
She shook her head. Max was a defense attorney. If things got that bad, she just might have to hire the bastard.
The thought made her try harder, and the lid moved. She felt an answering pressure from inside, thought she saw movement through the glass, and that gave her an adrenaline burst.
The lid groaned as it moved sideways. A small hand came through the opening, and inside a woman started yelling.
“I’m here to help you,” Nora said, hoping that the yelling would stop. The last thing she needed was some Portlander stopping by his storage unit, hearing screams, and coming to investigate. How could she explain the ancient VW, the glass coffin, and the living woman inside?
The yelling didn’t stop, but the hand turned and applied pressure to the lid. Then another hand popped out, followed by the most gorgeous head Nora had ever seen, and a pair of creamy white shoulders that she had once thought only existed in airbrushed magazine photos. A dress of homespun material hung off the edges of two perfectly sized breasts, just barely hiding the nipples.
The woman—and she was quite a woman—braced her hands on the sides of the coffin and squeezed the rest of herself out. After she escaped, she collapsed on the edge of the shag carpet and took several large breaths.
Nora was shaking. The woman had black hair the color of night, lips so red that they looked as if they’d been painted, and eyes the color of an angry sea. She was the perfect complement to Blackstone, the yin to his yang as the cliché went, and suddenly Nora understood why he had spent a thousand years trying to protect her.
The woman had gotten control of her breathing. She looked up at the ceiling, then at the windows, and then she rolled, looking out the back end of the microbus.
Nora tried to imagine the view through the eyes of a woman who had just gone from the Dark Ages to the computer age in the space of a single night’s sleep. Nothing would be familiar. There was asphalt on the ground, a Lexus (how would the pre-medieval mind translate that?), the storage units with their metal doors glinting in the morning sun. Even the air had to smell different. It probably, if Nora were honest with herself, smelled better.
The woman turned and in a voice so musical, it made Nora wince, asked—something completely indecipherable. It sounded like Danish, only Nora knew Danish, and it didn’t have any words like the ones the woman was using.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Nora said. “Could you try again?”
The woman pushed herself onto her elbows, then sat up. There was real fear in her eyes. She was understanding enough of this to know she was in a strange place with someone who didn’t speak her language. She leaned forward, earnestly it seemed to Nora, and said the same thing she had said before, only much, much slower, as if she were speaking to a very elderly person or a very dumb one.
The language still sounded like mutilated Danish.
Then Nora remembered the letter. “Wait,” she said, reaching into her back pocket. Step Two required her to repeat some words, words that clearly weren’t in English.
Nora wrapped her mouth around the letters, hoping she was pronouncing things clearly. The woman frowned at her. She started to speak again. The more panicked she got, the more her language sounded like baby gibberish. She reached for Nora just as Nora finished.
“…help
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