Into the Deep: Chapter 11
A Knife at the Door and a Reckoning Ahead
Cassie froze, her breath catching mid-chest. Alarik stood stone-still between her and a stranger hefting a blade that glinted silver in the moonlight. One misstep, one wrong word, and that knife would sink into Alarik’s gut.
She forced herself to breathe, edging back a step. She could run…but where? Her previous attempt had left a man dead—and she still didn’t want to think about that. She hadn’t stopped shaking since. How could any of this be real?
Swallowing hard, she forced down the thought of it. Cowardly, yes, but the only way she could deal with what was happening. Alarik, with all his roughness, had never let harm come to her. Whether she liked it or not, he was still her safest option.
If he didn’t get himself killed.
Slowly, he dropped his pack and raised both hands in a careful gesture. His voice came low and calm, the same tone he used with her when she panicked. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell if the man’s blade would suddenly strike or be put away. Neither happened.
The stranger advanced.
She scurried back a few more steps. Alarik didn’t so much as flinch. He stood like a shield of flesh and blood, hands up, as if facing down a bear with nothing but courage.
The man circled him, blade steady. One swift slice. One sharp jab. And Alarik would be gone. Her Alarik.
Hers?
The thought was absurd, but her chest squeezed nonetheless. Truth was, he was all she had. The man was either brave or insane, and after spending so much time with him, she’d come to a conclusion—he was both. But why wasn’t he fighting back this time? He’d certainly had no qualms about taking out that man in the alley.
And once again her stomach churned. She couldn’t bear to see another murder play out in front of her eyes, especially not Alarik’s.
“Don’t just stand there,” she blurted. “Do something!”
Both men turned, the moon lighting their faces. Each sported the same angular jaw. The same high brow. Even the same nose. One was older and thicker about the waist, but unmistakably related.
She gasped. “You’re family.” She tried again in Old Norse. “Kin.”
The man’s blade dipped then but did not return to its sheath. Why would one of Alarik’s relatives threaten him with a knife?
A stream of Old Norse poured out of Alarik, the cadence sharp and steady. She caught fragments, her name peppered throughout.
The other man’s eyebrows rose, and his dagger lowered. Then, shockingly, he laughed. A full-bodied, rich sort of mirth that echoed in the night air. He clapped Alarik on the back with brotherly force, lifted his pack off the ground, and entered the house.
An easy smile brightened Alarik’s face, his stance visibly relaxing. He looked like a man who’d just passed some sort of test. Without a word to her, he followed the stranger into the house, leaving her standing alone in the dark with a hundred unanswered questions.
