Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“You just have it sitting here at your disposal.”
“My patron is generous, put it that way.”
“Your patron? Who is your patron? Fucking Midas himself?”
The closer I get, the more the details stand out on the plane. Someone has gone to the trouble to paint every single feather of the pretend wings atop the plane’s wings. This is art only the sky will see, and I suppose the people who clean the plane. And fly in it. It’s designed to impress, and it is working.
I don’t know what the word for whoever owns this plane is. Magnate? Oligarch? This has to be one of the most expensive things I've ever encountered. Direford’s not a rich place. I’ve been to London, of course, but the wealth there is different. It's expected. And it’s surrounded by average, ordinary things that taint it. This plane is a pristine piece of beauty just waiting to be exploited. There is a blonde lady in a pilot’s uniform standing by the open door ramp. She’s not smiling, but smiling is becoming an increasingly rare expression these days in my immediate vicinity. Besides, I’m British. I’d be immediately suspicious as to what she was up to if she smiled.
“And you had a pilot on standby? Or is the pilot a demon too?”
“Stop asking questions and get on the plane.” Thor nudges me. He’s very much not in a good mood. It's a pity.
“You should relax and try to enjoy yourself,” I tell him. “Life’s too short.”
“Yours is poised to be especially short if you’re not careful,” he growls at me, grasping the back of my jumper and propelling me up the stairs. “Let’s go. Now.”
At the top of the stairs, the plane is revealed to be as luxurious as one might imagine.
“I feel spoiled,” I say, sitting down in a leather armchair.
“You are spoiled,” Thor growls. “I should probably put you in the baggage hold.”
“And even that’s probably nicer than anything at Direview. That place is a rotting dump.”
He gives me a warning look to let me know I am testing his patience, then takes the seat opposite me. In this setting, he's suddenly elegant. Massive, ancient, but also refined. I’m still not entirely convinced he's not actual Thor, though I suppose actual Thor has better things to do than slum it in Direford with a slattern like me.
“Does this flight come with champagne?”
“It will come with intense pain if you don’t stop enjoying this quite so much,” he growls at me. “This is no holiday. This is what I must to do tame you. I need to take you to the source of the hammer’s power and see how you resonate. Now. Put your seat belt on.”
12
Anita
The flight to Norway was unfortunately brief. Less than four hours later, we are descending. I always thought I’d be a bad flier but being in this plane has made me convinced I might be a very good flier. It’s like being in a much larger car. There are some lumps and bumps but flying through human skies is far smoother than taking the little-known laneway to Hell.
“So where are we going?”
“To my home,” he says.
I feel as though his accent has thickened merely from being in Norwegian airspace.
“And what's your house? A castle? Is it also owned by your patron?”
"You will see soon enough. I would appreciate you attempting to behave yourself, if you can possibly manage that.”
“I will see what I can do.”
He sighs and propels me down the stairs from the plane. This time he keeps a hold of my jacket to keep me from falling. What a gentleman. I notice he keeps his hand there even after I am safely down. Maybe it’s not so much about helping me after all.
“So this is Norway?”
“Yes.”
I am used to gray, green drizzly places. This is a much more intense version of England’s landscape. The green is deeper. The grays are darker. The sky hangs with heavy menace, and the rocks themselves are larger and older. Everything is -er er.
We’ve landed much as we took off, at a private airstrip. The terrain here is much rougher and rockier, not quite mountainous, but absolutely in the realm of foothills. There’s a mountain up behind us, and not far from the airstrip, there is a carriage waiting, hitched to two heavyset pale horses with black stripes running down the center of white manes.
“Cool ponies!”
“Norwegian fjord horses,” Thor says. “Floki and Odvar.”
“They're your ponies!” I gasp with excitement. I never imagined I’d be sleeping with someone who had horses. These two look very sweet. I continue to be absolutely thrilled by all these turns of events. “And I get a carriage ride!”
Thor
She has been taken from England in disgrace. I will grant that the methods of transport thus far used have not exactly helped to impart that feeling, and her glee at the horses and the destination is charming. I wish I could forget all she has done and simply enjoy the way she is reacting, taking pleasure in her happiness. But I cannot.