A Midwinter Fantasy - Leanna Renee Hieber [88]
Her head banged against something. Pain speared down her neck, bringing tears to her eyes. Cold hit her and the festive music blared louder. Then she landed with a bruising thud on a hard surface. Muffled voices argued for a moment, then she felt movement as if she were in a carriage or sleigh like the one Vidar had used.
Why had she come to Iceland? She hated the damn place. She opened her mind to her guardian angel again, begging him to come to her. She implored him for help, as she had many times over the years when she’d felt lost and alone and she’d had nobody else to turn to. The image of Vidar merged with the angel’s presence in her mind. Vidar, Vidar . . . She repeated his name—a silent mantra to keep her sane.
Suddenly, his presence flooded through her, shoring up her shredded control with a tender supportive embrace as if he held her in his arms. Vidar was her guardian angel. Vidar was the loving presence in her mind. How was that possible?
Vidar jolted awake to find himself slouched on the sofa before the log fire in his retreat. A flash of terror streaked along his mental link with Sonja, and her anguished call burst through his mind. After years bonded to her he responded automatically: calming, soothing, in the same way he had since she was a baby. He blinked and swiped a hand over his face as his thought processes caught up with his instinct. He’d left her in her cabin at the resort hours ago. She should be asleep. What in the Furies had happened to her?
Staggering to his feet, he knocked the shot glass and empty vodka bottle to the floor. His temples thudded, making him wish he had held off drowning his sorrows over having to send Sonja away to protect her until she was safely out of the country. He pulled on his boots, grateful now that he hadn’t got around to undressing, and headed toward the door. At the sound of whistling wind battering the protective heat shield over his front door he wheeled around to snag his fur coat off the back of the sofa. He wouldn’t be much use to her if he froze to death.
Outside his cabin, frigid air laced with snow slashed his face. If only he could leave this miserable frozen place and return to his mother’s people in Italy. If only he wasn’t Odin’s son. If only he could be with Sonja. His life was filled with if onlys . . .
He pushed two fingers between his lips and whistled, squinting through the blizzard at the snowy slope above his cabin. His snow cat Gleda bounded toward him, freezing droplets flying in all directions as she skidded to a halt at his feet.
He slapped her shoulder affectionately, wiped the worst of the snow off her fur, and threw a leg over her back. His heart thundered in response to Sonja’s panic, but he would rescue her or die in the attempt. Vidar leaned forward to speak directly into Gleda’s ear so she heard him over the roar of the wind. Then he tangled his fingers in her silky mane. His stomach lurched sickly as she flung herself off the icy ledge over the ravine, yet the feeling had little to do with the drop.
Sonja landed with bone-jarring force on the ground and lay still inside the dark, airless bag, gathering her wits for what she would face next. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. On the journey, the chill had penetrated the bag and her fleecy pajamas to pierce the very marrow of her bones. Now she was lying on a surface so cold it could only be ice.
The bag loosened and the fabric peeled back from her face. She blinked at a gleaming expanse of white. The large space was empty, but a long sooty stain on the floor in the center of the room looked like the remnants of the Yule Log that had burned at Odin’s Yule Fest.
Still tied, she wriggled around to peer behind her. Odin sat bundled on his ice throne. His long gray hair and beard hung in matted clumps over his stained coat. A huge wolf crouched on either side of his throne, golden eyes glued to her as if waiting for the command to attack.
“Huginn, turn her round,” Odin ordered. His voice sounded like