§ § § - October 16, 1993
She landed at the surprisingly small airport at Sundborg on the Massachusetts-sized island of Lilla Jordsö, having arrived via a connection in Copenhagen, and looked up from the guidebook she had been reading in the attempt to put her emotional farewell to Tattoo from her mind. The island was somewhat hilly, almost as green as Ireland reportedly was, and dotted with trees resplendent in their autumn foliage. The city was an abbreviated skyline a few miles to the west of the airport, and she could see the thin gray line of a road snaking its way into the hills in the distance. It looked peaceful enough, she thought, disembarking along with the handful of other passengers on the commuter plane and collecting her suitcase at the baggage carousel before venturing out front and hailing a waiting taxi. She gave her destination and settled back for the ride.
The driver turned in his seat and peered at her oddly. "You are going to Liljefors Slott, fröken? You are sure this is the place you will live?" His heavy accent and jordisk syntax, almost identical to its parent tongue of Swedish, brought back an unexpected flood of childhood memories, and she smiled as she nodded.
"Yes, please," she said. "That's where my reservation is."
The driver looked dubious. "You must take a care," he said in vague warning before twisting back to face the front and sending the taxi ahead. She shrugged to herself and went back to the guidebook.
Lilla Jordsö was small enough, and far enough off the beaten path, to still be overlooked by most travelers, according to the book. The island had first been settled at the end of the Viking heyday by a group of Swedes who, local lore had it, had taken long odds toward survival by leaping overboard from a Norwegian longboat and swimming something like two miles toward the island they'd seen in the sunset. The leader had anointed himself king, founding a dynasty that existed to this day, and immigration had been gradual but steady ever since. Among these immigrants, it was said, had been a family with strange, supposedly supernatural powers, which the guidebook did not explain or describe. Leslie reread this passage a couple of times, wondering, before filing it in her memory.
Nowadays, said the book, Lilla Jordsö attracted a few hundred visitors a year and sustained itself mainly on trade with the Scandinavian countries and the UK; the population numbered well under a million, and maintained strict adherence to the same Allemansrätten rule that they had: leave the land as you find it, clean up after yourself, and enjoy access to land while respecting the rights of others. Travelers were welcome to camp anywhere, with the permission of property owners. Leslie smiled; she wouldn't be camping, but she liked the idea. She knew it would appeal to Roarke, who maintained a careful balance between man and nature on his own island. The guidebook also mentioned that the current ruler was a certain King Arnulf I, widowed father of four and grandfather of seven.
"You are here, fröken," came the driver's terse statement then, and she looked up. In front of her was a three-story stone inn complete with battlements and a round tower at one corner. "Liljefors Slott. Fifty kronor."
Leslie handed over the cash and slipped out of the car, pulling her suitcase and duffel behind her. The taxi immediately pulled away, describing a wide U-turn and disappearing down the road at noticeable speed. Leslie watched it go, shook her head and let herself into the lobby.
It looked deserted. It was sparsely furnished, but everything was blond wood and white paint, in the classic Swedish style. Slowly, gazing around her with interest, Leslie approached the check-in desk and tapped the little bell that sat atop it. Almost instantly, a pretty golden-haired girl, apparently in her late teens, materialized from a back doorway and smiled at sight of Leslie. "God afton och välkommen," she said.
"Tack så mycket," replied Leslie, smiling back. "I have a reservation here. My name is Leslie Hamilton."
"Oh, yes, forgive…I speak not so good English," the girl said. "My name is Anja. You sign here, and I get your key." She handed Leslie a pen and dug around under the counter; Leslie filled in her signature and reached into the duffel for her change purse. Anja placed a large brass key on the counter and asked, "How many nights?"
"Nine," Leslie answered.
"Good. Seven hundred kronor each night," said Anja.
The startled surprise Leslie felt at this outrageous rate faded behind a sort of benign resignation, and she smiled and shrugged acceptance. "All right."
Once upstairs in her room, she collapsed onto the bed, feeling weariness creep over her, and only then did she think back. Hey, wait a minute. She said seven hundred a night? Even translated into dollars, that's ridiculous! And the guidebook said the going rate here was half that! I really ought to complain… Leslie yawned loudly and rubbed her aching eyes like a sleepy little girl. But maybe later. I'm too sleepy and it's getting dark outside. I guess I'll just call room service and then get some sleep, and I'll argue with the front desk tomorrow. She rolled over on the bed and lifted the phone receiver, promptly forgetting her intention to squabble over the room rate.
§ § § - October 17, 1993
Leslie felt so refreshed when she awoke the next morning that she jumped right out of bed without ado, unlike her usual routine even at home. She zipped through a shower, dressed rapidly, grabbed her duffel and slung it over her shoulder, and trotted across the street to rent a bike. From there, she pedaled energetically towards Sundborg, with the intention of shopping for souvenirs and looking for postcards to send to her friends. The city skyline loomed around a couple of bends in the road, and as soon as she had rounded her first one, she felt her energy ebb quite suddenly and coasted to a stop.
This is really weird, she thought uneasily. What's going on here? She thought back over Solange's words and tensed where she stood astride the bike, thinking carefully back over the previous evening and her activities this morning up to this moment. And I completely forgot to go to the front desk and give them what-for about that room rate. Solange said she thought it was some kind of mind control. Well, it sure seems that way to me too…although I have no clue just what I'm going to try to do about it. And for crying out loud, why does all this seem so familiar to me? Have I been through this before? She absently pushed off on the bike and pedaled more sedately in the direction of the city, puzzling over it but still unable to figure out just what the connection was.
She spent the bulk of the day in Sundborg, picking out a couple of souvenirs to take home with her and then buying a stack of postcards and writing them out at a café where she had a late lunch. Everyone she met was friendly and willing to help her; her waiter at the café hovered solicitously, asking her time and again if she wanted anything else. "Are you here for a holiday?" he inquired in impeccable English with a melodious Swedish flavoring. Leslie looked up from her latest postcard and smiled.
"Yes, I'm here for about a week," she said. "Maybe you can tell me what places I should see while I'm here."
The waiter smiled broadly and gestured at the empty chair across from her. "May I?" Leslie nodded, and he took a seat. "I am Lukas, and I've lived on this island my entire life, so I suppose I should know what you ought to visit. There is an entire preserved Viking settlement on the northeastern coast—named Birka, after the original name for Stockholm—that we believe may be the very first settlement on the island. And you may like to look into the jordsklocka factory at Dalslund…"
" 'Earth bell'…?" asked Leslie blankly. "What's that?"
Lukas laughed. "Forgive me. It's a pastry, a specialty of the island, and it has quite a legend behind it. And then…" He continued on for another ten minutes or so, till Leslie finally held up her hands, laughing in mock surrender.
"Gosh, I think that's about all I can handle for a week! I really appreciate your help, Lukas. Maybe I can get a map of the island at the inn."
"Where are you staying?" Lukas asked, rising.
"Liljefors Slott," she told him.
Lukas stopped short and stared at her, eyes widening with alarm. "Fröken, I beg your pardon for seeming forward, but if you wish to have a truly pleasant holiday here, you must get out of that inn and find other lodgings. There are many pleasant hotels right here in the city. Liljefors Slott is a bad place."
"How so?" Leslie asked, radar on full alert. Maybe Lukas, as a native, could give her a little more insight into the odd secret Liljefors Slott seemed to be harboring.
Lukas glanced behind him; it was mid-afternoon and she was currently the only customer at the café. He resumed his seat and leaned over the table, staring intensely at her. "They say the place is inhabited by something…something not human. That's the story, at any rate. That inn has belonged to the same family since it was built in the late seventeenth century, and for a time it really was a castle. The Liljefors family arrived from Sweden about that time and raised the castle just where it stands now. At the time the city was little more than a village, and it was a half-day's walk from the city limits to the inn. From the beginning, very little was seen of them. They all looked like angels, fröken—beautiful faces, hair of spun gold, eyes the color of the summer sky. But there is a black power that they possess, and they do not hesitate to use it on others." He stopped, blinked and suddenly sat back, as if some member of the family in question had come within earshot. "No one is certain of it. They say it is mind-control…but it has never been proven."
Leslie regarded him in silence, processing his words. "Have you ever experienced it?"
Lukas broke his gaze, clearly uncomfortable. "No…but my father…" He stopped and shook his head violently, as though dispelling a shudder. "Fröken, I beg you, take my advice and leave that inn. It is said that once you have been there, you are changed forever. And it is also said that only one person has ever escaped their clutches…" Again he let his voice trail off; then his expression closed and he arose, regarding Leslie with a coolly formal gaze. "I hope your meal was acceptable."
Leslie stared up at him, bewildered, then gave up and took his cue. "Yes, it was, thank you. How much do I owe you?"
For a moment the ice broke in Lukas' blue eyes and he shook his head. "You owe me nothing, fröken—only that you leave that inn as quickly as you can."