He blinked at me a moment, then answered in a voice with a slight Scandinavian accent, “Who are you?”

“The lich!” Eirik yanked me aside, sending me crashing into a large planter as he lunged forward, the other Vikings giving bloodcurdling cries of happiness as they rushed with him, their weapons in hand.

“No! Wait, guys—” Painfully, I scrambled out of the planter, about to order the Vikings to stand down their attack, but the words left my mouth as I flung myself to the side to escape the path of a screaming, rampaging horse that suddenly burst out upon us.

Isleif yelled something and ran over to protect me, while the other two Vikings started hacking away at the horse. I had a moment of sheer unadulterated horror as I imagined the worst had happened, but when I leaped out from behind Isleif’s bulk to stop the carnage, there was nothing to stop. Oh, to be sure, Eirik and Finnvid were fighting the horse, and he was a mass of flashing hooves and teeth-gratingly loud, angered screams, but there was no blood, no gore, nothing. I stared with fascination for a moment at the sight of the Vikings and horse before turning to the man who calmly watched the scene from the doorway.

“You live with a ghost horse?” I asked.

“That’s Ragnor. Yes, he is a ghost. My master refused to raise him when he had me raised.”

“You are Ulfur, aren’t you?” I asked, examining him for signs that he might be tainted by evil power.

“Yes, I am.” He turned his attention to the three Vikings, who had by now realized that the horse was insubstantial. “Those are ghosts, too, aren’t they?”

“We are Viking ninjas, lich,” Eirik said as he swaggered over to Ulfur. “We are here to protect the goddess Fran, so do not think to attack her, for we will cut out your liver and eat it before your eyes.”

Ulfur’s eyebrows went up at that. “I have no intention of attacking anyone, let alone a woman. Did you say goddess?” He gave me a once-over. “You don’t look like a goddess.”

“I’m not. It’s just a misunderstanding. I’m Fran. Francesca Ghetti. I believe you have something of mine, a valknut.”

Ulfur’s black eyes widened for a few seconds, then he glanced over his shoulder, hesitant, before stepping back and gesturing toward the inside of the house. “You may come in, but you must not stay long. My master isn’t at home now, but he does not like visitors, especially unexpected ones.”

The room he led us to was a surprise—I had expected that with a house this old, it would be filled with dark paneling and antiques. But this room, clearly one meant for entertaining, reminded me of something a hip, urbane Satan would have. The walls were rock, not wood paneled, the floor a glossy cream marble cut into diamond shapes, and the furniture was ultramodern, all scarlet in color, with uncomfortable-looking chairs, swooping, curved-seat love seats, and white, headless, armless statues of naked women dotted around the room.

I could see the Vikings appreciated the statues, but the room left me cold, literally and figuratively. Ragnor the ghostly horse followed us, his eyes narrowed, his ears back. It was vaguely disconcerting that his hooves made no sound on the marble floor, but I decided that was the least of my worries.

“We won’t stay long. Assuming you give me back the Vikingahärta,” I said, holding out a hand when Eirik, with a growl, started toward the lich. “Eirik, let’s try our party manners first.”

The outraged look Eirik shot me spoke volumes. “You said we could force the lich to do what we wanted. You promised us blood sport.”

Ulfur’s face paled, but he didn’t back up. He looked like he knew he was overwhelmed, but was going to stand his ground, regardless.

“I said you could persuade Ulfur if he refused to give me back the Vikingahärta, but he’s not going to refuse. Are you?” I kept my voice and expression sweet as I gave Ulfur an encouraging smile. I remembered well the unspeakable anguish that held him in an unbreakable grip.

His face tightened as if he was, in fact, going to refuse, but after what must have been an inner struggle, his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. “No. I will not refuse to return to you the valknut, although it will mean serious trouble with my master. Wait here. I will get it for you.”

“I think my friends and their extremely sharp weapons would really be happier if we were to come with you,” I said, following him as he left the room and started up a flight of stairs, the Vikings collectively muttering under their breaths as they trailed behind.

He said nothing, but led us to a small room done in shades of olive and muted red. At a giant desk that dominated the room, he removed a small red box, holding it for a few seconds while he gave me a piercing look. “How do I know this is yours?”

“I know where you stole it from, and approximately when. I can also describe it to you. But more important, the valknut knows me. It doesn’t like anyone else touching it, which you probably found out if you took it out of the velvet bag it’s kept in.”

He grimaced and held up one hand. Like mine, his fingers were marked, but his held an angry-looking burn. “Unfortunately, I did. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see you hold it. Just to be sure, you understand.”

“He will not give it to us,” Eirik growled, stalking forward. “He intends to keep it for himself.”

“I never wanted it in the first place,” Ulfur said frankly.

Eirik suddenly halted, an indescribable look on his face. He spun around to face the now solid equine face of Ragnor, who I could swear was grinning as he munched on a piece of black leather, obviously nipped off of the baldric Eirik wore on his back.

“Your horse can ground himself?” I asked Ulfur.

“For short periods of time, yes. Ragnor, stop that. I’m sorry,” Ulfur apologized to Eirik. “He has been moody ever since I told him the master wasn’t going to have him returned to life, too.”

“Wait a second . . . You’re alive?” I asked, distracted by that idea. “I thought you were dead.”

“I was.” He sighed and sank down onto the edge of the desk, still holding the box with the Vikingahärta. “I was quite happy as a spirit, too. We had lots of tourists in our village, and although it was sometimes boring in the winter, the summers we all enjoyed greatly.”

“We? Your family are all ghosts, too?”

“Yes. My village was destroyed by a mudslide about a hundred and fifty years ago. We were all trapped there until Pia rescued us.”

“Is Pia your master?”

He looked appalled. “No! Pia is the Zorya who was sent to take us to Ostri, our heaven. But then she met Kristoff, and he didn’t like us much, especially Ragnor, who admittedly bit him once or twice, but when the reapers tried to kill Kristoff, I was left behind, and so the Ilargi got me.”

“It’s kind of sad when my life needs a glossary,” I said to no one in particular, then recalled where I was, and what I was doing, and held out my hand. “Could I have my Vikingahärta, please?”

He looked at my gloves. I tsked and peeled them off, then held out my hand again. He stared in horror at my hand.

“That’s not from the Vikingahärta. It’s from touching a table you touched,” I told him, noting absently that the saffron was already starting to fade. “Which reminds me—if you could keep from touching my hands, I’d be grateful.”

He withdrew the small gold velvet bag from the box, carefully undoing the strings, and just as carefully upending it over my open hand. The Vikingahärta hit my hand with a warm glow of familiarity. I smiled at it, holding it up to admire the runes so delicately carved into the three linked triangles that the old Norsemen referred to as a valknut. “Hello, Vikingahärta. Do you know what a valknut is, Ulfur?”

He shook his head, not looking particularly interested. “My father would know, but he is in Ostri now.”

I felt so adrift in the things he had told me, I figured it wouldn’t hurt if he saw that I knew a few things, too, and traced along the three heavy gold triangles. “A valknut is the knot of the slain, a symbol of the afterlife. It has nine points, which represent the three Norns, who, centuries ago, the people in Scandinavia believed were weavers of fate. This one belonged to Loki, and is imbued with his power, but it’s mine now.”

“I can see that it is.” He gave me an odd considering look for a moment, then added, “My master may well destroy me when he finds out what I’ve done, but I will let you take it if you promise to do something for me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about liches or their masters, so I wouldn’t begin to know how to free you from him—”

“No, it’s not that,” he interrupted. “Or rather it is, but I don’t expect you to help me. The Zorya I mentioned, Pia, will help me. If you could get word to her and her Dark One, Kristoff, I would be very grateful.”

“You know a Dark One?” I asked, surprised for some reason. “I didn’t realize that liches and vampires mixed.”

“So far as I know, they don’t, but this is a special case. My master knows that I was under Pia’s protection for a while, and he’s forbidden me to have any contact with them. But you could tell them where I am, and explain what happened to me.”

The lost look in his eyes tugged at my heart. I was silent for a minute, trying to sort through my thoughts. “I’ll do what I can,” I said at last.

“Goddess!” Eirik protested. “You are going to help the lich? You won’t let us gut him if you want to help him!”

“I wasn’t going to let you gut him in the first place. Honestly, Eirik, you’d think by now you would realize that I’m not going to just let you run around killing whoever you want to kill. From this moment on, you can assume that I’m not going to let you kill anyone. Got that?”

As the words left my lips, the door opened and a man walked in, but the acrid stench that clung to him told me that this was no mortal man. He was slight and dark, and the moment his eyes lit on me, they glittered with unholy light. “A Beloved? For me? How thoughtful of you! I haven’t had a Beloved sacrificed to me in . . . oh, forever. I will enjoy ripping out her soul.”