Arctic Dawn (The Norse Chronicles Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: Karissa Laurel
saying Go! Now! But a cooler, calmer voice cut through the panic: You just saw a blackbird that could change shape. How do you run from that? Slow down and think.
After sinking to the floor beside my bed, I hugged my knees, buried my face in my lap, and inhaled several deep breaths. Running was pointless when I had no idea what I was fleeing from or how best to get away from it.
I raised my head, rubbed my face, and crawled back to my window. When nothing ominous appeared, my shoulders slumped, and I heaved a sigh. Time to start forming an exit strategy. Until then, I would stand my ground and stay aware and on guard. And why is Thorin’s face the one I see whenever I think about where to run?
Chapter Four
T he sun was halfway into its workday by the time I rolled out of bed. I had slept later than usual because my disturbing encounters had kept me up until the wee hours of dawn. I paced the living room throughout the night, waiting for someone to break in or for a wolf to show up on my fire escape. Was it coincidence that the crow had appeared a day after Nikka caught a stranger staring at me outside the diner? Perhaps he’d been checking me out simply because he had a thing for blondes. Exhaustion eventually sent me back to bed, and I squeezed in a few hours of restless, dreamless sleep.
I started a pot of coffee and stumbled into the bathroom to wash my face and brush out my bed-head hair. When Mr. Coffee chimed a few minutes later, I drooled like Pavlov’s dog. After adding a dab of sweetener and a touch of half-and-half to my cup, I sank into my bedraggled sofa cushions, clutching my mug, careful not to spill a drop. It was the kind of sofa that molded around me, sucked me in, and held me in its seductive embrace. The couch was ugly, but our love for each other transcended surface appearances.
Beyond my window, the San Diego traffic rushed by. Someone yelled. A car horn honked. The outside world fell away as I sipped my coffee. Amazing, how a simple cup of java could have that kind of power.
With my coffee pot emptied and caffeine buzz securely in place, I checked the time on my alarm clock—four hours until my shift started, plenty of time—and exchanged my PJs for jeans, a T-shirt, and a plain gray hoodie. I wound my hair into a tight knot, pulled up my hood, and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.
A few minutes later, I stood at the stop around the corner from my apartment, waiting for an MTS bus to pick me up and carry me across town to a random branch of the San Diego Public Library. In an effort to cover my trail, I picked a different branch every time. When the bus arrived, it lumbered up to the curb, its brakes hissed, and the doors opened. I climbed aboard behind a woman toting a collapsible shopping cart and a grumpy preschooler, and I paid my fare in cash. I paid for everything in cash. No one aboard the bus seemed to notice me. No one raised his or her head or looked me in the face. I settled into a seat near the front and slouched against the window for the entirety of the trip.
After a long ride extended by multiple stops, the bus wheezed to a halt outside the University Community Library, and I slipped out onto the sidewalk. As I scanned the parking lot, double-checking for signs of pursuit or surveillance, I pulled a prepaid burner phone from my pocket, reconnected the battery, and turned it on. I had bought and activated it when my cross-country bus had stopped in Iowa to refuel at a truck stop doubling as a shopping mall.
I had watched enough true-crime shows to know, at least in theory, about triangulating location based on cell-tower signals. I never turned on the phone near my apartment. Even with all my precautions, using it was still a risk but one I needed to take.
I punched in a memorized phone number and waited.
Two rings later, a familiar voice answered and said, “Thorin Adventure Outfitters, Hugh Rabe speaking.”
Hugh. Val Wotan’s roommate. Exactly the person I’d hoped to
After sinking to the floor beside my bed, I hugged my knees, buried my face in my lap, and inhaled several deep breaths. Running was pointless when I had no idea what I was fleeing from or how best to get away from it.
I raised my head, rubbed my face, and crawled back to my window. When nothing ominous appeared, my shoulders slumped, and I heaved a sigh. Time to start forming an exit strategy. Until then, I would stand my ground and stay aware and on guard. And why is Thorin’s face the one I see whenever I think about where to run?
Chapter Four
T he sun was halfway into its workday by the time I rolled out of bed. I had slept later than usual because my disturbing encounters had kept me up until the wee hours of dawn. I paced the living room throughout the night, waiting for someone to break in or for a wolf to show up on my fire escape. Was it coincidence that the crow had appeared a day after Nikka caught a stranger staring at me outside the diner? Perhaps he’d been checking me out simply because he had a thing for blondes. Exhaustion eventually sent me back to bed, and I squeezed in a few hours of restless, dreamless sleep.
I started a pot of coffee and stumbled into the bathroom to wash my face and brush out my bed-head hair. When Mr. Coffee chimed a few minutes later, I drooled like Pavlov’s dog. After adding a dab of sweetener and a touch of half-and-half to my cup, I sank into my bedraggled sofa cushions, clutching my mug, careful not to spill a drop. It was the kind of sofa that molded around me, sucked me in, and held me in its seductive embrace. The couch was ugly, but our love for each other transcended surface appearances.
Beyond my window, the San Diego traffic rushed by. Someone yelled. A car horn honked. The outside world fell away as I sipped my coffee. Amazing, how a simple cup of java could have that kind of power.
With my coffee pot emptied and caffeine buzz securely in place, I checked the time on my alarm clock—four hours until my shift started, plenty of time—and exchanged my PJs for jeans, a T-shirt, and a plain gray hoodie. I wound my hair into a tight knot, pulled up my hood, and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.
A few minutes later, I stood at the stop around the corner from my apartment, waiting for an MTS bus to pick me up and carry me across town to a random branch of the San Diego Public Library. In an effort to cover my trail, I picked a different branch every time. When the bus arrived, it lumbered up to the curb, its brakes hissed, and the doors opened. I climbed aboard behind a woman toting a collapsible shopping cart and a grumpy preschooler, and I paid my fare in cash. I paid for everything in cash. No one aboard the bus seemed to notice me. No one raised his or her head or looked me in the face. I settled into a seat near the front and slouched against the window for the entirety of the trip.
After a long ride extended by multiple stops, the bus wheezed to a halt outside the University Community Library, and I slipped out onto the sidewalk. As I scanned the parking lot, double-checking for signs of pursuit or surveillance, I pulled a prepaid burner phone from my pocket, reconnected the battery, and turned it on. I had bought and activated it when my cross-country bus had stopped in Iowa to refuel at a truck stop doubling as a shopping mall.
I had watched enough true-crime shows to know, at least in theory, about triangulating location based on cell-tower signals. I never turned on the phone near my apartment. Even with all my precautions, using it was still a risk but one I needed to take.
I punched in a memorized phone number and waited.
Two rings later, a familiar voice answered and said, “Thorin Adventure Outfitters, Hugh Rabe speaking.”
Hugh. Val Wotan’s roommate. Exactly the person I’d hoped to
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