Page 6 of Deep Sea Kiss
It had taken Eiric a moment to understand his meaning, but when he had, the doubt gnawed at him constantly. Now, however, he saw the moldy remains of a breakfast on the table and a two-month-old newspaper opened to the sports page beside the coffee cup. Ski jumping had always been Mikkel’s favorite sport to follow.
Presumably, if Mikkel had been reading up on the world cup events and wolfing down rye bread and smoked salmon, he hadn’t been contemplating suicide.
Eiric turned away from the mementos of his brother’s life. He would get someone from the village to come and clean the house before they put it up for sale—it was a prime piece of real estate, a beautiful cottage on the shore. Magnus had suggested that Eiric could take it, live here when he wasn’t on Drageøy, but it felt wrong. Moving into Mikkel’s house would feel like trying to step into his older sibling’s shoes, and he wasn’t so sure they were shoes he wanted to fill.
He thought of Charlotte Shaw and her wide blue eyes, so shocked at the news of Mikkel’s death. She’d really had no idea and had been searching for a dead man for months. He didn’t know how hard it must have been for her, abandoned with two babies in a foreign country. Something had stirred inside him at the sight of her. He’d have to make sure the kids were really Mikkel’s before he told Magnus about them, but if they were, the family would need to take care of them. Somehow.
Charlotte was human, through and through, her sweet scent all too plain to be supernatural. At least she wasn’t a witch.
Eiric snorted as he locked the door—the crime rate in Brundal was so low, it was completely redundant. But no dragon worth his name would leave treasure unprotected, and he hadn’t had time to go through Mikkel’s belongings to really know what he had left behind.
He walked to the harbor, a short stroll along the coast of the fjord. The crunching of pebbles beneath his feet was drowned out by the splashing of the waves. The sea was restless tonight.
Mikkel’s property stood at the edge of the village, removed enough that he hadn’t had much contact with his neighbors or the rest of the inhabitants. His brother might have been an extroverted party boy, but a dragon’s lair was always private, always secure.
A number of small boats bobbed in the harbor, high tide pushing them snug against the stone pier. They were fishing boats and dinghies, shining white in the darkness. No large watercraft could moor in Brundal; the port in Ålesund was where most of the sea traffic went. Here, an hour away by sea, no big lights marred the darkness. Eiric looked at the sky, but it was overcast and heavy with rain.
It might even storm later. The thought perked him up. Swimming in a spring thunderstorm would be an amazing way to get his mind off all the trouble in his life.
The warm glow of the Sverdfisk beckoned him from the distance. He’d bought the restaurant on a whim several years ago, renovated it, and installed a competent manager at its head. They served simple, hearty food and good beer, which meant the restaurant was always full at dinnertime. Even in a village so small, people appreciated a decent place to eat.
He had every intention of grabbing dinner while he was there, as well as going over the books with his manager. But the real reason he was drawn to the restaurant tonight was that he’d read in the accident report that witnesses had seen Mikkel drinking at the bar just hours before the accident.
Two months might have passed since the events occurred—two months during which the authorities had struggled to identify Mikkel’s charred body and the unfamiliar car he’d been driving—but maybe one of his bartenders remembered something the police had missed. They wouldn’t have known to ask the right questions, but Eiric wanted to find out whether Mikkel had met anyone at the bar that night.
He stopped in front of the restaurant, surveying the scene in front of him. Laughing patrons were visible through the windows, couples and families all spending their evening enjoying company. The narrow patio at the side would hold several tables in the summer, but now a small group of smokers crowded against the red-painted wooden wall, chatting in low voices. In places like Brundal, everyone knew each other.
He was the outsider here, even though he owned the restaurant. Home for Eiric was Drageøy, but even there, the almost empty town of their ancestors didn’t feel welcoming.
He suppressed a groan and marched to the door. Now was no time to get sentimental over things he couldn’t change.
People glanced up as he entered, curious gazes measuring him from head to foot. Eiric tried to ignore them and turned his back on the room, settling himself on a high stool at the bar. The bartender, a middle-aged woman called Ingrid, nodded to him and slid a frosted glass of pale ale across the gleaming beechwood bar. With some satisfaction, Eiric noted the polished surfaces and the neatly stacked glasses. The place was spotlessly clean as usual, and the patrons seemed cheerful, their plates filled with fragrant dishes composed of the best local ingredients his crew could source.
“Can you call Nils for me, please?” he asked Ingrid, who didn’t reply but bustled off toward the kitchen.
Moments later, Nils appeared at the bar, hopping onto the stool next to Eiric’s. The man was barely out of college, a slight, pale wisp of a human, but he had an unparalleled affinity for numbers and organization. Eiric lived in dread of the day when some big company from Ålesund or Oslo discovered and poached him from the Sverdfisk, so he paid him extremely well to run his restaurant. His only fault, as far as Eiric had discovered, was that he was a terrible gossip.
Nils slammed a thick binder on the bar, opening it to the tab that said ‘March,’ and pointed one long finger at the figures. “Last month was better than February, but that’s normal. April is shaping up to be…” he began but stopped when Eiric lifted his hand.
“Can you tell me who was working on February third? In the evening, I mean.”
Nils pursed his lips and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Can I tell you who was working on February third?” he muttered. “As if you have to ask.”
Eiric grinned. “Fine, sorry for insulting your competence.”
His manager scrolled through his calendar app. “February…”
He stopped at the right date and pulled up the schedule in a spreadsheet that looked completely foreign to Eiric. The decision to not carry a smartphone—or any phone at all—had been born out of the fact that he’d ruined several early models by forgetting about them and getting them wet as he waded into the sea, ripping his clothes off in the hurry to change. By the time he’d had to re-enter all his contacts for the fourth time, he’d simply given up. People complained, but since he didn’t care whatpeoplethought, he’d never been bothered by the lack of a phone. Not until Charlotte had asked for his number and he hadn’t had one to give it to her.
Eiric realized Nils was talking to him and focused his attention back on the matter at hand.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said, Ingrid worked the bar, and Viola did the tables,” his manager informed him. “Why did you—?” The young man clamped his mouth shut, and a flush colored his pale face, creeping up from his neck to the hairline. Realization dawned in his eyes. “Oh. Februarythird. Right. I’m so sorry, boss.”
Eiric cleared his throat. “Yeah, thanks. Viola isn’t working tonight, is she?”
Still pink-faced, Nils shook his head. “I can leave her a message to call you, though.” Then he realized what he’d said and covered his eyes with his palm. “Send you an email, I meant.”
