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  My plan was to ride around the city so I could tell Ardis I’d seen it all, but when we pulled up to the British Museum the art called to me. I all but ran down the spiral staircase, thanking the driver as I jumped out of the bus. I caught myself just before I fell face first onto the street.

  “Cheers, love,” called the bemused driver. I dusted myself off and waved over my shoulder.

  “Cheers,” I muttered amicably as I checked for damage. All limbs intact. No blood. I wasn’t always that lucky. I walked as carefully as my excitement allowed and stopped inside the museum. This place held more art and artifacts than I ever could have imagined. Where to begin?

  Thankfully, instinct took over. I headed to the Upper Level. Once there, I stopped at a small case filled with old coins and jewelry. I squinted at the tiny pieces, focusing on each in turn until I came to the simplest one. The silver charm looked like it could have been worn on a necklace. It had the likeness of an eagle in the center, with curving waves making a circle along its borders. The symbol of Odin, Father of the Norse Gods -- I recognized it from my grandmother’s stories.

  I tugged fondly at the silver hammer I wore at my neck -- a replica of Mjölnir, the hammer of Odin’s son Thor. It was my most treasured hand-me-down from Mormor. She’d worn it every day and passed it to me when I graduated from high school. Right before she died. Mormor’s charm was about the same size as the one in the case, and it was exactly the same shade of silver. The card beside the charm said it was found in Scandinavia and was probably made in the Viking Age.

  As I stared at the case, I realized I wasn’t alone. If the prickling at the back of my neck hadn’t tipped me off to the stranger’s presence, the positively massive shadow darkening the case would have done the trick. In the seconds it took to pivot on the heel of my favorite black riding boot, I was nearly suffocated by waves of intensity rolling off a figure that fit right in with the Viking display.

  My eye-level hit at his chest, where a dark sweater barely concealed the muscles of a well-defined torso. His thumbs rested casually in his pockets and his arms strained against the sweater. I looked up, and up some more, until I finally reached his face. He stood a whole head above even the tallest visitor in the museum, and I’m ashamed to admit my jaw opened just a little as I took in his features.

  A shock of tousled, blonde hair rested atop an exquisitely-sculpted face. He had eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, cheekbones as chiseled as pictures I’d seen of the Alps, and lips the pale pink of my grandmother’s roses. His jaw was square and strong with a hint of stubble, and his nose looked like it was lifted off a Roman statue. It was more beauty than any one person should have.

  Heaven almighty, was this guy for real?

  Although Mormor had done her darndest to raise a lady, right now I was entertaining some very unladylike thoughts. I struggled to mind myself, determined to do her proud. She wouldn’t have fallen apart at this gooey feeling of familiarity. In my hormone- addled state, I could swear I knew this guy from somewhere.

  Yeah, right. If I’d met him before, I would certainly remember it. I could pretty much guarantee that nothing this attractive had ever come through Oregon.

  I waited a whole half-minute so I wouldn’t be obvious, disproving Ardis’ accusation that patience wasn’t my strong suit; then I snuck a quick glance. The stranger stared back at me with a look so intense I wondered if he was trying to read my thoughts. Not that I could have formed any right then. I forced myself to inhale. It would be just like me to meet the man of my dreams and pass out cold before he could ask for my number.

  He offered a wry smile, so brilliant even in its offhandedness that I had to remind myself to breathe again. The old Kristia, the one Nehalem had written off as the Village Crazy, would have slunk out of the museum before she could embarrass herself in front of such a hunk. But this was the new me -- the me who’d moved five thousand miles from home to experience adventure for the first time ever. I was determined to see how far this newfound spirit would take me. I lifted my chin and gave him my most winning smile. What did I have to lose? My hand raised in what I hoped was a casual wave, and I managed to squeak out my greeting. “Hi.”

  The stranger opened his perfect, pale lips as if he were about to speak, then closed them. His eyes dropped to the hollow of my neck, where my necklace rested calmly despite my violent pulse. I touched the old- fashioned hammer self-consciously, feeling its familiar coolness. His eyes dimmed with sadness, then anger. He glared at my necklace, his gaze terrifying in its ferocity. I took a step back.

  Suddenly, I was in a forest, sprawled across the dusty earth. My body was overwhelmed with pain and my eyes had trouble focusing. Two men were fighting in the distance. One, dark-haired and wiry, waved his hand. Sparks shot from his open palm. They struck the broad–shouldered, blonde Adonis standing ten feet away, knocking him to the ground. He stood and shook himself, charging at Sparky. His blonde hair was a blur as he leaped on his opponent, fists flying in a frightening display of aggression. He was beating the thinner man senseless; any normal person would be dead by now. But the wiry man just laughed, the crazy sound filling the forest with its cruelty.

  Oh crimeney, another vision. My strangest one yet.

  When I came to, I eyed the handsome stranger. It was obvious he was the blonde from my hallucination. I knew I should be afraid of him, but I just felt confused. If he’d noticed my quirky outtake, it hadn’t done anything to lighten his mood. He turned on one designer heel and faced the exit, his body practically shaking with rage.

  “I’m sorry, have I done something to offend you?” I probably should have kept quiet, but this whole interaction was beyond weird. Though I was ready with an apology for whatever wrong I’d committed, the stranger just squared his shoulders and stormed down the hallway.

  “Whatever,” I muttered to his back. If he wanted to be ill-mannered that was fine by me -- the last thing I needed was some uncouth European guy ruining my museum day. Even if he was beyond gorgeous.

  I shook my head. Who cared what some half-baked Viking thought of me? I brushed off the feeling of being the last pumpkin left in the patch and deliberately turned for the stairs. I’d never have admitted, even to myself, that I was keeping an eye out for the stranger. I admired the original Magna Carta and snuck a glance at T.S. Elliot’s poems to his godchildren -- the ones that became the musical Cats. I don’t know how long I wandered, ogling things I thought I’d only ever see in books, but when my stomach rumbled I knew it was time to go.

  With a glance over my shoulder, I stepped back into the brisk London day. The smell of car exhaust snapped me out of my fog. With twenty-eight hours to go, I headed to the busy shop across the way to order my very first fish and chips. I tried not to give the ill-mannered stranger another thought, but he was very hard to forget.

  Chapter Two

  Cardiff

  “KRISTIA,” A KEENING VOICE beckoned. I sat up from my sleep, turning from side to side to place the voice. My hotel room came with blackout shades, something I’d appreciated when falling asleep. I felt differently now. A long finger crooked at me from the darkness. I couldn’t make out the face in the shadows, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  “Who are you?” My voice sounded shaky, though I was going for a threatening vibe. My acting abilities couldn’t have hit the broad side of a barn in full daylight.

  “Kristia,” the voice repeated, now from behind me.

  “What do you want?” I jumped out of bed and inched towards the door. Any bravado was totally manufactured.

  “Kristia.” Now the voice was in front of the door and the long finger motioned again. Every instinct I had screamed for me to run, but I was frozen in place. I was trapped in a dark room with a lunatic and my legs wouldn’t move. Fabulous.

  “Leave me alone,” I challenged, since running like a shrieking banshee wasn’t going to be an option.

  The owner of the finger stepped from the shadows into the only sliver of light in the room.
He was unnaturally tall, wiry and pale, with dark hair combed back from a handsome face, and bright eyes that glowed in the dim light. Slightly pointed ears and an angular jaw offset high cheekbones. He had a charmingly roguish look that made me want to jump into his arms at the same time that voice in my head was screaming GET OUT!

  “Who are you?” I asked again. The man tilted his head.

  “The real question, Kristia, is who are you?” To my dismay, he halved the distance between us. I fought to step back, but my legs were still locked in place.

  “How do you know my name?” And more importantly, how could I get out of this room? My eyes darted between the window and the door. One path led to a three-story fall, the other was blocked by a freakishly-good-looking pervert.

  “I know all about you.” The perv tilted his head the other way and squinted his glowing eyes until they were slits. “Starting with your little gift.” He tapped his head with the bony finger and I froze. “Who are you, really? What are you trying to do to my plan?” His voice was a hiss. His eyes glowed brighter and actual flames shot from their depths.

  Thankfully, I seized control over my petrified legs. As the fire landed at my feet, I hopped back in an inept dance, made all the more awkward by my clumsiness. Flames fanned out and quickly rose to block the man from my view. I heard a maniacal cackle that chilled me to the bone and I closed my eyes in panic. It would be death by fire this time. I wasn’t sure I didn’t prefer freezing.

  When I opened my eyes, again I was grasping at my bed sheets, eyes darting around the darkness until I found my bearings. I was in my hotel room in London, and it was not on fire. I was alone. I consciously slowed my breathing. I was pretty sure what just happened had been a dream, not one of my visions. There was no giant elf-man in my future… was there?

  I walked purposefully to the window and ripped open the blackout shades, letting moonlight stream into the room. I didn’t get much sleep that night.

  ****

  The next day, I got off the train at Cardiff Central Railway Station and made the short journey to what would be my home for the next year. I stood on the steps of the Student Houses, holding tight to the handle of my powder blue suitcase as I tried to capture this moment in my memory. A year of adventure stood in front of me -- exciting subjects to study, sophisticated students and professors to learn with, and brand new sights to see. Nobody here knew me from Eve. For the first time in my life, my future was a blank page. It was perfect. And beyond scary.

  With a deep breath, I stepped across the short cobblestone walkway and into a cheerful courtyard. Lined with silvery-green trees and raised lavender beds, the stone-laid square was anchored by a central fountain. A smiling girl sat at a folding table, distributing keys and welcome packets. This was it.

  “Name?” The friendly- looking redhead asked in a clipped British accent, her grey Cardiff t-shirt matching the cobblestones.

  “Kristia Tostenson.,” I smiled to cover my nerves. I’d felt a lot braver when this whole trip was just a pipe dream in a coffee shop back home.

  “Oh, Kristia! It’s so nice to meet you!” She shook my hand before handing me a packet from the stack on her table. “I’m Emma, we’re going to be flatmates.” She grinned as she reached for another stack, handing over a manila envelope. From the jingling sound, I assumed my keys were inside. “Go ahead and let yourself in -- we’re on the first floor, just over there.” She pointed. “Victoria’s already home. I’ll be there once everybody’s checked in.”

  “Okay. See you inside.” I shifted the envelope to my other hand, glad to have met a friendly face already. Please don’t have a vision and ruin this. Please, please, please. My handicap could ruin my first day faster than Ardis’ granny could shoot a squirrel off a fencepost. I just wanted to fit in for once.

  “We were thinking of going for curries tonight,” Emma called as I headed towards the flat. “Do you want to come?”

  “Um, yes. That sounds great. Thanks.” I fumbled with the envelope as I pulled my suitcase across the courtyard to Unit 3. I used my new key to open the burgundy door -- it was a pretty contrast to the dark gray of the stone façade. I walked into the small living area where a couch, dining table, and four chairs sat opposite an armoire holding a television. Two reading chairs framed a small table holding a lamp. The kitchen was off the living room, and I could see three small bedrooms and a shared bath branching off from the tiny hallway. It was small, but it was clean and comfortable.

  A tall girl wearing tight fitting jeans and a stylish top came out of the bathroom, towel-drying short chestnut hair. “Oh hello,” she said in a clipped British accent, more upper crust than Emma’s comfortable tenor. “I’m Victoria.”

  “I’m Kristia.” I smiled shyly.

  “Oh right, the American.” She nodded, motioning for me to follow her down the hall. “This room is left, it has a nice flowerbox outside the window.” Pointing across the hall, she said, “I’m in there, and Emma’s taken that one.”

  I looked into the empty room. It looked identical to the other two without the clothes and makeup. I stepped through the door, tugging my suitcase with me. The room was simple. The twin bed hugged the wall to my right, opposite an armoire that would be both dresser and closet. The desk and chair were basic. A box outside the window held purple posies. That could be a problem -- I had what Ardis affectionately called a black thumb.

  I didn’t have much to unpack, so that job was over quickly. The framed photo of Ardis and me at the Oregon Coast took the place of honor on the desk. Victoria was still drying her hair, so I grabbed the Mythology course book I’d purchased in advance and headed to the living room.

  I was well into the stories of the Norse Myths that Mormor told me as a child when Emma came through the door laughing. She seemed like a happy person. Victoria was harder to read, but I had hopes for her.

  “Let me just pop in the shower and we can go,” Emma called over her shoulder, shedding articles of clothing on her way to the bathroom. Victoria poked her head out of her room.

  “Are you ready for dinner?” She asked me. I glanced at her stylish outfit, reading behind her words.

  “Uh, almost. I just have to change my… um, my top,” I guessed, jumping up so quickly I dropped my book on my toe. By the time I made it to my room, Victoria was spraying perfume on her wrists. I sensed my selection would be very different from hers -- Victoria seemed very trendy, while my wardrobe was classic but functional. Slim jeans and slacks, fitted sweaters, tall boots. Proper cold-weather wear, courtesy of a lifetime in the Pacific Northwest and a grandmother who preached modesty. I rummaged through the armoire for one of my newer sweaters and changed my sneakers to a pair of brown riding boots. As I ran a brush through my wavy, dark-blonde hair, Victoria appeared with a patterned scarf.

  “This will go with your eyes,” she said simply.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, unsure what to make of my new roommate.

  “Oh, Victoria,” Emma emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and running a brush through her hair. “Stop ‘helping’ her.” Her fingers made quotes in the air. “You have all semester to give us makeovers.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and waved us into her room. “Victoria’s a fashion student. As her flatmate, you are officially her pet project, whether you want to be or not. Just accept it. I have.”

  “Oh, tush Emma. If I needed help with matters of mathematics, I would come to you. You know that. I can’t help that my specialty is more… practical than yours.” Victoria picked up a pair of earrings lying on Emma’s dresser and held them up to her ears.

  “Pardon me, but mathematics is highly practical. People use it every day. When was the last time you did math, huh? Actually don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” Emma earned a ‘harrumph’ from our well-dressed flatmate, who moved to the armoire. Victoria returned, bearing a flowing top and skinny jeans. Defiance in her eyes, Emma pulled out another top and started to put it on. After a moment, she ruefully held out her hand. Th
e gleam in Victoria’s eyes as she handed over her choice made me think this was not the first time they’d played this game, nor would it be the last.

  “She’s always right about clothes, you know,” Emma muttered begrudgingly as she dressed in Victoria’s chosen outfit. While I considered the pros and cons of having a live-in stylist, I decided this would be a good thing. If I wanted to blend in, Nehalem’s fashions weren’t going to do me any favors.

  When our outfits had been approved, we locked up the flat and walked to Victoria’s little car. Emma appointed herself tour guide. “So the first thing you need to know about Cardiff -- the corner market up… here,” she gestured, “has the best biscuits. You Americans call them cookies. They bake them fresh every morning, but the packaged ones they sell on the side have chocolate and caramel. Delicious.”

  “Cookies are biscuits, and these are the best. Got it.”

  “The laundromat just behind us is less crowded than the one in our building--”

  “The cutest boys are always there,” Victoria finished.

  “Good information.” I was warming to my more reserved roommate.

  “Two blocks this way is the place we get our hair cut -- it’s the best salon for the least money. You want to see Robyn. She’s great.” Emma was one of those enthusiastic people who managed the fine line between cheerful and annoying.

  Victoria was eager to point out her favorite places too -- designer clothing shops that were well beyond my spending limit. Emma winked as she teased our flatmate, “And for the rest of us, the good people of H&M have opened a shop at the north end of town. I think you have them in America?” I nodded in response. “Great clothes, but mthey don’t last. Mostly, I pick up the trendy things there, unlike Victoria here who picks up her odds and ends at Harrods each season.” Victoria rolled her eyes at us and I grinned at my new cohort.