At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(44)

“I’m pure Cajun, boy,” she said. “And don’t forget it. Laissez les bon temps rouler.”

“What did she say?” Patrick asked Evan.

“Something about all the drinks being on her.”

Diana ribbed him. “As soon as I’m tenured, my noble adviser.”

She pulled a hand towel from her bag and rubbed the sheen of sweat from her face and arms. Evan recalled the words of his favorite undergraduate English professor at Oxford. Women don’t sweat, the prof had told them. They glow. Yet another thing to enjoy about the fairer sex.

Their hamburgers arrived, and silence descended on the table for a few minutes. Diana finished first, pushing away her empty plate with a contented sigh.

“Thanks, Sten.”

“Next time it’s on you. I have a business to run.” But he didn’t sound grumpy.

She waved a hand that encompassed Evan and Patrick. “So, Sten, these boys are here to learn about some of your riffraff.”

Sten replaced his half-eaten burger on the plate and licked his fingers. “You talking about the minor riffraff or the serious jerks?”

“The neo-Nazis.”

“The serious jerks, then.” Sten half rose out of his seat and glanced around but then sank back in his chair and shook his head. “Helskin and his crew were here earlier. Don’t see ’em now.”

“I saw them. Maybe they slunk home with their tails between their legs.” Diana raised her glass in a mock salute. To Evan and Patrick, she said, “Hank Helskin is the kind of hard-core guy you’d expect to see driving his car into a crowd of antiracist protestors. Except he’s also a coward. Sticks close to his mates. Talks the talk and struts his stuff, but I think he’s actually pretty harmless. And maybe too lazy to mount anything like a real campaign.”

Sten signaled for another round of Guinness. “That’s why I don’t bounce him out on his ass whenever he shows up. That and the fact this is America. I’m a big believer in the First Amendment.”

“Are these guys Viking reenactors?” Evan asked. “Or ásatrú?”

“Both?” Sten frowned and tugged on his beard. “Sort of. They call themselves ásatrú, and they really go for the look. Full beards, shaved heads, Viking tattoos.”

“Kind of like you,” Diana said.

His grin was sheepish. “I’m no reenactor. But if I’m going to run a place like Ragnar?k, I have to look the part. Anyway, Helskin and his crew are probably no more serious about ásatrú than anyone sitting at this table. And they definitely don’t care much about true Viking traditions. The real reenactors are hard-core when they’re in character. No plastic cups. No phones. No sunglasses. They bring in axes they’ve made themselves. I think the only modern thing they allow when they’re doing full-on Viking are prescription eyeglasses. Probably ’cause they’d look like dumbasses if they walked into the walls.”

“So these men,” Evan said. “Helskin and the others, they don’t stick to traditional dress and tools?”

“Nah. They’re always on their phones. Half the time, they got earbuds in. Probably listening to Wagner. Or Megadeth.”

“What’s wrong with Wagner?” Patrick asked. “Didn’t he write that song they’re always using in movies? The opera one?”

“You’re probably thinking of ‘Ride of the Valkyries,’” Diana said. “Which is brilliant. But Wagner was anti-Semitic. Hitler was a big fan.”

“No shit?”

“I shit you not.”

“Do you like opera?” Patrick asked.

“I do. Although my Italian isn’t what it could be.”

Patrick’s face lit up with a goofy smile. “Whose is?”

Evan took another bite of his burger. Juices dripped onto his plate. He thought he detected garlic in the mix. And maybe coriander. It was very good. “Where do these guys fall on the intelligence scale?” He was thinking of lendreg and brume and corse. Of Beowulf and “The Wanderer.”

“Helskin is somewhere between Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon. The rest have about as much going on as a bowl of mixed nuts.”

The new mugs of Guinness arrived. Evan waited until the server had moved on before he asked, “Do you know what their day jobs are?”

“Not a clue.”

“But they strike you as guys who might get their history mixed up,” Patrick said.

“I’d pretty much count on that.”

“Is this Helskin fellow the person you were frowning at earlier?” Evan asked Diana.

“When?”

“During the match.”

“Who? Oh, him. That was Raven. One of Helskin’s henchmen. He’s definitely not one of the mixed nuts.”

“Who are you talking about?” Sten asked.

“Raven. That’s the name he goes by. He’s dark-haired and squinty-eyed, and he has a raven tattoo on his forehead. You know who I mean?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Sten squirted more ketchup onto the plate of fries. “I’ve more noticed the group. Like a pack of wolfhounds.”

Diana snorted. “That’s being unkind to wolfhounds the world over. The guy makes me think of the Nazg?l in Tolkien’s books. You know, the Ringwraiths.”