“I don’t like this,” Tor said, clutching the handle of his large knife more tightly.
The coast was barren and cloudy and seemingly deserted, but Sten knew better. He’d been sent here for a reason, and it wasn’t just to get chewed up by draug squads.
He dragged his hand over his mouth and beard, listening…smelling…sensing.

The draug were around, but they’d quickly learned that unless they wanted to send legions to take them on, they’d better regroup and wait for better odds. Even ammo-less, he and his men were formidable. They didn’t have forever though and eventually, their strength would give out.

He gave the signal for the Gundersons to stay hidden in the trees while he and Tor melted out of the shadows in the first faint light of day. It was cold—or would have been to other people—but he barely felt it.

“Careful,” he murmured to his larger cousin. “Don’t want him popping off.”
“How do you know he’s here?” Tor muttered back.
Sten side-eyed him and raised his eyebrow. He didn’t need to answer that. Even if he didn’t have his ways of knowing things, the big-ass antenna was a dead giveaway.

He left his hands free and empty, holding them out to the sides slightly so that their quarry wouldn’t take it in his head to start shooting right off that bat.
There wasn’t anything he could do about his looks, but at least he’d hidden the Gundersons.

He led Tor and Conner through the closed gate, shutting it carefully behind them, then he went up the manicured walk. Someone cared for this place. It was subtly unlike the others, not enough to draw attention, but enough that someone like him would notice. Storm and Jared probably would have been able to tell too.

“The curtain twitched,” Tor said.
“He’s in there. He’ll be deciding what to do now,” Sten promised, raising his empty hands a bit higher and praying.

It took many long moments, but finally, there was the sound of many locks and even something that sounded like a bar being lifted from the door. At last, the door cracked open and a man stepped out onto the Victorian-style porch.

He was on the downslope of middle-age, with hair more white than brown and a trimmed beard that had long since lost its color. His face was lined with wisdom and too much sun. He was wearing jeans and a blue plaid button-up with a heavier flannel jacket on top of it to take the chill from the early morning air.
He studied the newcomers warily before stepping toward the edge of the porch.

“Can I help you, boys?”

Sten’s lips quirked in amusement at being called a boy, especially considering his age, but he didn’t take offense.

“We’re here to see the prophet,” Tor called out in a vaguely formal tone.

Suddenly, the man on the porch doubled over in laughter and slapped his knees. “You boys sure know how to make an entrance. Tell your friends there to come on it and we’ll have a cup of tea,” he said, gesturing out at the trees where the Gundersons were all but invisible.

“How’d he know they were there?” Tor murmured, perplexed.

Sten didn’t know that, but he intended to find out.