But they never did. The Crows were as strong now—if not stronger—than they had been “back in the day.” Skuld still chose from the dying, and like their small but brilliant avian namesakes, the Crows existed all over the world. Some groups smaller than others. Some in infinitely more danger than others. But they still all worked together to protect the world from itself. Not an easy job but one they all loved.
They were still human, though. None of the Crows was immortal. They were faster, stronger, and more powerful than they had been in their first lives, but they could still die when hit with a well-placed bullet or a knife to an artery. At least now they were promised a place at Odin or Freyja’s tables in Asgard. They would fight with all the other warriors when Ragnarok came. That was more than most people had to look forward to in their afterlives.
Still . . . even though the Crows and Protectors were no longer the hard-core enemies they once had been—immediately trying to kill each other without question or consequence—the Crows and Protectors didn’t actually trust each other, either. At all.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Tessa demanded of the men.
“Well, if you must know—” one of the Protectors began, but the Russian snapped in rage.
“Treacherous bitches,” Vadim snarled.
“Wait,” Jace told him quickly, going back to Russian in the hopes of keeping Vadim calm. “We had nothing to do with this. We still have a deal.”
“Fuck you and your deals,” he growled before jerking back, slamming into Erin, who’d still been behind him with her blade out.
Erin hit the door, momentarily stunned by the large man ramming her.
He reached for the gun he had under his jacket and Jace made a mad grab, pushing the hand and weapon toward the ground. That’s when she felt the fingers of Vadim’s free hand dig into the back of her head, and before she could stop him, he smashed her face-first into the wall.
Danski “Ski” Eriksen cringed when he saw Jacinda Berisha hit that wall. Watched as the other Crows fell silent, hands dropping to their sides, the expressions on their faces one of hopelessness.
“Why?” the Crows’ strike team leader asked. “Why did you do that?”
“What?” the big Russian asked, smirking. “Was she a favorite of yours? Did you take turns licking each other’s pussy?”
“Well, this won’t end well,” Gundo muttered behind Ski. Followed by a sighed, “What an idiot.”
“Get the books,” Marbjörn Ingolfsson—they mostly just called him “Bear”—ordered his team. “She”—and they all knew who he meant—“is going to burn this place down!”
Before they could follow Bear’s orders, they all heard that growl. They’d heard it before. In battles or during particularly nasty Trials, and once at a party when a drunk Valkyrie went to punch the Crow leader and, instead, punched Jace Berisha.
It was a sound that they’d all learned to fear over the last couple of years.
And Bear was right. She would burn this building down and everyone in it.
The Russian stepped back, eyes narrowing as Jace slowly turned to face them all. Blood poured from an open cut on her forehead and her nose appeared a bit . . . smashed. But it was her eyes. They’d gone from a pretty dark blue to a dark blood red. Her talons tore out of her fingers, curling at the tips, and her wings exploded from her back.
The humans backed away; some started to run.
“What the fuck are you?” the big Russian screamed.
They’d never get an answer from Jace. Not when she was like this. She could speak. But she never answered questions. Right now, she was trapped in whatever rage-filled vortex slamming her into the wall had set off.
Jace locked on to the Russian, grabbing his tailored jacket with both hands, and yanking him close. She did begin to speak to him, but it was in what Ski guessed was Russian.
Yet even though he couldn’t really understand exactly what Jace was saying, Ski knew it wasn’t good. The words torn from the back of her throat had her victim’s face blanching, his eyes wide in desperate fear.
He tried to pull away from her but she wouldn’t let go. Instead, she held on tighter, lifting her legs until they wrapped around his waist. And still those Russian words spewed out of her, her voice getting louder and louder, more and more rough and raw. Her face was now red with rage, her muscles bulging, the veins in her neck and arms throbbing and pulsing.
Then it began. The screaming. That gods-awful screaming.
Jace released the Russian’s jacket and slapped her talons against his face, digging them into the flesh and holding him tight. Then, still screaming, she grabbed his nose with her teeth and . . . bit it off.
“Jesus Christ!” Borgsten barked, forgetting his own gods as they all watched her spit the Russian’s nose out so she could go for the veins in his neck . . . while still screaming.
That’s when the new girl, Kera—who probably still didn’t know better—tried to pull Jace away from her victim. Jace held on to the Russian’s face with her talons, elbowing her friend, who was desperately trying to get her to let go.
Finally, the one Ski’s brothers referred to as the “vicious little redhead”—Erin Amsel—joined in. Together they were able to pull Jace off, and then Kera kept her grip on the berserker while Jace panted like a wild animal, blowing her blood-filled breath out past grinding teeth.
Skuld had turned that quiet, tall, pretty woman with long curly brown hair, deep set blue eyes, and sharp cheekbones into a true berserker. They’d never had any in Ski’s bloodline, but he’d heard tales of them at family get-togethers. Especially when they’d traveled to Iceland to see his mother’s family or Sweden to see his father’s.
Ski wondered what that was like. Having absolutely no control. Allowing your rage to rule your impulses.
Curious, Ski patiently watched Tessa gaze down at the Russian. Most of the man’s nose was gone and his face was shredded from Jace’s talons. But he wasn’t dead. He was screaming and cursing. Both in Russian and English.
After a few seconds, Tessa lifted her gaze and saw that all of the Russian’s men had pulled their weapons on her team. One had his gun aimed directly at her forehead. While Tessa stared the man in the eyes, she slowly unfurled her wings. They emerged from her back big, black, and shiny, stretching out nearly five feet.
Shocked, the men stepped away, looking at each other. Making sure they weren’t going insane. They didn’t understand. They’d never understand.
“So,” Tessa softly asked the men. “What are you going to do?”
That’s when the shooting began. Bear immediately did a full-body dive toward the boxes they had out while screaming, “Protect the books!”
Ski laughed, a few shots whizzing past him and the others, but the Russians weren’t aiming for him or his brothers. Or the damn books.
The firing from semi- and not-so-semiautomatic weapons went on for a good two minutes until the men stopped, smoke still rising from the barrels.
They looked around the room until their eyes settled on Ski. He smiled, waved, then pointed and said, “Behind you.”
They all spun, shocked to find the Crows behind them, unharmed, and seemingly unconcerned.
Then, grinning, Kera Watson released the still blood-foaming Jace to the ground. She landed in a crouch, head down, but her eyes lifting so she could see her prey. And, with a scream that would rival any Viking of old, she ran at them.
A few got off shots, but she dodged the bullets—not with skill, but with pure adrenaline-based animal instinct—and ripped into the first male she ran into, taking him to the ground as her talons tore him open from bowel to diaphragm and she pulled out his heart.
Horrified, a few of the men gawked down at her, while some just dropped their weapons and tried to make a desperate run for it.
But Annalisa Dinapoli was there to slam the open door closed with a toss of her hand.
“Kill them all,” Tessa calmly ordered.
Bear tapped
Ski’s shoulder. “Books,” he reminded Ski. The big man was calmer now. Probably a little embarrassed, too. But they had promised Ormi, the leader of the Southern California Protectors, to retrieve these books and bring them back to their library. How these men had gotten their hands on such important artifacts, Ski didn’t know. And he didn’t care. Ormi had tried to negotiate with them, but the Russian had played games and, unlike the Crows, Ormi had no patience for that sort of thing.
So he’d sent Bear and his team to retrieve the books and ordered Ski to go along with them.
Ski was second in command. Ormi reported directly to their god, Tyr, himself. Ski reported to Ormi, and everyone else reported to Ski. He’d come along to ensure the books were safe, but Bear was more OCD about the books and their care than Ski could even dream.
Ormi, also knowing about the gold torc the Russians possessed, had worried that something like this would happen. That the Crows would come, and in the ensuing slaughter, the books would be lost forever. So Ormi had attempted to get the books before the Crows came for the bracelet. A gold torc filled with so much magic it could destroy half the continent. If one knew what he or she was doing, of course. Thankfully, the Russians knew nothing about what they really held, but the word was spreading among those who did know. The Crows had no choice but to secure the stupid thing.
Ski would never understand why the gods insisted on imbuing weapons and jewelry with magical powers and then proceeding to lose said items. Honestly, how many times had Thor lost that idiotic hammer? How many times had Freyja’s ridiculous necklace gone missing? Or Idun’s fucking apples been stolen?
And then it was up to one of the clans to go in and retrieve these missing items from the humans who had them . . . only for the damn things to end up lost or stolen again in a few months or years.
Did the gods do that on purpose? He wouldn’t put it past any of them. Apparently immortality could get boring.
Ski stepped aside as an arm flew by. An arm. Why was the arm separated from the body at all? Why was that necessary? True, it was holding a gun, but that still seemed excessive.
Then again, the Crows were known to be excessive in a lot of ways.
Thankfully Odin’s Ravens were not also in attendance. Dumb oxen with no sense of restraint, they would have killed the Russians long ago and torn the entire club apart until they got what they wanted.
But the Crows . . . at least they’d tried to keep things low-key. It wasn’t their fault the Russians hadn’t listened to their instincts. Those instincts must have told them something.
Speaking of which . . . the big Russian was trying his best to crawl away as his men dropped all around him. But Jace had not forgotten him. She never would.
She caught hold of his ankle and dragged him back, flipping him over and ignoring what now sounded like begging in Russian. She straddled the man’s hips.
Before he might see more, Ski turned away. He’d already seen what Jace Berisha could do when her sanity snapped; he didn’t need to watch it again. Yet seconds after he took a step to help the others with the books, his body jerked forward, a burning pain in his left shoulder.
Gundo and Borgsten—two of the brothers he also called friends—leaned over to study the area. Blood poured from the wound, and the three men turned and stared at the one who’d shot him. The man made a small choking sound and they tilted their heads to the side the way an owl might, trying to catch the sound better, but the movement seemed to terrify the man even more, and he yelled to his comrades in Russian. Several ran over, guns raised.
Gundo turned his head until his nose aligned with his spine and called out to his team leader. “Bear?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bear replied, only half-interested as he and the rest of the team carefully packed the books into the wooden crates and began to carry them out the back exit. “But be quick about it.”
When Gundo’s head swiveled back around, the man and his comrades screamed in panic and began firing . . .
The Russian stopped moving. She hit him a few more times. She needed to be sure he was dead.
She needed him dead. She hadn’t done her job if he wasn’t dead.
He didn’t move so she sat up straight. She still straddled his waist, but his breathing had stopped.
Good. Good. Yes. Good.
She sensed someone behind her and jerked to the side. Bullets raced past. More shots came and she jerked the other way.
She looked over her shoulder so she could target the one who’d tried to kill her, the dead Russian’s blood still pouring down her chin.
She couldn’t believe someone had shot at her. At her! More rage poured through her and she stood.
Bringing her hands down, she again unleashed her blood-soaked talons, watching with great satisfaction the utter fear in the man’s eyes.
Nothing gave her greater joy than seeing the fear in her enemy’s eyes. She loved it. She loved it so much that—
Eyes narrowed, her rage now increasing, she watched as the male of another clan silently walked up behind her prey. His hand whipped out and he caught hold of the man’s neck in the same way an owl would catch its prey with its mighty talons. Twisting his hands the neck snapped, bones breaking like so much kindling. The Protector made it look easy, but those blunt fingers were as powerful as any edge weapon. As any mallet or hammer.
What did this male think he was doing? That had been her prey. Hers and hers alone!
And this . . . man thought he could just take it away from her?
Talons still out, she charged the man. Even as she heard the voices of her sister-Crows begging her to stop, screaming, “No, Jace! No!” she kept charging. For him. For vengeance!
She barreled into him like a linebacker, managing to take Ski down. He couldn’t believe the power behind that hit. But as they landed on the ground, he lifted his legs, placed them against her hips, and tossed her up and over his head.
He flipped onto his belly at the same time Jace did. They faced each other, both getting to their hands and knees. Jace growling at him. Ski smiled. He couldn’t help it. She was so cute when she was drenched in the blood of their mutual enemies. But his smile just seemed to piss her off more.
She started toward him, but that big foot came down on Jace’s back, shoving her to the ground and pinning her there. Screaming, she tried to get out from under it, but Bear held her in place with the strength of that one leg and glared at Ski.
“Are you done fooling around?” Bear asked him.
“I didn’t know I was.”
After finishing off the last of their victims, the Crows abruptly turned at the sound of Jace’s screams of rage. They stared down at their friend, then up at Bear.
And then they came at him.
Not to fight. Unlike a still-raging Jace, their bloodlust had been satiated with the human men they’d killed.
Nope. They came at Bear to yell at him. All at once. Like a bunch of squawking birds, their wings bristling, talons pointing.
Ski couldn’t even understand what any of them were saying. It was just a big cacophony of female squawking.
“Shut up!” Bear barked, covering the sensitive ears he’d been given by Tyr, and very briefly silencing the women.
“Shut up?” Tessa snapped. Then they all started again. Yelling at him. Calling Bear all sorts of names. Alessandra yelled at the poor man in Spanish. Leigh in Japanese. Maeve in Mandarin, which was kind of fascinating since her entire family came from India.
Ski got to his feet, thoroughly entertained by it all.
Due to a very old peace treaty between their Clans, Ski knew the Crows would not physically attack Bear unless he struck first. And he would never strike first when precious books were at risk.
Because if the Crows thought for a second that those books were important to the Protectors, they’d take great pleasure in using their talons to tear each one apart while poor Bear cried over the loss.
Of course, there was some pushing from the Crows, but Bear w
as six-seven and about three hundred pounds, so their pushing didn’t mean much.
But the yelling . . . the poor guy couldn’t tolerate all the yelling.
All those Crows screeching at poor Bear at one time . . .
Ears still covered, Bear roared and the Crows immediately backed up, their fighting blades held tight in their hands, ready to strike. Although Ski never understood why they needed the fighting blades when their talons did as much damage. Seemed redundant, in his estimation.
With everyone at a standstill, Ski realized it was the best time to move. Crouching down, he gently gripped Jace by her chin and lifted her head. Her eyes closed, her mouth hanging open, the woman snored.
She’d just run out of rage, and that meant one of two things would follow. Sobbing or sleeping.
He was glad it was sleeping. He’d hate to see her cry again. It had broken his heart a little the last time he’d witnessed it.
“Lift your foot, Bear,” Ski ordered.
“But—”
“Do it.”
Without a choice—Ski outranked him—Bear lifted that massive foot and Ski carefully pulled Jace out and up until he held her tight in his arms. She snuggled in close, her bloody chin resting against his neck, turning the front of his sleeveless white hoodie a very dark red.
Getting to his feet, Ski carried Jace over to Kera Watson. She was the physically strongest of the Crows—an extra blessing from Skuld, like Jace’s apocalyptic rage and Erin Amsel’s power over fire—and she easily took the woman from him and placed her friend over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Thank you, she mouthed to him. He’d found that the last thing Kera Watson seemed to want to do—ever—was fight. And he appreciated that. It made things much easier.
“The books are stowed,” Gundo announced from the back door.
Ski nodded and tapped Bear’s arm. “Go.”