CHAPTER ONE

When he touched her knee again, Jace Berisha gritted her teeth and forced a smile.

Keep it together, she told herself. You can do this.

Although she really didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to be in this temporarily closed Santa Monica club haggling over gods-blessed trinkets. She wanted to be back at the Bird House, reading . . . something. Anything. But, sadly, she was the one among the Los Angeles Crow Clan who could speak Russian as well as a whole host of other Slavic and romance languages and some that were neither of those. A skill that had one time served a very different purpose. But it had been her key. The key to getting her out of her First Life and—happily—into her Second. True, she’d had to die for that to happen. At the hands of her bastard ex-husband.

But it was a price she’d pay again to be here.

So although undercover work was not really her forte, she’d do it for the women she called sisters and the goddess who’d given her so much. Because she chose. Something she was told never to do.

She’d just have to find a way to keep her now-infamous temper in check.

Because she wasn’t just a Crow. She was a Berserker Crow. A Crow whose rage was used during battles to terrify and destroy, not necessarily in that order.

Jace wished she saw her role as Berserker Crow as some sort of curse, but she didn’t. She enjoyed her rage the way some people enjoyed babies or a gorgeous new sports car.

Still, if only . . . if only she had more control over it. She had a little, but once her rage was really sprung, there was no pulling back until she’d spent it on whoever had set it off in the first place.

A tendency that worked well in the heat of battle but not so much when the Crows were trying something a little different from their usual “get in, kill everybody, get out” work scenarios.

Tonight the Crows were trying negotiating, a skill most of them were only known for in the downtown LA jewelry district.

Usually, when the Crows were called in, it was so they could get back what had been stolen from the gods and kill everyone who’d had anything to do with the theft. And if the blood of an innocent had been spilt . . . let’s just say, some of what the Crows had done over the years to avenge that had become legendary.

This time, however, they knew for a fact that those who currently had the Rhine bracelet that belonged to one of the Fates had absolutely no clue what they held. They hadn’t used it. Hadn’t spilled blood over it. They were simply some club owners who were trying to sell the pretty bracelet to the highest bidder. So it was decided that killing these men would be unnecessary.

Of course, none of the gentlemen they were dealing with were innocent in the big scheme of things, but they weren’t pure evil, either.

At least that had been their leader Chloe’s belief. Jace, however, knew better. Before she’d been taken away by her mother all those years ago, Jace had grown up around men like this. But she couldn’t think about that now. If she did . . .

“So,” Tessa tried again, working hard to ignore the male beside her who’d sniffed her neck, “how much for the bracelet?”

“It is expensive,” the big Russian said in strained English. His name was Vadim Ekimov, and he ran the docks in San Pedro. The bit of research they’d done on Vadim before heading over here showed that he was a medium-sized gangster, but no better or worse than any of the others. He definitely hadn’t earned a Crow attack that neither he, nor his men, would ever recover from. Because if the Crows started going after every minor scumbag who lived in Los Angeles . . . Yeah, well. That would just be a bad idea. “We can’t just give it away, my pretty.”

Knowing that these idiots had no idea what they were haggling over was beginning to wear on Jace. The man sitting between her and Tessa in the booth, whose hand was steadily moving up Jace’s thigh, was wearing on her even more.

“We have money,” Tessa promised. “And it’s just so gorgeous, Vadim. I must have it.”

The hand on Jace’s thigh inched up a bit more, and she was seconds from breaking the man’s fingers.

“And what will Vadim get for such pretty bracelet?” he asked, leaning forward across the round table, eyes on Tessa.

“My fist up your ass if you don’t give us a goddamn price.”

The men all looked at Jace. And that’s when she realized that she’d not only said that out loud . . . she’d said it in flawless Russian in the men’s Southern Russian dialect.

She couldn’t have given away her secret any more obviously if she’d put it on a billboard on the I-10 Freeway.

“Ahhh, a sneak, Vadim,” one of the men joked, still not taking any of the women seriously. “They brought in a pretty little spy.”

Tessa leaned back in her seat. “What’s going on?” Tessa, an African American born and raised in San Diego, knew Spanish and a little Korean from her time as a nursing student in a hospital in Koreatown, but that was about it. She now had no idea what was being said.

Realizing she’d blown any chance of being subtle here, Jace simply replied, “Just give us the bracelet, Vadim. We’ll pay you. Well.”

“And how will you pay us, little girl?” Vadim suddenly grabbed her chin and held her.

Tessa was nearly out of her seat when one of the men pressed a gun to the side of her head. She silently sat back down, but her face said everything that was needed. At least to Jace.

These men had just lost their one chance not to end up as “bird feed,” as the other clans called it.

“I don’t like to be touched, Vadim Ekimov,” Jace warned. “So get your hand off me.”

“Or what, little girl? What will you and your brown friend do to me?”

“The question,” a voice from the dark corners of the closed club explained, “isn’t what she will do.” A blade slipped around Vadim’s neck and pressed against his jugular. “But what will the rest of us do?”

Vadim immediately released Jace’s face and raised his hands.

Jace wiped the spot where he’d touched her. Not because she had a problem with him in particular, just . . . again, she didn’t like to be touched.

From the darkness they emerged, easing into the few lights that were still on in the mostly deserted club. Jace’s strike team. The girls she fought with, lived for, would die for if it ever became necessary. Her sisters. All Crows were her sisters, but these women . . . they meant everything to her. Always would. She adored them in a way she never said but felt deep down in her bones. In her blood. In the soul that now belonged to Skuld until Ragnarok came. Because she chose. A choice she’d happily make again and again.

Kera Watson, the last to join their team, but the most naturally protective of any of the Crows, reached over the booth back, slipped her hands under Jace’s arms, and lifted her up, out, and away from Vadim and his hands-y friends.

“You all right?” Kera asked, quickly releasing Jace.

Kera was a former Marine and she knew people. Understood them in a way the rest of the Crows didn’t really bother to do. One of the first things she’d learned about her team was their personal foibles. She knew Jace didn’t like to be touched and she knew she didn’t like to sit close to people. So Kera had made sure to get her friend out of that situation as soon as she could. That was Kera. The full-time “fixer” of the group.

Jace nodded her thanks before addressing Vadim again.

“Give us the bracelet,” she said in English so that everyone could understand. “This can all be over if you hand over the bracelet.”

Vadim turned a bit to look at her, shrewd eyes sizing her and the others up. “Why is bracelet so important to you? Why do you need it?”

Jace shook her head. “Don’t haggle, Vadim. Not anymore. You lost that right when you pulled guns on us. Just give us the bracelet.”

“Fine. We want a million for it. In Euros.”

Jace let out a sigh. Men. Always so difficult.

The Crows laughed at that, which the Russians didn’t seem to appreciate. But Vadim was being ridiculous.

“No,” Tessa finally said. “You can have fifty grand. In American dollars. And you’ll be damn happy with that.”

“Fifty grand?”

“Fifty grand,” she said again. “And we all go away. Wouldn’t that be nice? Everyone getting out of this unscathed? Because trust me,” Tessa promised, grinning, “you will be scathed if you don’t let this go.”

“I have better idea—” he began, but Jace let out a loud sigh that had Vadim looking at her again.

“Problem?”

Jace nodded. She didn’t want to talk anymore. She was tired of talking.

“You see,” Erin explained for her, “you’re probably about to say something really sexual and disgusting, and she’s going to get really pissed and you won’t like that. We will,” she added. “But you won’t. So just give us the fucking bracelet.”

Vadim glanced at his men and, finally, he agreed. “We will give you bracelet. If you have money now.”

“We have the money,” Alessandra Esparza promised, slapping a briefcase on the table and opening it. One of the men quickly looked through the stacks of bills before nodding at Vadim.

“Come.” He stood, and Erin pulled back the blade she’d had against his neck. The standard Crow weapon given to each of them almost from their first day. Made of the finest steel, it was a thin blade that could tear through either major arteries or hard bone without much effort. The Crows were taught to fight with one in each hand, but if they ever lost one during a fight that was not a problem. They also had talons that could tear through flesh and bone just as easily. Why they had both, Jace didn’t know, but she also didn’t mind. Sometimes she wasn’t in the mood to have blood under her nails.

Together, as one large group, the men with their guns, the women with their blades, all walked to the back of the club and down a long flight of stairs to the basement. All the liquor was down here. They moved through the cases until they reached a back office, where, using a key, Vadim unlocked the door and pushed it open.

And that’s where they found them. The door to the walk-in closet–sized safe blasted open. The six men standing around it froze, staring at the Crows as the Crows stared back.

It was the Protectors, a powerful Clan created by the god Tyr after the Crows and Odin’s Ravens had wiped out one too many villages for Tyr’s very moral tastes.

Tyr had given his human warriors a powerful sense of justice and a “no enemies shall survive!” sense of battle. Just a few Protectors, with their owl-like wings, could silently swoop in and take out entire battalions of Crows and Ravens. In the beginning, they’d had no other purpose, but that had changed when the other Clans began to realize that the Ravens and Crows were needed to keep Ragnarok at bay.

At the time, it was easy to accept the Ravens as one of the Official Nine. Chosen by Odin himself, they were all of the finest Viking stock. The Crows however . . .

They were slaves brought to their Scandinavian shores and turned into vengeful warriors with black wings and dark souls by the Fate Skuld herself. She took these women as they were breathing their last, giving them a chance at a second life and to finally have an outlet for their anger after being ripped from their homes and dragged to a foreign land. For centuries, they were not allowed to be part of the Official Nine because everyone assumed that when the raiding and slavery faded away, the Crows would, too.

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 was 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.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Books aren’t safe until they’re in the library,” he quickly reminded the obsessive Bear.

Immediately forgetting the Crows, Bear dashed out the door, shoving Gundo aside and disappearing into the dark.

Ski faced the women again and tipped a nonexistent hat. “Ladies, as always . . . it’s been an amazing pleasure.”

 

“You made me wait.” She stood in front of Hel’s table in her hall, Éljúðnir. “Weeks.”

“So?” Hel asked, not even glancing up from her plate filled with food but still called “Hunger.” The knife in her hand was called “Famine.” Her luxurious bed with all the furs and silk sheets was called “Sickbed.”

“I make everyone wait. Do you know why?”

The goddess tossed her blond hair off her face with a flick of her head. “Because you ca—”

“Because I can. Exactly.” Hel leaned back in her throne, arms spread wide.

She wore black armor that covered her from neck to torso, but left her head, arms, and legs bare. Those were the parts of her body that appeared normal. What was under that armor? Rot.

A rotting body that would rot for eternity. Or until Ragnarok came.

“So what do you want, Vanir?” Hel asked, making sure to make lines clear. The Aesir gods ruled this world. The Vanir gods did not. “What do you come to me for?”

“You know why.”

“Because you’re still pissed at that sister of yours?” Hel smirked. “I see you wear her necklace.”

“On occasion. When it goes with the outfit. But it’s mine now. It’ll all be mine.”

“But you need my help. Yes?”

“Don’t you want them to suffer? They’ve condemned you to remain here. They’ve—”

“Shuh-shuh-shuh-shuh,” Hel said, waving her knife. “Please don’t bore me with tales of what my Aesir kin have done to me. I don’t care. This is my domain, and I like it here. So find another direction if you want to interest me.”

“You’re the daughter of Loki. Think of it as just one more way to fuck with everyone since that seems to be your family’s thing.”

“We do get bored. Must be our vast intelligence.”

“Will you help me or not?”

“I don’t like you. But I don’t loathe you, either. For me, that almost makes us friends.” Hel grinned at the blond goddess in the Hervé Leger dress, gold and diamonds on her neck, wrists, waist, and dangling from her ears. “And I always try to help friends.”