The Undoing (22 page)

“The Nordic gods
are
the normal universe,” Erin reminded her.

“—call a hookup.”

“And you're okay with this?”

Erin glanced at Stieg. “You act like they're fucking on the table.”

“A Protector with Jace? It's not right.”

“Do you have a thing for her?” Kera asked.

“She's like a sister.”

“A sister you want to fuck? Like a stepsister?”

Stieg gazed at Erin. “What is wrong with you?”

“It's a valid question.”

“It's a sick question. I'm just protective of her. She's weak and . . . docile.”

Erin and Kera again looked over at Jace. She sat at one of the tables—shocking, really, because Jace usually stuck to the trees when there was a party—with Ski Eriksen. They were both laughing and talking.

Jace Berisha was talking. Willingly!

Only a Raven could have a problem with that.

“I think they're a cute couple,” Kera argued. “And he's so sweet to her. How could you have a problem with this?”

“Ignore him, Kera. Engstrom's just pissed because the Protectors call the Ravens stupid. Like Thor stupid.”

Stieg leaned in to Erin because he was probably going to yell at her, but a Giant Killer stood in front of the table and screamed, “
Did you steal our liquor?
”

Erin shrugged. “No.”

With a grunt, the Killer walked to the next table and yelled, “
Did you steal our liquor?
”

“We are
not
Thor stupid,” Stieg insisted, the three of them watching the Killer walking to all the tables and yelling the same sentence. “We'll never be
that
stupid!”

“Sweetie,” Kera reminded him, “that's not saying as much as you think it is.”

 

Jace had no idea how they'd ended up at this table near the dance floor. She usually stayed in the trees but Ski had said he was thirsty, she'd decided to come with him to get a soda, and they'd never quite made it back to the trees. Instead, they sat at a table and continued their conversation.

Their lovely conversation. About the Second Punic War.

True. She couldn't think of many people who would find the war between Rome and Carthage as interesting as Jace always had, but she adored Roman history.

Was glad she'd never lived it, but still loved reading about it and, now that she was free of her First Life, watching movies about it. Couldn't get enough.

The movies, filled with battles and good-looking British guys with tight abs, always caught the interest of her fellow sister-Crows and the viewing room filled up quickly, everyone passing around popcorn and candy, cheering during the battles or pointing out battle-technique flaws. It was one of the few things Jace enjoyed doing with other people. But trying to talk to any of the Crows but Chloe about the real history behind those movies and . . . forget it. Her sisters' eyes would glaze over or they'd start making “I'm bored” noises. So Jace didn't bother.

She wouldn't have bothered discussing any of it with Ski, either, except that he was well versed on most military history, from the earliest wars in Mesopotamia to the recent battles throughout the world.

Shockingly, he knew way more than she did. He could rattle off statistics—the death toll, the number of legions involved, how many cities and small towns were decimated, even how many slaves were sold for some of the Roman wars and battles, because the Romans kept such meticulous records of everything—while thoroughly understanding the politics that drove the world at that time.

He was magnificent. Smart
and
good-looking.

God, was she drooling? She felt like she was just staring at him and drooling.

She was pathetic, wasn't she?

It wasn't like she had much experience with men. Dealing with her ex-husband and his sycophants just didn't count as real experience. And hanging out with the Ravens recently because of Kera didn't count much, either. They all treated her like a little sister with a hair-trigger temper. And because they had no interest in her sexually, she could talk to them without worry. She wasn't trying to entice them, just preventing Erin from insulting them or Annalisa from messing with their heads.

Yet listening to Ski Eriksen . . .

Listening. Shit. She wasn't listening. She was just staring at his face and he was asking her something.

“Sorry?” she tried not to wince.

“I asked if I was boring you. Guess I am.”

“No,” she said too quickly. “No, it's just . . .”

“It's just . . . what?”

“I just really don't know what I'm doing.”

“What you're doing? What do you think you're supposed to be doing?”

“I don't know. That's the problem. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. I just enjoy sitting here, listening to you go on and on about death tolls and the number of horses and elephants in Hannibal's cavalry. I could listen to you go on for days about that, but that's not exactly a dialogue that helps a relationship grow.”

“No. It just makes me your college professor.”

Jace shrugged. “I wouldn't know. Never went to college.”

“You should. The Crows will pay for it. Although you should understand, you already know way more than any of your professors will know. That might irritate some of them and bore you.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Trust me, it does when you're sitting there listening to them completely screw up the Viking portion of their Norwegian history class. It's almost physically painful.”

“No, I mean, it doesn't matter—at least not yet—because I don't have a high school diploma.”

Ski frowned. “You don't?”

“I was”—she raised her hands and made air quotes with her fingers—“ ‘homeschooled.' Because
those
people were only going to teach me evil and lies.”

“I don't understand. Then how did you learn so many languages?”

“Well, once you get the basics of Latin, which my father started teaching me before he died, the Romance languages become almost frighteningly easy. Plus, my grandmother taught me Romanian, which has a lot of French and Italian and Spanish at its heart. She and my uncles also taught me Albanian, which is an Indo-European language. And then the cult insisted I learn Hebrew, ancient Persian, ancient Sumerian, Coptic—which is ancient Egyptian—Arabic, and Aramaic.”

“And, um . . . the Russian?”

“My grandmother started me on Russian, and by learning Russian, you can learn Polish, Czeck, etcetera, much easier, and I enjoyed Russian so much, it was really easy to teach myself what my grandmother never had time to do.”

He gazed at her for a moment before admitting, “I know Old Norse.”

“Yes, you do. And you should be proud of that. It's hard.”

“You already know it, don't you?”

Jace shrugged and admitted, “Sorta.”

“Yeah.” Ski sat back in his chair. “We need to get you your GED, so we can get you in and out of college as quickly as possible.”

“Why?”

“So you can earn your master's and PhD in languages.”

“Why?”

“Because talent like yours can't go unnoticed. And, to be quite honest, if it hadn't been for Bear being quite the annoying pain in my ass, it would have.”

“So I know different languages? So what? What's the big deal?”

Ski leaned over and spoke to the Giant Killer sitting at the next table. He spoke in Norwegian. After glaring at him, the Killer snapped back, “English, dude. This is
America
. Duh.”

Now Ski stared at her. “That's why.
Duh
.”

Jace shook her head. “What do you mean, the Protectors have been stealing the Killers' liquor?” she asked in a whisper, having easily understood what Ski had said to the Killer.

Ski laughed. “They've been doing it all night.”

“Don't pick on the Killers,” she laughingly chastised. “They serve their purpose.”

Resting his arms on the table, Ski leaned in and asked, “Which is?”

Jace thought long and hard on her answer . . . because she really didn't have one. But, at the last second, she came up with, “We'll understand their purpose,” she said, raising her index finger for emphasis, “when Ragnarok comes.”

“Very nice save.”

“I thought so!”

She found the Great Prophet sitting in the backyard, gazing up at the sky. When she looked, all she saw was stars and clouds, but she knew the Great Prophet saw so much more. He always had. Even as a child, he'd been . . . a presence. A presence in this world that they were all undeserving of.

These people who tried to entrap him, tried to jail him in the hopes of containing his truths . . . they would suffer greatly when the world ended. All of them would.

But especially that girl.

She'd been given the greatest gift of all. The gift of being his wife. The
wife
of the Great Prophet and she'd turned away from it. Like a fool. A lost, heartless fool.

In the end, that girl had deserved nothing she'd been given, and her suffering for letting it go would be great. In this world
and
the next.

Sitting beside him, she patiently waited for him to speak.

He'd requested her and she'd come. Without thought, without question. As it should be.

He didn't speak for ten minutes, but when he finally turned to her, she felt awed by his presence. By the mere fact that he was looking at
her.

“She needs to come back,” he said. “We need to save her. She'll talk to you.”

She swallowed and asked, “And if she won't come?”

“Make her.”

With a nod, she left him. She'd put a small team together that would help. But he was right, of course.

Jacinda would talk to her. She was, after all, Jacinda's mother . . .

K
era suddenly sat down beside Jace. Directly on her chair, pushing her over until they were both barely on it.

“Hi, Kera.”

“Hi, Jace.” She smiled.

And then she kept smiling.

“Enjoying your party, sweetie?” Jace asked.

“I am. I am
so
enjoying my party.”

“Kera . . . are you a little drunk?”

“No. I'm a-lotta drunk. But it's that bitch's fault,” she said, pointing . . . around. Since Erin was off somewhere. “She just keeps giving me drinks.”

“You don't have to take them.”

“But they're just so tasty.” Then she began quietly chanting. “Tasty, tasty, tasty, tasty.”

Jace thought Kera was going to keep going, but she suddenly pointed at Ski. “You, with the penis.”

Ski's eyes widened behind his adorably dorky glasses, his lips pressed together to stop the laughter.

“You treat this girl like she's a goddess. Understand me?” Tears suddenly formed in Kera's eyes. “Do you know why?” she asked, choking a bit. “Because she's the only one who hasn't abused my clipboards.”

Ski scratched his head and quickly looked off. All the other Clans had heard about the recent Clipboard Incident. There'd been a bonfire. And dancing. And a “We Are the Champions” sing-along.

It had not been pretty.

But the Crows saw Kera's clipboards as an attempt at controlling them, and it was the one thing the ladies would not stand for from anyone but their goddess and their leader. Kera, as the “new girl,” did nothing but bring out the panic.

Yet Kera was a true Crow—she'd not soon forgive or forget what had happened that night.

Sadly, that was confirmed when Kera suddenly pointed around the party and yelled, “
Unlike these treacherous bitches here!
”

As was the Crow way, Kera's drunken outburst was greeted with joyful cheers. Because they were Crows and all of Jace's sisters were ridiculous.

“You see?” Kera asked Ski. “They're
all
bitches. But not my Jace.” She put her arm around Jace's shoulders and hugged her. “Never my Jace. So if you hurt her . . . I will have Erin burn that pretty face of yours
right off!
”

“Okay,” Jace said, pushing Kera's arm off—it was now squeezing her so hard, it was starting to really hurt . . . and possibly break something—“perhaps we should get you to bed.”

“Why?” Kera looked around. “The night's young!”

 

Ski could tell that Jace was embarrassed about her friend, but he didn't know why. These were the descendants of Vikings. Drinking and then embarrassing themselves at parties was what they did.

Even the Protectors, after a few drinks, had finally come down from the trees and were standing around, watching everyone else on the dance floor.

But was Ski embarrassed by them? No. And Jace shouldn't be, either. The best thing about drunk friends? They were pretty honest. Sometimes that meant very hurtful things were said, but in Kera's case it just showed how much she cared about Jace. She didn't seem to have enough nice things to say about her.

“Sorry, Jace,” a low voice rumbled and Ski looked up to see Vig Rundstöm. “She got away from me.”

“It's okay,” Jace said with a little laugh.

“Isn't he amazing?” Kera asked them. “I love him.”

One side of Rundstöm's face lifted. One might call it a smile. Maybe. Or a small stroke.

“Look what he gave me!” Kera held her arm out, nearly punching Jace in the process. A slim silver chain bracelet dangled from her wrist. “Isn't it pretty? Look.” When Jace and Ski both smiled and nodded, the woman's eyes narrowed. “I said
look
.”

Now afraid not to, both Jace and Ski leaned in.

“It's a boat.”

“It's a
snekkja
,” Rundstöm grumbled. “A long boat.”

Ski grasped the charm between two fingers and removed his glasses so he could take a closer look. So much detail in such a small item. He could make out the sails, the round shields, the oars, even the small heads of the men. It amazed Ski to think that a butcher like Vig Rundstöm could craft such beautiful work.

“You did this yourself, Raven?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't know you had the skill. Not with those hands.”

A deep snarl rumbled up from the dark face hidden behind black hair and a big beard.

The Rundstöm bloodline had not changed since the 600s. Vig Rundstöm was so very Viking. More than most. He was just missing the round shield and fur cloak to complete the picture. There was absolutely nothing modern about the man, so it didn't surprise Ski that he'd chosen a warrior Crow to be his mate. It just surprised him that Kera, a very evolved female, would tolerate the Neanderthal.

But, as Ski's grandfather always said, “To each their own.”

“You made that
Mjölnir
necklace, too?” Ski asked, now examining the representation of Thor's hammer around Kera's neck, and an obvious slap at the Giant Killers who had giant hammers—not their god's rune like the rest of them—branded on their bodies. Seeing that necklace around the throat of a Crow must greatly annoy them.

The Raven grunted in response.

“Nice work.”

Another grunt, but this time Kera patted her Viking's chest. “Be nice. He looks rich.”

Ski grinned. “I am.”

Jace coughed, but quickly dropped her head.

“See?” Kera said. “He's rich. Be nice, he'll buy your stuff. Right? You'll buy his stuff?”

“Well—”

“I said,” she growled, voice low, “you'll buy his stuff . . . right?”

Ski didn't dare look at Jace. “Right.”

“Good.” Kera stood, stumbled, although she wasn't actually moving, straightened. “Maybe some coffee?”

Rundstöm grunted, nodded, wrapped his arm around her waist, and carried her off.

Ski shook his head. “By Tyr's justice, he's
such
a Viking.”

 

“So . . . that's where we're at,” Chloe finished to her fellow Crow leaders.

They were silent until Neecy asked, “Still didn't really explain why you swung at a nun.”

“Because she was irritating me,” Chloe snapped back. “Isn't that good enough?”

“No.”

“But you're sure,” Serena asked, “that this Brianna girl
is
Gullveig?”

“What else could she be?” another Crow leader asked.

“An LA agent?” When all Chloe got were blank stares, “You people have no idea what it's like in Hollywood. Betty was nicer to that minotaur she took on once than she was to that studio head she thought was trying to screw over her client back in the nineties. When she was done with him, the guy ended up joining a kibbutz in Israel. He's not even Jewish.”

Serena leaned forward. “Well, darlin', you better confirm she's the one and Gullveig isn't roaming around inside some dog somewhere.”

“And you need to find out before that All-Clan meeting,” Neecy added. “The Silent are looking for any excuse to push the Crows out of the Nine. Don't give 'em a chance.”

Chloe thought a moment. “The director—”

“The one who lost his skin?”

Chloe nodded at Neecy's question. “His funeral's tomorrow.” She glanced at her watch. “Make that today. Yardley has to go, and I'm sure Brianna will be there.”

“Why?”

“The director won an Academy Award for some artsy film he did. A lot of names will be there to make an appearance, get their picture taken, schmooze.”

“At a funeral?” Serena's lip curled in disgust. “Well, isn't this a godless little state.”

“It used to be just Southern California, but since the tech boom, Northern California's been catching up.” Chloe blew out a breath. “Okay. We'll send Yardley to the funeral with her team. And I'll send a team to Brianna's office and her home. See if we can find anything else. Although I don't know what we should be looking for.” She shrugged. “An altar of skin?”

“I saw one of those once,” Serena admitted. “It was nasty. And surprisingly stinky.”

“Look for something,” Neecy pushed. “You can't go into that All-Clan meeting with no information. The Silent will crucify you.”

Serena looked out the window as a group of women and one man walked by, her eyes narrowing. “What is your ex-husband doin' here with all them Valkyries?”

“Trying to goad me into a fight, but I promised Erin that if there was any fighting at this party, it wouldn't be because of me.”

“Especially after you punched that nun,” Neecy muttered.

“You really need to let that go.”

Serena stood. “With you havin' so much on your mind, why don't
we
entertain your ex-husband?”

Chloe smirked. “Ladies—”

“Oh, come on! It'll be fun. You focus on your little Gullveig problem—”

“I'm not sure a god forcing her way into this world is a
little
problem.”

“Shut up, Neecy. And we'll keep your ex out of the way.”

Chloe stared at Serena. “And how are you going to do that?”

“Don't you even worry. Trust us to handle it.”

“See, that's where we have a problem.” Chloe laughed. “I don't trust any of you bitches.”

 

“You want something to drink?” Ski asked.

“That would be great.”

“What would you like?”

Jace panicked. She'd never done the drinking thing, so she really didn't know what to order. So she blurted out one of the drinks she'd heard ordered throughout the night by her sister-Crows. “Dirty martini!”

Ski gazed at her with those sometimes-unblinking eyes.

She tried again. “Uh . . . Kamikaze?”

His head tipped to the side.

“Southern Comfort on the rocks?”

Still staring.

“Singapore Sling!”

“What's in a Singapore Sling, Jace?”

She rubbed her chin. “Liquor?”

“Jace, what do you really want?”

“Sprite.”

“Why didn't you just say that?”

“Well, everybody else is drinking.”

“Yes. Everyone else is drinking.” He looked over the dance floor. It was not pretty.

Wings were out. Dance moves were attempted . . . and failed. Some, like Kera, were just standing there, holding a beer and moving their heads, sometimes jerking their hips, eyes closed. Kera wasn't actually moving to the music playing, but to something she was hearing in her head.

Then there were Alessandra and several Valkyries, with their arms in the air, writhing.

So much writhing.

Then there were the Ravens. Eesh.

Big men shouldn't really try to dance. Unless they were Siggy.

Siggy could move his ass with the best of them, even keeping up with the Tri-State Crows, who were known for their skills on the dance floor.

“That's what drinking gets you, Jace. As you know,” Ski went on, a little smug, “the Protectors don't get that kind of sloppy drunk.”

Jace didn't respond. She just pointed. Gundo had his head buried in some Giant Killer's voluptuous boobs and Borgsten was resting against Gundo's back while they all slow-danced to a fast song. The others were in a line, arms around each other's shoulders, singing along to a song that had no words. In Norwegian.

Ski cringed. “Well . . . that's disappointing. I'll get your Sprite.”

“A freezing cold bottle please.”

Ski walked off and Erin quickly replaced him. “What are you doing?” the redhead demanded.

“You think I should have gone with the Singapore Sling?”

“Not the drink, dweeb. You've got flippin' Ski Eriksen making moves on you and what are you doing? Talking?”

“He's not making moves.”

“What are you standing against?”

She glanced back. “A wall.”

“Right. A wall. And do you know why a guy like Ski Eriksen maneuvers a hotsie-totsie like you against a wall? So he can make out with you. But you keep fuckin' talking. Usually we can't get you to say a word, but now you won't shut up.”

“We've been having a great conversation.”

“Yeah. About
Stalin
.”

“You know I find dictators fascinating. Caligula. Hitler. The Dalai Lama.”

“The Dalai Lama?”

“Don't trust those warm, caring eyes. They hide a dark soul.”

“Okay, I see you need my help, Jace.”

“I really don't.”

“But that's what friends are for.”

“Most friends would just leave me alone.”

“Not
good
friends.”

Ski returned with her Sprite and a Norwegian beer for himself. He handed the unopened bottle to Jace.

Grinning, he said, “Bear is chatting up that shifter bartender. I think she likes him. Why, I don't know, but whatever.”

“Don't be mean. Bear is very likable.”

“Is he?”

Erin put the tips of her fingers to her temple. “Even
Bear
is getting some?”

“He's just talking to her,” Jace corrected.

Ski shrugged. “Which for Bear is him getting some.”