The Undoing (9 page)

Ski placed the food in front of Jace. “Bear meant that as a compliment.”

Appearing mildly confused, she replied, “Yes. I know.” She paused, then added, “What else would it be?”

 

“Jacinda?”

“I'm not hungry,” she told the persistent Protector. Earlier the man had actually come to her and asked if she'd “used the bathroom in the last three hours.”

What kind of question was that? And why was he so concerned?

Of course, with him staring down at her with those big green eyes, she'd finally gotten up to use the toilet, only to discover she really did have to urinate. Then she'd heard not-as-funny-as-he-thinks-he-is Gundo remark, “We may have to get that one a diaper to prevent accidents.”

Har-har-har.

But, Jace was forced to admit, she did like working around the Protectors. Unlike her sister-Crows whom she loved so dearly, the Protectors were wonderfully, unabashedly, almost obsessively
quiet.

Not one of them was an actor or a musician or a model or a superstar with an entourage. They were all lawyers, social workers, judges, police detectives. They took the ideal of justice very seriously and tried, in their own Viking way, to give back to the community.

She admired that even while knowing she could never do it herself. Their jobs required too much time talking to people. Listening to them.
Dealing
with them. Since she was a child, there was nothing Jace hated more.

Much to her grandmother's great annoyance, Jace would often disappear with a pile of books and a candy bar, forcing the entire family to come looking for her. She was often found up in trees, under the house, in the backseat of someone's car, or in the attic of a family member. Any place she could find peace and solitude was where one could find Jacinda Berisha.

But that idyllic life had ended when her mother had come for her. When she'd taken her to the cult, where peace and solitude were not allowed. Alone time meant introspective thoughts that, even at a young age, Jace knew would lead to life outside the cult. Something the Great Prophet of the time would never allow. So, for sixteen years, Jace never had any time to herself except when she was studying or searching out proof to back up the current Great Prophet's claims about the end of the world.

Then she'd become a Crow and all that had changed. True, in the beginning, the Crows tried to make her feel welcome. Tried to get her to join in. But, eventually, they realized that she didn't want any of that. She mostly wanted to be left alone, and when she didn't, she'd let them know. Much to her surprise at the time, the Crows were fine with that.

Until Rachel, for some unknown reason, had decided to make Jace her personal pet project.

Maybe she was hoping to show Skuld that she would be a good leader, but from what Jace had seen of other Crow leaders she'd met, including Chloe, they didn't have to show anything. They just were and Skuld knew it.

The problem with Rachel, though, was that she was painfully hardheaded. Explaining to her that none of this would help her or Jace was just a waste of breath. She believed exactly what she wanted to believe until proven wrong. And it was hard to
prove
that being left alone was in a person's best interest. It was human nature to assume that everyone wanted to be part of a pack. That everyone wanted tons of friends, popularity, and things to do on a Saturday night.

In Rachel's mind, Jace was just a tragically shy girl who would get her rage under control once she went barhopping a few times with “her girls.”

Jace realized the Protector hadn't walked away and she glared up at him. “I said I wasn't hungry.”

“I'm not offering you food,” he replied. Although he didn't sound angry, more amused.

“Then what do you want?”

“For you to leave.”

“Huh? Why?” She rushed to explain what she'd been doing all day, pointing at the computer they'd given her. “I already have the first two boxes of books listed with title, author, and basic theme. I haven't gotten to the other boxes, but I will soon and—”

“Jace, I'm not firing you.”

“You're not?”

“No. I'm telling you to get out because we don't allow non-Protectors in the library when we're not here.”

“Where are you going?”

“On a job.”

“In the daytime?” she asked, shocked. Did Tyr protect his warriors in the day? Why didn't Skuld do that for her Crows?

But instead of answering her, the Protector grabbed the back of her seat and turned the entire thing around so that she was facing the big, floor-to-ceiling, UV-protected windows. It was dark outside.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He turned the chair back, the scraping noise of the non-wheeled legs making her wince, and stepped beside her. “We've got work to do. We are nocturnal, after all.”

Eriksen was wearing the typical Protector fighting outfit. A white, sleeveless hoodie T-shirt, revealing his god's rune branded onto his left upper bicep; blue jeans; thick work boots. Like the Ravens, he carried no weapons. Unlike the Ravens, the Protectors didn't turn everything around them into weapons. Their hands and feet did enough damage on their own.

“And, unfortunately,” he went on, “I can't have you stay while I'm not here since you're my responsibility.”

“I am?”

“If you suddenly snap and destroy all the books, that'll be on me.”

“Most say if I suddenly snap and kill everyone in the room.”

“We care more about the books.”

So did Jace.

“Okay. So you want me back tomorrow?”

“I'm sorry, did you think you were done? Because the guys already have a list going.”

“A list? For what?”

“The jobs they want you on after this. Nedolf is a public defender and he has several clients for whom English is a second language, and for some reason he doesn't trust the current translator he's working with. Sevald has been working with several Eastern European countries on some political issues, but his Polish and Ukrainian are sketchy at best, and he's afraid he's pissing people off.”

“He probably is.”

“Yeah. Then there's Fredgeir—”

“Who wants a better name than Fredgeir?”

“No. He needs you to—”

“Forget it. Forget it.” She waved her hands to stop him. “Forget I asked.”

“You don't want to be involved?”

“I didn't say that. I just mean . . . I can only deal with one stress at a time and I'm pretty into these books right now. They're my whole focus at the moment.”

“Good. Because that's exactly what I want and the reason I started the list. I love my brothers, but one must get control of them from the very beginning or risk panic and whining. I hate the whining.”

He smiled and Jace thought about looking at something else in the room. He was just so . . . handsome. But then she couldn't think of a reason to look away. Her divorce had been final for ages, her lawyer getting it through the system as fast as humanly possible along with a permanent protection order against her ex.

But as Jace gazed into this particular handsome face, she began to worry. So she asked, “You don't pity me, do you?”

The smile faded. “Why would you ask me that?”

She scrunched up her nose a bit. “The cult thing.”

“Oh.” He thought a moment and she appreciated he didn't reply with an immediate—and most likely bullshit—“No, no. Of course not. No!”

After several seconds, he replied, “I was surprised you told us about it. Because it's clearly something you don't discuss. Otherwise, it would have been fodder for the other Clans long before now.” He thought a little more. “But . . . I am glad that you trusted us enough to tell us about it. Still . . . in answer to your question, no. I don't pity you. But I must admit, my heart did break a little for the girl you once were. And that your freedom was taken from you without your consent.”

Jace was shocked at such a thoughtful and caring answer. Not only did she appreciate it, but she adored the way he didn't just react. Crows and Ravens were all about just reacting.

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

“Of course. But if those people bother you again, let us know. We have connections with the police, politicians, everyone. You don't have to fight them alone.”

Jace had to smile. “I'm a Crow. I never fight alone.”

“True. But you don't have to physically fight them either. So if you'd rather take a more rational approach . . . the Protectors are here for you.
I'm
here for you.”

Jace got the feeling he was trying to tell her something beyond what his words were saying, but before she could reason it out, a banging at the windows startled them both and they looked to see Stieg Engstrom standing on the other side of the glass, glaring.

“Do I need to kill him?” Eriksen asked.

“No, no.” She quickly shoved her few things into her backpack. “I'm sure he's here for me.”

“He couldn't come to the front door like a normal person?”

“Stieg? No. He rarely does what normal people do.”

Jace slung the backpack over her shoulder and motioned to Stieg. “Front door!” she yelled at him. “Go to the front door!”

“Are you sure you'll be all right with him?” Eriksen asked after Stieg slowly moved away, his glare locked on the Protector.

“I'll be fine with him, though I doubt you would. He's not a Protector fan.”

“You two together?”

“We'll be together in the car.”

Eriksen frowned in confusion, then said, “No. Are you two together? Like dating. Or something.”

Jace laughed. “There's no one in the world who would let that happen.”

 

Ski opened the door and allowed Jace to walk out. As he did so, he made sure to keep his gaze fastened on the Raven glaring at him.

Actually, they glared at each other.

There was simply no love lost between Ravens and Protectors. They tolerated each other the way cats and dogs tolerated each other, which was to say not at all unless they were in a situation that required it.

“Why are you here?” Jace asked the big, slow-witted Raven.

“Kera asked me to pick you up.” Still the Raven stared at Ski. “I can't believe they let you come here and stay here . . . alone. With
them
.”

“Are you just going to keep staring at him?” she asked Engstrom.

“Maybe.”

“It's weird.”

He finally looked down at her. “Whose side are you on?”

“My own?”

“Typical.”

“Can we just go?” she asked, walking toward the car. “And I'm driving myself here tomorrow.”

“Do you even have a license?” Engstrom asked,
still
staring at Ski.

“Ski, you ready?” Gundo asked from behind him.

So, Ski turned just his head around so that he could look at his friend. He heard the Raven growl.

“Fuck! I hate when you bastards do that.”

Ski swung his head back. “Then fucking leave, Raven.”

“With pleasure,” he shot back, arms thrown wide in obvious challenge as he walked backward toward the car.

Jace tossed her backpack into the car, then returned to grab the Raven by the back of his neck.

“Ow!”

“In the car! Jeez!”

She pushed the Raven toward the vehicle and waved at Ski and Gundo. “See you tomorrow.”

They waved back and watched her get in the car and drive off with the Raven, the pair bickering the entire way.

“They dating?” Gundo asked.

“She says no.”

“Good. Because you like her.”

Ski nodded “I do.” He faced his friend. “I don't think she gets that, though.”

“Oh no. She doesn't get it at all.”

 

“Why do you always have to be a dick to them?” Jace asked Stieg. “Can't you be nice? For once?”

“No.”

She let out a sigh and stared out the window.

“And I don't know why you're being so bitchy to me. It's not like he was any friendlier.”

“That's not the point. You're on their territory and you bang on the window like a mental patient!”

“I did that to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?”

“He was giving you ‘the look.'”

“The look? What look?”

“The I-want-you-to-be-my-concubine look. Like he would have been more than happy to toss your chunky ass over his shoulder and carry you off to his pompous, book-lined Viking boat.”

“My ass is not chunky.”

“Well, it ain't small.”

Jace pressed her fists against her forehead. “Explain to me again why we're friends?”

Stieg shrugged. “You're one of the few people I get along with.”

“And that doesn't tell you something?”

A
fter leaving Stieg in the car, Jace walked into the Bird House.

As soon as she entered, Rachel was there, her mouth open to speak. And, to be honest, Jace didn't want to hear it, which was why she said, “Shut up.” Shocking Rachel into immediate—if temporary—silence.

She'd had such a good day, she didn't want to hear anything from anyone.

Jace paused and let out a whistle. A whistle her team used in order to track each other down during battle. She received a whistle back and tracked her team into one of the small living rooms. Except for Tessa, they all sat on the couch watching TV or working on their electronic gadgets.

Kera turned around and smiled. “How did it go?”

Jace stopped. Blinked. “What happened to your face?” she asked, horrified. The entire right side of Kera's face was swollen and black and blue. Jace immediately looked at Erin. “What did you do?”

“It wasn't me! Why do you guys always assume it's me?”

When that got nothing but snorts and giggles, Erin looked back at the television.

“She's right,” Kera said. “It wasn't her. It was a one-hundred-pound Rottweiler momma who wasn't a fan of me trying to rescue her babies. The puppies aren't here,” Kera quickly added when Jace squealed and clapped her hands together.

“Why not?”

Everyone on the couch looked at Jace and she realized she might have sounded a wee bit . . . terse.

But come on! You couldn't talk about puppies and not have them here for her to play with!

“Right now I'm working with another rescue group in town until I get mine going. So the puppies and their momma are being cared for by them. I'm paying for food, boarding, and veterinarian costs.”

By now Lev had heard Jace's voice and run into the room. On his hind legs, he pawed at her denim-covered calf with his claws until Jace reached down and picked him up. “Well, you need to get on that, Kera.”

“To help the American vets who'd risked their lives for our freedom and now need a little extra help at home . . . or so you can have easy access to puppies?”

“Why can't it be both?”

Maeve, sitting on the couch, bundled up in a blanket, held out a thermometer. “I'm sick.”

Erin sighed. Loudly. “You are not sick.”

“I am. It's either the flu . . . or I'm dying.”

“Dying?” Erin demanded. “Really?”

“My lymph nodes are swollen,” she argued, pressing the tips of her fingers against her throat. “My nose is running. I'm sneezing. My sinuses are killing me—”

“Did you take your allergy meds?” Jace asked, pressing her nose against Lev's. That was when he started licking her face and nibbling on her chin.

“Allergy meds?”

“The last time you had those symptoms, turned out it was your allergies. As opposed to some virulent form of bird flu.”

“Oh.” Maeve lowered the thermometer, thought a moment. “I did forget to take my allergy pill this morning.”

Erin rolled her eyes; shook her head. “Oy.”

“Hey, check it out.” Alessandra grabbed the remote and turned up the sound. “Isn't that Betty's old assistant?”

It was. The leggy blonde looked amazing as she smiled on
Entertainment Tonight
, talking about “covering for poor Betty Lieberman while she recovers from her recent accident.”

“That's a lot of fuckin' gold jewelry,” Erin noted. “What is she? A rapper? She looks like she's joining Public Enemy.”

With a snort, Kera asked, “Is that the most recent rap group you've heard about?”

Erin laughed. “Nah. Just one of my mom's favorites.”

Tessa walked into the room, stopping beside Jace to pet Lev's head. “Okay, ladies. We have a job tonight. Let's gear up.”

“What?” Erin asked. “Again? We just had a job last night.”

“The other Strike Teams are out. So we're up.”

“Is it a full moon or something?” Maeve asked, between dramatic coughs . . . which everyone ignored.

“Surprisingly no.” Tessa waited a moment before snapping, “Bitches, get up!”

Groaning and complaining, Jace's sister-Crows got to their feet and headed up the stairs.

Tessa turned to Jace. “Did you tell Rachel to shut up?”

“Yes. But in my defense, she was going to ruin my day by talking to me. I wasn't going to let that happen.”

Tessa gave a small shrug. “That was probably a good plan.”

 

Ski perched on the roof of the bar outside Bakersfield. He'd come with Bear's team again.

They all perched and waited. Of course, what they were waiting for, he didn't know. He just knew what he had to protect.

“Uh-oh,” Borgsten groaned.

Ski briefly closed his eyes, the sound of motorcycles roaring through the parking lot of the bar irritating him more than he could say.

“By Tyr's right hand,” Gundo complained, “why them?”

“Because we're having a bad night.”

The engines of the bikes were shut off, hammers were unslung and rested on big shoulders. The Protectors watched Thor's human Clan, the Giant Killers, lumber their way toward the front doors of the bar. And Ski knew that as soon as that Clan stepped inside, the screaming would start.

When Ski had been a little boy, he'd never thought there could be anyone dumber than Ravens. He'd quickly learned he was wrong. There was dumber.

Thankfully, though, Frieda was with this group. She was the leader of the Los Angeles Giant Killers. She wasn't actually smart, per se. But she wasn't painfully dumb, either. That helped.

Ski raised his hand and signaled his team to move. They had to do this quickly and quietly, which wouldn't be easy. Not with Thor's Clan.

Suddenly Ski found himself wishing he was dealing with the Ravens instead. Something he rarely ever thought.

Ski launched himself off the roof and landed hard in front of Frieda.

She immediately stopped, her hand tightening on the handle of her weapon. Her team stood behind her, ready to start swinging those ridiculous hammers at any moment.

Like Thor himself, there was nothing subtle about those stupid hammers.

“Danski Eriksen.” Frieda pursed her lips as she looked Ski over. “What are you doing here?”

“We can't let you do this, Frieda.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “Oh? Ya can't? And why's that?”

“This place is under our protection.”

“A bar? You losers are protecting a bar? I'm shocked.”

“The owner is a favored priestess to Tyr. Now, if she has something that belongs to Thor, I'll personally retrieve it for you. But you're not about to go in there and start killing everybody.”

“We're not?”

“And who's gonna stop us?” one of the older Killers asked. A Killer who'd been slammed around so many times in fights with the Crows and Ravens that Ski was pretty sure the man had permanent brain damage. Like a professional football player who'd been hit one too many times on the field. “You . . . Urkel?”

Frieda lifted the hammer off her shoulder, slapping the head into the palm of her hand. Ski cringed. That had to hurt.

“Bring it,” Frieda urged. “We're more than ready.”

“I don't want to fight you, Frieda.”

“Why? Because you're a pussy?”

“I don't like that,” Haldor announced. One of the Protectors who wasn't just quiet—the man could literally go for months without saying a word.

Frieda gawked at him. “You don't like that? So?”

“I have a daughter and I'm trying to teach her self-respect in a very male-centric world. And suggesting someone's weak by calling them female genitalia bothers me. Viscerally.”

“What-erly?” one Killer asked another.

“As a woman,” Haldor went on, “you really should be more conscious of—”

“Shut. Up!” Frieda roared. “Now, are we going to do this or not? Come on, Protector!” she challenged. “Let's fight!”

Except Ski didn't really want to fight . . .

 

Pastor Bruce Maynard sat back in his chair and watched his wife take a stack of bills off the table where all the money they'd made for the night had been counted out.

She held it under her chin, grinned. “How do I look?”

“Rich.”

She laughed and kissed his forehead. “I'll go home. Get the party started.”

“I won't be long.”

She walked to the exit, stopped, and reminded him, “No hookers tonight.”

“I said I wouldn't.”

She rolled her eyes, chuckled, and walked out.

Bruce stood and took a moment to walk around his tent. He was going to be here for another few days. Selling the Word of God. Providing some healing. And earning some money. It was what he was good at. The best long con he'd ever come up with. He even had TV interest. And that was where the real money was at. If he could get the masses pumped up and his wife could do her amazing song and dance, they'd have that private jet in no time.

He heard something on the wood stage behind him.

She crouched there, watching him. She was pretty. A hot little redhead dressed all in black. She couldn't have been at the sermon, though. He'd have noticed her. Would have had one of his security guards bring her to his trailer. So, who she was?

And where did she come from?

“Hello?”

She stood, arms crossed over her chest, but said nothing.

He walked toward her but heard something behind him again. Turned. This one was Latina. Very pretty. Long blond hair, big brown eyes. Also dressed in black, but she wore a long skirt slit high up on both sides. She smiled at him. He smiled back.

A throat cleared. He faced the redhead again. She was no longer alone on that stage. There were two more women. One black. One white with long, curly brown hair. Both attractive enough.

“Can I help you, ladies?” he asked. Hoping they were here for more than just help.

It was the Latina behind him who spoke.

“We listened to your sermon.” She laid her hand on his shoulder, slowly walked around him until they were face-to-face. “It was . . . interesting. Your message.” She dragged one of her manicured nails, painted a deep red, down his chest. “About God . . . and His apparent need for money.”

Who were they? Some uptight broads complaining about the money taken from their grandparents? How boring.

“Our Lord and Savior—”

“No,” she cut in. “You can't mention His name. It upsets us so. It's sacred. Like the people who worship Him. They're sacred.”

“Perhaps you should talk to my—”

“We're here to talk to
you
.” She smiled, her hand moving steadily lower. “And you're going to listen.”

She grabbed his balls and twisted, nearly had him on his knees. But she quickly backed off the pressure, even though she didn't release her hold.

“You keep selling those lies, taking these poor people's money, and we're going to come back here, and we're going to rip your soul from your body.”

“Are you insane?” he asked.

Wings extended from her back. Big, black wings.

They all had wings.

At first, Bruce thought it was a trick. They were in Barstow. That was only, like, a two-hour drive away from Los Angeles. Movie territory. It could be some movie mogul's parents he'd gotten money from. And they'd set up this whole thing.

But then the redhead flew across the room to reach him. She
flew
. Landing in front of him.

“Do you understand what she's saying to you?” the redhead demanded. “Do you understand what we can do to you? We're giving you a chance here. One chance.” She leaned in and whispered, “You heard what we did to Sodom and Gomorrah, right? That was a whole city.”

“I—”

She lifted her hand, flames danced through the fingers, and Bruce tried to lean away but another one of them, wings extended, stood behind him, pressing him forward.

“So,” the Latina said, “you'll give back the money. You'll preach the
real
Word. You won't try to steal any more money from these people. You'll get right with our Father or we'll come back here and we'll decimate
everything
you could possibly love. Do you understand?”

“I understand! I understand!”

She pushed him away. “Do not fuck up again, Bruce.”

“I won't! I swear! I won't!”

Her wings went up, then down, and she flew out the hole at the top of the tent.

The redhead leaned in and removed the weird bracelet from his wrist that his wife had purchased for him from some high-end jeweler she really loved, who also cleaned their money for them sometimes.

“And I'll be taking this,” she said as she tucked it into the back of her black jeans.

“Why?”

She leaned down until their faces were nearly touching, her hand raised, a ball of flame in the palm. “What did you say?”

“Nothing! I swear!”

“That's what I thought.” Then she was gone. They were all gone. And all he could do was cry and tell God he was so sorry.

 

Big Bavarian pretzels were the bar's well-known specialty. And as the priestess handed them out to each Protector, along with mugs of cold beer, they ate and stared at the spot where the Killers were no longer standing.