All except Maeve Gadhavi, who walked over to Kera and asked, “Do you have an ETA on when all this stopping-the-Apocalypse thing might be happening?”
It took a lot for Kera not to narrow her eyes at Maeve, but her sister-Crow was sensitive to all physical reactions to anything she said or did. Instead, Kera replied, “Actually, no. At this time, we do not have an ETA. Why?”
“I think I’m getting a cold. Possibly the flu.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My throat’s scratchy.”
“And you want me to delay the end of the world for you because your throat is scratchy?”
Maeve crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do I hear tone?”
“Because there’s tone.”
“I’m just trying to—”
“What? You’re trying to what?”
“Well—”
“We don’t have time, Maeve, for your illness. If you have a cold when we have to battle Gullveig and her minions, then you drag your skinny ass out of bed and you get on the line with the rest of us. If you have the flu. Rickets. Measles. Ebola. An advanced form of venereal disease.” Kera was no longer speaking to just Maeve. She was talking to everyone in the room, pacing back and forth in front of the women who’d stopped watching Erin and Stieg and were now focused on her.
“If you have lost two legs but you still have arms, then you will drag yourself to the line,” Kera went on. “Because I—and humanity—don’t have time for anyone’s issues. Have I made myself clear?”
“Uh . . . yeah?” Alessandra said quietly.
“I can’t hear you!”
“Sir, yes, sir!” they all barked back. Probably because they saw it in a war movie, but Kera would take it.
“Good! Now where’s Jace?”
“Here,” Jace called out.
“I need to talk to you.”
Her friend started to walk toward her, but so did her boyfriend.
Kera held up her hand, halting the Protector in his tracks. “I said I need to see Jace. Not Jace and Ski, just Jace. So why don’t you stay here and relax, while we go talk. Have something to eat. It’s a fucking kitchen—there must be food here.”
“Uh . . .” The Protector blinked behind his adorably dorky glasses. “Sure. I’ll get something to eat.”
Kera nodded and motioned Jace to walk out of the kitchen ahead of her. She followed, leaving the others standing there staring. They walked down the hall and as they neared the front door, Kera grabbed Jace’s arm and yanked her into the bathroom.
Kera slammed the door shut, then dropped to her knees in front of her friend and panted out, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
* * *
Jace watched in horror as Kera had a major meltdown. She’d kind of known it might be coming. They were expecting her to be War General for a situation that could easily lead to Ragnarok. That was a lot to ask of anyone, but especially a woman who’d only been an active Crow for such a short time.
“I’m going to get them all killed, Jace. They’re all going to die and it’s going to be my fault.”
Jace went down on her knees in front of Kera. She was still a little taller than her friend, but it was better than towering over the woman when she was feeling so vulnerable.
Suddenly Jace felt like shit. She’d been in full avoidance mode the last few weeks, just like she used to do when she still lived with her husband and his congregation. Focusing on books. Playing with her dog. Getting into fights with Erin. But not helping.
Not helping her sister-Crows. Not helping Kera.
Her friends deserved better.
Jace dropped her hands on Kera’s shoulders. “You can do this, Kera. I know you can.”
“They’re all going to die and it’ll be because of me.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“I’m going to get them all killed and destroy the world. Me. I’m going to do it all because I’m a fuckup.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m going to be the reason a big serpent crushes the world. I’m going to be the reason hell’s unleashed. It’ll all be my failure. Mine. No one else’s. But you know what?” Kera babbled on. “I’ll probably survive. I’m going to survive all of it so that I can live with my failure and the corpses of all those my weakness has destroyed!”
Knowing the rant was only going to get worse, Jace did the only thing she could think of at the moment—she twisted Kera’s nipple. Hard.
“Ow! What the fuck, Jace!”
“I need you to listen to me. I’ve been watching you. We all have. You’ve been amazing. Even now . . . the way you handled Maeve? Brilliant. Otherwise, she can start spiraling out on you, thinking she’s got every killer bee–transmitted tropical disease ever created. You’ve been amazing with the Silent, never letting them get the best of you. Freida and the Giant Killers respect you . . . and they don’t respect anyone. I would also say that you’ve been handling Erin great, too, but no one can handle Erin. You just let her be and hope for the best. But that’s okay. That’s how everyone deals with her. You’ve been smart enough not to push her.”
“But if I fail—”
“You can’t think like that. We’re all in this together. All of us. Every Crow. Every Clan. Gullveig brought this battle to us, and we won’t back down. Vikings never back down.”
Kera gave a small chuckle. “What? We’re all Vikings now?”
“Damn right we are. True, most of the Clans might not think so. But I’ve always felt being Viking was less about bloodlines and more about fuckin’ attitude.”
“Then, sweetie, your grandmother’s a Viking.”
“I wouldn’t actually argue with you about that. I don’t think Odin would argue with you about that.”
Both woman were laughing and Kera put her arms around Jace, hugging her tight.
“Thank you,” Kera whispered against her ear.
“Any time. Because if there’s one thing I know how to get through, it’s panic attacks.”
* * *
Erin stood still while Stieg used a napkin to wipe the chocolate glaze off her forehead.
Well . . . she thought she was standing still until he said, “Stop wiggling.”
Erin grinned. “Does it make you hot?”
“No. It makes me think you need to be on Adderall. Have you been tested for ADHD?”
“I had an appointment booked with a specialist in Manhattan, but I went to a Mapplethorpe retrospective at a gallery downtown instead.”
Stieg stepped back, frowning. “How old were you?”
“I don’t know. Twelve. Maybe thirteen.”
“A twelve-year-old should not be checking out a Mapplethorpe anything.”
Erin gawked at the big Viking. “You know Mapplethorpe? You?”
“I got knowledge.”
“Do you? Really?”
“This gallery owner used to pay me and Karen to work some of his art shows. I handled security and Karen cleaned up.”
“Galleries need a lot of bar-like security, do they?”
“The gallery was in downtown LA, near Skid Row. My job was basically to keep the riffraff away from the Hollywood glitterati, which wasn’t hard because the locals all knew me. Anyway, the owner was really nice and he liked to explain the work to me and Karen. I learned about Jackson Pollack and de Kooning and Dorothea Lange. It was all interesting but not really my thing.”
Erin sat down on the metal picnic table, her ankles crossed, legs swinging. “Stieg Engstrom . . . what is your thing?”
He dropped the dirty napkin into a nearby trash can. “Financial management.”
Erin laughed until she realized that he wasn’t joking. “Wait . . . what?”
“Financial management. I’m good with numbers and making money. When you live on the streets, you have to become good at hustling or become a hustler. Neither me nor Karen wanted to make our money on our knees or our backs, so we found other ways to make money.”
“Holy shit!�
�� Erin laughed, absolutely delighted. “That’s amazing! Do you and Karen work together?”
“She deals with all the clients and I handle the money and the investments because, according to Karen, I am”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“‘terrifying’ and a ‘drain on business. ’”
“So that stack of money she handed you the first night I met her . . . ?”
“Oh, that was cash from a client. A rabbi who runs a synagogue in Santa Monica. We used to go to their soup kitchen all the time. They had a tomato bisque that was amazing. Anyway, the rabbi is a really good guy and he was one of our first clients. We help invest the synagogue’s money and give them money to help keep the kitchen open for our fellow street kids.”
“So Karen’s not a stripper?”
“I told you she wasn’t a stripper!”
“Yeah, but you didn’t say, “She’s not a stripper, she’s my business partner in our financial management company!’” Erin shook her head. “You are so weird.” Erin turned and watched Kera and Jace walk toward her. “Hey”—she pointed at Stieg—“did you know he has a financial management company?”
“Yeah,” they both said together.
“And neither of you told me?”
“Well,” Kera explained, “I figured you already knew since, you know, you’ve been here longer than I have.”
“You have a point.”
Jace nodded. “And I knew you wouldn’t care.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t have.” Erin smiled at her two sister-Crows. “So what’s up?”
“We need to talk.”
Erin let out a long sigh, head dropping back so she looked up at the sky. “That sounds serious and boring and I want no part.”
“Don’t worry,” Kera promised. “We’ll keep it short and pithy. Perfect for your itty, bitty—”
“Titty commitee?” Erin asked with a wide grin.
“—attention span.”
“Oh.”
* * *
“What do you need from us, Erin?” Kera asked, cutting right to the heart of the matter, which was definitely her way.
How she managed to tolerate Erin Amsel as well as she did was a constant discussion among the Ravens. Many wondered if she could be nominated for sainthood despite the fact that she was no longer considered a Catholic.
“What do I need?” Erin glanced at Stieg.
He gave her a shrug. How she proceeded from here on out was up to her.
“What I need is . . .” Her voice faded out and she looked directly at Jace. “I need you to stop looking for a way out for me.”
“But—”
“You asked what I need. That’s what I need. And my God, no crying!”
“I’m not crying!” Jace screamed back.
But she was. A little. She was desperately trying not to, though.
“Instead,” Erin continued, still talking to Jace, “I need you to focus on how I’m supposed to use that Key. It should get me in.”
“A way in to Helheim,” Kera said.
“It won’t get me to Helheim, but Jace, I need a spell or whatever to get in and get out. As far in as you and that Key can get me.”
Jace sniffed, nodded, sniffed again. She stood straight, shoulders back. “Okay.”
“And you need us to find the Carrion.”
Erin shrugged at Kera. “That’s all we can do at this point. My suggestion is we send out the Strike Teams to hunt them down. But do not engage. Getting the Key will take a little more than one of our raids. We’ll need to be . . . subtle.”
Kera frowned. “Do we know how to be subtle?”
“Not even a little, but we have no choice. We can’t fight and actually defeat the Carrion on our own.”
“But if the Ravens—”
“It won’t matter. Not with the Carrion.”
“She’s right,” Stieg agreed.
Kera scratched her neck. “But you do want us to hunt them down.”
“We find ’em first,” Erin said. “Then we decide what to do from there. And I think I have an idea of where to start.”
“Good. What else?” Kera asked.
“You need to prepare.”
“For what?”
“We can’t do guerrilla tactics with Gullveig and her people, Kera. We need to issue a direct challenge and face them head-on with the other Clans.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Random attacks won’t mean shit to her once she’s at full power.”
The color drained from Kera’s face. “She’s not at full power?”
“Not even close,” Erin replied. “So we’ve got to move fast.”
“She’ll never accept a direct challenge from us then.”
“The good news,” Stieg cut in, “you know, if there is any, is that Gullveig’s troops are warriors of Hel. Unlike Gullveig, they won’t turn down a direct challenge.”
“Why not?” Kera asked.
“They’re Viking. No true Viking will ever turn down a direct challenge. Because, in the end, it’s about honor, and if that means dying, you better die with a sword in your hand and your enemy’s blood on your face.”
“That should be a poem,” Kera replied with great sarcasm.
“It may sound wacky to us, but he’s right,” Erin agreed, surprising Stieg.
He didn’t think she’d ever said he was right before.
“So we call Hel’s minions out for what purpose?” Jace asked
“If I can get the sword . . . I’ll meet you on the battlefield, and kill the bitch myself.”
“And if you don’t get the sword?” Kera asked.
“Then we all burn anyway.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Yardley King sat with her sister-Crows in the TV room. They watched reruns of a reality show—“reality” being relative—that involved women yelling at each other. The TV room was divided into who was a fan of each woman and who thought whom was a liar and who was a whore, etc., etc.
While the arguments droned on, Yardley stayed up to date on the world around her by focusing on her phone and social media. She knew what was coming, She had taken emergency time off in order to be here for her sisters whenever they might need her. But her “mega superstar schedule” as Betty called it, was so busy, she’d had to make one of her classic excuses in order to get out of a few contractual obligations.
This time her absence was due to “exhaustion,” which meant the Internet was abuzz with headlines like MOVIE QUEEN GOES BACK TO REHAB! and ANOTHER NERVOUS BREAKDOWN FOR MEGASTAR? and Yardley’s personal favorite, PREGNANT WITH LOVE CHILD OF MARRIED COSTAR!
Most major actresses would be losing their minds over such headlines . . . mostly because a lot of them were true or as close to the truth as these things could get. Yardley found them wonderful entertainment because none of the ones about her were ever true.
The day she’d freak out was the day they’d say something like MOVIE STAR LOSES HEAD DURING RAGNAROK BATTLE! That she would find an upsetting headline.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God, you guys!” one of her sister-Crows cried out. “It’s my commercial!”
Everyone in the room began cheering as the newbie actress jumped to her feet and took very dramatic bows and even threw in a curtsy.
Yardley dropped her phone so she could join in. She knew what it was like to see yourself on screen the first time and it rocked. She didn’t blame her sister for being so proud.
Erin walked into the room and over to Yardley. She crouched behind the back of the couch, her arms resting on the cushions. “I need your help.”
“Anything,” Yardley replied. “What’s up?”
“I need you to track down Jourdan Ambrosio. I figure you might . . .”
The entire room had gone quiet and Erin looked up, eyes widening when she saw all her sister-Crows gawking at her. “What? What did I say?”
“She doesn’t know,” one sister said.
“She hasn’t heard,” said another.
“I don’
t know what? I haven’t heard what?”
Yardley pointed at her sister who held the remote. “Turn on the local news, Sammy.”
Sammy quickly changed channels and Erin immediately stood up. It was late afternoon, so all the news stations were talking about the same thing.
“She’s missing?” Erin practically snarled. “What the fuck do they mean she’s missing?”
* * *
Chloe turned her office TV off and tossed the remote onto her desk. She faced the others—Erin, Kera, Yardley, and Betty. “Do you think she’s dead?”
“Along with her entire entourage?” Erin asked. “I doubt it.”
“Then where the fuck is she?”
“We find Jourdan Ambrosio,” Erin said, dropping into one of the chairs, her feet up on the seat, “we find the Carrion. Or at least the bulk of them.”
“The problem is,” Betty explained, “rich hos like her have more than one place to call home. For all we know, Jourdan and the Carrion are hanging out on her island in the Pacific.”
Erin smirked. “She outbid you for that island, didn’t she?”
“That bitch!” Betty exploded. “That island was mine!”
“Ladies,” Kera cut in, “can we focus?”
“Find out what properties she and her family own,” Chloe ordered. “At least any local ones the Strike Teams can hit tonight.”
“Should we involve the other Clans?” Kera asked.
“No,” Chloe replied. “We need the Protectors working with Jace, and the other Clans are wingless, so . . .”
“I’m going to call some friends,” Yardley volunteered. “See if they’ve heard anything or if they know a place the family doesn’t own where Jourdan would hole up. She’s got a lot of billionaire friends and those friends have a lot of property.”
“Great, Yardley. Thanks.”
With the smile that got her on several Vogue covers, Yardley walked out.
“And you’ll stay here,” Chloe announced to Erin.
“Yeah, we all know that’s not happening.”
“Erin—”
“Why would you even bother trying to argue this with me?”
“Because psychopaths who want the world to end are trying to kill you. You have a bounty on your head. And if you die now—”
The Unyielding Page 18