“Yeah.” Erik swallowed hard. “Just faded out there for a second, thinking.” He forced a grin. “Trying to make a habit of it.”
Ken chuckled. “Not a bad idea.” He hesitated, glancing at the bulletin board. “Job fair’s happening at the convention center over the next few days. Got a special focus on vets this time ’round.” He eyed him. “You going to be in town for long? If you don’t want to do the fair, I could always ask around at the factory, put a bug in the supervisor’s ear to let me know if a temp position might be coming open soon. Give you a chance to set down roots, stop wandering.” He cocked his head to one side. “Hannah would love to have you hang out for a bit. Couch is yours however long you need it.”
Erik thought about the text message.
“I’m fine for now. Got a quick job in San Francisco tomorrow night. Heading out after I leave here.”
Ken hesitated a second before nodding. “Just be careful.” He gestured at Erik’s healing bruises. “Don’t forget to duck.”
Erik threw a gentle punch, hitting him in the shoulder. “I’ll make a note.”
Ken’s smile twisted into a stern but supportive stare. “Remember, you’re a survivor. You made it through for a reason.”
“Yeah,” Erik said. “Still trying to figure that one out.”
Chapter Two
Brenna Lund couldn’t help scowling as she strode down the street. It’d been a long, annoying day in Phoenix, Arizona, with the headache digging at the back of her thoughts as she hit up the usual locations, seeking her target. Her list included the local VA center, the American Legion, and various gyms/fitness facilities that allowed one-time passes, along with a handful of hostels and cheap motels.
No luck.
She pressed one hand to the base of her skull, trying to will the throbbing away. The pain never told her where to go, just a general hint in which direction. If she turned the right way, it diminished—the wrong way, it intensified. It led her in and out of towns, chasing an invisible trail. Brenna had developed her own investigative skills over the past few months, learning how to hunt someone down in present-day America. Now she always paid attention to the simmering ache at the back of her head, trusted it to guide her. That faith had come with a cost.
The first day she’d gone left instead of right, pushing through the growing cloud in her mind. Within minutes, a blinding headache had knocked her unconscious, an ambulance rushing her to a hospital. Before the medical staff asked too many questions, she had staggered out the door, blaming it on a migraine. She needed to complete her task before Freyja’s patience ended.
She doubted her Mother would accept another defeat.
She’d spent six months, six long months of searching for the man who had brought her nothing but shame and suffering, loneliness and desperation.
The name burned on her lips as she turned into an alleyway, gathering her senses.
Erik Harrison.
He was why she’d been cast down, thrown out for failing to do the one thing every Valkyrie existed for.
Collecting warriors’ souls for Valhalla.
Her sole mission now was to bring him home to take his place, feasting and fighting in the Great Hall as they waited for Ragnarok. She wouldn’t rest until she’d atoned for her unspeakable crime of leaving him behind on the battlefield, letting him recover and return to the real world.
Her punishment was more than just temporary banishment to Earth. She wore no wings, carried no armor, held no spear—armed with nothing more than a driving, desperate need to find Erik Harrison. For her to accomplish her mission, she’d have to live as these mortals lived, go deep inside their society as she hunted him down.
She stumbled over a rock on the sidewalk and cursed.
Her soul wouldn’t be cleansed simply by taking him back.
She needed to deal with what else happened that day, what had gone on between them. It drove her on and added to the urgency of her search.
The wounded warrior had seen her, spoken to her, demanded answers from her.
How?
Mere mortals weren’t supposed to be able to see Valkyries. Even when she released them from their suffering and sent them skyward, they never saw her until after ascending to Valhalla. This one man did. That moment changed Brenna’s reality forever.
It was more than just seeing her. The man had called out to her, and she’d answered him back in the strangest way possible, forging a connection never seen between a Valkyrie and a mortal.
By kissing him.
It was hard not to touch her lips at the memory, the brief lapse in her judgment still burning bright in her mind.
A car horn blared, and Brenna started, shocked out of her reverie by the noise. She yelled a curse in Old Norse at the driver and pulled out her cell phone. She needed to check some resources, see if the trail had gone hot again.
She wished she had access to Odin’s Ravens, ask them to seek out Harrison with their magical sight. The hunt would have taken minutes instead of this long, horrible pursuit. But this was part of her punishment, of her trials to regain her status and return to Valhalla.
Her search began at the most obvious place.
Brenna arrived at the hospital’s front doors to find Erik gone—another roadblock. It was on par with one of Loki’s tricks, more so when she discovered he hadn’t returned to his hometown, turning away from the hero’s welcome waiting for him. Now a nomad, he moved around the country with no discernible goal, always one step ahead of her.
That would end soon.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that the only thing she’d eaten so far today was a bag of chips and a soft drink—not enough to keep her going.
She looked down the street and spotted a small café, giving her a place to plan her next move as she ate. She settled at the counter and nodded as the waitress placed a coffee cup in front of her, filling it up to the brim.
Brenna didn’t need to study the menu—she’d eaten at many places like this on her travels. It was a far cry from the delicacies available in Valhalla, but she had no choice. “Bacon, two eggs over easy, home fries.” She raised a finger. “Sourdough toast if you have it.”
The waitress smiled and moved off, scribbling on her note pad.
Brenna pulled up the local bus routes on her phone with a swipe of her finger, flipping through the schedules and anticipating the itchy tickling at the back of her neck telling her she was on his trail.
After missing him at the hospital, she’d doubled her efforts to find him, eventually unearthing that he was working as a bare-knuckle fighter, battling in underground matches. At first it appeared to be easy to track him down—find out where the competitions were being held and intercept him there. Except she’d discovered the fights were almost spontaneous events, the location and pairings announced a day or two before the actual event to avoid the authorities closing them down.
Brenna had come close to catching him in Houston. The Gods hadn’t smiled on her that day. A delayed flight had her arriving late to the venue, and he had already vanished, back into the shadows. Tracking him was well-nigh impossible—events happened in almost every major city on a weekly basis, and she couldn’t attend them all. To make it worse, Erik seemed to choose his fights on the spur of the moment. He would jump a last-minute flight to Alaska for the weekend and a few days later be in New York City for an undercard match hardly worth the price of the ticket. The randomness sent her scurrying all over the map as she tried to catch up with him.
The food arrived, and she busied herself with eating. After sating the worst of her hunger, she returned to studying her phone.
A stroke on her phone’s screen brought up a website advertising bare-knuckle fights. It was simply designed but served its purpose—to let people know where the next bouts would be.
She didn’t understand the issues. Violent games were visible wherever she looked—starting with the sports industry. But this, the bare essence of what a warrior did, faced censorship an
d disapproval from the public, ruled to be illegal in many states. It made no sense.
She stroked the ceramic saucer, noting the small crack running into the center.
In Valhalla, the warriors fought all day, spilling their blood on the arena floor as they prepared for Ragnarok. Every dusk they’d come back to life whole and untouched, ready to celebrate the night away. After almost a year living among mortals, she couldn’t wrap her mind around some of their customs.
After all, she was a Valkyrie.
Her hand shook as she brought the near-empty mug to her lips.
Not now. Maybe not ever again.
The tingling at the back of her neck grew, the sensation turning into a demanding itch. She’d lost so much—her sisterhood, her powers. She missed traveling to distant battlefields to harvest worthy warriors. She missed watching the drinking, the fighting in the Great Halls. She missed her family.
She needed to find this man.
The waitress returned to refill the cup, frowning as she collected the dishes. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Brenna cleared her throat. “Just been away from my sisters too long.”
“Been traveling?” The older woman smiled.
She nodded. “Work-related.” Brenna picked up her phone. “Hope to be heading on home soon. Just got some things I need to deal with first.”
“Good.” The woman moved off down the counter to another customer. “Family’s important. Only people who’ll accept you, warts and all.”
Brenna flipped through the links, checking out the match ups for the next card. Some of the names she remembered from other cities, other brawls. Some she didn’t, newcomers looking to make their fame and fortune.
The grainy image grabbed her attention, stopped her cold. She drew her fingers along the screen, expanding the picture.
Erik Harrison.
His eyes…
The same ones that had drawn her down, seen through her magic.
He was on the schedule to fight tomorrow night in San Francisco.
Yes.
A surge of heat raced through her veins as she noted the details of where and when. This event she wouldn’t miss.
San Francisco.
The waitress returned with the bill, placing the paper within reach. “Good news?”
“Yes,” Brenna answered. “Very good news.”
“That’s great. Have a nice day.”
Brenna stood up, recharged from both the meal and her discovery.
She would meet her mystery man again. Finish what she started and return to Valhalla in glory.
All she had to do was kill him.
Chapter Three
The underground circuit led Erik all over the country as he worked his way up the invisible ladder. Other veterans competed, many of them unable to shake the need for combat. Thugs and jerks also filled the ranks, men who got off on fighting.
One of them would be in the ring tonight. Mad Matty was a good old boy, raised on the farm, who quickly discovered his skills as a local brawler wouldn’t go far in the civilized world. On the circuit, he was a welcome opponent, one who worked the crowd with his over-the-top roaring and yelling. He was as much an entertainer as a fighter, a valuable mix for the fight organizers.
He’d fought Matty before and found him easy to taunt into making foolish moves, the man’s ego running his body into numerous losses. Matty’s showmanship had gotten him on the starting card for the show, not just his fighting prowess.
Erik earned his spot by being a slow and steady fighter. Nothing flashy, just the basics, and it’d taken him to this level now.
He found a spot at the back of the building, his usual routine. The extra distance gave him a chance to walk in and settle himself, cruise into the mindset he needed to pull off a win. Erik carried his duffel bag with him, not eager to leave all of his earthly possessions in the second-hand car he’d driven from Arizona. Tonight, he’d be recovering in either a feather bed in a fancy suite with room service or sleeping in his car, parked at some truck stop.
He’d done both before.
The warehouse had graffiti spray-painted on the sides, the colorful tags scrambling for supremacy. The parking lot was already full, including a handful of limousines, the drivers glaring at anyone who came too close.
It was a hell of a change from the dingy nightclub basements he’d worked through over the past few months.
Erik nodded as he made his way to the side door, a pair of huge men standing guard. They checked a clipboard and verified his identification before letting him in.
“Follow me, please.” The bouncer headed to the rear of the building, clearing a route through the mob with his sheer bulk.
Erik followed, looking around to take stock of the setting. The glitter on the floor showed there’d likely been a party here recently.
Now a metal cage occupied the spot, spectators packed in on all sides. People stood on the rickety steel seats to see over the heads of those in front. Off to one side lay the high rollers section, roped off and holding cushy armchairs—no uncomfortable cold metal for these people.
A roar went up. Erik tensed up in reaction to the primeval yells, the ancient call for violence shooting through his veins.
They screamed for blood and battle, and he was ready to give it to them.
“Erik!” The shout brought him around. “Erik Harrison!”
Before he could speak, the large man had him in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. The bookie gave Erik a shake before putting him back on his feet.
“Mike. Didn’t know this was your territory.” Erik rolled his shoulders.
“I get around. Saw your name on the card and had to say hello.” He tugged on the lapels of his dark blue suit. “Name like yours, it brings in the money.” Mike threw the bouncer/escort a glance. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to try and bet on himself—Erik knows the rules.”
“Won’t bet against myself, either.” Erik chuckled.
“Good. Wouldn’t take it anyway.” The dark-haired man lightly punched him in the chest. “Glad to see you here. You earned this spot.”
“And you’re hoping to earn some sweet money off my win.”
Mike spread his hands. “It’s what I do.” The sharp laugh rose over the noise around them. “Go show them how it’s done.”
“You got it.” Erik turned away, following the doorman as they continued through the crowd.
The locker rooms stood at the back, hastily constructed with long curtains and poles providing the barest of privacy to the fighters.
The bouncer escorted him, passing Erik off through another checkpoint and into the makeshift dressing room. As he stepped in, another man got to his feet. Judging from the dress shirt and tie, he ran the fight—or at least this part of it.
“Hey, Harrison. The boys at the front called in, told me you were here. I’m Struff, Dave Struff. Organized what’s going down tonight.” He swept his arm around. “Don’t worry, there’s another room for the competition. Not crazy enough to put you all together and see the sparks fly—save the fighting for the ring.” The short stout man offered his hand. “Glad you could make it. Had one of my regulars drop off the card and you came highly recommended.”
A handful of men stood around in various states of undress—his fellow fighters. Erik put his duffel bag down by one of the tables. Water bottles lay beside first-aid supplies, waiting to be used. “Bad for him. Good for me.”
“Exactly.” Struff gestured at the curtains. “We’ve got a full house tonight. Here’s how it breaks down. You hold your own through three five-minute rounds, three thousand. Pin Mad Matty on the mat, eight. You give me anything less and you walk out of here with nothing. Understand?”
Erik nodded as he picked up one of the long fabric wraps. He got busy winding the strips around his knuckles, crisscrossing his palm and down to the wrist. “And if I win, I headline the next card.”
Struff hesitated for a few seconds before nodding. “You put up a decen
t show and we’ll talk about it.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re on the undercard. There’s one more fight after this one, and then you’re on.”
Eric nodded, continuing to wrap his hands.
The organizer pressed a hand to his headset, listening intently. A second later, he pointed at a man at the far end of the bench. The man sat with his eyes closed, mumbling to himself.
“Chuck. You’re up.” Struff waved at Erik. “Get ready. Next one’s yours.”
He continued his pre-fight routine, warming up with jabs and hooks as Struff took the competitor out.
Focus.
He clenched his fists, feeling the fabric tight across his knuckles.
Focus.
Erik closed his eyes and drew a deep, long breath as he went through his warm-up exercises, shadow boxing invisible opponents.
Focus.
The roaring shook the curtains, the applause interrupted by the chanting and cursing.
Erik stopped and picked up a towel, wiping his face.
“You fought Matty before?” one of the other brawlers asked.
“Yeah. He’s good.” Erik smiled. “But I’m better.” He threw a right-hand jab, feeling the strength surging through his muscles. “Don’t let him get hold of you—he loves to grapple, and he’ll make like he’s going for your eyes.”
The fighter frowned. “But that’s…”
“Against the rules. He knows that. He also knows it’ll scare the shit out of you, break your concentration.” Erik nodded. “Not enough to outfight a man. Got to outthink him as well.”
Struff stepped back through into the dressing room, his face flushed and wet with sweat.
A fighter followed, scowling as he reached for an icepack. Blood streamed down his face from an open cut on his forehead, almost blinding him.
Erik stood still, his heart racing.
A cheer went up as the announcer screamed out Erik’s name.
The fight organizer grinned and pulled the curtain back. “It’s show time.”
…
Brenna tried not to gag at the smells washing over her. It was a mishmash of the worst mortals had to offer—tobacco smoke, marijuana, stale beer, and the vilest body odor. The doorman took her money and waved her through, wasting a few seconds to leer at her before moving on to the next eager customer.
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