“In the Crows you have to earn that respect.”

“I already earned respect . . . with two tours in Afghanistan as a United States Marine. What about you? What have you done?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I hate the military types.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does it sound like it means?”

“Do you have something to say to me?” Kera asked, stepping close to Amsel. “I’m right here. You might as well say it.”

There was that moment, both of them staring coldly at each other, where Kera really thought they were about to go at each other. Not a “girl fight” either. But a real fight. With blood and pain and the serious risk of death.

They were seconds, nanoseconds maybe, from doing just that.

Then Maeve leaned in and announced, “My glands are swelling.”

Kera and Amsel blinked at each other before looking over at the pretty Indian-American woman with the worried expression on her face.

“Pardon?” Kera asked.

Maeve pressed her fingers to her throat. “My glands. They’re swelling. I think I’m sick. I should go home.”

“You’re not sick,” Annalisa groaned. “Why do you always think you’re sick?”

“I can feel the virus moving through me. I need to call my doctor. I need a course of amoxicillin. Or flucloxacillin. Or ticarcillin. Something with a ‘cillin’ attached to the end of it.”

“If you have a virus, an antibiotic will not help you,” Kera explained.

“So you’re a doctor?” Maeve snapped. “You know what I’m dying of?”

“Dying? Two seconds ago you had swollen glands.”

“Swollen glands today. Riddled with cancer tomorrow. Dead by Thursday.”

Kera glanced over at Amsel. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” she said before turning and walking off. Kera followed while Maeve and Annalisa bickered about the status of Maeve’s health behind them.

They went around the side of the house, briefly stopping when they passed some bushes. Like the Crows, the Ravens had an Olympic-size, in-ground pool. A pool a small group of very well-built men were making use of.

“Yowza,” Kera muttered.

“We never said the Ravens weren’t pretty.”

That was putting it mildly. The men were more than pretty. They were big. Built. And gorgeous.

“They’re all Vikings?” Kera asked, unable to look away.

“Yup. They can trace their ancestry all the way back to the long boat.”

Erin led the girls through Raven territory until she spotted the small wood house buried deep on the outskirts. But as she neared it, she sensed something sidling up behind her.

With a grin, she planted her feet, and turned at the waist. She struck out with both fists—and wasexpertly blocked.

That was the thing about Crows fighting against Ravens. It was kind of like fighting a larger twin. In nature the birds were not that different and Odin had created the Ravens for no other reason than to be able to stand toe-to-toe with or against the Crows.

Hundreds of years later, things hadn’t changed much between them.

“What do you want, Amsel?” Stieg Engstrom barked down at Erin.

“Just here to see your smiling face.”

“I don’t smile.”

“And doesn’t that make you sad?”

“ No. ”

Engstrom really didn’t smile. Ever. He was like a big, angry oak. Tall. Wide. Cranky. He wasn’t always angry, but he was never what one would call happy either. Or amused. Or anything on what Erin would call the “Enjoyment Spectrum.”

Which was what made torturing him so much fun for her.

“We’re here to see Rundstöm for some trading.” She pointed at Kera as she approached them. “We have a new girl.”

Engstrom glanced at Watson, did a weird little double take, then nodded. “Oh. Yeah. Stay here. I’ll get him.”

Watson watched Engstrom walk off. “Is there a reason we can’t go to the man’s house ourselves?”

“Rundstöm? You don’t want to sneak up on Rundstöm.”

“It’s not really sneaking, is it? It’s morning. Not too early. He apparently has a business.”

“Rundstöm is a little—”

“Crazy,” Annalisa tossed in. “No one fucks with Rundstöm. Even the gods, who pretty much fuck with everybody, never fuck with Rundstöm. Because he’s crazy. And he comes from a long line of crazy.”

“Yeah, but—”

“When people say he’ll take the skin off your back . . . they mean literally. Because he comes from a long line of skin-removing Vikings and that’s what they do.”

“How does he run a business if you’re all afraid of him?”

“His stuff is great,” Erin stated matter-of-factly.

The giant who’d gone off to retrieve the “scary” Rundstöm walked back out of the house, followed by another giant who had to dip down a bit to clear his own doorway.

He was a dark version of Giant Number One. Black hair that nearly touched his shoulders, a dark brown beard that covered the lower half of his face. He wore dark green jeans, a black, worn T-shirt, and thick black work boots.

“Now,” Erin softly explained, “the thing to remember with Rundstöm is no sudden movements. No loud noises. Don’t do anything that might freak him out. Just smile—but don’t bare your teeth when you do—and let me do the talking. He tolerates me.”