“Sweetie . . . you died.”

“Wha . . . I . . . what?”

Kera pressed her hand to her chest. Even with the T-shirt on, she could feel where the knife had gone in.

She’d been taking the coffeehouse garbage to the Dumpster out back when she’d seen them. The girl was barely sixteen, if that. And he was slapping her around the alley. Kera couldn’t ignore that. She should have just called the police but after ten years of handling situations like this herself, it had honestly never occurred to her. Instead, she’d dropped the trash in her hands and walked over there.

In the Marines, she’d always been known for her easy way of handling these kinds of situations. She knew how to talk to people. How to treat them. She didn’t just start yelling and screaming. And she’d approached this situation in the same exact way.

“Hey,” she’d said, once. He’d turned on her and grabbed her by the neck with one hand. Kera had tried to fight him then, pounding at him with her fists, kicking him, anything. But she’d been too weak. Too weak to stop him. And, without a word, he’d buried a long butcher knife in her chest.

Just like that. No warning. No argument. No threats. He’d just turned . . . and killed her.

The girl had run off, screaming and crying. And he’d followed. Kera dropped to the ground, shocked, unable to breathe. Then arms were around Kera and she was looking up into another man’s face. She knew this man. He came into the coffeehouse every day. Kera was the only one who would serve him. The only one who would take the time to talk to him. No one else would.

And this man had stared down at her, eyes wide, and said, “Skuld, please. I’m calling on you.”

Then, the next thing Kera knew . . . she was arguing about her dog with a woman wearing a veil and holding a watering can.

Wait . . . what?

The Asian woman shot past Kera, flying down the stairs, the other women following after her.

“But before we bother discussing all that boring ‘you died and now you’re a Crow’ business,” the redhead said, her grin wide, “let’s have some fun.” She gestured to the stairs. “Shall we?”

Erin led the new girl down the stairs, watched as she took it all in. Joining this life could definitely be overwhelming. Unlike the other Nordic clans representing different gods, the Crows weren’t born into this life. They weren’t raised in the Old Way or the New Way. They didn’t worship the well-known gods like Odin or Thor or Freyja. None of them had last names like Magnusson or Bergström. Most Crows came to this life knowing so little about Vikings that they thought what they saw in movies was accurate. That Vikings wore those horned helmets and did nothing more than pillage the British. And yet, here these mostly non-Nordic women were part of one ofthe most feared Viking Clans.

The Crows.

Feared because they didn’t rescue, they didn’t work to prevent Ragnarok, they didn’t actively care about anything that the other Clans cared about. Instead, the Crows were known for their rage, for their hatred, and for their loyalty to each other. It was far from an easy life and to come to it straight from one’s death was definitely traumatic. For anyone.

She was cute, though, the new girl. Not too tall but not short either. Sturdy shoulders, longish legs, thick muscular thighs. Dark, almost black hair that reached past those sturdy shoulders. Brown skin. She looked Pacific Asian. Either Thai or Filipino. Maybe mixed with something else like African American. A typical “Crow Mutt” as the other Clans liked to call them.

“So who’s Donnie?” Erin asked.

The new girl stopped walking and turned toward Erin, arms crossed over her chest, legs braced apart, brown eyes glaring at her.

They were only an inch or two apart, but it was like the woman had grown ten inches in those few seconds. A skill she must have gotten from her time in the Marines. The skill of intimidation.

“How do you know about Donnie?” she asked . . . or interrogated.

“Because I was one of the people who tucked you back into bed last night when you passed out on the steps . . . and his name is tattooed on your back.”

She ran her tongue across her teeth. “I see.”

“So . . . who is he?”

“Ex-husband. I was a lot younger and stupider then.”

“Who hasn’t been?” Erin walked around her and tugged the neck of her T-shirt down so she could take a closer look at the work. “You could get that covered up easy enough.”

“That’s not on my budget for this year. I don’t want to go to some back alley tattoo parlor. No use compounding my stupidity with Hep-C.”

“I could take care of that for you. If you want.”

“You mean like some prison tattoo?” She pulled away. “No thanks.” She stopped, glanced at Erin. “Wait, are you a tattoo artist?”

“Yeah. Really good at it, too.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Erin patted her shoulder. “Just a suggestion, but you may want to hold back on the judgmental stuff until you get to know us all a little better.”

The glass from the French double doors the new girl had destroyed had already been cleaned up and a call to replace them had most likely already been made. But for now there was a big hole there, so they walked through and outside, stopping a moment so the new girl could take it all in.

“Un-believe-able.”

“Nice, right?”

“Does all this—?”