The Undoing (21 page)

“Are they counterfeit?”

“Got them from a Norwegian Raven brother who was in Japan recently.”

“The Japanese
are
the biggest buyers,” Leigh Matsushita said to her sister-Crows, voice low.

“Show us one,” Alessandra prompted.

Josef, always one who enjoyed being the center of attention—just like their god, Odin himself—silently gestured to one of the three men behind him.

The man came forward, holding one of the handcrafted bottles in his hands.

“Alessandra.”

The beautiful Crow leaned in and studied the bottle. Rolf had seen her do the same thing with diamonds. The woman knew expensive.

“It's the real deal,” Alessandra said. “One of the best tequilas to come out of Mexico. At least two grand a bottle, and our dear Josef there says they have one hundred bottles for us.”

Leigh pushed past Alessandra and opened her arms wide. “My Raven brothers! Welcome!”

 

“I have absolutely nothing to say to you.”

Ski nodded at that out-of-nowhere statement from Jace. “Wow. Okay.”

“I wish I did. I wish I could have sparkling, fascinating conversation with you. But I'm sitting here, looking at you . . . and there's nothin'.”

“Okay. I get that. You're not a big conversationalist.”

“I'm really not.”

“But you wish you were.”

“Not really. I mean . . . I wish I had something interesting to say to you. You know, so I could entice you into my sexual web.”

“I'm a guy. A Viking guy. Enticing me into your sexual web is pretty much you breathing. So no worries there.”

“Good to know.”

“But, to be honest,” he admitted, “I was hoping for more than just—”

“A one-night stand?”

“Yeah. But if that's not what you want . . .”

“I'm really not a one-night stand kind of girl. When I think about it, it just makes my skin crawl rather than get me all worked up. So . . . yeah. That's not the issue.”

“But talking to me is?”

“I don't mind talking to you,” she matter-of-factly replied. “I just have nothing to say.”

“Well . . . what have you been thinking about? While you're sitting here next to me.”

“Ivan the Terrible,” she instantly replied.

“Uhhh . . . okay. I make you think of Ivan the Terrible?”

“No, not at all.”

“I guess that's something.”

“It's just . . . I saw a documentary on him last night. It was really fascinating. Did you know that he dragged out a man he'd been having tortured in freezing cold water just so he could boil him alive later?”

“What did he say to piss Ivan off?”

“How did you know he pissed Ivan off?”

“Why else would Ivan bother doing all that? Do you know how much effort it takes to get a big pot, fill it with water, get a fire going, then bring it to the point of boiling? Then you have to get the guy
in
the boiling water. Or keep him in the water while it gets to the boiling point. So the tortured guy must have said or done something to piss off Ivan. What was it?”

“He told him hell was coming for him.”

“That'll do it. Especially because Ivan the Terrible was very religious and believed, like most monarchs of that time, that he was chosen by the Christian God Himself, so to imply that he had fallen from the grace of his God . . . Plus, Ivan did have what I'm sure many psychologists of this time would call paranoid personality disorder.”

Eyes wide and bright, she leaned forward, placing her hand against his forearm. “I thought the same thing last night!”

“Have you studied personality disorders?” Ski asked her. “I'm sure that every monarch, dictator, and terrorist leader has suffered from one if not several.”

“I've been realizing that. The more history I read, the more nothing seems to change.”

Ski smirked at her. “Want to figure out the personality disorders of the Tudors?”

“No.” A beautiful grin spread across her face. “The Borgias! Oooh! And the Medicis.”

Laughing, Ski nodded. “You're on!”

“Did you even notice we were stuck outside?”

Vig looked up from his plate of fried chicken and replied to his Raven brothers with sincere honesty, “No.”

Rolf laughed, but Stieg and Siggy were just pissed.

Still, as they sat down at the table with him, they already had at least two plates of food each, piled high. And microbrew beer from Germany and Norway. With all that food, they weren't about to get into it with Vig about deserting them.

“Where's Kera?” Rolf asked.

“Dancing with the Crows.”

As one, they all turned to look out over the nearby dance floor. Kera was with Erin, dancing and laughing, their past issues forgotten. Vig was so happy for her. She'd found her place. She'd found where she belonged. It wasn't easy for some of the Crows, coming into this world. A new world the rest of the Clans were mostly born into. New Crows had so much to learn, so much to get used to, but they also had each other.

The Crows weren't an easy group to get along with, but once you found your place, you found your home—in this life and the next.

Jace walked by with a Protector. The one Stieg always called Pointdexter. They were in a deep, animated conversation . . . about serial killers.

“Don't you think Ted Bundy was overrated?”

“No way,” Jace said, talking more than Vig could ever remember. “Between his body count, his high IQ, and the fact that people around him were completely unaware of his sociopathic tendencies because he was so good at faking everyone out . . . he's definitely not overrated. But then you have your Henry Lee Lucas types . . .”

The Ravens turned back toward the table—and found their food gone.

They looked around, Vig wondering if the staff hired for this event had whisked their plates away for some reason. But he didn't see anything.

After they stared at each other for a few seconds, they shrugged and stood to get more food.

 

Sitting in the trees above the party, the Protector brothers enjoyed the food they'd stolen.

“Isn't it almost
too
easy?” Haldor asked Gundo and Borgsten around a large rib eye.

“No!”

“I have to disagree,” Bear said. “You need a real challenge.”

“Which is?”

“Steal liquor . . . from the Killers.”

When Gundo and Borgsten smiled, Haldor quickly reminded them, “We promised Ski there'd be no fights.”

“There can only be a fight if they catch us.”

 

Kera danced with Vig's Valkyrie sister, Katja, because Erin had suddenly walked off the dance floor.

Erin wasn't pissed, but something else had her attention. It took Kera a while to figure out that was just Erin. She didn't say “good night” or “good-bye” or “I'll call you later” like most people. She just . . . walked away. It was one of the few times when she wasn't purposely rude or instigating a fight. She just figured the conversation was done so . . .

“Are you having a good time?” Katja asked Kera over the pulsing music.

“Yes! This is great!”

Erin returned, two cold beers in her hand and a Diet Coke. She handed the beer from Sweden to Katja; and the one from Boston to Kera. The Coke was for her.

“So, you still pissed at me?” Erin asked Kera.

“I should be, but—”

“My charm has won you over?”

“You have no charm. I'm surprised you hadn't been killed sooner than you were.”

“Well—”

“I'm surprised your parents didn't suffocate you in your crib. That schoolchildren didn't stone you. That the United States government didn't send you to a war-torn country . . . by accident. That you weren't tossed into a zoo's lion display during a school trip. That you weren't—”

“Okay!” Erin barked, while Katja bent over at the waist from laughing so hard. “I get your point.”

“I wouldn't say that I've dealt with worse than you during my time in the Marines. But I have dealt with the equivalent. And I figure if I could put up with guys as annoying as you, I can give the same opportunity to a fellow female. But I only do that out of my innate feminism and because Jace will yell at me if I don't.”

“Thank you,” Erin replied dryly. “I appreciate your goodwill.”

“As you should.”

“Oh, by Odin,” Katja choked out between laughs. “You two are
priceless
together. You should take your show on the road.”

“Shut up,” Kera and Erin snapped.

It was one thing for them to mock each other, but to get it from a Valkyrie? Uh . . . no.

 

Chloe was choosing between the Mexican food table, the tapas table, and the fried food table—she eventually decided to hit all three—when she realized that she was surrounded by fellow Crows.

The leaders of the Alabama Crows, the Maine/Canadian Border Crows, the Tri-State Crows, the Florida Crows, and all four of the Texas Crows—representing Houston, Dallas, Austin, and San Antonio—gazed silently at her.

Without their saying a word, Chloe knew what they wanted to discuss.

“Yes,” she told them, “I know my ex-husband's here. Whatever.”

“We don't give a shit about your ex-husband, darlin',” Serena of the Alabama Crows replied. “Lord knows, I have four of my own, and they just ain't that interesting.”

“You got in a fistfight with a nun?” Neecy of the Tri-State Crows asked. “I mean . . . really? A nun?”

“Oh, like you've never been in a fight with a nun.”

“Of course I have. They're a bunch of ball-crushing, soul-destroying, demon-stomping bitches who I happen to adore.”

“Only because the New York ones are nice to you.”

“I survived a Catholic orphanage. That gives me automatic acceptance points with the nuns.”

“Look”—Serena pushed her hair behind her ears—“we've all had our run-ins with the Chosen Warriors of God. I still have the scars from where one of them tried to destroy my spleen. But none of us purposely fucks with 'em. It's not like the old boys' network from the Vatican. These ladies can actually do some damage.”

“I didn't seek them out. They came to me.”

Sadie, of Maine, held up her hand. “Instead of going around and around about this . . . why don't you just tell us what's going on? I sense it will be easier that way.”

 

“Okay,” Kera said, sounding exasperated. “Then who is Fenrir again?”

“He's the giant wolf that bit off Tyr's hand when Tyr bound him,” Erin patiently explained. “Because it's foretold that he will one day begin Ragnarok.”

“Tyr?”

“No. Fenrir.”

“And why don't they just kill him? I don't understand!”

“Because you're using logic. How many times do I have to tell you that logic and gods are not a mix that will ever happen?
Ever.
”

Erin watched Kera grapple with the backstories of all the Nordic gods and giants. She was clearly struggling . . . which Erin had to admit she was thoroughly enjoying.

Erin motioned to one of the waitresses for more drinks. Not so much for her as for Kera. Her years in the Marines had taught Kera well how to hold her drink, but not exactly when to stop. Erin, however, had hit her two-drink limit a while ago.

“Hey!” a Giant Killer suddenly yelled in the middle of the party. “
Who the fuck is stealing our liquor?
”

Kera gazed at the screaming Killer for a long while before she asked Erin, “How many monster children did Loki have?”

“Loki has lots of children, but the ones you have to worry about are the three children he had with the giantess Angrboða. Fenrir the wolf. Jörmungandr the serpent. And Hel. All
delightful
beings,” she joked.

“
Where's our liquor?
”

Kera pointed at the still-screaming Killer. “Should we be worried—”

“Nope.”

“Okay, then.”

A waitress placed a beer and a diet Coke in front of Kera and Erin.

Stieg Engstrom suddenly appeared beside them, his eyes across the dance floor. “What's that?” he asked.

“What's what?”

He crouched beside Erin and Kera, and pointed. “That.”

They looked where he was pointing, and Kera replied, “That's what we in the
normal
universe—”