Curran raised his left hand. His fingers curled into a fist.

“Not in the head!” I yelled. “We need his brain intact.”

Curran yanked the axe forward. Dagfinn jerked back, trying to regain his balance, and Curran swept his left leg from under him. Dagfinn crashed down like an oak chopped at the root.

Curran tore the axe out of his hands and tossed it aside. Dagfinn swung at him with his right fist. Curran leaned out of the way and sank a vicious punch straight down into Dagfinn’s gut.

Ow. I hurt just from looking. The shapeshifters watching on the wall made sucking noises.

Dagfinn curled into a ball, trying to gulp in a lungful of air, which was suddenly missing.

Curran pulled Dagfinn up, swung him over his shoulder, and carried the Viking toward me.

Oh, you crazy sonovabitch.

Curran dumped purple-faced Dagfinn by my feet. “Here is your expert, baby.”

The shapeshifters on the wall whistled and howled. Why me?

“Thanks, show-off,” I told him. “Let me see the hand.”

“It’s fine.”

“The hand, Curran.”

He held it out. Blisters covered his right palm. Frostbite, probably second-degree. It had to hurt like hell. Lyc-V would fix it in a day or so, but meanwhile he’d have to grit his teeth.

“I said don’t touch the axe.”

He leaned over and kissed me. The shapeshifters on the walls cheered.

Dagfinn finally managed to remember how to breathe and swore.

I leaned over him. “He won. You’re going to read my runes now.”

“Fine,” Dagfinn growled. “Give me a minute. I think something’s broken.”

According to Doolittle, nothing was actually broken. Dagfinn treated the diagnosis with open suspicion, but given the circumstances, he decided to deal with it. Curran, on the other hand, got a plastic bag with some sort of healing solution tied around his hand. He liked it about as much as I expected.

“This is ridiculous.”

“With the bag, the hand will be usable in two hours,” Doolittle informed him. “Without the bag, it may be usable by tomorrow. It’s your choice, my lord.”

Curran growled a little, but kept the bag on.

I put Julie’s drawing in front of Dagfinn.

He squinted at it. “Whoa. Was this on a weapon?”

“No, it’s on a gold necklace that’s killing a child. Looks like Elder Futhark, but not exactly. Is this a spell?” I asked.

“This isn’t Elder Futhark.”

“What is it?”

“It’s dvergr.”

I sat down into the nearest chair. “Are you sure?”

Dagfinn pulled back the sleeve of his tunic, displaying his tattoos. “Look here.”

The last two characters on his shoulder matched the last two characters on Julie’s paper. Dagfinn drew his fingers along the tattoo. “This says, ‘Wielder of Axe Aslaug, born from the blood of Earth shaped by the hands of Ivar.’” He tapped the paper. “This says, ‘Apprentice of Ivar.’ Yeah, I’m sure.”