Johan hit play on the remote and the movie resumed: a fight scene, followed by a car chase, in which Colton and his partner—a Black guy—drove their Corvette onto the deck of a drug dealer’s luxury yacht.

“This is a fucking Miami Vice rip-off,” Johan said, flaring his lip with disdain. “Only set in L.A.”

“Cocksucker,” Xander reiterated, watching as Colton slipped out through the driver’s-side window and bustled—pistol drawn—through a cluster of swimwear-clad extras.

“He even looks like Don Johnson.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

Johan kept Out of Midnight playing and exited the room without another word. He had demonstrated commendable calmness, defying how he truly felt. He needed a moment to cool down and clear his head. Only then could he think his way through this.

He went to his bedroom, peeled off his tee and basketball shorts, and spent some time with his body, not touching, just looking, following the lines, dips, and ridges in a journey-like, meditative way. The contrast between his pale Scandinavian skin and black tattoos was remarkable. He was stark and storied, light and dark, modern and medieval.

You can trust me, Kitty had said, lying to his face. Was she laughing at him now, believing him stupid? She and that actor. That piece-of-shit-actor . . .

A fiery coal of rage climbed Johan’s chest and he studied the tattoos on his upper arms until it shrank to a dimly glowing ember. Better. He then followed the intricate artwork down his left forearm, to his most recent tattoo—the inscription in Younger Futhark on the back of his hand.

He breathed easier.

The hungry wolf will always hunt.

His ancestors were with him. They communicated through his DNA, his blood. Johan often thought that if he were to cut himself, he would smell them—their thick, coarse bodies. His dreams were often loud and brutal.