Krókr. Kitty remembered the ax’s name, and it seemed appropriate that it should have one. It had an energy, a certain ill-boding identity. It wanted to be used. The blade sliced through the air, hitting Xander’s right hand, severing three of his fingers and sending his gun skating into the shadows. Kitty attacked again, bringing Krókr down in a flashing diagonal. This strike was less accurate, but it still caused damage. The blade raked across Xander’s left thigh, opening his jeans and the flesh beneath.

He crumpled, screaming, both hands sealed to his thigh, blood spurting. Kitty toppled off balance and Krókr spilled from her grasp. It spun across the floor toward Johan. Both he and Kitty lunged for it but Johan got there first.

Kitty still had the belt, though. She whipped it across Johan’s arms, then his back. He dropped again, slumped over his ax. Adrenaline surging, screaming from the corners of every nightmare room he’d locked her in, Kitty struck with the belt over and over, five times . . . six . . . seven. The buckle jangled and snapped.

Exhausted, Kitty dropped back. Her right arm sagged. She hit him once more, but there was no bite to it—no venom.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” she cried, then grabbed Luke and urged him from the lobby. She had her eyes on one thing only: the dimly glowing exit sign at the end of the nearest hallway.

“Run,” she said to Luke. He shuffled along beside her, fighting for balance with his hands tied behind his back. “Come on, Luke. Run . . . run!”

Kitty’s attack had derailed Ruben’s focus. His gaze flicked away from Tera and the barrel of his pistol dipped. Tera rolled left across the floor, pounced to her feet, then powered forward with a front kick. It connected with Ruben’s solar plexus, knocking him back on his heels. Tera saw her opportunity. She ran at him, leapt, and kicked him into the darkness of the restaurant.

Her Beretta was behind her. She turned, looking, edged forward, and saw its carbon steel barrel glimmering in the fitful light. Tera swept toward it, sliding on her knees, then swiveled at the hip with the gun extended.

She closed out everything else—the sounds, the chaos—and zoned in on Ruben. She found him in the shadows at the same time that he found her.

Their gunshots boomed, half a second apart.

Tera missed. Ruben didn’t.

Johan slowly got to his feet, easing into his wounds. He smeared blood from his cheek—felt the gash beneath, long and deep. A sound he’d never heard before rumbled from his chest. It was joined by a chorus of Vikings, banging on his bones.

“Bitch,” he said, except it came out sounding like a death-metal growl: Buuurrrrrrcchhh. He tore off his T-shirt and examined his body, covered in buckle-shaped welts and crisscross stripes. More blood trickled from grooves across his shoulders.