“Johan,” she pleaded, looking into his eyes, but seeing nothing she recognized, only madness and conflict and ego.

“I could have made you,” he said. “I would have sat you on the biggest throne in Los Angeles.”

Krókr’s bearded blade flashed in the hesitant light. Kitty readied herself—it would be over quickly—then the doors behind Johan crashed open and Luke reeled into the hallway. He shambled forward, staring down the sights of a lean black pistol.

There were no theatrics. No drama. No Hollywood lines. He pulled the trigger three times and every bullet hit.

One in his upper arm. Two in his back. Johan was lifted off his feet by the force of the bullets. He dropped Krókr, toppled over Kitty, and turned a full one-eighty before falling. Deep inside, the blond-haired Californian—the rich kid, the YouTuber—cried out, knowing that the sun had set on this bright and privileged life. The voices in his blood believed otherwise. They roused him with all their Viking fury. As long as he had breath to draw, he would fight.

Johan surged to his feet and ran at Luke. Blood rippled across his body. His hair flowed behind him. Luke aimed the pistol, pulled the trigger twice. The first shot missed but the second blew a hole through the right side of Johan’s chest.

He dropped to his knees, pushed himself upright, kept going.

Luke shot him again, tearing a piece of his throat away.

The voices swelled. War horns sounded. Weapons clashed. Johan fell against the wall and dragged himself across it. He leapt at Luke, knocking him to the floor. The gun spilled from his hand.

This was it. The end of it all. Johan felt it rushing toward him. A broad, golden light.

“Valhalla,” he screeched, but all that came out was a soupy gurgle.

He clasped Luke’s throat in his bloody hands and squeezed with every fading ounce of his strength, every wild voice in his body.

Kitty made it to her feet. She didn’t know how. The hallway sloped and skewed, dark at the edges. One slow step, then another. She dragged Krókr along behind her. Scrrreeeeeee. She couldn’t remember picking it up.

Johan straddled Luke, his back to her, pocked with bullet holes. Luke shook and struggled beneath him. His legs jittered. He was dying.

Kitty willed herself forward. She got to within striking distance of Johan and lifted the ax, not to her waist, not to her chest, but high above her head, both hands looped around the bottom of the handle. Kitty looked at Johan’s shoulders, splashed with blood and crisscross belt marks. Her gaze dropped to his back—to the huge tree tattooed there, its thick trunk following the contour of his spine.

Yggdrasil. The tree of life.

Kitty brought the ax down. She split the tree in two.