“This is Krókr,” Johan said. He stooped before her, holding the ax up in front of her whirling eyes. Sly Boy’s blood dripped from the tip of its beard. “It means hook in Old Norse, and Krókr is a replica of the ax used by the great Danish warrior Gottfrid the Bird. There’s no real way of proving it—twelve hundred years have passed—but there is strong evidence to suggest that we Flys are descendants of Gottfrid the Bird.”

He stroked her face and smiled. His touch ignited something inside her: a small blue flame. It flickered, the kind of pale light that might only be seen in the dark.

“There! Now you know something else about me.” Johan tilted his head, gesturing in Sly Boy’s direction. “You know something else about Kris ‘Sly Boy’ Streeter, too. That he is—was—a liar and a coward.”

“I knew that already,” Kitty said in a cracked, airless voice.

“He lied, Kitty. What’s more, he was willing to let you die—to let you get blood-eagled—to save his own skin.” Johan shook his head. He appeared genuinely insulted by Sly Boy’s lack of moral fiber. “What kind of a man does that?”

“Not a man,” Kitty said, not sure which of them she was referring to.

Johan stood up straight and paced, avoiding the blood spreading across the floor, the same blood that had splashed onto his jeans and shoes. His clothes would have to be burned, Kitty thought, along with the bodies. No evidence. Only emptiness and questions.

“I know exactly what happened, Kitty, because Ruben has kept me informed. I just wanted to see if Sly Boy could regain some honor, and own his wrongdoing like a man.” Johan stopped pacing and shook his head. “He couldn’t.”

“Please, Johan, let me go.”

“I also know,” Johan continued, “that you took my canary with you when you went to work at Fusion 44.”

“Sometimes,” Kitty said blankly. “I guess.”

“You did. That’s how Sly Boy got it.” Johan lifted the ax onto his shoulder again. A drop of blood flicked from the blade and landed inches from her. “He removed it from your backpack while you were front of house. He stole a third, sometimes half, then cut what was left with levamisole and powdered food coloring, and returned it to your backpack. You then took that inferior product and handed it off to my customers.”

“Oh,” Kitty said. She looked at him and nodded, as if he’d asked if she was enjoying the L.A. weather. That flame inside her grew a little, though, and a tendon in her jaw flexed.