Kitty shrugged, a small gesture that managed to encapsulate the hopelessness of everything: her miserable situation, people in general, the state of the world. Johan filled his chest with a deep, angry breath, then walked another figure eight—broader on one side to circumvent the heads and the growing pool of blood. He dragged the ax behind him.

“Let’s say I believe you,” he said, looping toward her again. “You’re a stupid, stupid little girl, but sure, I believe you.”

He paused, perhaps waiting for Kitty to express her gratitude and fealty. She didn’t.

“We still,” he continued, “have one matter to address.”

“I just want to go home,” Kitty whispered.

Johan displayed a dry smile, then dug into his pocket and pulled out what Ruben had given him: half a dozen small baggies, each dusted on the inside with a residue of yellow powder. He tossed them at Kitty. They spiraled like leaves. One landed between the front wheels of her skateboard, which was still clutched in her arms.

“Ruben found these in your underwear drawer.”

“Yeah, I told you,” Kitty said. “Just a little, right? For personal use.”

“A pinch here, a pinch there.”

“Right.”

“It adds up, though. I mean . . .” Johan waved a hand at the empty baggies. “I’m going to estimate six or seven grams over two months.”

“Not that much.”

“Three grams?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s still twenty-four hundred dollars’ worth of product, buying by the gram.” Johan lifted the ax again and looked at her over the blade. “Would you like it if I stole twenty-four hundred dollars from you?”

“The customers couldn’t tell the drops were a tiny bit light,” Kitty reasoned. Her words—her thoughts—were clearer now, her sense of self returning as the fire inside her quickened. “They still paid full price. You didn’t lose anything.”

“That’s not the point,” Johan said.

“You’d never have found out if this shit with Sly Boy hadn’t gone down.”

“Again, not the point. Theft is theft, Kitty.” He leaned forward and touched her cheek where he’d slapped her, his fingers moving over the raised skin. “Dishonor is dishonor.”

Kitty pulled away from him. Xander snagged her hair and held her in place. Again, she imagined driving her skateboard backward: a swift, sudden strike that would drop Johan’s jackal—his berserker—to his knees, giving her a window in which to escape. The flame that had begun in the small of her belly was now a fire in her chest. It raged across her shoulders and down her arms. Her skin prickled in the heat.