She was cold. She’d lost her jacket. The shockwave had yanked it away from her. Was she hurt? She wriggled her toes. Wriggled her fingers. No broken bones. Was she bleeding? She didn’t think so. She was OK. She was unhurt. Invulnerable? No, not any more. The tattoo had dulled. It had probably used up the last of its strength keeping her alive during the … what? What was that? That was more than an explosion. It had been like a small nuclear bomb going off.

Groaning, Valkyrie sat up.

84

Roarhaven was in ruins.

The eastern quarter had been obliterated. It was a flat, smoking landscape of rubble and wreckage. Fires raged in the southern districts. Some of the northern section still stood, from what she could see. Car alarms travelled to her on the wind. They sounded like people dying.

Valkyrie started walking. When she was sure her legs weren’t going to fail her, she ran.

Finding her way around Roarhaven when it stood tall and proud had been hard enough, but now the landmarks she’d used were flattened or gone altogether. She took a few wrong turns, had to double back, often climbing through demolished buildings to save time. She passed bodies and ignored them.

And then a rock flew at her, struck her across the temple, and she went tumbling down a small hill of debris.

She sprawled in a heap at the bottom, her elbows cut and bleeding, blood running from her forehead into her eye. There were footsteps, slipping and sliding through the broken mess in their eagerness to get to her. Valkyrie managed to get to her knees, her vision blurry. Figures approached. She saw hate in their faces.

“We hurt her,” one of them said.

“We can finish her,” said another.

Valkyrie raised her hands. “I’m not her,” she said. Her voice sounded weird. She sounded drunk. “I’m not Darquesse.”

She didn’t even see what struck her, but she felt the pain across her ribs and she cried out, fell on to her side. The figures crowded round, their boots seeking her, finding her, crunching against her. She covered up, yelled at them to stop. A rib broke jaggedly. A kick to her kidney sent new flashes of pain arcing through her. Someone tried kicking her skull and broke the fingers of her left hand. Again. They screamed and cursed and she heard their words. They knew who she was and they didn’t care. In their eyes, Valkyrie Cain was as much to blame for all this as Darquesse.

A kick found the side of her head and rolled her over, her body limp. Funny how this seemed to clear her eyesight.

She saw in perfect clarity the foot coming for her face. It was clad in a heavy, steel-capped work boot. Good, she decided. She would have hated to be killed by a soft little running shoe.