The Undoing (8 page)

Gundo nodded. “Understood. If you need anything, let me know.”

And, much to her relief, he walked away, smiling, which she appreciated.

“Sorry about that,” Eriksen said as he reached her. “They really don't want Amsel in here.”

“They're holding me hostage!” Erin yelled from the doorway.

“No, we're not,” a Protector helping to block her replied. “You can leave at any time. In fact, we'd prefer if you left
now
.”

That's when Erin warned, “The more you tell me to go, the longer I'll stay.”

 

Ski led Jace to the large wood table where they'd placed their newest acquisitions.

“Here we go,” he said, watching her drop a very large backpack onto one of the chairs.

“The ones on the table are from the first box,” he explained. “There are six more boxes right here.” He pointed at the wood boxes beside the table. “Those are the older books. Bear wouldn't let us touch those, though, without the proper—”

Before he could finish, she pulled out a big box of disposable latex gloves.

Teasing, he asked, “Shouldn't those be white cotton?”

“No.” She gawked at him. “White cotton is the worst thing you can use on old books. They can still transfer oils and debris from your hands to the paper, which would eventually destroy it over time.” She shook her head. “What kind of librarian are you?”

“I'm just the Keeper of the Word. I basically have to make sure no one sets the place on fire. It's a job that was given to me. A sacrifice even Tyr himself might make.”

“Books are never a sacrifice.”

“I see I chose well. You should do okay here.”

“You don't like books?” she asked.

“Of course I like books. But I'm equally happy reading on my phone as I am reading a print book.”

The entire room gasped and they both looked around at the younger Protectors gaping at Ski.

He sighed. “And on that note . . .”

“So, what do you need from me? Exactly.”

“First, we need titles, authors, date of publication. Once we get that sorted, then we can decide what, if anything, needs to be translated and what can be filed away for later. For instance, we don't need you to translate the Russian version of Stephen King's
Christine
.”

“Why not?” she asked flatly. “It's a good book.”

“If you say so. But since we can get it here in the language it was originally written in, not sure why we would pay you to do it.”

“That's a valid point.”

“Thank you.”

They both grinned at each other and, for the first time, Ski felt they were connecting.

“And what if there's nothing here?” she asked. “Nothing of use?”

He pointed to the bookshelves. “Then we'll code them and shelve them as we do all books that come our way. Does that work for you?”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to discuss payment?”

She kneeled on one of the chairs, her gaze locking on the books before her. “Not particularly.”

“You just want me to leave you alone?”

“Yes, please.”

Understanding her more and more, he turned to leave but asked, “And your friends?”

Without taking her eyes off the books, Jace reached into her backpack and pulled out a pencil. A pencil she threw across the room the same way he'd seen her throw the long blade of the Crows during battle. It hit Amsel in the head, stopping her from tormenting Bear by doing “jazz hands” with fire, flicking the flames between her fingers.

“You can go away now,” Jace muttered at her friends with a toss of her hand.

Annalisa stopped in the middle of torturing the defense lawyers and social workers of the Protectors by arguing for something regarding the death penalty—Ski couldn't shake the feeling that she actually didn't care one way or the other about any of that, but was just enjoying the way some of his brothers were getting red and frustrated at their discussion—and walked away.

Erin started to leave but stopped and jerked her hands toward the library. No flame appeared but poor Bear threw his big body right in front of the doorway, ready to go to Valhalla in the attempt to protect the books.

The redhead gave what Ski could only call an evil, throaty cackle and turned to go. But Kera walked around Bear and asked, “Are you sure, Jace?” She glanced at Ski. “We did hold this one hostage once.”

“I wasn't really a hostage,” Ski reminded her. “I was just insurance. So no hard feelings.”

There was that forced smile from Kera. It came out anytime she didn't understand Viking life. He wondered if Ludvig Rundstöm saw that expression a lot, since word among the Clans was that the pair had become quite close.

A remarkable thing considering how smart and caring Kera Watson seemed to be and how Rundstöm appeared to be the polar opposite.

“Jace?” Kera pushed when the other woman didn't respond.

Frowning, Jace looked up. “What?” Her frown deepened at the sight of her sister-Crow. “Why are you still here?”

“Okay, then,” Kera said. “I'll take that to mean you're fine. Call me when you're ready to come home.”

With that, the Crows were gone, leaving devastation and horror in their wake . . . something they were known for, so it wasn't exactly surprising to Ski, but his brothers turned to him, all of them glaring.

“Don't look at me,” Ski told them. “It was Bear who insisted we needed a translator for these books.”

“I didn't know she'd bring her insane friends!” Bear feebly argued, because
of course
Jace had brought her insane friends. Crows never went into another Clan's territory without at least one of their own.

Although less for protection than as a witness.

Ski glanced down at Jace to see if she was offended. She wasn't because she wasn't listening.

He'd lost her to the books.

J
ace didn't know how long she was sitting in the same spot, but every time she bothered to glance up from her work, something had been added to the table. First it was a high-priced laptop, already set up with a spreadsheet so she could begin inputting information about the books. Then, a little later, a small printer that could print out about a hundred pages at a time, plus a few reams of plain white paper. Another time she found a Russian-English dictionary, in case—she assumed—she needed help with a word here or there. Then there was that bronze statue of an owl.

It was the owl she couldn't stop staring at. What did it mean? Owl statues were often used to scare off crows from someone's house or a building. Especially if a large number of crows were leaving a healthy load of shit everywhere. But what exactly were the Protectors trying to tell
her
with this? Were they threatening her? Trying to scare her away? Playing a joke? Or just . . . putting an owl statue down?

It was hard to tell from the statue itself. Those cold, bronze owl eyes were not friendly.

“You have to eat.”

Jace finally turned away from the owl to find Eriksen standing over her. “I'm not hungry.”

“You have to be hungry. You haven't eaten since you arrived. You haven't had any water. I don't think you've even urinated.”

“Probably because I haven't had any water.”

“I tried to get you some earlier. But my brothers
physically
”—and he sounded so annoyed—“dragged me back to the kitchen.”

“I understand that. Until we know how important the books are, we shouldn't have food and water around them. It could damage the—”

“I don't care. I just need you to eat.”

“But I'm not hungry.”

He crouched down, staring at her through those glasses. “I don't care that you're not hungry. What I'm
not
going to do is have the Crows think I'm starving you. Because they don't complain quietly or calmly.”

“It's not even lunchtime.”

“It's three in the afternoon.”

Jace turned and looked out the big windows. The sun had moved, suggesting a later hour. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Exactly. So . . . please?”

Jace looked down at the books. She wasn't nearly as far along as she'd like to be. She'd only just started on the first box of books after finishing the ones on the table and she—

“They're not going anywhere,” Eriksen practically snarled, cutting into her thoughts. “So get your cute butt up and let's get you something to eat.”

Jace blinked. “Cute?”

“Very.” He smiled. “Didn't you know?”

“Don't really look. But . . . thanks.”

“Welcome.”

Jace grabbed the desk and lifted herself off the chair since she was still resting on her knees. Once she had her feet on the ground, though, her legs sort of gave out from under her and she was suddenly sitting on her ass.

“By Tyr's missing hand!” Eriksen snapped, sounding angry. “Is this literally the first time you've gotten up since you arrived this morning?”

“Well . . .”

He crouched beside her, putting his arms around her waist. “I see I'll need to keep an eye on you to prevent you from losing your legs from blood loss.”

“Don't be so dramatic.”

He lifted her into his arms and stood. “You can't walk. I think I'm allowed to be dramatic. Isn't it bad enough I have to take care of these guys? Now I've got to take care of you, too.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly not.”

He walked out of the library, with Jace still in his arms. As they moved, she gazed up into his face until she finally asked something that had been bothering her since she'd arrived here, “Why do you and most Protectors wear glasses? And I'm pretty sure some are wearing contacts. Why didn't Tyr give you all better eyesight?”

“He gave us excellent eyesight. And if we were just running around, hunting our enemies, none of us would need glasses. But the glasses help us adapt so that those around us don't notice the . . .”

“Freakiness of your owl eyes?”

“They're not freaky. They're unique.”

“You can also turn your heads three hundred sixty degrees.”

“No, we
can't
,” he quickly corrected her. But then, a few seconds later, he added, “It's more like two hundred seventy degrees.”

“A difference of ninety. Uh-huh.”

“Tyr likes owls. They're very thoughtful predators. So he gave us many of their wonderful attributes to enhance our fighting skills.”

“How come you don't have talons, like we do?”

“We have talon-like skills when we fight, but Tyr thought his warriors having actual talons would not be very masculine. He's still a Viking, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

They walked into the kitchen, where several Protectors were already sitting at the table. None of them were talking. They were all either writing or reading, each of them seemingly deep in thought.

Eriksen walked up to one of his brothers and kicked the chair. Then he grunted at him.

“What?” the brother asked.

“Move.”

Growling, the Protector picked up a large load of books and papers and moved down the large wooden table to another free spot. Then Eriksen placed her in the vacated chair, her feet against the seat, her knees raised.

“What do you want to eat?” he asked. But when Jace just stared up at him, he shook his head. “Forget it. I'll give you something to eat, and you'll eat it.”

He walked away and Jace rested her chin on her raised knees. That's when she realized the other Protectors were staring at her. And they kept staring until she finally demanded, “What?”

 

“So, what have you discovered?” Bear asked. Or demanded, depending on your perspective.

“About society?” Jace replied.

And Ski, who'd been buried arms-deep in their big refrigerator, had to look up from what he was doing to see if she was seriously asking that question.

She was! She was gazing at Bear with that kind of blank expression, waiting for his answer.

Poor Bear, he didn't know what to do with that.

“No. About the books.”

“You'll have to be more specific. That is too vague a question.”

Bear looked at Ski, but all he could do was shrug and point out, “That was a very
broad
question.”

Bear tried again. “Are the books helpful? Are they a waste of your time? Are they informative?”

“So far they've been all three. Kind of like life,” she added, glancing up at the ceiling. That's when she grinned. “A skylight. How beautiful. No wonder you guys eat in here.”

As one, Ski's brothers looked up. He was sure that none of them had ever noticed the skylight before. Even Ormi never noticed. Ski had it put in during a holiday weekend. The few brothers who'd come in and out, for whatever reason at that time, walked by the construction guys like they weren't even there.

“That is nice,” one of the brothers noted. “Has it always been there?”

Shaking his head, Ski pulled the fixings for a sandwich out of the refrigerator and placed them on the kitchen island. He then pulled out several bottles of cold water. He opened one and walked over to the table, holding it in front of Jace's face. Her gaze slowly moved down from the skylight to the bottle. After a moment, she smiled, and admitted, “Thank you, I am a bit thirsty.”

Of course she was. She hadn't had anything to eat or drink in hours.

He knew that he'd have to keep an eye on her while she was doing this job. She was like his brothers, easily consumed by things that interested her and hiding from things that didn't.

At least four of his brothers had lost their homes and/or cars over the last few years because they'd forgotten to take care of important personal business like mortgages and loan payments. They didn't like dealing with money, so they didn't bother and then they'd watch, stunned, as their car was towed away from the front of the house or they'd return to their home or condo to find the locks had been changed and a sheriff's deputy waiting to serve them with papers.

It became so bad that Ski finally hired a financial manager. He didn't trust anyone from the other Clans to deal with the rather large sums of cash that many of the Protectors had access to, but he didn't want someone who could expose them to the world. So he'd settled on a shifter. A man and wife team who, when not managing the Protectors' money, could shift into leopards and lounge in trees. Something they often did in the backyard of their Beverly Hills mansion.

The shifters—a rather bland moniker for those who could shift into another species with a thought the way the Protectors could fly—didn't actually like the Nordic Clans. In fact, from what Ski could tell, they sort of loathed them, especially the Crows. But they did like Clan money. And with both groups needing secrecy to function, they put aside their differences and found ways to work together to each other's benefit.

Jace tipped up the bottle and took a drink. Then she took a longer drink. By the time Ski went back to the counter, grabbed another bottle, and brought it to her, she'd finished the first one and was eagerly reaching for the second.

“You need to remember to take breaks,” he told her. “If you die at the desk, your friends will make our lives hell.”

“She can't drink around the books,” Bear reminded him. “Or eat. What if she dumps water on them? Or gets food crumbs in the pages?”

“The world will end?”

“That's not funny.”

Ski chuckled. He thought it was kind of funny.

He went back to the island and began to put together a nice large sandwich for their guest. While he did, Gundo asked Jace, “Are you Russian?”

“No. I'm Albanian on my father's side.”

“So why do you know Russian?”

“I was forced to learn multiple languages in order to find evidence of the end times in the writings of other cultures.”

Ski debated putting mayo on the sandwich. Something told him she wouldn't be a mayo fan. He could ask, but he'd rather figure it out on his own. Maybe a vinaigrette for the top of the sandwich would work well with the turkey and kale.

“The Crows made you learn languages to do that?”

“I didn't think the Crows cared about any of that,” Bear muttered.

“Not my sisters,” Jace replied. “The cult I was forced into when I was a child made me learn. As the wife of the Great Prophet it was considered one of my duties. As was smiling . . . and talking . . . and being loyal.”

Holding the top of the seeded wheat bun over the sandwich, Ski looked up in shock, his gaze meeting Gundo's. They stared at each other until Bear asked, “You were in a cult?”

“Since I was ten.”

“What cult?” Gundo asked.

“The Patient Dove Congregation out of the Valley.”

Ski dropped the bun top onto the sandwich before leaning in and asking, “The group the Feds referred to as ‘Another Waco about to happen'?
That
cult?”

She nodded, the second water bottle still gripped in her hand.

Borgsten pointed a finger at Jace and said, “You're the wife that leader guy tried to kill. He buried you in the backyard.”

“He buried my
corpse
in the backyard. The ATF caught him while he was tossing dirt on me. Skuld brought me back . . . and I woke up cranky.”

Ski's brothers stared at her for a long time until Bear asked, “Do you know Aramaic?”

“Yes. Plus, Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, several of the romance languages. Ancient Egyptian. Some African languages like Setswana and Hausa, but I read those better than I speak them. Most of the Slavic languages, reading and speaking. And since I've been with the Crows, the fundamentals of the Scandinavian languages, which wasn't too hard because I already knew German; and I've been taught to curse in Japanese, Korean, Hindi, and since Kera arrived, Tagalog. At some point I hope to get to Cantonese and Mandarin. I asked Chloe about it, but she's, like, third-generation Chinese American and she just stared blankly at me. And that's when I realized I'd be better off taking a class at UCLA . . . preferably without her.”

“Those people you attacked the other day . . .” Gundo said, staring at her. “The ones everyone are talking about, they were from that cult, weren't they?”

“Yes. They were.”

“Because why else would you beat them up?”

“Everyone else thinks I killed them.”

Gundo snorted. “No. You suddenly snap and start killing random people, the Crows will put you down themselves.” When Jace stared at him, a little confused, he added, “The Crows don't talk about it, but they don't tolerate that level of crazy. So when the rumor spread through the Clans that you wiped out an entire old folks' home—”

“Oh, come on!”

“—we all took it with a grain of salt.”

Bear suddenly pointed what seemed to be a damning finger at Jace and said with grave concern, “We might have some extra work for you translating things when you're done with the Russian books.”

Jace jerked slightly, as if she'd been expecting him to say something else. Then she nodded and replied, “Okay.”

Bear nodded. “You're not as worthless as I thought you'd be, Crow.”