She walked around the little cabin to the front and opened the window, stuffing the remainder of the first sandwich in her mouth. She glanced out the pane and was surprised to see the Hummer was still there.
Thought he was going somewhere?
Not overly concerned, she went to the counter, took a long swig of the still-cold milk then washed the sandwich residue from her hands because she needed to assemble the crossbow, put it on her arm, put her coat back on so the man wouldn’t notice the weapon. It fit perfectly and could be fired without removing her jacket. The bolt traveled directly through a specialized part of the sleeve.
Why was Emme going to strap the crossbow on when she was here to find her sister? Because one never knew when the damned berserkers would be able to track them. Who knew if Eira was followed after they all dispersed from Houston?
She unlocked and unzipped the duffel and removed the special carrier for the crossbow. No larger than a pistol carrier, she released the latch and raised the cover. The crossbow was a piece of art. Specifically designed by a top designer of crossbows, it had been measured and calibrated to fit perfectly on top of her forearm, much like a vambrace, but made of the finest, most supple leather.
Emme removed the crossbow and assembled it, laying the barrel along her arm, strapping it on securely, adjusting the riser, fastening the limb to the barrel, attaching and adding tension to the string, testing the cocking stirrup. Satisfied with the setup, she made sure the safety switch was in the firing position because, otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to pull the string into position. She drew the string back with the specialized lever that had been attached, allowing for the full amount of tension needed, then lined up the cock vane of the bolt to the channel.
The crossbow and bolt ready, she donned the coat with the special partition which would allow her to fire the crossbow at will without removing the coat, then she pulled out her pistol, double-checked it for readiness, and returned it to its holster.
One might wonder why she needed the crossbow as opposed to simply casting bullets made of Freyja’s Redemption, but bullet rounds were too short. They weren’t effective against berserkers, and the Valkyrie had learned this the hard way. The preferred weapon was the length of a bolt or an arrow, at a minimum. A lance or a spear of Freyja’s Redemption could be used, had been used in the past, eons ago, but were unwieldy to carry about these days. Law enforcement frowned on women carrying lethal spears. Go figure.
Noise outside caught her attention. What in the world? Seemed to come from the front. She stepped to the front of the cabin and glanced out the window.
Her driver and guide, Asa Wulfsen, was pacing a circle, a few yards beyond the Hummer. Back and forth, round and round, head down, fists clenched.
Then she noticed.
She froze.
In one of those white-knuckled hands, he was holding a weapon. A Ruger 9 mm. Not a weapon that the she currently used, but one she’d had in her collection in the past.
What the hell is he doing?
She kept her gaze glued on him. He was saying something, muttering, talking to himself, the words unintelligible because of distance, and the cabin’s walls being between them. But his expression seemed one of anguish when she was able to catch a glimpse, those few times he angled his head enough for her to witness he was in the midst of warfare.
Who is—what is—he battling against?
She couldn’t have stopped watching him if she’d wanted to. Sandwich no longer important, nothing more dire than seeing what this marching, ranting, feverish man would do next. He stopped next to a tree, put his empty hand against the trunk and reared back, his body arching, his head thrown, thick neck revealed. His mouth opened as he released a soulful sound that was a melding of a howl and a wail.
By Freyja, this is odd.
Should she try to find out what was wrong with him? Should she call the main number and ask for Davin and tell him that his brother—if it really was his brother—was acting crazy? Should she call 9-1-1?
Right, because it looks like there’s a police station just around the corner.
Alright, that was a dumb idea. There were probably more bears than cops around here.
That settled it. She’d merely sit here and watch him from the safety of the cabin.
And what will I do when he returns and is ready to take me scouting for Eira again?
Was this a man she wanted to be alone with in a Hummer, traipsing and touring through wilderness where there—
She gasped.
He raised the weapon, pointed the barrel—
No!
The shot rang out. The only sound in an otherwise green-and-white haven.
Why the hell—
He shot again. Once more, the bullet entered his torso.
He’s crazy.
No crazier than what she did next. Her training kicked in. If she’d been thinking straight, she’d have stayed put and let the maniac kill himself. But did she do that?
Hell no.
Seconds later, Emme flung the cabin door open and was bounding across the driveway and yard, crunching dirt, snow, and leaves beneath her hiking boots as she made her way toward the man who was practically a stranger.
“Stop!” She tried to shock him out of his hellbent intent to kill himself slowly.
Why didn’t he simply put the weapon to his head? It would have been quicker.
She banished that thought and pulled up short as the man whirled in her direction, the weapon still up and aimed somewhere between the two of them.
“Put it down, please. Asa, put it down.”
“Go away.” His voice was a growl. It didn’t sound fully human.
Was he suffering from PTSD? Was he one of the military guys who’d come home with a severe case of PTSD? She’d never met one, but she’d heard stories, and it was heartbreaking. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. Put it down and let’s get you some help.”
She raised her hands to show him she was unarmed, though, by the goddess Freyja, she wasn’t.
“You. Can’t. Help. Me.” His words were broken, gravelly, and each one spoken with a measurable pause in between, as though he was gasping through the pain.
She studied his abdomen. He probably was in a lot of pain. Blood flowed freely.
“You need medical help. Let me call Davin. Please. You said that’s your brother, right?”
“No,” he groaned out. “Don’t call him. Don’t call anyone. Leave me alone.” He took his hand from his stomach, where he’d been holding the wound and shoved it in his pocket, fished out the keys, and pitched them at her with the ferocity and velocity of a hockey puck. “Take the Hummer. Go find what you’re looking for.” He’d barely managed the words when he fell against the tree.
She ducked out of the way of the keys.
He raised the weapon once more. Except this time, it seemed to be more aiming toward her than himself.
“Don’t,” she cautioned him. “Don’t do that.”
“I—” He flailed the weapon wildly.
A shot fired, zinged past her head.
Curses. Was he trying to kill himself or her? Or was this a homicide-suicide thing?
She raised her arm instinctively, the one with the crossbow, in the event he—
The pistol’s muzzle was turning toward her again. Everything moved so fast, and yet so slow. The pistol moving. Her fingers twitching with the trigger-string that led to the crossbow’s releasing the bow.