Descendant by Lesley Livingston Page A

even more apparent. They hacked and slashed away at each other, but it was without individual flourishes of technique. It reminded her of the draugr. They fought like zombies.
    Mason thought of her bouts with Fennrys—the kind of fighting where every blow, every block, attack and riposte and feint, felt like a move in an intricate, fiercely intimate dance—and felt sorry for the Einherjar. If this was their supposed reward for a life of service to the Aesir, the ultimate prize granted to the brave and the bold and the best . . . then they must not have read the fine print in the contract. They were all essentially robotic dummies, who were just going through the same motions they had been since the dawn of time—each face, each opponent, striped of its individuality . . . its humanity. Each death exactly the same. Because, beyond the different weapons and the different wounds, that’s what they were—the same.
    All except for one of them.
    As Mason and her mother passed, untouched, across the battlefield, winding their way between the combatants, Mason suddenly noticed a lone figure out of the corner of her eye that did not move the way all the other Einherjar did. She twisted her head to get a better glimpse between bodies . . .
    . . . and was shocked to see Tag Overlea stumble out of the sea of warriors.

VII
    G unnar Starling pretty much confirmed Heather’s fears that—just like Taggert Overlea—she wasn’t going to leave his train alive. She’d watched enough crime dramas to know what it meant when his glance flicked first over Tag, where he lay stretched out on the floor, then over to where Heather still cowered in the corner.
    “I’ll deal with my sons and find my daughter,” he said to Toby. “You clean this mess up.”
    Toby nodded and stepped aside as Gunnar swept out of the car, and Heather felt her heart sink into her stomach. She was part of the “mess.” And there was really only one way to “clean” it up.
    Rory trailed behind his father to the door, hesitating for a moment before stepping through. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Heather, his forehead knotted in a deep frown. He looked for a moment as if he wanted to say something to her. Apologize maybe? Try to explain? Stop what was about to happen to her? He did none of that, of course. Just stood there.
    Heather took the opportunity to give Rory the finger.
    He blinked at her, startled. Then his mouth twisted in a sneer and he shook his head, disappearing out the door in his father’s wake.
    Toby stood for a long few moments, staring at the door that had just closed behind Rory and his boss. Even in the depth of her near-panic despair, Heather was still trying to wrap her head around what, exactly , Toby Fortier did for Gunnar Starling other than drive his train. But then there was no more time for her to give the matter further thought.
    Toby’s head snapped around and he stared at Heather, every line of muscle in his fighter’s physique taut as steel cabling. Heather tried her best not to shrink away from his piercing stare, to little avail. She could feel the leather ofthe banquette creaking behind her as her shoulder blades pressed into it when Toby reached into a back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a switchblade. The blade was flat black, nonreflective, and looked military issue. It was also instantly apparent that Toby was an expert in its use. The way he spun it around in his hand as he approached Heather actually made her feel the tiniest bit better. Like whatever way he decided to dispatch her would be quick and—hopefully—relatively painless. She tried to keep her lip from quivering and stared defiantly up into his eyes.
    She almost burst into tears when Toby didn’t slit her throat ear to ear.
    Instead, the fencing master opened up his fist not holding the knife, revealing one of Gunnar’s acorns. With the point of the carbon-bladed knife, he hastily scratched a symbol into the gleaming golden surface