Page 8 of Manic

"Tallahassee," I confirm, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can't stay here anymore. It's not safe."

The concern in her voice is evident. "Shit, Meg. What happened?"

I close my eyes, fighting back tears. "It's a long story. I'll explain everything when I get there. But Star... there's something else."

"What is it?"

I take a deep breath, my hand unconsciously drifting to my stomach, remembering the secret I've carried for so long. "I'm going to tell Tor. About... about our daughter."

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Finally, Starla speaks, her voice soft. "Are you sure? After all this time?"

"I have to," I say, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. "He deserves to know. I just... I don't know how I'm going to do it."

CHAPTER ONE

Tor

I pace the length of the main room, my boots echoing against the hardwood floor.

The air is thick with tension, cigarette smoke, and the lingering scent of last night's whiskey.

Geirolf calls from his perch at the bar. "Tor, you're gonna wear a hole in the floor."

He's nursing a beer, even though it's barely past noon.

Then again, time doesn't mean much in our world.

I grunt in response, my eyes fixed on the ornate Viking clock above the bar.

Fifty-three minutes until Liam Mackenzie and his brother-in-law, Aleksandr, arrive.

Fifty-three minutes until whatever shit storm they're bringing hits our shores.

"You know anything about why they're coming?" I ask, finally pausing my relentless pacing.

Geirolf shakes his head, his long beard swaying with the motion. "Nah, brother. Your old man's been tight-lipped about it. But you can bet it ain't good."

I nod, my jaw clenching. Dad—Runes to everyone else—has been on edge all morning.

It's not like him to be rattled, especially not by a visit from Liam.

Something's off, and it's setting my teeth on edge.

"Hey," a soft voice interrupts my brooding.

I turn to see Starla, her curly brown hair pulled back in a messy bun. "Your dad's asking for you. He's inkirkja."

I mutter a thanks and head toward the meeting room where we holdkirkja.

The wooden door, intricately carved with Norse symbols, feels heavier than usual as I push it open.

Inside, Dad's standing at the head of the table, his hands braced on the polished wood.

The axe-shaped gavel lies before him, untouched.

He looks up as I enter, and for a moment, I see the weight of his position etched in the lines of his face.

"Tor," he says, his voice gruff. "Close the door."

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