Page 48 of Valkyrie Unknown

“Johansson, we need your help.” A voice crackled over the mic he wore on his shoulder.

He looked at me, then at a scuffle breaking out between a few other officers and what looked like a homeless man.

One of the policemen grabbed the man by the sleeve of a battered army jacket, and as the man twisted out of the coat, his shirt pulled down, exposing a tattoo on his chest.

Berserker?

My gut churned. I couldn’t be sure, as he was far enough away I couldn’t make out details, but the way he moved was faster and more predatory than most people.

Johansson looked between me and his colleagues. “Don’t go anywhere.” He rushed to help them.

I wasn’t leaving yet—others needed my help—but I would do a better job of staying out of sight of the cops, and more importantly, the men in suits who were arriving in unmarked cars.

A discarded jacket lay on the ground a few feet away. I tugged it on. The fleece hoodie was too big, and my extra exertion made it feel far too warm, but it would mask my identity from anyone who noticed me before.

I went back to work. Things weren’t the same kind of chaos now, but there were still a handful of injured people who hadn’t gotten help. I helped a few more to the makeshift aid station that had been set up.

As I wrapped the last of my tape and gauze around a long but probably not serious cut on a teenager’s arm, a man with strawberry-blond curls and a warm smile approached me.

“You need to get checked out.” He nodded at my aching arm and the trickles of blood running past the sleeve of the hoodie and down my hand.

I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

“You can’t help them if you collapse from your own wounds,” he said. “And yes, I’ve been watching you.” He wasn’t here with the team, as far as I could tell. He wasn’t wearing a uniform or gloves. His hair was lightly matted, as if he’d had a hat on at some point today. A warmth radiated from him that reminded me of kindness and safety.

But if he’d noticed me, it was unlikely he was the only one.

I looked around the scene. Most everyone had been taken care of in some way. “I’m not going to collapse.”

He studied me for another moment.

What was he looking for? What did he see?

“You’ve helped more than anyone else would,” he said. “They’ve got things under control, and you’ll be safer—they’ll be safer—if you head home.”

Why did he phrase things that way?

“Miss.” Johansson was coming back.

The man stepped between me and the officer. “I’ll take care of him,” he told me. When I opened my mouth to protest his wording, he said, “Not in a bad way. Go home. Clean that wound.”

I wanted to do more. I needed to keep this up. The stranger was right, though. There wasn’t anything left for me to do here. When I got home, I could call around and see who needed volunteers or people to give blood or anything.

If I stayed, I’d be in the way. It hurt to walk away, but my staying didn’t do anyone any good.

I turned away. Leaving like a dog with my tail between my legs sucked.

The trains running into Downtown were shut down—that happened fast. I’d walk until I found where the line was open.

The worst part about this wasn’t the stroll; it was the way I was left alone with my thoughts. My guilt. I hadn’t done enough. The explosion… The madness… It couldn’t be because of me. But if it was, it would be because I got careless over the last few months. I settled into a place and a routine.

Maybe it was a coincidence that this happened around me, and it had nothing to do with me, butfuck, if that scene as the explosion happened wasn’t directly out of one of Mom’s visions. People might be terrified and hurt because of me.

Like what happened with Mom and Rayne, but on a larger scale.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Home wasn’t far by train, but walking the six miles took me more than an hour, and the trek sucked in the flats I wore for work, especially after I spent the last hour or so on my feet. I rested my hand on the hilt of one knife, both out of habit and for the comfort of the grip. The familiar tingle of magic didn’t race through me.

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