Page 1 of Act of Brotherhood
Chapter One
Just over twenty years ago…
Garth Ingersson stood in the center of a room showcasing historic swords, daggers, and various antique weaponry, staring around like a kid in a candy store. The room wasn’t his, and it wasn’t as awe-inspiring as the three Garth had within his primary home, but it was impressive nonetheless.
As an immortal shape-shifter, Garth had centuries upon centuries to add to his collection, carefully seeking out each addition, making sure it was exactly what he wanted and needed. Some saw his love of weapons as worrisome. He didn’t. He thought of himself more as a curator for each piece. From the looks of it, so did the asshole who owned the room he was standing in.
The owner of this home had been carted out in cuffs by one of Garth’s men only minutes before. The guy had a laundry list of offenses against him, the least of which was possessing and distributing illegal weapons.
That in itself was saying something.
The dirtbag was high up in one of the many supernatural organized crime families that currently controlled the paranormal underground, and he’d finally had his number come due.
It was about time.
Garth had seen far too many men such as the one in cuffs over the span of his long life. Hell, he was related to a chunk of them.
The people Garth worked for didn’t operate under the confines of human laws, but they still had to answer to higher-ups. Fancy guys in suits who probably never once put themselves in danger or knew what the real world was like. Men who wouldn’t know hard times or the heat of battle if they were bitten in the ass by it all. They called the shots. Garth didn’t know who exactlytheywere. The people in charge changed often. He did know that very few humans knew of the agency he worked for—Paranormal Security and Intelligence (PSI). It was a need-to-know thing, and not many needed to know jack crap.
The humans whodidhave knowledge of PSI were trusted. They knew there were supernaturals who hid in plain sight. Including ones with influential positions within governments and high-powered businesses around the world. Ones who kept the cogwheels turning and the missions flowing. Ones who didn’t have to face down armed guards like those Garth and his teammates had when storming the property.
While PSI made sure the operatives were outfitted in weapons and protective gear, so was the dirtbag, and a number of his weapons were far bigger.
The dirtbag they’d taken into custody—who had a name Garth couldn’t remember for the life of him—had plenty of supernaturals on his payroll, and all had seemed ready to take a bullet for the guy. They’d also been highly trained. Something that was becoming more and more common as of late.
In the end, one of the men from PSI had been wounded. The operative, who was a vampire, had taken a nasty shot through the leg. To a human, it would have required medical attention. To a vampire, it would sting for a while, give him issues walking fast or running, and pretty much just piss him off.
It wouldn’t kill him.
Besides, the guy was technically already dead to start with.
As a born shifter, Garth had been raised to hate creatures of the night. To see them as against the natural order of the supernatural world. His father had launched many a campaign to attack and eradicate blood drinkers from the earth. When Garth was young, he too believed all vampires were evil and that the walking dead should not exist. With age came wisdom and understanding.
Well, understanding for the ones who weren’t Auberi Bouchard, otherwise known as dickhead extraordinaire. That particular vampire operative wore on Garth’s last nerve. While Garth had grown out of the ideals his father had tried to instill, he’d found it nearly impossible to be accepting of Auberi, who also happened to be on the mission with them.
Pampered.
That was what Auberi was. The man had led a charmed life. One of excess. The world his oyster. From the way he carried himself to the way he assumed everyone should bend to his whim. That would never fucking happen. Garth would rather cut off his own arm than kowtow to the French bastard.
Garth’s upbringing had been harsh. There had been nothing in the way of coddling or pampering. The small village he’d been born in was home to a large number of wolf-shifters. His father had been pack alpha. There had been no warmth to the man. No love in his frozen heart. He saw everything in terms of black or white. No shades of gray existed. You were either a warrior or you were worthless.
If you could not fight, you could not live.
Garth couldn’t recall a time in his life when he hadn’t been a fighter. His childhood held only training, death, and war. There was never a point when he’d been carefree. He wasn’t even sure he’d have known what to do with himself had he been permitted to play with other children. Or given something he didn’t have to earn. The idea was so foreign to him that he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. There was no way he’d have survived had he been anything but ruthless.
A harsh climate, a heavy-handed father who demanded warrior sons, a mother who was a warrior in her own right, and a brother who forever seemed to want to win the favor and approval of their father—regardless of the cost—had been what shaped the man he was today.
Nothing more than a glorified warrior and weapons collector.
You could take the Viking out of history, but you couldn’t take the history out of the Viking.
Viking.
The term always made him laugh, as it wasn’t one his people referred to themselves by. It was a name given to them by outsiders. By people who didn’t understand his kind, his culture, his past. So much of what people today thought they knew of the Vikings was simply speculation on their part. He felt no need to confirm or deny.
Though hedidfind it funny that they were so sure chairs and tables weren’t commonplace when he was young. Of course they had chairs and tables.
Dumbasses.
