“Just Bryn, thanks. Go away, Siegfried.” The gods knew he’d never show up here unless it was to fuck up her life. No, thanks. She might once have been a shieldmaiden, a valkyrie. She might still be able to shift into a raven and soar into the clouds. She might be older than dirt. But all of that meant she had an even lower bullshit tolerance than she did back in the day when Siegfried was the love of her life. Also her betrayer, her tormenter, the man who cost her mortal life. The man who she’d betrayed in turn, a blood-soaked vengeance she’d never been able to cleanse from her stained, battered soul.

That was a long time ago, but some wounds never really healed, did they? She tried not to think about it. Ever.

She stroked a hand down the horse’s silky neck. Unhooking the crossties, she snapped a lead line on to the mare’s halter, and walked her to her stall.

No sound gave away the fact that he’d followed her, but she was keenly aware of his presence, his nearness, his ability to throw her off-balance. Tingles skipped over her skin and she tried to ignore the reaction.

His voice came from directly behind her when she latched the stall. “I’ve used Siegfried as my surname since I came to America. A hundred years ago. Maybe more.”

“Okay.” She infused as much disinterest into the word as she could manage.

“Erik is what you can call me now.”

“I prefer to call you gone.” She set off down the wide, concrete barn aisle. The sun would set in about half an hour, so she had to wrap up for the day. One more horse needed to be brought in. She whistled as she approached the paddock gate and Rogue’s Gallery came galloping up to the fence. The stallion slid to a stop just before he reached her, rearing up and whinnying.

She snorted. “Settle down, show-off.”

The stallion snorted back, shaking his head. The second she opened the gate, he shoved his nose against her shoulder, demanding petting. She scratched behind his ears and he nickered in appreciation. “Ah, now. That’s my boy.”

“He looks like my Grani,” Erik noted. “Same color, anyway. Gray as stone.”

Yes, and she hated to admit that she might have a soft spot for Rogue for just that reason. “Grani was a warhorse who died a millennium ago. Rogue here is a thoroughbred. He had a great racing career and now I keep him for stud.”

She clipped on the lead rope and then had no choice but to face her unwelcome guest.

Whoa. Her lips parted, surprise spurting through her. What a change. He was still enormously tall and built like a honed Viking warrior, a berserker who could conquer an army with one hand tied behind his back. It was his hair that caught her attention. Or rather, the lack thereof. He’d shaved his head, and the look was so different, she blinked. She’d seen him once or twice over the last thousand plus years, never of her own will, but when Odin and Freya had summoned them at the same time, there was nothing Bryn could do about it.

This was the most dramatic change he’d ever made to his appearance. He’d always worn his hair long, no matter what the current fashion of the time dictated. His silver eyes, framed by absurdly long lashes, somehow seemed even more dramatic, more intense. Before this moment, she wouldn’t have believed it possible.

That gaze pinned her in place like a bug under a microscope, and it took effort not to squirm. She wasn’t used to that. Most men she met were like spoiled toddlers, and it had been a couple of decades since one had interested her in doing anything other than yawn.

Decades. Shit, she might be regrowing her hymen at this rate.

And thinking about sex while staring at Erik was a mistake. She shook herself and glanced away. Somehow with the shaved head, it was easier to think of him as Erik instead of Siegfried. Though he was both now, wasn’t he? Erik Siegfried. The new name suited him.

“Why are you still here?” She brushed passed him—careful not to make actual contact—and led Rogue to the smaller stallion barn.

“Are you serious?” he asked, incredulousness dripping from the question. “You’ve seen the signs, Brynhil—Bryn. You have to know what they mean.”

Hurricanes, earthquakes, winters that lasted far too long, summers that burned far too hot. Mortals thought it was climate change, but a valkyrie could sense the difference. Signs of the end times. The Vikings called it Ragnarök—the Twilight of the Gods—but it had been given many names by many cultures. Armageddon, eschaton, apocalypse, Satya Yuga, the appearance of Maitreya—it was all the same, as far as she was concerned—a prophesized final chapter before a supposed golden era began.

She shrugged as she finished putting Rogue away, then she turned to Erik. “Ah, but you’re the dragon slayer who’s supposed to kill the baddies who want to take over the world. I suggest you quit bothering me and get to it.”

His smile was sharp and unamused. “Trust me, I’d like nothing more than kill the baddies, preferably before they do the kind of damage that will land us in Ragnarök. Unfortunately, I need a shieldmaiden’s help.”

“I’m not the only one left.” Though, it had been a century or more since she’d been in contact with any other valkyrie. Freya hadn’t summoned her in a long time, and Bryn was just fine with that. She had her farm, her horses, and a quiet existence she enjoyed. “Go pester someone else.”

“Damn it, Bryn.” He scrubbed a hand over his head, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to strangle her. Interesting. He’d always been so obnoxiously calm and patient back in the day.

It annoyed the shit out of her that she liked this less stoic side of him. She widened her eyes innocently. “What?”

“I need your help.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helpless frustration, his heavy brows snapping together.

“No.” There. Simple, easy. An idiot should get that message through his thick skull.

The growl he emitted was more wolf than man, reminding her that berserkers could shift forms as easily as valkyrie. Again, that less civil side of him was…too alluring, too tempting, tugging at something deep within her. Something she’d rather crush under her boot.