For want of a better idea as to clues, I flicked through the novel. It seemed to be just what the cover said. A trashy romance novel, not even a particularly good one. Heroine swooning over hero’s abs, a weak damsel who needed to be rescued. I wasn’t sure who read this crap. Sure as heck not me.

So, what was he saying by leaving it in my bag? That I was acting like that by not doing as he said?

Shaking my head, I put the book back in, intending to return it to its owner when I saw him. Which I knew I would. I wasn’t about to be seen with it at work, and work was nerve wracking, always glancing over my shoulder, trying not to flinch when a customer entered.

They didn’t come back, though, and I had plenty of time to contemplate the horn. I couldn’t buy it…every time I tried it vanished. I could easily break the glass and take it, but I wasn’t going to do that.

I wasn’t a thief. And even if I did get the horn, I wasn’t going to give it to Mr. Otter. Not just because he wanted it. Not to pay for answers. I thought of spilling the entire thing to Bruce, then decided I didn’t want him involved.

There was a woman loitering outside. She looked fair, Scandinavian, but when I spotted her, she moved away. She was wearing pretty hardcore clubbing gear. There were chains involved, chains and black leather, but I had this feeling she hadn’t gone far.

Another of Otter’s friends? Another player in the game? I got off shift and vacated as soon as I could. Yes. She hadn’t gone far at all. Our eyes met.

Blue eyes, clear ones, both of us. Familiarity…at least in general terms. But no memory. Just an odd jolt of I should know this person but I don’t, and I didn’t. Black leather pants, chrome chains across her pockets, corsetry up top. She looked like a slut and moved like a murderess.

She was dangerous, and I ducked my head, turning to hurry away, feeling her eyes on me. Feeling instincts that told me to go to her, go ask her what was going on, fighting them with the logic that said I didn’t want to be involved with the likes of her.

And only her eyes followed me as I headed home…or at least as far as the pawn shop.

A horn marked by Tyr’s rune for justice. A drinking horn, I realized now, not one for sounding. A drinking horn…just that, harmless unless somebody put poison in it. Symbolic. Justice.

Or maybe just Tyr. I knew where I needed to go next time I had a chance.