She glanced off before lying. “Nothing.”

“Kera . . . you’re a very bad liar.”

“Well . . . the hair . . . the beard . . . sometimes you wear that green jacket with the pockets that looks kind of military.”

“Aren’t I a little scruffy to be in your military?”

“True . . . unless you . . . ya know . . . snapped a little.”

“Snapped?”

“You know.” She suddenly rubbed her nose. “Had a little bit of a . . . breakdown.”

Vig took a step back. “You thought I was insane?”

“No,” she said quickly, moving closer. “I thought it was just a little PTSD with possible brain injury.”

“Brain injury?”

“It’s happened to a few of my buddies.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t take my money sometimes?”

She cringed. “I also kinda thought you were homeless.”

Vig heard something coming from his back door and he turned to see Siggy trying to sneak back outside.

“What are you doing?” he asked his teammate.

“Trying to go away before you notice me.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Yeah . . . I know.” Then Siggy burst out laughing and ran out, slamming the door behind him.

Gritting his teeth, Vig turned back to Kera. “So all this time you thought—” A burst of laughter from the front of the house cut the rest of Vig’s sentence off.

Vig blew out a breath. “Forget it.”

“Vig—”

“No. You came here for a reason. Would you like to see the weapons I made for you?” he asked Kera.

“For me?”

“I just finished them. I knew you were going to need them.”

“So what else?”

Kera looked away from the amazing weapons that lined the walls of Vig Rundstöm’s workshop. A wood building not too far from his little home.

“Huh?”

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“What else led you to believe I was a homeless vet?”

“Your thousand-yard stare didn’t help.”

“That’s my battle stare.”

“But you used it at the coffee shop . . . where there was no battle.”

“I only used it on the other servers so that they’d get you so that you could serve me.” He shrugged. “It worked. I just didn’t realize how well.”

“Didn’t you notice that I kept giving you pamphlets from the Wounded Warrior Project?”

“You were a vet. I thought you just wanted me to donate money.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. Because it’s a worthy causeand I wanted to impress you.”

Kera brushed her hair off her face. “How? When you never told me you donated money to Wounded Warriors.”

“I figured I’d eventually tell you.”

“Excellent plan.”

Vig opened his mouth to speak but ended up just letting out a disgusted sound, shaking his head, and walking over to a big, wooden cupboard.

Kera bit her lip and wondered how she’d gotten it all so wrong. About Vig, that is. She’d been completely wrong about him.

For the past ten months that he’d been coming into the coffee shop, she’d thought he was a broken man. Another vet tossed aside and forgotten by the government and society he’d fought to protect.

Instead, he was anything but. And knowing that . . . it changed everything about him. About how she saw him.

In other words . . . she was suddenly sizing the man up like a side of beef.

Prime beef.

Vig pulled something out of a cupboard that was filled with more weapons, each one marked with a piece of paper that had a name on it. He walked over to a large table and placed a leather sheath on it.

He gestured to it and Kera untied the leather thong wrapped around the sheath and unrolled it. There were two black handles and she grasped one, easing the weapon out.

She held it up. It was a very long-handled dagger with a thin ten-inch blade. Weird symbols were burned into the metal.

“You wear the sheath on your ankle,” Vig explained. “You pull the weapon during battle.”

“It’s pretty,” she said, smiling at him. “Although I’d rather have a .45. I’m a real fan of Glocks. They fit my hand perfectly. I have surprisingly long fingers. You wouldn’t also happen to be a gunsmith, would you?”

“The Clans don’t use guns.”

“How un-American of them. But I’m an American.”

“Perhaps a better way to say it is . . . we’re not allowed to use guns.”

“Well, who came up with that stupid idea?”

“The gods. They’re kind of old school. They like edge weapons and hammers.” Vig gestured to the items lining his walls. “That’s what I specialize in. I trade with all the Clans. Even the unofficial ones.”

“So which are the official Clans and which are the unofficial ones?”

Vig’s head tipped to the side. “What have your sisters taught you about this life?”

“In twenty hours? Divorce is the same everywhere. I’m not pure evil. Pit bulls aren’t covered under their insurance. And I think they’re incredibly disorganized, but that was just an observation on my part. Nothing anyone said.”

“Who is your mentor?”