One of the police guarded the door while the other two made their way through the dance floor. Garún kept low and retreated towards the stairway leading to the upper floor.
She looked back just before she was out of sight. That was when her eyes accidentally met one of them. Their gazes locked. He knew. Some drunkard stumbling down the stairs knocked into her and broke the deadlock. She dashed up the stairs as fast as she could, leaving behind a trail of outraged people with splashes of beer on their expensive shirts and dresses.
Upstairs, people sat on worn couches by tables sticky from spilled beer, smoking and drinking. She rushed past looking for an exit, a balcony, anything. The windows were of a decent size and she managed to tear one open. She reached into her backpack and fetched her last can of delýsíð paint. The humans stared on, bewildered, as she sprayed an arcane symbol on the middle of the floor before hoisting herself out of the window. Drunken men tried to grab Garún but were too late – she was out.
Instantly a violent fight broke out in every corner on the upper floor. A couple who were flirting a moment before were now tearing each other’s hair out; co-workers were trading punches; girlfriends were scratching each other bloody. The suit-wearing officer appeared in the window, his face dark red with rage as he screamed at people to control themselves. It was not a good sign that he could restrain himself. Wild-eyed, he scanned for her and saw her making her way across the roof.
“Stop!’ he screamed.
He was punched in the face before he could do anything else.
The roof was small and steep, too high to be able to jump down from. She moved down the roof until she reached the top of a garage. The officer had somehow managed to escape the clutches of the frenzied guests and was now out the window. Garún lowered herself down but instinctively let go when a resounding crack broke out between the houses. She hit the concrete, hard. Drunken people let out horrified screams in the distance and Garún realised he was armed.
She jumped to her feet and sprinted as fast as she could. Another bang echoed and she could feel the bullet as it flew past her ear.
Garún ran until she could taste blood. She took a sharp turn into an alleyway between houses. She tried to quieten her breathing and listen for the officer’s footsteps, but it was almost impossible. When she no longer felt as if she had inhaled dozens of razor blades, she risked checking if she had been pursued.
Electric lamps illuminated the sombre night. Trees spread their bare claws towards the sky. A cat sneaked noiselessly across the street. Everything was still. Garún let herself slowly sink, her back against the wall. She noticed the graffiti all around her, the esoteric messages left by teenagers, gangs and kuklarar. She breathed a sigh of relief. Had Viður known that the exit was compromised? Did he betray her, making sure that she’d be ambushed on her way back?
A clammy hand gripped her throat, so quick and unexpected that her head was knocked against the wall. Her vision darkened. It was him. Blond, oil-slicked hair and a cruel look on his face. The audioskull hadn’t warned her until she’d felt his fingers around her throat. This was no regular police officer. He was using seiður to hide his presence. Garún cursed and spat. She tried to struggle, but he was immovable, his hand like an iron ring around her throat.
“I could smell your stench all the way out to Grandi,” he said. His nostrils flared. “Delýsíð. So you’re the one who’s been busy all over Reykjavík? And you’re crossing over to Rökkurvík?’ His laugh was hollow. “How did you possibly think that you could …’
He leaned in closer, focusing. He sniffed her. The whites of his eyes became slightly illuminated.
“Is that a demon I smell?’
He looked down, towards the audioskull.
She kneed him in the groin as hard as she possibly could. He didn’t move. She could just as well have kicked a wall.
“You really are one stupid bitch.” He started to smile, slowly. “You have no idea what kind of shit you’ve got yourself into.”
He grabbed her by the hair and banged her head hard against the wall, once, twice. He tugged at her hair, forcing her to look at him. Warm blood ran down to her neck.
“You are now under arrest. You’ll be coming with me down to the Nine, for a private interview. If you co-operate, we might be merciful. Your execution will be expedited. You—”
There was a movement from the edge of her vision and then dark blood spattered Garún’s face as something bashed the officer in the head. She twisted herself out of his grip. Another hit to the body lying on the ground, with a sickening crack, then another.
Styrhildur stood over the body on the ground, a bloody crowbar in her hand. Hraki and Diljá came running, putting their arms around Garún, helping her up. Her legs were weak, giving in with every shaky step. Everything was a blur: the man, bleeding on the street; running through the dark alleys; the sounds of footsteps fading in the distance; the crazed music of the noisefiend in her headphones.
Sirens in the distance.
Níu
Sæmundur stood by the sink. The tap dripped at a steady pace. He was stuck in a loop, going around and around on a problem, always arriving at the same result, no matter what different approaches he tried. There were no other ways, no other solutions. Rauðskinna had the answers he wanted, it was as simple as that.
He was faced with only two real
