Dirk walked into Valhalla to see a pool cue swung high above the crowd in the middle of the dancefloor. He heard the sickening thwack of impact above a momentary lull in the music. Then the band played on.
“Fuck!”
He launched himself into the crowd, pushing his way through the dancing horde until he reached the spot where he had seen the pool cue. Where were the bouncers? Why had nobody stepped in?
The answer came in a circle of screaming denim and leather, straight from a B-grade horror movie. Except Morag was no vulnerable scream queen, knocking the monster down and running away. She swung the pool cue repeatedly, laying into the body that wasn’t even curled in a defensive foetal position. People nearby screamed encouragement or discouragement, according to their individual stress levels.
Dirk grabbed her from behind, tattooed arms wrapping around her chest, dragging her backwards. “That’s enough. Stop it. Stop!”
She fought with berserker fury, feet kicking as he lifted her off the ground and turned her to face the other way. Then she screamed, her entire body stiffened, shuddered, and all the fight went out of her.
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