Valhalla Virus by Nick Harrow (best management books of all time TXT) 📕

his arm over her shoulder and snuggled up against his chest. “We traced Hyrrokkin’s past for you, babe. It took forever, but we walked it all the way back to Jotunheim.”

“And that’s good news?” Gunnar asked.

“Definitely,” she chuckled. “She can’t come back, Gun. Not for a long, long time. She shot her wad, sending her agents through to gather the relics. She doesn’t have the strength to open another bridge. Maybe she never will.”

“That is very good news,” Gunnar said. “Thank you for bringing it to me.”

“Come to our room,” Ray whispered, her hand doing more than brushing his crotch. “You can pay me back for putting you in such a good mood.”

BOGIE HAD WALKED EAST, not resting until Vegas was a shadow on the horizon behind him. His skin was covered in blisters and he’d lost a horn, thanks to that fucker setting off Draupnir like a nuclear goddamned warhead. The wounds wouldn’t kill the jötunn, but they’d pissed him off.

Not as much as the fact that Hilda had survived, though. He’d caught a glimpse of that bitch running away while he was doing the same.

He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder when he thought of her.

“I’m not scared,” he told himself for the thousandth time. “Fuck that bitch.”

But he didn’t have to be afraid to know that staying in Vegas was a bad bet if you had blue skin. Fucking Arthur had eaten a dick, and that bitch Hyrrokkin was nowhere to be found. The smart money was on greener pastures, where crazy Viking motherfuckers didn’t hunt jötnar for kicks.

The farther Bogie got from the city, the clearer his thoughts became. He swore he could hear them now, clear as a movie soundtrack. It was mostly his voice, but there was another one that had piped up now and then. A woman offering him advice, telling him which roads to turn on, guiding him to shelter when he needed it, and food when he was hungry.

Finally, Bogie talked back. “Who are you?”

His only answer was the mournful whistle of the wind outside the log house he’d found earlier that day. He strained to hear her voice again and thought he caught one, small word.

“Hel,” the wind sighed.

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Looking for more from Nick Harrow, and need it right this minute? Check out: Dungeon Bringer 1. Or keep reading to take a sneak peek.

Construct your dungeon. Summon your monster girls. Slaughter your foes.

WHEN THE INKOLANA CARTEL's experimental computer network comes under attack, they give white-hat hacker Clay Knight two hours to fix the problem.

If he succeeds, he'll be rich beyond his wildest dreams.

If he fails, he's a dead man.

But when Clay hacks the hackers, he stumbles into an ancient ritual that summons him to the dusty, forgotten world of Soketra. In this strange new land, Clay finds dungeons, monsters, and a fierce pride of beautiful cat women who believe he is the reincarnation of the ancient Dungeon Lord Rathokhetra. With a band of bloodthirsty dungeon raiders on his doorstep, Clay must master his new abilities and gather guardians for his territory to save himself and his army of warrior women from a fate darker than death.

Chapter 1: Meltdown

SHE CROSSED THE BAR toward me with the lithe strides of a stalking tigress. Candlelight cast her face in shadow, but her eyes glowed with an emerald radiance that drew me to her like a barbed-wire lariat. Musical chimes tinkled against my ears with every step she took, and I wanted her the same way a man lost in the desert wanted water.

The good news was that she looked like she was just as thirsty for me as I was for her.

She didn’t say a word when she reached me. She tilted her head back and eased forward until our lips almost touched. Her breath smelled like honeysuckle and cinnamon, and the heat of it wrapped my brain in a warm, moist fog that made it all but impossible to think about anything but her.

I leaned forward to kiss her, and our lips met with an explosion of pain that dragged me out of the best damned dream I’d had in months. It took me a few seconds to realize why my lips hurt so bad.

It was the gun barrel a very unpleasant man had shoved into my mouth.

“You Knight?” the hulking shadow that loomed over my bed asked. He had to be close to seven feet tall and seemed almost as wide. A shaft of light through my open window fell across his heavily tattooed gun hand. The pistol was still pressed up against my lips, and my eyes crossed when I tried to focus on it, but I didn’t need to see any details to know it was big enough to turn my head into extra-chunky salsa if I made a wrong move.

I considered trying to convince the shadow he had the wrong apartment, but