Reluctant Berserker: Isaacson Trilogy Book One

Chapter 1

Wyoming Territory, late August 1880

Bullets whizzed by, missing Gunnar Isaacson's prized Stetson that perched artfully atop his pale blonde head. When two more shots almost hit their mark, he removed the hat and placed it at his side.

Plaster from cracked walls shattered and rained down upon him, and the scuffed wood floor pulled at the skin of his palms as he crawled over to the other side of the window.

Firearms posed no real threat to a Berserker; in fact, the bullets did little more damage than cause painful bruises and sting like the dickens. But, after one too many hats and articles of clothing had been ruined by the annoying things, Gunnar tried to avoid them whenever possible.

He would show his brothers that he didn't need to eat a baneberry to get the job done. The berries were in his pocket, held protectively in a small tin container, just in case the situation got out of hand, but he promised himself he would only use them if it were vital.

As long as it remained in control, he wouldn't have to worry about his pesky problem of passing out. Whoever heard of a Berserker who passed out at the sight of blood? Well, to be fair, not just anyone's blood—it was the sight of his blood that made him drop like a lead weight.

The number of nosebleeds someone could have during or after the heat of fighting was surprising. Very ineffective, the tendency of dropping in a dead faint when trying to be a menacing warrior renowned for ruthlessness in battle—didn't necessarily make enemies tremble in fear.

Not that they could, because they were dead and he was passed out, but word still tended to get around and taint his reputation.

Compared to his Berserker brothers, he was the peculiar one. Ulric, his twin, and Esmund, their younger brother, enjoyed what they had been born as, which was undoubtedly the root of all his problems.

For one thing, he'd recently come to discover that he detested excessive violence, even though it was the only way to deal with some people in his line of work.

But more than that was the sheer amount of blood involved with being what he was. He was a Deputy US Marshal, although other Deputy Marshals labeled him and his brothers 'Enforcer.' Like their father before them, what he and his brothers did was the dirty work for the US Marshals.

Silence, abrupt and alarming, jarred Gunnar out of his thoughts. There should still be three more shots left unless he had miscounted. Cautiously, he poked his head up to the windowsill and then cursed and quickly ducked low when a bullet pierced the wood of the sill behind where his head had been only seconds ago. Splinters of wood and paint chips landed on his shoulders.

Two more shots rang out in quick succession, punctuated by the wooden and plaster shrapnel raining down around him when the bullets lodged into the walls.

A framed cross-stitch, stained and moth-eaten, fell to the floor with a clatter. This was one reason he was adamant this assignment would be his last.

He was tired of being in the line of fire and the constant need to replace his wardrobe, but more importantly, he wanted the constant threat of death to be over. It was an odd desire for a Berserker, and he knew it, but it didn't make it any less true.

His preternatural sense of hearing—one thing he enjoyed about being a Berserker because it meant no one could sneak up and surprise him—targeted in on the man he had been sent to apprehend at all costs, Heinrick Gunderson.

He wasn't the worst outlaw Gunnar had ever dealt with, but the unfortunate fellow was terrible enough that he was wanted dead or alive with the promise of a ten-thousand-dollar reward. The very fact that a Berserker had been sent to retrieve him meant one thing, 'dead' was the preferred method of transportation — less paperwork.