Chapter One Sneak Peek: Omega Untamed (Lost Wolves Book Five)!
Woo-hoo! The book comes out in less than a week! Friday, January 1st!
To celebrate, let's enjoy some lovely work from Yoneda Kou's Twittering Birds Never Fly. Am I obsessed? Maybe. . . . Also, Dagz is slightly Doumeki-ish in his love of Abel.
Now, check out the first chapter! Enjoy!
To celebrate, let's enjoy some lovely work from Yoneda Kou's Twittering Birds Never Fly. Am I obsessed? Maybe. . . . Also, Dagz is slightly Doumeki-ish in his love of Abel.
Hottest bj ever.
How Dagz follows Abel when they first meet.
Now, check out the first chapter! Enjoy!
Breaking and Entering
Abel Mircea
crouched in the rafters above the throne room, the shadows shrouding him in
darkness. If not for the lack of bells on his person, and the black clothing,
it reminded him of the old times when his presence, while not exactly welcome, also wouldn’t result in his
head being rudely separated from his shoulders if he were found out.
Regicide had
that effect on people.
It’s not as
if he’d return without provocation, and a damn good one at that—a reason that
made it worth coming back to the kingdom of his childhood. The same kingdom
that banished him as a youth of sixteen regardless of his regal upbringing and
status as the only other alpha with the Mircea name.
His home.
Wallachia.
By all
rights, Abel was a prince of this place, though that fact never set well with
him or anyone else in the kingdom. Hence, he was hiding from the shifters who
moved below him, few he recognized after all this time. Still, if they caught
him, he’d have to play his part in a bloodbath that would stir up more trouble
than it was worth. Then they’d have even more
reasons to despise him.
Well, Abel
wasn’t hiding so much as lounging and waiting for a chance to
make his move. A chance to catch the good King Lucien on his own. Or, at the
very least, alone-ish.
Abel had
business with the wolf who banished him.
He let out
an inaudible sigh, tossed one of his daggers into the air and caught it with
the ease of long practice. His legs cramped at the thighs, and he leaned
against the cold stone wall at his back and let one foot dangle over the edge
of the beam. His black boots laced up to his mid-calf and were made of soft
leather, the kind you could only find in shifter kingdoms anymore.
Almost everything
in human territory was made in factories with machines and not tooled by hand.
Sure, certain things were convenient—air conditioning, cell phones, the
Internet—but Abel lived half his life without any of them.
While human
lands could support electricity and other modern inventions, magical barriers upheld
by the Old Ones kept the shifter territory isolated and safe. It also meant
magic thrived in shifter lands and was impossible in human ones.
Not that
that mattered to Abel. He might’ve been an alpha, but he wasn’t magic. Not like
Lucien.
Sneaking
into the castle at Baia de Aramă was easier than it should’ve been. The patrols
at the borders were paltry, even with the number of silver traps on the human
side.
That spelled
hunters—humans who killed shifters for a living. And if hunters were there,
Abel had a good notion why he was
there as well.
When he
left, fifteen years before, tucked into the back of that circus wagon (the red
paint fading and the posters on the side curled with age), Abel thought Lucien
would do something great with Wallachia.
Lucien had returned
from his capture in Istanbul unfazed—stronger than before with those startling
tattoos. Secured his place as king. Banished Abel for that whole usurping
thing. Then, in the years that followed, Wallachia gained a note of infamy due
to its relentlessly brutal king.
Yet, Abel
slipped past all the guards under the cover of darkness (after two days of
watching their movements to be sure no one saw him). His scent blended with the
other shifters enough that the guards on duty didn’t notice it, but they should
have.
All in
all—disappointing.
Abel thought
he’d get at least a slight challenge when creeping into the home of the king
who impaled the country’s enemies in great fields at the borders for all the other
hunters to see.
That was the king Abel wanted to face.
Still, being
back in the castle of his youth reminded him of things he hadn’t thought about
in years. The smell of the fire in the great hearth and the bustle of castle
life that carried on beneath him brought a slight tinge of regret to the center
of his chest.
Not his
heart, because that was foolish, but just to the left of it.
And it was
in no way regret for his actions—the ones he took that led him to this moment
or the ones he would take when Lucien
finally expelled everyone from the room, and they had their little reunion.
One on one.
Toss.
Catch.
Being an
assassin was much more interesting than being stuck ruling a shifter kingdom
any day. If Abel could’ve inspired
his fellow shifters to follow him in the first place. Being an alpha didn’t
mean they’d listen to him given his certain shortcomings.
Heh.
Even he
could make jokes about it.
No, Abel was
much better at sticking to the darkness and waiting for his brief moments in
the spotlight. A king had to be regal at all times—fair and just—boring,
mostly. An assassin only needed to get the job done, and if he added his own
brand of flare, that made it so much better.
Below,
Lucien leaned his scruffy chin on his fist, elbow on the side of the throne,
and crossed his leather-clad legs. It wasn’t the Obsidian Throne at that
crumbling castle tucked into the heart of Wallachia, but one carved of oak and
terribly basic. His shirt was open, revealing the black tattoos that swarmed
over his flesh like maggots over rotting corpses. His pale blond hair was even
fairer than Abel’s own, nearly white, but that was due to the king’s unique condition
and not their shared genetics.
For a
moment, Abel swore Lucien’s blood red eyes caught sight of the glint of metal
in the rafters, the knife in Abel’s hands, and a smile twitched at the edge of
his lips.
Then the
moment passed and Lucien sighed. “And the grain stores, how are they?” the king
asked.
His voice
was deeper than Abel remembered. Steady and strong and not nearly as angry.
Though, to be fair, the last thing Lucien said to Abel was supposed to be angry considering the situation.
A king
didn’t banish his subjects with a smile and a laugh, after all.
Before
Lucien stood a lovely hawk with a clipboard and ballpoint pen that obviously
came from human territory. A quill was tucked behind her ear. She wore trousers
and a tunic shirt with a vest, but Abel could hardly blame her. Traditional women’s
garb was much too restrictive.
“Steady. We
had a good harvest last fall and the decline in the population helped. Even
with the additional pups, the stores held after the winter. The new grain is
growing well, but with the problems at the borders. . . .”
Lucien’s
eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
The hawk
lowered her gaze and cleared her throat. “The farmers haven’t been able to
plant as quickly as they’d like. Hunters continuously stalk the edges. Lay
traps. I’m sure you’ve gotten this information elsewhere, your majesty.”
“I have, but
I still need to hear it from you. Is that all?” Lucien asked. The fist his chin
rested on tightened until the knuckles blanched. His other hand hung loose in
his lap.
The hawk
straightened her shoulders and shook her head. “No. I have further word on the circus
troupe that left our borders last month and was attacked in Belgrade—one of the
farmer’s sons heard the news while getting supplies.”
That got Abel’s attention. Not many circuses traveled between
shifter and human lands freely. In fact, Abel only knew of one: Cirque de la
Fleur.
He sat up
straight and nearly missed the next toss of his knife. It bounced off his palm,
and he leaned forward and grabbed it right before it tumbled onto the
flagstones below.
That would
be one way to make his entrance. Not the way he wanted to make it, however. A loud clatter of metal on stone, all
eyes on him, and Abel would be forced to kill an innocent hawk just because she
saw him.
Abel’s heart
throbbed in his chest, and he willed it to slow. The other shifters who’d been
milling around the throne room for the last hour filtered out before the hawk
gave her report, leaving Lucien alone with her.
Which
wouldn’t have normally been a problem—despite Lucien’s magic and prowess as a
fighter, Abel had been refining his various skills longer than the king had by
far. But that hawk was a problem, because the only person who Abel wanted to
see was Lucien.
No one else.
Like most
shifters, the hawk’s hearing was good. Thankfully, her eyes were probably
better than her ears, and she didn’t seem to notice the extra heartbeat in the
room.
That just
left Lucien.
If he’d
clued into Abel’s presence—
Lucien
blinked. “Did the boy hear anything else of substance?”
The hawk
glanced at the clipboard, and her face paled. “Someone killed the human troupe members
and took the shifters. He heard a group of hunters talking about it in town.”
Lucien sucked a deep breath through his nose
and nodded. “Belgrade. That close. The bastard is planning something. Anything
further?”
The hawk
shook her head once. Negative.
“You’re
dismissed. And I’m not to be disturbed for the next hour. I need to think,”
Lucien grumbled and curled his lips into a snarl.
The hawk strode
out of the room purposefully and the heavy doors shut behind her with a
grinding boom that echoed throughout the room.
Once she was
gone, the sounds outside the room—the chatter of the other shifters in the
castle—the hushed whispers of a coming war: What to do about the Ottomans? The hunters
in the Bulgarian borderlands? Most of all, Arno? It all dulled to nothing but
background noise.
Lucien
raised his brows and stared into the shadows above his head.
Abel stood,
easily balancing on the thick beams beneath his feet. He’d been at this since
he could walk, and it showed. He held his knife clasped firmly in his fingers
and let it fly with a practiced flick of his wrist.
It cut
through the air with a slight hiss, and Lucien’s eyes narrowed as the blade
embedded in the heavy wood next to the king’s head.
“You missed,
dear cousin,” Lucien growled and stared into the shadows where Abel hid.
Abel
chuckled and leapt forward. He caught the beam in front of him, swung and did a
graceful somersault into the air before he landed on the carpeted floor at
Lucien’s throne.
“I did that
on purpose. It’s been too long, Lucy,” Abel said and smiled.
Lucien
rolled his eyes, but a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth nonetheless. “It
has. I’ve heard about your exploits. You even managed to get into Moravia
without losing your head.”
Abel
shrugged. “And you’ve gotten in the habit of hiring out assassins and mercs for
your dirty work. I thought you were going to make Wallachia great again, dear cousin.”
The tattoos
on Lucien’s chest swirled at those words, but the king kept his expression
friendly. “Do you think you’d have done better?”
Abel really
didn’t have to think about that. The idea of him ruling an entire kingdom, especially one with a long history like Wallachia,
was as likely as Abel winning a height contest.
“Not at all.
Though, I do like your nickname. Bloody
King. I didn’t know you had it in you, but the pikes were a work of art. And I
hope you employ them again with this new batch of hunters.”
That got a reaction. Lucien’s jaw tensed and he sat up straight,
uncrossing his long legs.
This throne
room was smaller than the one at the former capital. The windows at the back,
tall and narrow, only let in the light in the afternoon, and now it fell across
the floor in golden shafts through the moth-eaten velvet drapes, which were a
dark and dusty purple. Hideous, but the color meant ‘royalty’ and they needed
to keep with tradition on some things.
Abel was
surprised they were open at all considering Lucien’s aversion to light. Ironic,
all things considered.
“I thought
that would act as a deterrent against further attacks. It seems I
miscalculated, unfortunately.”
“Or they saw
it as an act of aggression by another insane Wallachian king. There have been
so many I think our neighbors may have lost track,” Abel said with a smile. He
stepped forward and reached for his knife.
As he tugged
the blade free of the throne, Lucien frowned. “Our neighbors have never looked kindly on us. Even less so since I
took the throne. The Sultan is looking for any reason to invade, and the
hunters cut my ranks and keep me too busy to confront him.”
“Yes, you
must be desperate to summon me, of all people. I know you never told Mirela the
truth, but have you told your mate what we did? How we put a disgraced prince on the throne after years of absence?” Abel
said and flipped the blade in his fingers.
Lucien’s
gaze hardened, and he let out a snort. “Does it matter now? You didn’t want to
rule. What choice did we have?”
He probably
meant the words to sting, and they didn’t. Much.
“We could have left your father alive.”
“Is that
what you wanted?” Lucien asked, his voice gruff and pained.
Not the
reaction Abel was expecting, really. He thought Lucien would challenge him to a
fight of some kind. Or roar at him like a normal alpha. He’d been so much angrier when he got back from his
imprisonment at the hands of the Ottomans.
Before Abel
could respond, a smaller door at the back of the room creaked open.
Abel’s grip
tightened on the knife, and Lucien tensed, his body rigid.
A wolf
stepped into the room, and his blandly handsome face showed no emotion beyond
mild surprise when he turned to them. His hair was short and brown and matched
his shrewd brown eyes. Unlike Lucien, this wolf’s cheeks were smooth, and he
looked much younger than Lucien’s thirty-five. He gave no sign that he
recognized Abel. But Abel did
recognize him. “Am I interrupting something?”
Lucien’s
strong hand closed on Abel’s wrist and squeezed. “He’s my mate.”
Abel dropped
the knife and yanked his arm free. “As you wish, your majesty.”
“Is he the
one you were talking about?” the mate asked.
Abel wasn’t
so uninformed as to not know about his cousin’s new mate. The castle wasn’t
buzzing with it like they’d probably been when Lucien first announced it, but news
of an alpha like Lucien being mated to a mere omega traveled. It gave the
shifters in the kingdom a glimmer of hope in the midst of the current hunter
attacks.
“Felix,”
Lucien said, looking at the omega. “This is my cousin, Abel. He’s the assassin
I summoned.”
“We’ve met,
but it was a long time ago. I doubt this omega remembers me,” Abel said, and
smiled when Felix’s face smoothed into a blank mask.
Oh, he was
good at hiding his emotions, but that didn’t mean much. Not when Abel was even
better at getting people to reveal themselves.
“Have we?” Felix’s
accent was British and posh but with a hint of something rough underneath. He
wasn’t a typical rich brat, that was for sure.
“Briefly. But
I don’t think you’d been working for long. I killed one of the men you were
trying to con. Your sister was furious, even after I offered her what she
wanted to steal in the first place.”
Felix’s dark
eyes remained impassive, but his mouth quirked. “She’s like that.”
“Did Lucy
tell you why he’s hiding me from the rest of his shifters?” Abel asked and kept
his eyes on the omega, though he felt Lucien’s glare trying to burn a hole into
his skull.
If his
cousin didn’t want him pressing those buttons, he should’ve found a different
assassin. That he contacted Abel meant something.
“Lucy?”
Felix said, his brows rising. He ignored the second part, which was less than
fun, but noble, nonetheless.
“Felix
understands discretion better than most. Stop being an ass. We don’t have much
time. I need your help,” Lucien said without scowling or doing anything else
Abel would’ve expected from him.
Perhaps in
the last fifteen years Lucien matured more than Abel gave him credit for. “With
these hunters? Don’t you have an army for that?”
Lucien
shared a look with Felix and stood. “My army is smaller than I’d like to admit,
and the new additions are too young and inexperienced to go to the
frontline—yet. The rest are busy on the border. I don’t have a large enough
force to handle this on my own. I need a specialist. You heard the report Oana
gave me about the circus the hunters attacked.”
Oana must’ve
been the hawk. Abel nodded, and he eyed the empty walls—their ancient
tapestries gone. Had Lucien sold them or stored them? Abel didn’t ask. “What do
you want me to do about it?”
“Find them,
if they’re still alive,” Lucien said, hardly a whisper. It was loud enough in
the still room.
Abel let out
a sharp bark of laughter. “Wait. Did you call me because all your other
assassin friends were busy, or because you thought I’d have some softhearted
affinity with a circus because of how we parted? In case you didn’t notice, I
forged my own rather lucrative path without those greedy bastards. If they were
captured and killed by hunters, they probably deserved it.”
Lucien
frowned, and he flinched just enough that Abel noticed—a slight twitch around
his unearthly eyes.
Felix took a
step forward. He wasn’t dressed like the rest of the shifters in the kingdom,
more like Lucien himself, in modern clothing that spoke of his time in human
lands. His shirt was neatly tucked into his pants and the sleeves were rolled
to his elbows. Of course, he had to be taller than Abel and broader as well.
Not that either feat was really difficult, considering.
“Arno is a powerful
warlord in the borderlands who’s been gathering shifters for his experiments.
He caught us last winter and we ran into a lion—a rabid lion. His reach extended all the way to Interpol, and we have
no idea what his end game is, but he’s hurting shifters. His efforts directly affect
Wallachia. I don’t know about your past or the circus, and honestly, I don’t
care. Lucien called you because he thought you were the best wolf for the job.
And because he doesn’t want me to do
it.”
That made
Abel really laugh, the kind that started in his belly and burst out of his
mouth. “Of course you would call your cousin to do something you don’t want
your sweet mate to do. Who cares if I have to face down—how many hunters are we
talking about here—ten? Twenty? A hundred?”
“No,” Lucien
growled and glared at Felix. “Not because I don’t want Felix to get hurt. Well,
that’s part of it, but not the whole reason. I contacted you because you have a
certain set of skills no one else I know possesses. All the other assassins
I’ve come across are too messy or loud
for this purpose. If I needed someone who could infiltrate them as an equal,
I’d want Felix. But I need a shadow who can move in without being seen. You, Abel. You’re the only one.”
“Flattery would
have worked on me ten years ago. Now I need a larger incentive. And don’t
insult me by offering money I know you don’t have. I want something only you
can give me,” Abel said and showed his fangs. “I want my family’s house back.
The one that belonged to my mother.”
Abel waited
for Lucien to squirm.
He didn’t.
Annoyingly.
Lucien met
his eyes. “I have several strongholds I need you to break into. Kill the
hunters you find. Interrogate them for any information first so you can find
out what Arno’s plans are and how to beat him. That bastard has picked my army
to bones, and I can’t go myself. Not after what happened the last time I went
on a jaunt. But if you get rid of him, I’ll retract your banishment. I’ll
return your family home to you, and you
can come home without fear of persecution. Is that good enough?”
Abel felt a
crack in his smile, and his heart had to be beating louder than he wanted it
to. How the fuck did Lucien figure that’s what Abel really wanted? Even worse,
how was he right?
Even more annoying.
“He’s really
good enough to break into Arno’s prisons on his own?” Felix asked, arms crossed
over his chest.
Abel tossed
one of his blades in the air and caught it. “Oh, omega. I’m the best. Right,
Lucy?”
Lucien
nodded. “I wouldn’t have summoned you if you weren’t. What do you say?”
A little
hesitation would buy Abel more bargaining power, but sentimentality won over
that, which—yes—also annoying.
“Fine, but if
you’re going to un-banish me, I also want my old position back. And I want the
freedom to come and go as I please—no strings.”
Lucien’s
eyes sparkled. “As you wish.”
* * *
Belgrade in
the spring was uglier than Abel remembered. Unlike shifter territory that was
overflowing with blooming trees and meadows of colorful wildflowers and all
sorts of green living things, this human city was block after block of concrete
and asphalt—gray and brown and distinctly uninteresting.
The people
who lived there were just as gray, their eyes pinched against the cold air and
the perpetual clouds that crowded the sky and hid the warmth of the sun.
The warehouse
Abel watched reeked of silver, wolf’s bane and blood—a charming combination
that stung Abel’s nose even from a distance. A chain-link fence lined with razor
wire along the top surrounded the place as well, along with a sign that warmed
of electric shock.
It’s as if
they weren’t even trying to protect
the place.
Or they
didn’t expect someone like Abel to find it.
Part of him
wanted to do the job now instead of waiting for nightfall just to give himself
a challenge. But doing the job right was better than messing up and ruining the
good name he’d built for himself.
Inside the
fence, stunted weeds grew out of the wet brown dirt that stretched between the
crumbling concrete drive. Boot prints and tire tracks covered it, which meant
there had been activity there recently.
Abel sniffed
the air, and caught the vague hint of shifters, a jumble of smells he couldn’t
differentiate between at that distance.
Lucien’s intel
was right. The hunters brought shifters here. If it was the shifters from the
circus, Abel would find out soon enough.
He currently
crouched across the street in one of the empty concrete high-rises that had
been abandoned after the fall of the Soviets and the last war that tore through
the region. It wasn’t what he’d call pleasant (the walls were covered in poorly
done graffiti and piss), but it was a place to get out of the elements and case
his target before he launched his attack.
Night
couldn’t come soon enough.
By the time
Yue’s light rose behind the clouds, Abel was dressed in his finest
assassination attire (black pants and a black long sleeved shirt with plenty of
places for his knives) and itching to get down there and go.
He spent a
good five minutes debating whether or not he should wear the bells—the ones
that gave his victims a chance to fight back—and decided he would. They hung
from a necklace and the cuffs on his wrists with one tied into the hair behind
his ear. That was his favorite—the one Catina gave him when she took Abel as
her student.
The last
three days in Belgrade told him what he needed to know. There were exactly
twenty-four hunters working in shifts of twelve each. They changed positions at
twenty-one hundred hours, which is when the large rolling garage door that
admitted the trucks opened.
That made it
the perfect time for his attack.
Abel was outfitted
with an arsenal of throwing knives in his belt and his boots, plus the stilettos
tucked into his thigh holsters – all freshly sharpened.
All of them
deadly.
Abel,
however, didn’t carry any firearms. Guns were so uncivilized. Loud. Obnoxious.
They didn’t require nearly as much skill to handle well. Any idiot could pick
up and fire a gun. It was a far too easy, impersonal,
way to kill someone.
And death
shouldn’t be impersonal. It was the largest moment of most people’s lives.
Throwing a
knife—learning the precise way in which to cut and kill—that was a skill worth having.
A dying
skill, unfortunately.
Then again,
most of Abel’s skills were falling out of favor. A shame, really. He’d spent so
much time perfecting them, and there were so few people left who could
appreciate it.
Yue was fresh
this time of the month, and her thin sliver of light called to the alpha tucked
inside him. His skin tingled with anticipation as he crept down the street
soundlessly, pressed into the darkness. He moved so carefully his bells didn’t
make the slightest sound.
It took ages
to get right, but now it was second nature to move like that.
The
electrified gate loomed above him, and Abel’s fingers flexed in their insulated
black leather gloves. The soles of his boots were rubber and thicker than he
usually liked, but he’d make due to avoid frying himself. He kept to the corner
of the yard, where the spotlights didn’t reach, and bounded up the fence in
four quick strides. The strong sting of wolf’s bane clogged his senses, and he
held his breath as he reached the top.
With his
hands placed on either edge of the razor wire, Abel vaulted over the fence and
landed, unharmed, on the other side.
His bells tingled
in the cool night air for a moment before they stilled. The sound was gentle
and sweet—the opposite of what faced those hunters.
He slipped
through the yard like a shadow and pushed himself against the wall. The thick
concrete block and the utter lack of windows muffled any sounds from inside the
warehouse.
Abel waited.
At twenty-one
hours, when the truck was supposed to pull in with twelve hunters to relieve
the other shift, it didn’t show.
Maybe his
watch was fast.
Abel waited
another five minutes.
Ten.
By twenty
after, he bared his teeth at the darkness.
What the
hell was going on? Did the hunters have some sort of special meeting on Friday
nights? Were they late? Perhaps he should have cased the warehouse for an
entire week, but that would’ve taken too long.
And bored Abel to tears.
The last
twenty-two minutes nearly did him in already.
He could
either retreat and try again or get in another way.
Shit.
Putting it
off wasn’t going to save those damn shifters trapped inside.
Too bad he
didn’t have a layout of the building, but that would be too much to ask from
Lucien’s spies, whoever they were. If they could get in, they’d have freed the
shifters and interrogated the hunters on their own.
The building
had three exits, one being the garage door Abel currently crouched next to. It
wasn’t going to open easily, so he’d have to try one of the other doors.
No one moved
beyond the fence. This side of Belgrade was full of half-crumbling buildings
that the city didn’t have the money or desire to repair, hence they fell into
ruin. The only people out here at this time of night were fellow criminals.
Abel smiled
at that thought.
The first
door he came to looked like it was rarely used. The weeds grew thickly at the
base of the little step and there were no footprints in the dirt.
Abel moved
toward the last door, at the other side of the warehouse. This one had a little
flickering light above it and a well-worn path surrounded by cigarette butts.
Good.
Just what he
needed.
The clouds
overhead broke and Yue’s pale light smiled down on him. She was the goddess many
wolves worshiped, their lady of the moon. Abel wasn’t as devout a believer as
some (like his cousin), nor was he an unbeliever. It was only that Yue hadn’t
done anything for him in the last thirty-one years to warrant much devotion,
especially after he’d given up his entire birthright.
The least she could do was drop a mate in
his lap. Only, mates were a rare phenomenon, it seemed. True mates, at least. Mates that Yue bound together by an
undeniable bond. Then a mate would probably be a heavy burden that weighed him
down. Made him think of someone besides himself, which wasn’t something he’d
done in a very long time.
Not since
before he’d been banished.
The door
creaked open, and two hunters stepped out to smoke. A man and a woman, and they
both stood with their backs to him, completely unaware of the alpha crouched in
wait.
The first
kill was far too easy. The knife sliced through the hunter’s back and struck
his lung (a tough shot considering the ribs were in the way and tended to
deflect blades, even those thrown by shifters with increased strength). The man
gasped for air and fell to his knees, coughing up blood.
The woman pulled
a nasty scowl, and freed her gun from her holster. She fired six shots into the
darkness around Abel. Silver burned his nose, and he rolled to avoid them.
Then he
stood, another throwing knife gripped between his middle and pointer finger.
The woman
chattered frantically into a walkie-talkie at her shoulder. Nothing but stunted
screams and static answered her.
“What
happened in there?” she cried.
Abel threw
the knife.
“Report—” The
hunter stopped midsentence as the blade hit her throat. Her next few words came
out a gurgled mess as she toppled onto the ground, a cigarette still burning in
her fingers.
Abel
carefully swiped the blades clean and listened to the sound inside the
warehouse—shouts accompanied by a great roar. A few hunters scurried around
inside, the sound of their screams clear in the still air.
He yanked
the door open. His bells rang louder now, fiercely jingling around the cries of
the hunters in the wide open room. The warehouse had no interior walls. It was
open and lined with cages and tables, but they were all empty.
The scent of
blood overwhelmed everything else—even the silver and wolf’s bane.
That was a bad sign.
A quick
headcount came up with only five hunters—the other five were missing or. . . .
Abel spotted
the source of blood.
It was tucked
into the darkness, but his vision was better than a simple human. He made out
the twist of limbs, the skin ripped and not shorn, and the fresh blood that
dripped from them.
That’s what happened to the other hunters.
Who the fuck
got here before him?
There were
only two lights in the space, and they shone like spotlights on the scene at
hand. The remaining hunters, their weapons raised, stood above a body writhing
on the floor.
A wolf.
The only other
shifter alive in the whole place, by the look of it.
For whatever
reason, they hadn’t opened fire on him yet.
Suddenly, a
strong hand shot out and grabbed one of the hunters by the leg. The bone
snapped under the grip, and the hunter crumpled to the ground.
Abel tossed
three smaller knives and pulled out his twin stilettos before the remaining hunters
had the chance to open fire.
Abel
grinned, showing the bright points of his canines.
It was
always more fun when things didn’t go as planned.
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