The storm roiling behind my back was darker than the autumn night sky, a turbulent wall of swirling gray, muted black, and charcoal. Rain had swept in and forged ahead, leaving behind wet roads and dirty puddles. Beneath my Ducati, the slick road stretched onward. Blustery wind tore at my hair, my sword vibrated against my spine, and with the thunder of my bike—it felt like flying at the head of a cruel, wrathful tempest. Glorious and wicked and fucking exhilarating. I was the harbinger of the end of the world!

Ahead of me our Bird of Prey swifted in and out of existence.

She was an otherworldly creature and a huntress. Her wraith-like appearance was that of a young woman with a thick mane of tight curls drifting like kelp in a phantom breeze. Her eyes were entirely black as were her long talon-tipped fingers. We'd clipped her dark powers, so she couldn't swift long distances. So her bursts were short. Her dirty, tattered dress was swallowed up in a whirl of wind before she appeared a blink later, further up the road.

The speed at which we were traveling would blow any lurking cop's radar gun, and I easily kept up with our Bird of Prey. I didn't use my bike's headlights, nor did my youngest brother who followed behind in his Mustang. We didn't need them. We could see perfectly well in the dark. Heightened senses, strength, and speed had been bred within my family bloodline for millennia.

Our Bird led us to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. The parking lot was filled with big rigs and pickup trucks.

I switched off the Ducati. Kicking the bike's stand, I took in the adjoining bar and diner, the fuel stop, and the small convenience store attached. Right beside the store was a tired-looking motel with a couple of stunted, sickly palm trees out front and some sad paint-chipped flamingos. The dumbasses were trying to dress this place up like Miami, which we sure as shit weren't. We were in the middle of fuck-knows-where.

Jett climbed out of his car as I got off my bike and approached him, my boots crunching over dirt and gravel. From the interior of his Mustang came weird wheezing noises, like someone struggling for breath. I fought back my revulsion at the strange, long-limbed creature hidden in the shadowed backseat. We'd need the Changeling later when we claimed what we were hunting.

Jett leaned against the car door and dragged an indolent gaze over all my blades strapped to the outside of my boots and thighs before slipping over the deadly knives filling the bandoleer crossing my chest. He smirked. "Bit excessive don't you think?"

For what we were doing, hunting this particular tithe, sure, I could see what he was getting at. Especially since he was armed with nothing but a hunting blade strapped to the outside of his combat boots. But I knew I'd need the blades, later. This wasn't going to be my last hunt of the night.

Our Bird glanced around with quick, darting motions of her head before her dark gaze focused in on the bar. Her soft, flat nose twitched before wide nostrils flared as she hunched forward.

Wychthorn's mother had an ostentatious aviary full of thrushes and sparrows and finches. House Crowther's rookery held Birds of Prey. Similar to wraiths, they were not-quite-living and were creatures with an unnatural ability for hunting. A little bit like us Crowthers. Except they hunted deaths—murder victims in particular.

Once we whispered to them what we were looking for, in their dreams they'd drift off into a void between realms and hunt like the birds they were, seeking the very thing we wanted.

Our Bird crept toward the bar as if drawn there.

I arched a brow at Jett—At least we could have a drink before we steal a life tonight.

Jett and I followed, keeping a close eye on her. Birds of Prey were volatile creatures and anything could set her off. No one would see her, but they'd sense her presence like a haunted breath whispering down one's spine.

It was after midnight and the bar was thriving with patrons. Music thumped through the dirty wooden floor as we pushed through the doors. Smoke filtered above, and pockets of men and women drank, playing darts or pool. Our Bird shimmered and slipped through the crowd like shifting smoke. She was pulled toward the death Jett had whispered to her to find. We were looking for a specific death tonight. A death worthy of the Horned Gods.

She came to a halt, shivering with excitement, and I took in where her hunt had led her. Our Bird had found our prey. A girl with bright red hair, the kind that wasn't natural—

Vivid scarlet red—

Red hair.

It happened instantaneously. My chest constricted like an iron band wrapped itself around my ribcage, squeezing hard. My skin went clammy, and sweat prickled my hairline—

Holy shit, I can't breathe...I can't breathe....

The trembling started in my hands, vibrating up my arms.

Look, just look! See, fuck you.

It wasn't her.

It's not her!

When the girl's face came into focus, I realized she wasn't the Horned God with bright red hair that haunted my dreams and made it so I could barely sleep.

It took a heartbeat, a second, to ease the compression around my chest, to gain my breath back, and stop my hands from shaking. I scrubbed roughly at my face, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead. I flicked my hands, bunching my fingers and releasing them over and over again until I got myself under control.

Fuck. Get it together Crowther.

I shot Jett a quick glance. He hadn't noticed, too busy keeping an eye on our Bird of Prey.

The girl we'd hunted was young, no more than eighteen. She had red hair, the kind that looked like fire with orange and gold hues, and her pale complexion was heavily freckled. She was dressed in dark jeans and a hoodie with frayed cuffs. A duffle bag sat at her feet. She was hitching and trying hard not to appear nervous as she talked to an older woman behind the bar.

The bartender waved a hand at a guy with a worn look and a slight beer belly. "Hey Mack," she sang out.

He approached in a rolling gait that said he'd hurt his right hip at some point in his life. The bartender gestured to the girl—Red, I decided to name her—"This kid needs a ride."

Our Bird's wraith-like form rippled, and a bright vibrancy shone in her pitch-black eyes. Her taloned fingers fluttered like trilling two notes, just as Red's scent drifted over me, overriding the reek of sweat and alcohol musting up the bar. Both Jett and I realized just what was standing before us. Shock slammed into me hard.

Red wasn't just a girl.

She was something else, which radiated blindingly in this dim, stinky shit-hole.

"Fuck, she's an Unbroken Shard," Jett breathed in awe. His eyes rounded as he stared at Red, who'd lived with evil, in darkness and fear, and survived it all.

She hadn't been broken, her soul still burned bright. An Unbroken Shard—the perfect life force for the Horned Gods. The perfect soul to survive their special brand of evil. And rare. Fucking rare. The Horned Gods would bleed her soul for decades until she was a husk.

Jett half-twisted my way. He was shorter than me, his physique leaner. He jabbed me with his elbow and said what I'd been thinking. "She'd make a more worthy tithe to the Horned Gods."

I shook my head, scowling at him. "She's too young." However, my reluctance wasn't because she was young. Giving her to the Horned Gods would be worse, so much worse, than whatever darkness from which she'd survived and escaped.

No. What we hunted would be enough to appease the Horned Gods. Interesting enough to pass muster and garner respect and fear from the other Houses. Respect I didn't care for. Fear. That's what I desired. Fear from the other Houses and earning the Horned Gods' favor.

Jett turned back to face Red and ran a hand through his hair, pushing dark wayward strands off his forehead. "She's going to die tonight," he reminded me, giving me a sideways glance, his violet eyes burning bright in anticipation.

"Maybe." I flexed my hands. I hadn't decided yet.

Our Bird's head snapped around as a trucker crossed our path. Her pitch-black eyes locked onto him, and her cunning gaze slithered over his beefy form.

The man shuddered, casting a wary glance over his shoulder.

She flicked her forked tongue out to taste his scent in the air. Her pale lips curled back to reveal teeth like a flesh-shredding piranha. She prepared to strike, her ghostly body drawing tight, readying to pounce. Those Birds were wild-as-fuck. Left alone, she'd likely shred him to pieces and crouch over his bloody, lifeless body to devour him like a vulture.

I jerked my chin at Jett, catching his attention, silently communicating what I wanted—her out of here.

Lunging forward, Jett pinched the back of her neck with a hand and yanked her back, turning around to guide her out of the bar. She went, but she fought him, frantically writhing in his hard grip, caught between wanting to devour the trucker and being enchanted with Red whose soul burned bright.

No one paid any attention to the weapons strapped to my body. They were glamoured, along with the armor that was more like bike leathers, soft and flexible but strengthened with adamere. Anyone glancing my way would only see what they wanted. Maybe they'd see me wearing a suit, maybe a pair of hillbilly dungarees. Who the fuck knew.

I got Jett and I beers and slid into a cigarette-pockmarked booth a distance away from Red but where I could see her clearly, as well as the door, and those milling around the bar.

My fingers gripped a beer coaster, and I tapped it absentmindedly on the laminate table. A moment later, I slipped it into my pocket.

A couple of women leaned their backs against the bar with their elbows braced against the counter to purposely push their tits up. They each tried to catch my eye but I ignored them. Tonight my attention was on Red and pot-bellied Mack. He looked mid-forties, hair receding and thinning, a stupid grin on his face. Red was wary of him but needed a ride.

Jett strode back into the bar. A soft rattle of chains came from his belt, the metal loops hanging low on his cargo pants. As usual, he wore one of his silky shirts, a deep purple with a small pattern of constellations. He'd rolled his sleeves up, and the buttons were mostly undone because he liked showing off his tats and the edge of the wyrm brand scarring his chest. He slid into the booth across from me.

I pushed his beer across to him and then bit back an annoyed hiss. The women I'd been ignoring breezed over with bright smiles and tight glittering tops and short skirts. "Hi," greeted the blond who hadn't been able to pull her hungry gaze from me since I'd strode into the bar. I grunted a response, not tearing my line of sight from Red.

Jett took over. He always had time to play.

His blatant interest swiped over the pair of them, his head tilting this way and that, trying to decide between them. Fuck, just take them both!—I mentally yelled at him. He pointed to the brunette and patted the seat beside him, the silver ring on his thumb glinting in the dim light.

The other girl slid into the booth beside me. "Brittany," she said with a coy smile and flipped her blond hair. "You guys staying over or passing through?"

I gave her a quick glance over—pretty but not as good-looking as she thought. She obviously liked what she saw. They all did. Her arousal smelled desperate, like she wanted to fuck her way out of her miserable existence.

I didn't introduce myself, merely gulping down half my beer, running my tongue along malty lips. "Not interested," was all I said, and her face crumpled a little before she bolstered herself up with a shimmy of her shoulders.

She walked her fingers up my forearm, the chipped nail polish gleaming in the low lighting. There was a faint tan line on her finger. She'd obviously taken off her wedding ring. "I'm out for a night of fun."

I brushed her hand aside.

For some fucked-up ridiculous reason, I kept thinking of a lithe body, a top lip fuller than the bottom, and that stupid crooked grin. And instead of Brittany's stench of desperation and dollar-store perfume, Wychthorn's trademark scent still lingered almost as if it were infused within my pores. It was somewhat indefinable. Spicy with a note of bitter citrus leaves softened by a fragrance that was sweetly berry-ish. And there was a hint of heat that reminded me of fire. Just catching a faint trace of Wychthorn's intoxicating scent drove me fucking crazy.

Jett was busy toying with his girl's hair. Whatever he was whispering into her ear made her blush and giggle. I tried to catch his eye—We're here for a reason—which of course he deliberately avoided because Jett mostly thought with his dick.

My phone pinged with an incoming text. After discovering who it was, I grimaced, rubbing a hand over my face. What was she doing? She rarely texted me.

LittleMissAnnoying: What do your tattoos mean?

Me: Fuck, Wychthorn. I'm working here.

Did she take a hint? Of course not. Not Wychthorn. She bulldozed her tiny way into whatever the fuck she wanted.

Brittany wasn't taking a hint, either. She purposely brushed her (fake) tits against my arm as she leaned over to snag her friend's drink. "Who are you talking to?"

I made a low, rough noise in the back of my throat. I wanted to tell her to piss off. Instead, I finished my beer and snapped my fingers at a waitress for another. Red was still talking to Mack, trying to hide her disappointment. He wasn't heading in the direction she wanted to. He was going south, she wanted east.

LittleMissAnnoying: I can't sleep and am curious. Some of your tattoos are words, a story perhaps. I didn't recognize the language.

No, I expected not. It was an ancient language that died out after the Horned Gods lost the Final War with the mortals, and there were too few of us left. New Houses rose. A new common language.

Me: Ukkenskrit.

LittleMissAnnoying: That's a dead language amongst the Houses. How do you know it?

Me: Our House is much older than yours. Older than every other family. We're the only surviving House from the Final War.

LittleMissAnnoying: That I do know *smiley face* I've tried to find out about you Crowthers, but there's not much written.

Smart, I'd have to give her that. But instead of trying to find out about our House, she should be peeling back the layers of the Alverac.

LittleMissAnnoying: And? So? Come on, what do they say?

Me: Gods, Wychthorn, you don't give up do you?

LittleMissAnnoying: Just figuring that out now?

I tapped my phone on the table, deliberating. What was the use? She was going to hound me until I told her.

Me: It's our family's history inked. It's also my history. What I've done.

LittleMissAnnoying: Like a kill-tally?

I almost huffed a laugh. Despite being as annoying as fuck, I liked her mouthiness.

Brittany shifted beside me, lifting her chin to sniff, her ego bruised at being ignored.

Me: Gods, you're a smart-ass.

LittleMissAnnoying: Takes one to know one *wink*

Me: Whatever did I fucking do to be stuck with you?

Actually, I did know that, and that thought somewhat dampened my mood to be speaking to her until she replied—

LittleMissAnnoying: Right back atcha *wink* Try not to die tonight. Wait...what the heck am I saying? Go right ahead and accidentally fall on that sword of yours.

Me: In your dreams.

LittleMissAnnoying: *sigh* A girl can dream can't she?

Me: Hang on... You're in bed. Tell me, little bird, just what do you wear to bed? A ridiculous ruffled nightie covered in pink unicorns and sparkly rainbows? Or is it like your aversion to shoes... Please tell me you're naked... Then send a pic proving it.

LittleMissAnnoying: BURN IN HELLS CROWTHER!

I grinned. I couldn't help it. I loved this—the push and pull between us. Fuck, my mind conjured up just what she might look like naked, spread out on that bed of hers. And I started to harden once more.

Brittany leaned across the sticky table talking to her friend, darting furious looks my way, pissed that she didn't have my attention. "Bathroom," I heard her mutter, and she slipped from the booth, her friend reluctantly following, much to my amusement and Jett's annoyance.

Jett jerked his chin at me. His wavy hair swayed just below his jawline, as he glared at me through narrowed eyes. He asked, impatiently tapping his two fingers on the tabletop, "Have you found out what she is?"

There was a mixture of curiosity and distaste running through his words. He wasn't referring to Red he was asking about Wychthorn.