Two girls. Two secrets.
Only one can survive.
Years before Nelle Wychthorn plans her escape, Tabitha Catt may unearth something in a Horned God's lair that is the key to freedom.
Desperate to save her beloved aunt from a dark curse, Tabitha is out t...
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Thin plumes of smoke curled through the air above me. I lay on the couch, bone-weary, smoking a Cuban cigar I'd snatched from Takashi Kato's jacket pocket before I'd beheaded him.
A spray of bullets had chewed through leather sofas and bitten into wooden chairs, leaving holes pierced through the walls. Shards of glass glittered like ice on the shag-pile carpet, and AC/DC blared from the speakers studded around the presidential suite at deafening concert decibels.
Besides the thunder I brought with me, the raucous Australian band had been perfect for hiding the rat-tat-tat of Uzis, the panicked boom of sawed-off shotguns, and the pop of handguns, as well as the shouting and screaming. I wasn't particularly surprised that the hotel management hadn't swung by. The Yakuza who had booked the presidential suite for their weekend of celebration and debauchery wasn't anyone you bothered over noise control.
So there I lay on the couch, undisturbed, breathing in the stale smell of air conditioning mixed with the metallic aftertaste of gunfire and the taint of copper from blood. I puffed on the cigar, rolling the pungent smoke around in my mouth before blowing it out in a stream. The haze of smoke plumed upward, masking my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. Not that I was looking. I was staring vacantly upward wondering how the fuck I was going to get out of what my father expected of me this coming weekend. An all-consuming feeling of being trapped gnawed at me like a starved junkyard dog on a bone.
I took a long swig from a bottle of champagne, swallowing down the sweet-tart liquid that fizzed on my tongue, and then rested the bottle back on my bent knee. Tired, I rubbed my face with my other hand that I'd pinched a cigar between my fingers. My calloused palm smeared through the blood that crusted my nose and forehead, as I brushed my hand upwards, pushing sweaty, tangled locks away from my face.
My armor was form-fitting leather threaded with adamere—one of the strongest materials in my world—which was much easier to move in than our ancestors' steel plates. The fish scale cut to the material allowed air to flow through and cool my overheated body. I'd also unzipped the jacket and unbuckled the leather straps that sheathed my swords to my back, tossing them, along with two empty bandoleers, over the armrest of a chair. Which reminded me I needed to collect the small blades from where I'd left them—hurled at moving targets and embedded in soft tissue. Twin bastard swords leaned against the side of the bullet-pocked white leather sofa. Both of the weapons were slick with blood.
A sudden noise had my keen hearing focusing—the door to the suite had quietly opened. I blinked, my gaze sharpening. The swirl of cigar smoke had dissipated, and in that brief moment, I caught my reflection in the ceiling—the long, lanky black hair, the scruffy beard to hide my face, partly from others, but mostly from myself.
I stared directly into my own eyes, at the haunted lackluster sheen in their violet depths. Noxious guilt and hate bloomed in my chest. And then, because I couldn't stomach looking at myself, what I'd done, I squeezed my eyes shut. White light burst behind my eyelids, along with patches of color.
