When Nelle Wychthorn was forced to sign herself away in marriage, she should have read the contract's fine print. Because she signs not with ink, but with blood. And that changes everything.
Season 1 'Of Crows and Thorns'
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Fiery Nelle, the isolat...
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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.
