Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
He stalked toward the stairs.
“Scar,” he called, voice low and dangerous. “Get your fuckin’ ass down here.”
White Ravens
Scar
Scar had been pacing upstairs all night, ever since one of the runners from the pool hall had called Pun’s phone—voice shaking—babbling about some hooded gangsters who tore the place apart. Said they were men in bulletproof coats, with guns that didn’t sound like guns and blades that went through bones.
And they’d only wanted one thing.
Him.
After Pun ended the call, Scar’s nerves frayed hot and electric. He had to figure out where he could go or hide.
It’d been twenty-two hours, and he hadn’t slept or eaten.
Drea wanted to make love, but he couldn’t have gotten it up even if he’d downed a whole bottle of Viagra.
His friends called him paranoid, saying it was impossible to find him there, and the Kings were just trying to lure him back into the city with that made-up story.
But he could sense death at his door.
Ten hours later…he heard them.
Predatory footsteps moving silently over the frost-hardened lawn. Quiet, but not enough to fool someone who knew the sound of hunters.
Glass shattered downstairs before Pun hollered and choked, and Drea screamed.
He bolted into the back bedroom, shoved the balcony door open, and leapt over the railing, dropping two stories like a man who’d rather break both legs than be caged again.
He hit the lawn hard, rolled, and ran fast. Enhanced-fast.
He tore across three yards and vaulted an eight-foot fence, landing in an iced over garden bed.
Several sets of footsteps thundered after him—not stumbling—closing in terrifyingly fast.
Without breaking stride, he dipped low and ripped a solar lantern stake from the frozen mulch and hurled it backward without sight or aim, only instinct and desperation.
The man behind him swore as he dropped into a roll, and sprang right back up in one fluid motion. But Scar heard the stake tear through fabric before it lodged into a tree trunk.
He didn’t slow.
He came up on a six-foot fence and leaped over it, landing badly but still didn’t stop.
Two blurs appeared on both sides. Two more at his back, and he knew he couldn’t outrun them all.
He was almost at the main road, hoping he could bob-and-weave through the traffic and—
Pffft.
“Fuck!”
Something sharp pierced his thigh.
His leg seized, muscles locked. His stride faltered before his right leg buckled. Cold slammed into his jaw as he hit the frosted grass.
The world tilted before everything slowed.
Through the clouded edges of his vision, he saw him.
The devil’s angel.
A tall figure loomed over him, motionless and wrapped in a long black trench as if the night itself had molded around him.
His hood was pulled so low over his face that Scar couldn’t see his eyes, only darkness staring down on him.
No, no, no. Please. I can’t go back.
Scar cursed and clawed at the ground, trying to get up.
A gun he’d never seen before was pointed at his chest.
There was a quick hiss, like a snake striking, and the earth beneath him softened until he thought he’d melt through it.
More cloaked, faceless figures came into view.
The dark angel knelt beside him.
His voice—so deep and soothing it was frightening—reached him even through the fog.
“You’re a survivor, and you have good instincts. I look forward to honing that raw talent.”
Scar blinked at him, wanting to say something, but his tongue sat heavy in his mouth like a slab of stone.
“Did you see him throw that damn thing?” One of them laughed. “Fuckin’ hell.”
An engine snarled somewhere nearby and the shadows bent down, hands clamping onto him.
He thrashed, a ragged snarl tearing from his throat, but his limbs were weak and beyond his control.
“Easy, brother,” a distorted voice murmured. “We’re taking you home.”
Just kill me! Please…I can’t go back.
A door yawned open, and he was swallowed by the dim interior of a vehicle.
Scar fought until the drugs stole the last of his strength and hope, as he succumbed to the sedation.
White Ravens
Gage
The helicopter barely vibrated Gage’s seat. It was nothing like the rattling aluminum choppers he’d heard and seen before. This one stalked like a ghost in the sky.
Roz sat beside him on a leather-cushioned two-seater with his big hands gripping the armrest as if he expected the aircraft to get shot down at any minute.
Gage couldn’t blame him. The whole situation felt surreal.
People moved around them—at least nine by Gage’s count—speaking in low, respectful tones to Valor and Zorion.
Two sets of footsteps faded behind a sliding door, and Roz leaned into him. “They went into a back room. I wonder what’s back there.”
“It’s their private quarters. It has a bathroom, bed, and a wardrobe,” a woman answered before she asked in a sweet voice, “Would you like any refreshments? Water, tea, wine, or something stronger to help calm your nerves. We have a fully stocked bar.”
“Oh yeah, how ’bout you sip it first, so we know it ain’t poisoned.”