Author: Ilona Andrews
Category: Vampires
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/1353_5
Kate never does things halfway. I’m certain that Voron attempted to create a psychopath but somehow he failed. Kate will put herself between danger and some idiot bystanders every single time. She found the half-starved child of an alcoholic on the street, almost died saving her from demons, and then adopted her. Julie is an exceptional child in every way, including the amount of trouble she can generate. She isn’t easy to raise. I’ve never heard Kate complain.
Kate counts me as one of her friends. It is a privilege. It means when I’m several states away and I call her and say, “I’m in trouble,” she will get her sword and come to get me, expecting nothing in return. That is a rare thing. Curran might be the Beast Lord and a stubborn one, but he knew what he had when he met her. That’s why she’s now the Consort of the Pack. We needed a Consort for a long time. Someone to balance out Curran. Then she came along and she is sensible and tries to be fair. Things were going so well for a while.
Remember I mentioned panacea, the herbal medicine that helps us to not go loup? Until recently we had no access to it. It was created somewhere in Europe and they wouldn’t sell it to us at any price. Last summer suddenly the Beast Lord and his Consort got an invite to settle a shapeshifter family dispute in a small country on the Black Sea. They would be paid in panacea. We all knew it was a trap, and we all went to see who was holding the string of the trapdoor. It was Hugh d’Ambray. He’d followed the trail of bread crumbs and found Kate. Here is a woman who had been trained by the man he viewed as his father. She is better with a sword than he is. She is the daughter of the guy he worships. You see where I’m going with this? Hugh wants her and he doesn’t understand “no.” She hates him, because he’s a sick fuck and he killed her sensei. It went weird really fast and ended up in a giant fight and a castle on fire.
So here we are. We didn’t get the panacea, but we got Christopher, an insane mage Kate pulled out of a cage where Hugh was slowly starving him to death. Christopher isn’t all there. Turns out he can make panacea, so now we have our own supply, but the price was high. We lost Aunt B, the alpha of Clan Bouda. The boudas are misfits. Other shapeshifters don’t trust us. We don’t do things by the book. Aunt B took care of us. Of me. Words can’t describe what she meant to me. She is gone now. Kate watched her die. It eats at her. I can see it in her face. She visits Aunt B’s grave more than her son does, and Raphael is over there every chance he gets.
So here we are, at a crossroads. We don’t know if Hugh is alive or dead. Curran had broken Hugh’s spine and hurled him into the fire, but Kate says she felt him teleport out. We know that the days of hiding are over. Roland will come for his daughter. He’d attacked the Pack before through his agents. He doesn’t like us, because we are growing and gaining in strength. But now, whether Hugh survived or not, Roland is coming for sure. If Hugh is dead, Roland will come to see who killed him. If Hugh’s alive, he will have told Roland about his daughter, and Roland will come to see her.
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As I said, this is the moment when everything hangs in the balance. If Roland attacks us, we will fight, not just for the Consort, but for our lives, as overly dramatic as it sounds. Roland understands the concept of personal freedom. He just believes it’s highly overrated. Freedom is everything to us. We won’t be slaves. Kate is our best hope of stopping him, but—there is that pesky word again—she knows her magic can’t match his. The Covens of Atlanta threw their lot in with her and are supplying her with undead blood so she can practice her father’s blood magic. She’s learning, but I’m afraid it’s not fast enough. If Roland takes over Atlanta, other cities will follow. We, the Pack, have the best chance of fighting him off.
There is a storm gathering on our horizon. We will make a stand, but I wonder if it will matter in the end.
1
“KATE, THIS IS really dangerous,” Ascanio said.
Teenage shapeshifters have an interesting definition of “dangerous.” Lyc-V, the virus responsible for their existence, regenerates their bodies at an accelerated rate, so getting stabbed means a nap followed by a really big dinner, and a broken leg would equal two weeks of taking it easy and then running a marathon with no problems. On top of being a shapeshifter, Ascanio was an adolescent male and a bouda, or werehyena, who were in a category all their own when it came to taking risks. Usually when a bouda said that something was dangerous, it meant it could instantly incinerate you and spread the ashes to the wind.
“Alright,” I said. “Hold the rope.”
“I really think it would be better if I went instead.”
Ascanio gave me a dazzling smile. I let it bounce off me and fixed him with my hard stare. Five ten and still slender from growing too fast, Ascanio wasn’t just handsome; he was beautiful: perfect lines, cut jaw, sculpted cheekbones, dark hair, and darker eyes. He had the kind of face that could only be described as angelic; however, one look at those big eyes and you realized that he’d never been to heaven, but somewhere in hell a couple of fallen angels were missing a sixteen-year-old. He realized the effect he had early in life, and he milked it for everything it was worth. In about five years, when that face matured, he would be devastating. If he lived that long. Which right now didn’t seem likely, because I was mad at him.
“Hold the rope,” I repeated, and took the first step.
“Don’t look down,” Ascanio said.
I looked down. I was standing on a metal beam about eighteen inches wide. Below me, the remains of the Georgian Terrace Hotel sagged sadly onto the ruined street. Magic hadn’t been kind to the once-proud building. Its eighteen floors had collapsed in stages, creating a maze of passageways, sheer drops, and crumbling walls. The whole mess threatened to bite the dust any second, and I was on the very top of this heap of rubble. If I slipped, I would fall about a hundred feet to the pavement below. My imagination painted my head cracking like an egg dropped onto the sidewalk. Just what I needed. Because balancing on the iced-over beam wasn’t hard enough.
“I said don’t look down,” Ascanio said helpfully. “Also, be careful, the ice is slippery.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
Below me, the graveyard of Atlanta’s Downtown stretched into the distance. The massive buildings had toppled over decades ago, some shattering into gravel, some almost whole, sprawling on the ground with their beam work exposed, like rotting beached whales with their bones on display. Heaps of rubble choked the streets. Strange orange plants grew among the debris, each a thin stalk terminating in a single triangular leaf. In summer, sewage and rain overflow spilled into the open, but the harsh winter froze it, sheathing the ground with black ice.