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Chapter One
Reaper
Ahowl rips through the destroyed house, the scent of spilled blood strong as I cross from room to room, carefully checking for any Forsaken fortunate enough to have escaped Rissa's deadly blast of power. The shuddering stillness is a sharp counterpoint to the fiery blast of fury that swept through the house not even ten minutes ago, decimating every Forsaken in its path.
The Valkyrie is powerful.
Perhaps our enemies should have considered that before they murdered the girl's father. But they didn't.
By the time we arrived to rescue her, there was no need. She'd already sent them scurrying like roaches running from the light. Those not quick enough died where they stood, engulfed in the hot rush of pure Light shooting from her hands.
They haven't felt anything like it since the last Valkyrie fell three hundred years ago, taking hope with them. Hope rises again now. I hope it has the Forsaken shitting their shorts, as the humans say. They certainly should be.
The Valkyrie we've been waiting for since the portal fell and we were trapped on earth are coming into their power. Rissa is the first, but she won't be the last. Four more are still yet to be called, spun out by prophecy to stand against the Forsaken and the Dark. Destined to restore Valhalla.
The Fae will stand with them as we always have.
Personally, I look forward to dealing death to our enemies once more. They've whispered my name—Reaper—in awe and fear for millennia, calling me a harvester of souls. The Dark fears me as they should. I have no sympathy for evil and no mercy, either. I smother the shadow indiscriminately, exactly as I was born to do.
It's a nasty job, but someone has to do it. It might as well be me. The Fae are immortal. Living forever gets boring without something to break up the monotony. Murder and mayhem will do in a pinch. Especially when it's the Forsaken at the business end of my lyststål.
The weapon hangs heavy in my hands now, eager to taste the blood of our enemies as I pace through the dirty old house. Despite the victory we won here today, the bitter taste of foreboding coats my tongue. Something isn't right here—and I'm not referring to the stench of alcohol permeating every inch of the place. I feel unsettled, a sense of unease whispering up my spine that I can't shake.
My footfalls echo eerily in the hollow silence of the dirty hall. My brothers spread throughout the house, checking it over as I do. We move quickly, efficiently, a well-oiled machine after millennia of fighting side by side. If they feel what I do, they don't comment on it.
The bedroom I step into is filthy, but vacant. The bed is unmade, the sheets stained and wrinkled. Papers and clothes are scattered across the floor. The windows are grimy, blocking out most of the sunlight. Peeling wallpaper covers the nicotine-stained walls. A strong odor of mildew lingers, along with the faint scent of rotting food and unwashed clothes. It's suffocating, like breathing in old, stale air.
How does anyone live this way?
I scan the room only long enough to ensure it's vacant before stepping out.
Malachi steps out of the bedroom across the hall, his nose wrinkled in disgust. His easy smile is nowhere to be found as his blue eyes meet mine, his umber skin gleaming under the overhead lights. "How does anyone live this way?" he growls.
I shrug, not having an answer for him. Rissa's father pumped his body full of poison, drowning himself in alcohol. He wasn't a good man, nor was he one deserving of sympathy. He killed her mother—his own mate. Some sins are unforgivable to the Fae. If the miserable bastard spent his life smelling his own filth, it was more than he deserved.
The Valkyrie, Rissa, loved him, though. At least enough to believe him worthy of rescue. She tried, even if she ultimately failed. My loyalty is to her. My heart pulses with empathy for her. She saw something worth saving in her father. Being back here and facing the past can't be easy for her, yet she came anyway.
Malachi and I stride toward the cracked door at the end of the hall together. The closer we get, the louder my heart hammers. The sense of foreboding grows stronger. I glance at Malachi, but if he feels the same, no trace of it shows on his face. He says nothing, either.
I reach the door first and gently push it open with the toe of my boot, a tingle of anticipation running down my spine.
The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is filthy. Cold water fills a small tub, the figure of a woman half-submerged within. Ropes bind her hands and feet. Her petite, curvy frame barely disturbs the surface of the water, yet her blonde hair floats across it like strands of gold.
She's pale and completely still. But shallow breaths mist the air, letting me know she's alive.
My amber eyes scan her form, my protective instincts screaming to life at the sight of her unconscious and vulnerable like this, her soaked nightgown translucent and clinging to her curves. She's young, fragile. Afraid. Gods, so afraid.
Even unconscious, fear contorts her expression.
A pang rips through my heart at the sight of this beautiful little human caught in such horror.
Unable to stop myself, I reach out, gently touching her cheek. Her skin is ice-cold but soft under my calloused hand. Her eyes flutter open.
For a moment, the world gets sucked away in a maelstrom of startling, sapphire blue. When it clears, I'm not standing in front of the bathtub staring down at a fragile, gorgeous little human. I'm in the bathtub, staring up at a fierce, amber-eyed giant.
Everything she feels—cold, terror, confusion, pain, and the first fragile rays of hope—blow through me like a bomb blast, igniting a firestorm inside of me. They rip me wide open, unmaking me from the inside out.
Everything in me contorts and shifts, vibrating rapidly in response.
