1THE INVASIONHarpina, the harpy realm
Two months ago
“I would do bad things for a maple-glazed donut,” Blythe the Undoing said to the warrior with his back to her. She smiled when he slowly pivoted. A window display of at-home guillotines loomed behind him. The must-have this summer season.
They stood in the middle of the town square, surrounded by overcrowded shops and harpies in a hurry to get somewhere. How could Blythe not notice the grade A man-beef amid the chaos? He was six feet three of sculpted muscle, golden skin, and rugged appeal, with a wild dirty blond mane.
Just her type.
“Any interest in acquiring a maple-glazed donut?” Blythe inquired, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.
“Perhaps.” He gave her a languid once-over. “Tell me more about these bad things.”
He stood beneath an awning, at home in the shadows. He’d obviously tried to blend in with the other males in the realm, wearing a well-fitted white cable-knit sweater, worn jeans, and scuffed combat boots. Standard nice guy attire. Not really her thing. But thick leather wrist cuffs and multiple spiked rings hinted at the rough alpha within.
“I don’t know if you can handle the heat,” she said, flirting.
Leering at her, he asked, “Are you sure a sweet thing like you can handle my heat?”
Blythe inwardly fanned her cheeks. Well, well, well. No more hints about the alpha within. He’d decided to show off. “Me? Sweet?” She batted her lashes at him. “I come with a warning, handsome. Small dynamite, big boom.”
After all, she was the centuries-old daughter of the legendary Tamera the Widow-maker and two ancient evil gods.
Yes, Blythe had three parents. No, she didn’t want to consider how.
Anyway. With such a stellar bloodline, she wielded abilities even the oldest of immortals struggled to comprehend. Granted, she hadn’t used those abilities in eight years, and her skills were embarrassingly rusty. But. Once upon a time, she’d been a highly skilled and merciless assassin.
Although, yes, she might be considered sweetness itself when compared to a manticore. A being able to morph into a wonderfully grotesque combination of a lion and a scorpion. And that’s exactly what this guy was. The mane always gave them away.
Manticores topped the short list of the fiercest, slyest shifter species in existence. Her favorite flavor of jam. Didn’t hurt that this particular manticore practically burned her corneas. Hot, hot, hot!
Voice throaty, he said, “Then I’d better acquire a maple-glazed donut.”
“Yes, you’d better.” Slits in her leather top allowed the small wings on her back to flutter freely as she stepped into the shade, pressing against him. “But first, I should make a down payment.”
Laban, her consort of eight years and the father of her only child, Isla, wrapped strong arms around her waist and grinned. “You are too sexy for your own good.”
“I know,” she deadpanned.
He snorted with amusement. “I’m glad you’re mine, little love.” Pinching her chin, he forced her full attention on him. His dark eyes glittered with her ultimate favorite: possessiveness. “Say I’m yours.”
She slid her palms up his chest, over his shoulders and through his soft hair, rasping, “You’re mine.”
“Never forget it.” He swooped down, and she rose to her tiptoes to meet him. Their lips met in the middle.
Harpies catcalled and offered lewd suggestions. Who cared about a crowd of witnesses when you had two hundred and fifty pounds of man-candy ready to be unwrapped and devoured? B
esides, Blythe had been desperate to kiss him ever since he’d suggested they spend the day shopping for anything and everything her heart desired.
Frenzied for her, he pushed her up against the window display. How she loved this male. From the very beginning, he had addicted her. She required him. Like any harpy consort, he calmed the worst of her tempers, healed her deepest wounds with his blood, and roused her most insatiable lusts. But their connection went far deeper than that. Any time apart proved painful, body and soul.
“Momma! Daddy!”
The familiar voice rang out, and Blythe and Laban ended the kiss in an instant. They both panted as they shared a wry grin. She eased from her mate just in time to catch Hurricane Isla in her arms.
“Hey, baby.” She kissed the tip of her daughter’s nose. “Aren’t you supposed to be school shopping with your classmates, learning how to distract shopkeepers and steal from stores as a unit?”
“Yep.”
When the little darling offered nothing more, Blythe cut off a laugh. Oh, how she adored this precious bundle of energy and optimism. A miniature version of herself. Same sleek black hair. Same skin tone. Same light blue eyes. Well, one light blue iris for Isla; the other was a rich brown identical to Laban’s.
The girl toyed with the neckline of Blythe’s favorite T-shirt, twisting the material between her fingers. “Want to see what I stole all by myself?”
Do not smile. “I do.” Her darling had always excelled at thievery. She was almost as good at it as drawing. Well, the drawing of locks and keys, anyway, and only locks and keys. Isla’s obsession. Each month, she auctioned off the artwork to family members, forcing them to pay up or destroy her feelings. It was a constant source of amusement for Blythe.
Brimming with excitement, the seven-year-old whipped a small, bejeweled dagger from the waist of her pants. A dramatic, adorable ta-da! moment.
Pride puffed Blythe’s chest. Everyone agreed: if you didn’t guard your goods, you didn’t deserve to keep them.
Well, everyone but Laban agreed. He frowned. “We talked about this, mini B.” The nickname he used when Isla skirted trouble. He swiped the blade from the wee one’s grip. “You are to avoid battles of every kind. That means you have no need of weapons.”
A stinging retort brewed on the back of Blythe’s tongue, and she barely managed to tame it. This. This was her main point of contention with her beloved consort. His unnatural fear that mother and child were destined to be harmed irreparably.
Blythe understood the reason. He hailed from a patriarchal society where males were warriors and females were fragile. Laban expected his girls to eschew danger, not seek it. A frustrating viewpoint to overcome for any combat-hungry harpy. Meaning, any harpy ever born. Blythe more so than most. Before meeting the love of her life, she’d lived for the challenge of battle and t
he high of victory.
On the other hand, Laban had given up his expectation of eternal pampering to be with her. Harpies just didn’t play that way. And he’d come so far over the years. In the beginning, he could barely leave the house without engulfing both Blythe and Isla in some kind of bubble wrapping. Now, at least, he didn’t flinch or even intervene if Blythe got mouthy with another harpy.
On the other, other hand, she’d given up just as much to be with him. After centuries of blood, sweat, and toil, she had surrendered her dream of becoming harpy General. Harpina’s version of queen. This, after earning nine of the ten stars required for the role.
Those stars still decorated her wrist. Permanent tattoos meant permanent reminders. From potential leader of the entire population to a partner and mother. A change she’d never regretted. But a little more understanding on his part would go a long way.
Isla’s shoulders rolled in, and her bottom lip rolled out. “But, Daddy. Martha and Pepper already have a full arsenal. Lulu even got a flame thrower for her birthday.”
“We’ll discuss the dagger when you get home from school, honey.” After Mommy made Daddy forget his irrational fear. And his own name.
Scowling, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve already rendered my final verdict.”
“Un-render it.” Blythe blew him a kiss with her middle finger.
“Yeah, Daddy,” Isla said, revitalized. “Un-render it.”
He pursed his lips, saying nothing. But he also softened.
Blythe kissed her daughter’s cheek, then set the darling tyke on her feet. “Return to class. Miss Eagleshield is probably worried about you and beating up innocent bystanders for information.”
“Oh! I’ll help. I’ll demand they tell me where I am, and practice using my fists of fury when they answer. Okay, love you, bye!” Isla geared to rush off, but the ground shook hard, stopping her.
Suddenly, the whole world felt as if something vital had been kicked off its axis.
Blythe clutched the girl close as a huge sand cloud swept through town. Her vision blurred. Her nostrils stung, and she coughed. A strange current electrified the air. Intense. Wrong. Instincts spiking to high alert, she palmed a dagger of her own.
“What’s happening?” Laban demanded at the same time Isla cried, “Momma?”
“I don’t—” A horn blared, three long blasts. The Stop What You’re Doing and Battle For Your Life horn. A sound Blythe hadn’t heard since an invasion of vampires six hundred years ago. Aggression rippled through her wings.
Shouts and stomping footsteps told her fellow warriors were mobilizing. Preparing.
The sand cloud thinned, the world clearing up in seconds... Blythe inhaled hard, the scent of cedarwood and spiced oranges filling her head. A soft, rich fragrance utterly at odds with the massive black wall now blocking the end of the street. A giant of a
male stood in front of it.
Enemy! Her wings rippled with more force. Old habits flared. Tensing to defend, she catalogued the invader’s details as swiftly as possible. An enormous helmet made from the skull of some kind of mythical beast covered his face. He was shirtless. Muscular. Beyond muscular. Tattoos decorated every inch of his torso—moving tattoos. The plethora of images pranced over tanned skin. Leather pants hugged tree trunk–like thighs. Metal tipped his boots.
Something about him was familiar to her. But what? She knew she’d never met anyone so...big. One did not forget a male like him. What even was his species? Definitely nothing she’d fought before. A shock, considering she’d lived thousands of years and encountered hundreds of different immortals.
He stood in place, as still as a statue, with his chin tipped back, his shoulders and spine straight, and his legs braced apart. His arms hung at his sides. He held no weapons, but then, it wasn’t like he needed them. Long, sharp claws extended from his nail beds.
“If you wish to live,” a rough voice boomed across the land, “you will stand down. If you wish to hurt, you will attack. The choice is yours. At the moment, I seek only a conversation with your General.”
The voice didn’t come from the direction of the giant. Meaning, there were more invaders.
Blythe’s stomach flipped. How many others assembled nearby? And to what end?
There’s been some kind of mistake,” another voice boomed, this one smug and recognizable. Nissa, the current harpy General. “I ordered strippers for next Tuesday.”
Snickers and laughter rose, blending together.
“By the way,” Nissa continued, “you’re as good as dead. I’ll be seeing to your demise myself.”
Blythe heard only a slight clink of metal before a round of horrified gasps blended with cries of shock. She knew. The General had fought the speaker and lost. That quickly.
Trepidation pricked her nape. There’d be no stopping a war now.
“No mercy!” someone shouted.
Harpies hastened toward the giant. Finally, he moved. With inhuman speed matched by no one, he cut down anyone who neared him. Blood sprayed in arcs. Harpies collapsed. Severed hands and feet flew here and there, stacking up around him.
Blythe’s jaw slackened. Such savagery.
“Run! Hide! Protect our daughter,” Laban shouted over a symphony of shrieks. “Please, love. I’ll find you.” He sped toward the other male.
She almost teleported to his side, an ability few knew she possessed. Her consort seriously expected her to run and hide while intruders maimed her kinsmen? Never!
Blythe descended from a long line of warriors. Before she died over a decade ago, her mother had killed more enemies than anyone in Harpina’s history. Her fathers were Erebus Phantom, creator of phantoms, and Asclepius Serpentes, creator of snakeshifters and gorgons. Three dominant species flowed through Blythe’s veins. So, she would fight at her consort’s side whether he liked it or not. Together, they would ensure this brute with moving tattoos experienced agonies too vast to comprehend. She had only to—Protect our daughter.
The most important words Laban had spoken echoed inside her head. Blythe cursed. Run and hide Isla it is. Then she would return to the battlefield.
Tiny wings flapping, she swooped the trembling girl into her arms and cast one last look at her consort as he reached the giant. Blink. Laban collapsed like the harpies—only his head went flying.
Shock pummeled Blythe, nearly drilling her to her knees. What...how...what? No. No! She hadn’t just seen what she thought she’d seen. But as his severed head hit the cobblestone and continued to roll, reality pummeled her.
“Laban!” she screamed. Her beloved, headless. Immortals like him could recover from many things, most things, but not that.
He was dead.
Gone.
There’d be no bringing him back.
Isla must have witnessed the assassination, too. “Daddy,” she cried, hurling herself from Blythe. The little girl ran as fast as her legs would carry her—straight toward the giant.
“Isla!” Panic shoved Blythe forward. She gave chase, cutting through the chaos. Harpies sprinted in every direction, quickly swallowing the child, blocking her small form from view.
An ear-piercing shriek ripped from her throat. Grief and rage boiled in the undertone. If the brute harmed such a defenseless child...
No! Can’t lose my child, too. Blythe teleported. Suddenly, she stood directly behind Isla, who stood directly in front of him, clutching the bejeweled dagger, ready to strike.
Had she stolen the weapon before Laban rushed off or had she lifted it from his corpse? A sob clogged Blythe’s throat.
Menacing red eyes glowed inside the shadows of the giant’s helmet. Those wild orbs locked on her, and something buzzed along her spinal cord. A sense of knowing. As if they’d met before. No time to unravel the mystery.
What happened next happened both at lightning speed and in slow motion. The enemy swung both arms, a split second away from swiping those blood-tipped claws through her treasured offspring. She grabbed Isla by the shoulders, forced her to dematerialize, and yanked her inside Blythe’s own body. Then she, too, dematerialized and dove into the perfect shield—the oversized frame of her consort’s killer.
In essence, she possessed him. An ability wielded by all phantoms. Most couldn’t hide their presence, but Blythe could. Without the warrior’s knowledge, she sank deep, deep, deep inside his conscious mind. A place to listen and learn while figuring out a safe time and place to exit.
A time and place she could slay her host in the worst possible way. After she toyed with him a bit.
Except, for the first time, Blythe lost track of the outside world. Even worse, thousands of voices screamed at her at once.
Echoes of his thoughts? Another first!
Sharp pains ripped through her mind. Could Isla hear this awful deluge? Feel this? But, but...too many layers! Too loud! Blythe couldn’t think; she needed to...she...
With all her considerable might, she attempted to slip out of him. Argh! She failed.
Imprisoned? Had she doomed Isla, too? Forever?
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