Last Battle: A Gritty, Action-Packed Urban Fantasy (The Broken Bard Chronicles Book 3) by eden Hudson

Author:eden Hudson [Hudson, eden]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The River Pirate Alliance
Published: 2021-03-04T05:00:00+00:00

Tough

The first place I went after I left the tattoo parlor was to get my truck. I’d left it parked over behind the bank when I’d tried to get to the bakery to help Colt.

A ghost of a memory whispered in my brain. Tried? Talk about a nice way to say failed.

Well, I was done fucking up and failing. I fired the truck up and headed for the Dark Mansion.

Clare and Lonely had left it up to me to decide how I would get inside without getting staked at the door. I had considered sneaking in the back way again, but that hadn’t done me any good earlier. This time I figured I would just drive right up to the front door.

I thought I heard myself giggle at that, then I remembered that I didn’t have a voice to giggle with anymore. A shiver rolled down my back. This was the kind of crazy you went when you knew you were about fifteen minutes away from waking up in Hell.

The truck fishtailed as I took the turnoff onto gravel, but I didn’t downshift or take my foot off the gas. The muscles in my arms pulled tighter and tighter the closer I got to the Dark Mansion. I was almost to the mansion’s lane before I realized I was silent-humming and tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel along with the psycho-thrash death metal playing in my head.

I turned down the lane, fishtailing again, but I still didn’t touch the clutch or the brake. The little orange needle on my speedometer was climbing toward sixty.

That parking lot full of Hummers and helicopters was coming up fast.

I spun the wheel so that my headlights were shining on the Dark Mansion’s front steps. Something about the headlights was bothering me, but whatever it was, it couldn’t get through the noise in my brain. Something about darkness and light? I’d almost got ahold of the thought when it occurred to me that there wasn’t any old barn where I used to play basketball to distract me this time.

The needle on the speedometer jumped up over the halfway point on my gauge and started heading south again toward 110 mph. Usually my truck topped out at 106, but tonight she was running like a champ.

I grinned. That Whitney luck’s finally starting to kick in.

The headlights lit up the t-post with what was left of my brother’s body wrapped around it.

Dead ahead. I swallowed another silent crazy-giggle at the thought.

I couldn’t swerve or I would flip the truck. It wasn’t Colt anymore, anyway. It was just rotting meat. My stomach clenched, but I gritted my teeth and mowed the post down.

In addition to the eight-inch lift and the badass speakers, my truck’s got a set of mud grips that would make an off-roader cream his jeans. They cost me two months’ pay from Rowdy’s and they were worth every penny. When the truck’s front wheels hit the steps, the grips grabbed ahold and hauled me up, bouncing and throwing me around inside the cab.

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