Blood by Midnight: Dark Ink Tattoo Book Three by Cassie Alexander

Author:Cassie Alexander [Alexander, Cassie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Caskara Press

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The door was open like we’d left it, the scent of blood still wafting in the air. My eyes adjusted to the near dark instantly and I listened for any signs of human life, hisses of breath, the desperate thudding of a low-blooded heart—but nothing. And when I reached the living room, I knew why—Angela’s mother was crumpled on the floor, her head at an odd angle, almost twisted off. Bastards.

I knelt down, the scent of blood an almost overwhelming temptation—except for the fact that it was cut with slightly sour dog.

I heard a rustle behind me, one any mortal would’ve missed, and it was hard not to whirl—but my advantage was that whichever Pack member stayed behind thought that I was human. I carefully knelt down as if considering the corpse.

The man behind me came up in an eager rush—I threw myself sideways and kicked out, catching his legs, sending him sprawling to the bloody ground for a moment before he bounced back up, trying to catch me before I could rise. I rolled sideways and lunged at him. He feinted and jumped behind the couch, and I realized I had another advantage as well—I was between him and the door.

He was one of the men I’d seen at the were-bar—the older seeming one, Daziel. “What the hell do you want with Angela?” I asked, matching each of his movements like a mirror, ready to stop his escape.

“This doesn’t concern you—get the fuck out of the way.” He grabbed hold of the short side of the couch and hefted it—it went up and over lengthwise, clunking to lean against the wall, as he tried to run. I threw myself after him, taking him down by his legs. He kicked and caught me in my chest, and I felt ribs break and begin to instantly reknit. I yanked him back bodily, as he scrabbled at an end table, sending a lamp crashing to the ground.

“Tell me!” I compelled him, inching him back.

“It’s the boy!” he shouted, then wriggled one leg free to kick at my jaw. My head snapped back, reeling, but I refused to let go of the other leg, so he redoubled over himself like a snake, coming to wrestle, wrapping both his hands around my throat.

Once again, I remembered pain. I punched him in his side, in his ribs and gut, but he held on, and I could feel my windpipe crunching—but I didn’t really need to breathe. I scrabbled my knee up beside him, reached into my boot and freed the knife.

I plunged it into his side—I could feel it fight to get through the leather of his coat, but when it reached his flesh it made it part like warm butter. He howled and released me, arcing back, one hand instinctively going for his wounded side, the other out for balance and I—I sliced at it. The knife fell between his fingers, cleaving his ringfinger and pinkie right off.

His anger surged, I could feel it like an oncoming storm—but then sirens began wailing outside.

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