Read Online Hearts of Fire by Kira Brady - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kira Brady
Tags: paranormal romance, Dead Glass
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better to hide eerie violet-ringed pupils. The Kivati believed in secrecy at any cost. Humans could never learn of the monsters that battled for control of their city.
Hart recognized the Fox and his usual crew of hotheaded young Thunderbirds and Crows. Rudrick was shorter than the others, with the lean build of a runner, red-streaked hair and a tuft of fur at his chin. Cocky too, as he wore no glasses. The look in his beady black eyes was crafty and calculated, his inner Fox brought to the fore by the pleasure of the hunt.
Hart had a clear shot of the sidewalk and anyone trying to walk past the fence to the morgue front door. He raised his rifle, aimed at the ground in front of Rudrick, and fired. The bullet nicked the concrete. The sentinels scattered, dodging his bullets as they ran behind their jeeps for safety.
The bastards might not have time to pull their own guns, but they weren’t without weapons. From the sky, a crow swooped, talons extended, straight at Hart’s face. He shot it. On the ground, a sentinel cried out as his mental connection to the bird was severed.
The other birds attacked, slashing and clawing. Razor-sharp beaks aimed at Hart’s eyes.
He was too quick. He rolled onto his back and came up blasting. The guns he kept strapped to his waist settled into his grip as if he’d been born with them instead of hands. Black feathers rained down. Screams like rusty violins filled the air. A few crows slipped past his bullets, and he felt his scalp tear and blood splatter his cheek.
He relished it, though it wasn’t a real battle, just a game. A bit of professional courtesy between one killer and another: This target’s mine.
Message received, thank you.
Crow blood sprayed his tongue, bitter and warm and disgustingly familiar. More and more came until the sky was black and beating wings obscured his vision. His ears rang with the blast from his guns.
The attack stopped all at once, after a single mental command from their Kivati masters. The birds—the survivors—limped off to sit on the telephone wires and clean their wounds. Hart’s jacket had held up well against the assault, shielding him like a tough leather skin, but his face and hands stung with talon marks. He rolled onto his stomach and pulled himself to the edge of the building so that he could look down on the street and assess the damage.
Behind the cover of the jeeps, the sentinels waited with firepower ticking in their hungry fingers. One man clutched his right shoulder; blood welled slowly from a hole shot through the black wool coat. Another lay moaning on the cold, wet ground, hands pressed to his temple, his consciousness ripped apart by the loss of too many crows. Mental wounds were hard to stitch up.
Sucked to be him, but what did the man expect, connecting himself to another being like that? Kivati felt the death of their familiars like the loss of a limb, keen as a knife to the heart. Dumb bastards. Attachments were weakness. Hart would give his left nut—hell, both nuts—to be rid of the crazed beast inside him.
The rain washed the blood from his skin and swept broken feathers into the clogged gutters in the street below. In the distance, beyond the stormy Sound, sunlight broke over the Olympic Mountains.
To Hart’s surprise, the Kivati gave up. With an order from Rudrick, they loaded into the jeeps and drove off in a cloud of smoke, the chug of the steam engines echoing in the empty, waterlogged street.
Strange. Either they weren’t here for the necklace after all, or they didn’t want it as badly as he’d thought. Maybe it was only sentimental junk, but he doubted it. His instincts said Norgard was holding out on him, as usual. Norgard wouldn’t lift a claw to save his own mother.
Dead crows lay where they had fallen along the rooftop and the asphalt below. Hart pulled the Deadglass out of his pocket and held it to his eye. Through the glass he watched shadows pull away from the small broken bodies. They
Hart recognized the Fox and his usual crew of hotheaded young Thunderbirds and Crows. Rudrick was shorter than the others, with the lean build of a runner, red-streaked hair and a tuft of fur at his chin. Cocky too, as he wore no glasses. The look in his beady black eyes was crafty and calculated, his inner Fox brought to the fore by the pleasure of the hunt.
Hart had a clear shot of the sidewalk and anyone trying to walk past the fence to the morgue front door. He raised his rifle, aimed at the ground in front of Rudrick, and fired. The bullet nicked the concrete. The sentinels scattered, dodging his bullets as they ran behind their jeeps for safety.
The bastards might not have time to pull their own guns, but they weren’t without weapons. From the sky, a crow swooped, talons extended, straight at Hart’s face. He shot it. On the ground, a sentinel cried out as his mental connection to the bird was severed.
The other birds attacked, slashing and clawing. Razor-sharp beaks aimed at Hart’s eyes.
He was too quick. He rolled onto his back and came up blasting. The guns he kept strapped to his waist settled into his grip as if he’d been born with them instead of hands. Black feathers rained down. Screams like rusty violins filled the air. A few crows slipped past his bullets, and he felt his scalp tear and blood splatter his cheek.
He relished it, though it wasn’t a real battle, just a game. A bit of professional courtesy between one killer and another: This target’s mine.
Message received, thank you.
Crow blood sprayed his tongue, bitter and warm and disgustingly familiar. More and more came until the sky was black and beating wings obscured his vision. His ears rang with the blast from his guns.
The attack stopped all at once, after a single mental command from their Kivati masters. The birds—the survivors—limped off to sit on the telephone wires and clean their wounds. Hart’s jacket had held up well against the assault, shielding him like a tough leather skin, but his face and hands stung with talon marks. He rolled onto his stomach and pulled himself to the edge of the building so that he could look down on the street and assess the damage.
Behind the cover of the jeeps, the sentinels waited with firepower ticking in their hungry fingers. One man clutched his right shoulder; blood welled slowly from a hole shot through the black wool coat. Another lay moaning on the cold, wet ground, hands pressed to his temple, his consciousness ripped apart by the loss of too many crows. Mental wounds were hard to stitch up.
Sucked to be him, but what did the man expect, connecting himself to another being like that? Kivati felt the death of their familiars like the loss of a limb, keen as a knife to the heart. Dumb bastards. Attachments were weakness. Hart would give his left nut—hell, both nuts—to be rid of the crazed beast inside him.
The rain washed the blood from his skin and swept broken feathers into the clogged gutters in the street below. In the distance, beyond the stormy Sound, sunlight broke over the Olympic Mountains.
To Hart’s surprise, the Kivati gave up. With an order from Rudrick, they loaded into the jeeps and drove off in a cloud of smoke, the chug of the steam engines echoing in the empty, waterlogged street.
Strange. Either they weren’t here for the necklace after all, or they didn’t want it as badly as he’d thought. Maybe it was only sentimental junk, but he doubted it. His instincts said Norgard was holding out on him, as usual. Norgard wouldn’t lift a claw to save his own mother.
Dead crows lay where they had fallen along the rooftop and the asphalt below. Hart pulled the Deadglass out of his pocket and held it to his eye. Through the glass he watched shadows pull away from the small broken bodies. They
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