Read Online The Lord of Near and Nigh: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 2) by May Ellis Daniels - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: May Ellis Daniels
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and biting cold that’ll freeze a lesser animal’s lungs. His stamina is otherworldly. He finds a rhythm in his stride that becomes meditative. His mind sinks into the motion until only a single thought remains: run.
Run .
And he does. Tirelessly.
Then he kills.
I’m running up the driveway now, already dropping my packmates, my feet soundless as they hit the gravel. The cats—Soren and Annie—are fast for the first half mile but soon tire. Only Sorry and one of the new SoCal boys, a raver-looking douche with spiked green hair, keeps up. He’s a wolf as well. But Sorry is out of practice and oversized, built bulky instead of lean like me. And the other guy? He’s a weak-assed bitch, plain and simple, and as soon as the run becomes hard work he begins to fade. Soon they’re lagging behind with the rest and it’s only me and the cool night air and the sound of my breath in my lungs and the scent of Stricken blood hot in my nose.
Darkhounds burst out from the side of the house, yellow-eyed and snarling froth. They pause when they see me, and that’s all I need: I sweep the first dog in my arms, making sure to keep the stinking motherfucker’s snapping jaws away from my face, then snap its neck and hold him under an arm as I keep running.
I leap up the flight of stairs and then I’m on the front porch, stopping only long enough to hurl the darkhound through the front door. The door shatters, torn halfway off its hinges.
Knock-knock, motherfuckers.
More snarling and yelping behind me as the rest of the crew deal with the remaining hounds. I howl and leap inside the house, land in a massive oak entryway framed by a grand curving staircase.
Sorry’s right behind me, my brother, my packmate, and the stench of human blood and an active Stricken hive is so powerful it makes my wolf scream and tear into me. I sight a few moments into the future and there she is: not Moby Dick but one of her Stricken lackeys, a slim woman in some sort of black robe wielding a meat cleaver and sneaking up on us from the left corridor.
I move beside the corridor, and when she’s real close I punch a hole through the wall, grip her stinking throat and tear it out. She doesn’t even have time to scream.
I step around the corner and catch her before she falls to the floor.
Every nerve in my body’s on fire. There’s black blood everywhere, a fucking tidal wave, and the smell drives me wild: I take a deep, solid bite of the Stricken bitch’s neck and fling her wrecked body behind me for the crew to feed on.
There. See what a nice guy I am?
They can have her. I want the big one. Moby fucking Dick.
“They’re downstairs,” I growl, barely able to speak my wolf is so heavy in my throat. “In the basement.”
Sorry comes with me as we search the house, ransacking room after room of thick wool carpets and plush satin furniture and walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. But there’s no door leading downstairs, and I’m getting impatient. I can scent them down there, cowering in fear, knowing a killer has sniffed them out.
Knowing they’ll never outrun me.
We wind up in some sort of music room, shining brass instruments lining the walls, when Sorry throws aside a grand piano and stomps on the floor.
There’s a hollow thud.
I fucking laugh, so excited I could almost hug him.
I lean down, tap on the trapdoor.
“Yoo-hoo!” I scream as the rest of the crew who didn’t get dropped outside pile into the room: Soren and Annie and that pansy-assed wolf from the SoCal crew, and there’s a tickle at the back of my neck that should make me slow me down, take a breath, sight into the future and figure out exactly what the fuck is going on before I make my next move.
But I don’t.
Blood-haze fogs my vision. Clouds my mind. All I want is to bathe in black blood and fuck caution, fuck restraint, fuck giving a shit about anything other than this kill, because this is what
Run .
And he does. Tirelessly.
Then he kills.
I’m running up the driveway now, already dropping my packmates, my feet soundless as they hit the gravel. The cats—Soren and Annie—are fast for the first half mile but soon tire. Only Sorry and one of the new SoCal boys, a raver-looking douche with spiked green hair, keeps up. He’s a wolf as well. But Sorry is out of practice and oversized, built bulky instead of lean like me. And the other guy? He’s a weak-assed bitch, plain and simple, and as soon as the run becomes hard work he begins to fade. Soon they’re lagging behind with the rest and it’s only me and the cool night air and the sound of my breath in my lungs and the scent of Stricken blood hot in my nose.
Darkhounds burst out from the side of the house, yellow-eyed and snarling froth. They pause when they see me, and that’s all I need: I sweep the first dog in my arms, making sure to keep the stinking motherfucker’s snapping jaws away from my face, then snap its neck and hold him under an arm as I keep running.
I leap up the flight of stairs and then I’m on the front porch, stopping only long enough to hurl the darkhound through the front door. The door shatters, torn halfway off its hinges.
Knock-knock, motherfuckers.
More snarling and yelping behind me as the rest of the crew deal with the remaining hounds. I howl and leap inside the house, land in a massive oak entryway framed by a grand curving staircase.
Sorry’s right behind me, my brother, my packmate, and the stench of human blood and an active Stricken hive is so powerful it makes my wolf scream and tear into me. I sight a few moments into the future and there she is: not Moby Dick but one of her Stricken lackeys, a slim woman in some sort of black robe wielding a meat cleaver and sneaking up on us from the left corridor.
I move beside the corridor, and when she’s real close I punch a hole through the wall, grip her stinking throat and tear it out. She doesn’t even have time to scream.
I step around the corner and catch her before she falls to the floor.
Every nerve in my body’s on fire. There’s black blood everywhere, a fucking tidal wave, and the smell drives me wild: I take a deep, solid bite of the Stricken bitch’s neck and fling her wrecked body behind me for the crew to feed on.
There. See what a nice guy I am?
They can have her. I want the big one. Moby fucking Dick.
“They’re downstairs,” I growl, barely able to speak my wolf is so heavy in my throat. “In the basement.”
Sorry comes with me as we search the house, ransacking room after room of thick wool carpets and plush satin furniture and walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. But there’s no door leading downstairs, and I’m getting impatient. I can scent them down there, cowering in fear, knowing a killer has sniffed them out.
Knowing they’ll never outrun me.
We wind up in some sort of music room, shining brass instruments lining the walls, when Sorry throws aside a grand piano and stomps on the floor.
There’s a hollow thud.
I fucking laugh, so excited I could almost hug him.
I lean down, tap on the trapdoor.
“Yoo-hoo!” I scream as the rest of the crew who didn’t get dropped outside pile into the room: Soren and Annie and that pansy-assed wolf from the SoCal crew, and there’s a tickle at the back of my neck that should make me slow me down, take a breath, sight into the future and figure out exactly what the fuck is going on before I make my next move.
But I don’t.
Blood-haze fogs my vision. Clouds my mind. All I want is to bathe in black blood and fuck caution, fuck restraint, fuck giving a shit about anything other than this kill, because this is what
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