by Tess Oliver
Stryker
Boys of Wynter #1
Tess Oliver
STRYKER
Cover Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Cover Model: Peter P
Image provided by Wander Book Club
Copyright © 2017 by Tess Oliver
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Boys of Wynter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
More from the Boys
About the Author
Boys of Wynter
For thousands of years, Boys of Wynter have guarded the mortal world against the wraiths and demons who lurk aimlessly in the desolate shadows outside the underworld. The Boys have a reputation and they didn't earn that unsavory notoriety by being gentlemen.
Stryker is Book 1 of Tess Oliver’s new paranormal romance series Boys of Wynter. This series is not your typical paranormal—it’s darker, wilder and sexier.
Chapter One
Stryker
The skin pulled tight on my face and Rogue's black hooves left the ground. The horse's massive body twisted and contorted into the shiny steel chassis of my motorcycle. The mane and tail disappeared. My gloved hands tightened as the leather reins turned to handlebars.
I'd passed through. The bitter, rank wisps of bubbling yellow sulfur from the fields of Wynter gone, replaced by the pungent scent of pine from the surrounding forest. The mournful howls that always followed me into Cliffmoor had dissolved and the ghostly hisses of owls rained down on me from the ragged tops of the trees. For me, the transition from the fringes of the underworld to the place I called home, the fog-choked coastal town of Cliffmoor, brought sharp pain, an explosion in my chest and head. But the searing pain was short-lived and not nearly as unbearable as the howls and moans of the dying wraiths and misguided souls I'd left behind. They followed me, always. But I'd learned to ignore them, otherwise I'd be fucked.
Barq's flaring, red nostrils shifted into one gleaming headlight as Maximus passed through. "Look the fuck out, I'm back!" Maximus thundered as the bike wheels landed on the pine littered ground. Haunting moans didn't follow Maximus out of Wynter. He claimed that the only sound he heard on his out was Jimmy Page pounding out Led Zeppelin tunes on his Les Paul.
Maximus gripped the handlebars of his chopper. Thin lines of blood trickled down his giant arm in perfect unison as if choreographed. It was rare for any of us to leave a night of work without less skin and blood than we started.
Wilder came roaring through last. His thick leather gun belt still hung loosely across his bare chest as the transformation from wolf to man completed. His bike, like Chino, the red roan stallion he rode, was fast and loud. The motor rumbled like a dragon in heat, sending a half dozen slick black ravens from the tree branches. A beautiful female voice whispering dirty words in his ear, that was what Wilder claimed to hear on his way through. Since he always came through with the same satisfied smile, as if plump lips were wrapped around his cock, I figured it must be true. I could never understand why the fuck my passage to the real world was dark and painful.
We stopped the bikes and watched as the ripped shreds of gray matter sealed back up, closing Wynter off from the mortal world. Other men spent their work shifts on shipping docks or construction sites. We spent ours in Wynter, the stretch of space between life and death. No one knew who came up with the name, but it stuck, misleading as it was. Behind the splintered, tenuous curtain that separated the real world and the nightmare world there was no landscape of snowy hills and cozy cottages dotting the vast, crystal white horizon. There were no snowmen or kids sledding in thick red mittens and woolen scarves. The Wynter that lay just past the jowly, carnivorous mouth of the underworld was a place so thick with mist and sour with decomposition that there was no way to know where the atmosphere ended and solid land began. The liquid air that pooled in the atmosphere was molten hot, making the place an inferno, where one wrong turn or misstep could bleach the skin off your back. Wynter was a place filled with sorrow, desolation and beings so drenched in evil that anyone who ventured past the clawed shadows fringing its clammy borders would quickly beg for a merciful death rather than stay a second longer.
No one survived passage through Wynter except those born to patrol it. That was us, the Boys of Wynter, Maximus, Wilder, me and Flint, who was back in Cliffmoor recovering from a broken leg. There were others too, others like us who had been tossed into servitude by fathers who chose wealth and power over their sons.
Stolen from our cribs as sacrificial firstborns to become part of the Wynter pack, we'd spent our first eleven years with Nessa, the old woman charged with the task of raising stolen sons. Those eleven years were filled with adventure, homegrown affection and a sense that the world was filled with light. But that idyllic life in Nessa's cottage on Oldfall Island ended abruptly one night when were ripped from our warm beds by the Wynter trainers. We were thrown instantly into a life that was so far removed from our early years that it would have been less stark if we'd just been murdered in our beds. Those lucky enough to survive the brutal, harsh training grew into men, fearless and powerful beasts cursed with both lycanthropy and mortality. For thousands of years, Boys of Wynter have guarded the mortal world against the wraiths and demons who lurk aimlessly in the desolate shadows outside the underworld.
"Don't know about you two assholes, but I'm heading straight to the Seven Sins for a bottle of whiskey and, if the plan in my head works out, a royal good fuck with Dancy and Mirra," Maximus crowed as he turned back to his handlebars.
"You mean your cock," Wilder muttered as he shoved his black boot onto the foot peg.
Maximus shifted on his motorcycle. The chrome and black chassis creaked under his weight. We were all bigger than the average motherfucker, but Maximus took size to a whole new record. With his sharp black eyes and dark fiery blond hair shaved short at the sides and left long down the center, I'd seen wraiths take one look at him and rather than wait to be obliterated just swallow their unwanted fate and disappear into the underworld, preferring the pits of hell to a run in with the menacing giant. Human reaction was even more intense. Even Wilder seemed to regret his comment as Maximus lifted his dark blond brow at Wilder.
"Why the hell are you talking about my cock?"
"You mean if the plan in your cock works out. You said head but I think you meant cock. Your head rarely has anything to do with your decisions." Wilder was normally the guy with the sealed shut mouth. He only commented when he thought it was worth the effort, but we'd had a long shift of destroying wraiths and he was obviously feeling a little punch drunk.
I was right there with him. After one full midnight to midnight shif
t, we were free for a day while another pack slipped into Wynter for their patrol. And it always took a full day to recover.
I glanced down at my shredded skin. My last chase of the night had been a screamer, a pink eyed wraith with a shriek that nearly split my head in two, especially in wolf form when my hearing was ten times as sensitive as in human form. I'd been shaking off the effects of a screech that was explosive enough to mess with my brain cells when the slimy creature scratched my chest with its hooked claws. Fortunately, we healed fast, faster than the average human. We could die just like any mortal, but we didn't go easy.
I twisted the throttle and the motor stuttered beneath me. "Yeah, let's go. I'm ready to drown myself in some whiskey and Wynter Fare pussy too." The Wynter Fare were the group of luscious and infinitely horny women who were disciplined and successful in their careers, but who liked to have wild, no strings attached fun in their time off. Much like rich rock star groupies following their favorite band's summer tour, the Wynter Fare hung out in the Seven Sins waiting for the Boys of Wynter. To the Wynter Fare we were members of a dangerous, rebellious motorcycle club, who spent long nights wreaking havoc. They had no clue that we were wreaking havoc in the underworld. They were, without a doubt, the finest perk that came with an otherwise hellish job.
As I leaned down over my bike, a small crackling sound raced up my bare back. I knew what it was without turning. Wynter wraiths had an odor that was unmatched on earth. You could be standing five hundred yards away, and the smell would still seep into your skin and invade every cell causing a brutal assault on all your senses.
The three of us dropped our boots to the ground and stood over our bikes. We twisted back to watch the creature flutter along the pine littered floor of the forest, pretending as if it belonged in this world. Every forest critter within twenty feet scattered. Even the trail of ants marching beneath the dead leaves picked up their regiment and scurried away fast. The odor emanating out from beneath its tattered black cloak was not as foul as most, which meant it was young or a wraith new to the ravages of Wynter.
"Now how the fuck did that measly piece of shit sneak out?" Maximus growled louder than he should have. I lifted my hand too late to stop him. The wraith's yellow eyes zeroed in on its audience. But even standing in the glowering shadow of three Boys of Wynter, freshly bloodied and streaked with sweat from a night of wraith hunting, the creature howled with a bone chilling laugh.
"Well, fuck," Wilder muttered. "There goes the whiskey and the blow job, and I was hoping to have them both at the same fucking time."
I spoke to my pack mates, all the while keeping my eyes on the misshapen beast as it danced from clawed foot to clawed foot, avoiding the stinging burn of the pine sap. The human world was a harsh, brutal place for a Wynter wraith, but that never kept them from sneaking through the filmy screen of plasma when given a chance.
"This was my fault. I was on watch as we pushed through to this dimension." I still hadn't taken my eyes off the wraith, and it looked more than ready for a chase. It just waited for the hunter to make the first move. And that hunter was me. "It's small. I'll take care of it. Just remember to leave a bottle for me."
"Are you fucking crazy, Stryker?" Wilder shook his head. "In human form? And without Rogue? Not a good idea."
"It's small and out of its element out here in the forest," I argued. "The thing is already withering away just from swallowing the fresh air. It'll take me ten minutes. Go on. I'll see you at the bar."
Chapter Two
Stryker
Maximus and Wilder rode off reluctantly. I moved slowly as if I was going to follow them, to throw the wraith off. Dead leaves and dirt kicked up as I pulled the bike around in a donut. The beast shot off, leaving behind its stench as I gave chase.
Wraiths were mostly porous, papery creatures with no purpose except to cause destruction and death. Considered neither alive nor dead, wraiths emanated from the mortal souls of people who had never found happiness in life and who'd found even more strife in death. The more evil the human, the more deadly its odorous half-life.
Without my wolf senses or my horse, it was harder to stay on top of my fleeing prey. Since wraiths were more gas than solid, they moved swiftly through obstacles, like a foul smelling gust of wind. In Wynter, my pack mates and I took turns, two of us patrolling the edges of Wynter on horseback, waiting to take out less significant, easy to catch prey like ghouls or banshees. While the other two shifted into wolf form, a state of existence that gave us preternatural senses and speed, both required to catch elusive wraiths, the true demons of the underworld. I'd brushed this hunt off as an easy task, but it seemed I'd misjudged the filthy piece of shit.
The jagged edges of the wraith's tattered cloak disappeared around the trunk of a tree. I leaned down over my handlebars and twisted the throttle. Two deer came thundering toward me, and I turned sharply to avoid them. Frightened birds scattered from trees, flying blindly into the night sky as the wraith twisted and turned through the branches. I couldn't stop until I had killed the fucking thing. A wraith loose in the human world could cause more chaos, terror and death than the most powerful hurricane. And Feenix, the fuckface who reigned over the Boys of Wynter from his throne in the underworld, would have my head if I didn't prevail. Not that Feenix worried for the mortals outside his realm. His worry would lie in exposure. The last thing the dwellers of the underworld wanted was to let the mortal world know they existed. It was much more fun taunting humans with unexplained sightings, noises and hauntings.
For some strange reason, the wraith was heading north, away from the cities. As the temperature dropped, fragments of ice bit at the naked skin on my shoulders and arms. Chasing down a runaway wraith was the last thing my body had anticipated after a long night of hunting. My forearms and thighs shook with fatigue as I maneuvered my unwieldy motorcycle through the rough, hilly terrain. I would have given anything to have my horse beneath me traversing the mountainside. The motorcycle was meant for cruising the coast with a beautiful Wynter Fare wrapped around me from behind, her lush tits pummeling my back at each bump in the road. I shook my head to clear it. I couldn't let my guard down yet. I needed to finish off this last ugly, stinking fucker before I could let that happen.
Crumbs of ice turned to blinding snowfall, and I'd lost sight of my repulsive quarry. I had no idea why it was heading up the mountain. There was nothing ahead but brutal cold and the few animals that could survive in the brittle climate of the tundra. Not even trees were much interested in growing at the higher elevations, which helped me once again locate my prey. I was done with this hunt. My stomach nearly gnawed itself with hunger, and the deep crevices carved in my chest from the screaming wraith's claws stung as if they were on fire.
A sudden movement in the sparse trees up ahead grabbed my attention. A terrified moose barreled out from the shadows. I could see the whites of its eyes as it thundered toward me in blind fear. I turned the bike too fast and laid it down in the snow. The massive moose stampeded past as if being chased by the devil, which in a way it was.
I climbed off the bike. It had become too impractical in the snow and trees. Laughing yellow eyes peered at me around the bristled trunk of a pine tree. A hideous squeal followed as the wraith took off through the branches. It was playing a damn game with me. I was waiting for whiskey and a good, stress releasing fuck, and I was stuck chasing a rat-faced, sewer scented court jester. It was times like this that I wished I could shape shift to my more primal self, but shifting now, bloodied and fatigued after an entire twenty four hours on the hunt, would take every ounce of my remaining energy. Then I'd have nothing left to take the ugly little fucker out. Not to mention that shifting in the mortal world was technically forbidden, meaning there had to be a good fucking reason to do it, and not just for some stupid, throwaway, pathetic wraith.
Snow was making its way into my black boots, and my pants were soaked, making my legs and feet nearly as cold as my naked torso. The leather from the gun bel
t across my chest was beginning to stick to my frozen skin. My fingers were stiff from cold as I reached into the holster and pulled out my gun. Wraiths could die in two ways, from the deadly bite of a werewolf or from a bullet. But the bullet had to enter right between its eyes, the only corporeal part on its body.
The air thinned and the night sky above was a sea of stars. The only true light came from a slice of moon and the glowing eyes of my prey as it looped through the air like an acrobat. It snarled back at me over its bony shoulder and shot up the hill. My breath puffed out in front of my face. My rage seemed to temporarily heat my skin. The only thing working in my favor at the higher elevation and steep terrain was that the trees had thinned to just a few frost hardy specimens. Aside from the occasional bristly cackle of the wraith, the landscape was as quiet as a morgue. Any animals tough enough to withstand the harsh climate had been scared into burrows or caves by the putrid smelling menace.
The wraith slipped up and around the edge of a shard of granite jutting out from the mountainside. I readied my gun and crept quietly toward the outcropping. Even in the glacial air, I could still smell the wraith lingering behind the rock. I had no doubt it was planning to jump out and scream at me. That was their usual tact, especially for a small weak wraith with only slightly toxic odor. I would be ready to pull the trigger and hit it squarely between its yellow eyes.
