The Tiger's Ambush (Kit Davenport Book 3)

by Tate James

  Three men drenched in death, sin, and old magic.

  From their clubhouse in the middle of the Louisiana bayou, they’ll offer Ciarah the keys to unlock her memories and control the veil between worlds. But even her knights can’t erase the twisted scars that remind her they aren’t the only ones who hunt.

  When The Wild Hunt rides, the souls of the dead join their parade.

  All that’s missing now is their queen.

  DARK GLITTER

  CIARAH

  My years of torment ended with a sharp gasp, my first breath of freedom tainted with the stench of rat shit and stale urine. That’s what woke me from seemingly endless torture, the urban stink of a city.

  Of course, I couldn’t remember any of it.

  As I blinked myself awake, my damaged mind pulled a curtain over the memories, a veil to shroud me from the pain. It wasn’t something I had the energy to fight--or that I’d even want to if I could.

  I peeled my heavy lids apart, the motion like the scraping of sandpaper against eyes too used to absolute darkness. It had been a long time since I’d seen even the dim, depressing lighting of an alleyway. How long, I didn’t know. My memory was fractured glass, the pieces scattered and sharp.

  I let out a small scream when I came face-to-face with the wicked dark eyes of a rat. My back hit a dumpster as I scrambled frantically to get away from the small creature, my panicked gaze flicking around my new environment like a trapped animal. Tall brick walls rose up on either side of me, framing the navy velvet of a night sky.

  Where the fuck am I?

  It was dark, but streetlights and glowing neon signs lit the neighborhood outside of the alley I was crouched in. Shadows shrouded me, giving me a temporary feeling of security while I frantically searched my memory for where I was … or who I was.

  My wrists and ankles ached and I could see thick bands of bruising and raw wounds around them, like I’d been held prisoner somewhere. Surely that would be the sort of thing that was impossible to forget? What the fuck had I done to deserve being held prisoner? It must’ve been something awful though, for me to feel this sick, this detached from my own body.

  Hot iron, burning my flesh, scalding me, making me bleed.

  I blinked and the random flash of memory was gone, tucked safely away from my fragile mind. It wouldn’t do to dish up the demons of my past just yet. Closing my eyes against a wave of fatigue, I sucked in shallow breaths of the stale air, the scent of garbage tainting my tongue, and put a hand to my side. There was a burning sensation there, like a blade buried between my ribs. It made bile rise in my throat as I fought to control the churning of my stomach.

  It was hard to decide which was worse off: my body … or my mind.

  Fractured memories from different times and places assaulted me in waves. A rowdy bar, a peaceful glade, the sun shining on the sea. But they were puzzle pieces with no reference, just bits of color and shape I had no clue what to do with.

  Had I been in jail, punished for a crime? That would explain the marks on my wrists and ankles, wouldn’t it? But my clothes weren’t like any sort of prison uniform I'd ever seen, just a dirty, bloodstained cotton dress and no shoes. The clothing didn't seem anywhere near appropriate for the weather; it was cold enough that I could see my breath misting in front of me, so I clearly hadn't planned to be out here …

  My quiet panic was abruptly intruded on by a heavy metal door clanging open just feet from where I was crouched. A young girl in a greasy waitress uniform stepped out and propped the door open with a stray brick before lighting up a cigarette.

  Terrified, I remained frozen to the spot, both figuratively and literally, praying she wouldn't see me. How on earth would I explain what I was doing out here? It was clearly the middle of winter and I was dressed in little more than a nightgown.

  Oh yeah, and I had no memory of who I was let alone who it was I was running from.

  "Hey, girl," she said, spotting me, "what the hell are you doing lurking in this shit-filled alley?" The woman took a drag on her cigarette, blonde hair gathered back in a messy ponytail, stray strands curling wildly around her face.

  She took a couple of steps closer to me, and I found myself preparing for a fight, awaiting the first blow with pursed lips and a defiant lift to my chin.

  Wait.

  The first blow?!

  She was just a girl, and hadn't threatened me in any way, so why would I be shaking in terror the way I was?

  "Hey ..." she tried again in a gentle voice, crouching down until she was on my level, like I was a scared child or wild animal, someone that needed to be soothed and reassured with the basic, primal necessity of body language.

  She held her cigarette in long, elegant fingers, using a painted blue thumbnail to flick the ash from its tip before taking another drag.

  "I won't hurt you, sweetie," she told me, and I could sense she was telling the truth. Was that normal? Could everyone sense the truth in someone's statement? I couldn't remember. But the certainty that she wouldn't hurt me made a noticeable difference in my anxiety level.

  I’d hate to have to kill her.

  Unfolding my arms from around my knees, I opened my mouth to speak, and say what? I didn't know. Maybe hello? It didn't matter, because all that came out was a squeaking gasp in place of my voice.

  My throat was raw and scratchy, like I’d just gargled bleach, and the pain of trying to speak made my breath catch and a tear roll from my eye. I felt--although I couldn’t remember exactly--that I’d shed many, many tears over my life. What was one more?

  "Oh shit, babe," the girl hissed, stabbing out her cigarette and offering her hand to me like she was going to touch me; she stopped abruptly, seeming to think better of it. "Hon, you're in a really bad way. Come into the diner with me and I can get you something warm to drink. Fuck, you're practically a Smurf you're so blue."

  All true.

  I could feel it in my bones, that she was speaking the truth.

  The waitress hazarded a smile that made the skin at the edges of her eyes crinkle. Even that move rang with the bright bells of honesty.

  My hand trembled so hard, but I couldn’t seem to stop it as I moved to push myself up from the ground; I would have fallen flat on my face if the girl hadn't caught me with a hand under my elbow. Everything on me ached and it took all the strength I had left to keep myself from throwing up as I pressed a hand to the pain in my side and found my feet. I wondered how bad I must really look to elicit such a response from this stranger?

  "Don't worry, sweetie," the girl murmured as she helped me stumble toward the door she'd left chocked open, "we just closed the diner so it's just staff here. The coffee is still hot though, if you like coffee?"

  Coffee? Of course I liked coffee. I didn’t need all my memories to know that. Who the hell didn’t like it? Not someone I would easily trust.

  In lieu of words, I gave a non-committal shrug.

  The girl helped me into the first booth we reached, the bench seat covered in gaudy red leather, and the tabletop patterned with the scratched surface of a checkerboard. The building smelled like grease and burnt coffee, but it had an easy, homey quality to it that I liked.

  "Wait here, I'll be right back," she promised, twisting her hands in her apron and darting out of my line of sight, presumably to get the coffee. Fuck, she better be off getting it. The ache in my side was making my teeth hurt, red wetness seeping through the thin cotton of my gown.

  I was bleeding.

  I pressed a palm to the wound and waited--what else was I going to do? I didn’t even know my own name.

  The black and white squares of the tabletop mesmerized me as I stared at them, counting how many there were in a row from one side of the table to the other, so I had no idea how much time had passed when a man's voice jolted me out of my daze.

  "Caley!" he boomed as he threw open the front door and stalked in like he owned the whole damn place. He was tall and broad, filling the doorframe like the diner was a fu
nhouse, his heavy motorcycle boots tapping a solid sounding noise when he stalked across the sticky floor and stopped sharply in front of my table.

  "Who ..." he squinted at me, "the fuck are you?"

  Slowly, I lifted my face in his direction … and it was like looking at the sun.

  Warmth flowed over and through me as my lips parted and my heart began to pound inside my chest. I’d never seen this man before in my life, I was sure of it, and yet … there was something soothingly familiar about him, too.

  The sharp emerald green of his eyes, framed by dark brown lashes, seemed to see right through me as he glared like I was something the cat had just dragged in. Which, I supposed, I sort of was. I must seriously look like a hot mess to be getting this sort of reaction from total strangers …

  He had big, muscular arms, traced in ink and brilliant with color. I wanted to reach out and touch them, run my fingers over the curve of his biceps and feel the hardness underneath. He was a beautiful specimen of masculinity--even if he looked like a proper asshole, too.

  "Arlo!" the waitress groaned, coming back out of the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee and a towering plate of French fries. "What are you doing here so early? We had a deal, remember?"

  "Yeah, we did. And you broke it. You were supposed to be home almost thirty goddamn minutes ago." The man, Arlo, dismissed me from his attention as he turned his glare on the waitress. Whether or not this was a normal reaction, I found myself leaning toward him, breathing in the sweet, musky scent of earth. Was it weird to sniff people? I had the gut feeling it most definitely was.

  Is this her boyfriend? I wondered, looking between the two. Her lover? The man had the air of a controlling asshole; I was immediately wary of him and sympathetic for … Caley? That was her name, right? It matched up to the tag on her uniform, after all. She was curvy and very pretty. I didn’t see any reason why he wouldn’t want someone as beautiful as her. Certainly she was a good ten levels above my bedraggled state.

  "What?" She frowned at him, looking confused, then darted her gaze to the clock on the wall and sighed. "Sorry, 'Lo. It was a crazy busy shift and I must’ve lost track of time." Caley placed the plate of food and mug of coffee down in front of me, and my belly grumbled loudly.

  "Who's this?" the angry looking man demanded, throwing a disgusted look my way. I knew my cheeks were flaming with embarrassment. It was hardly my fault I looked like a drowned rat. Or at least, I didn't think it was.

  "I found her in the alley out back. She's pretty beat up and can't talk ..." The young girl twisted her mouth into a frown. "I just wanted to get her warmed up and grab her some food, then maybe drop her over at the hospital to get checked out."

  Unconsciously, I licked my dry and cracked lips.

  Truth.

  Each word she spoke was pure truth; I drank it all in like fine wine.

  The man grunted, and didn't look at all pleased, but sat himself down in the booth opposite me. For a tense moment, our gazes remained locked. His bright green on my ... whatever color mine were.

  Eventually hunger overtook my need to win our stare-off, and I tentatively helped myself to some fries, chewing carefully and wincing in pain as I swallowed. Arlo continued to watch me as I ate, and I tried not to cry with the fresh pain lancing through my throat with each bite. But I couldn’t … wouldn’t … stop eating. The salty heat of these fries was like heaven, and I wondered when the last time I’d eaten was. It felt like it’d been years.

  Caley gave me a sympathetic look and a small smile.

  “Let me finish closing up, okay? Give her a chance to eat.” She moved away while I scarfed down every last fry and every single sip of coffee. It was liquid gold. I felt immediately better after drinking it, although my side was still bleeding, hot droplets tracing down my ribs.

  "Well, this is going to be interesting," Arlo muttered, eventually breaking the silence as I arched an eyebrow in question at him. "This," he gestured a hand at me, "I can't wait to see what Fionn says about you."

  "Arlo, you don't really have to tell Fionn, do you?" Caley gasped, coming to join us while rolling up her apron and shoving it into her backpack. "We can just drop her at the county hospital and be done with her, can’t we?"

  "You know the rules, Caley," Arlo shrugged, standing from his seat and glaring down at me like I’d somehow managed to disrupt his afternoon. “Anyone that sets foot in the diner that’s not one of ours gets checked out by Fionn--human or no. Take her to the hospital and then bring her by the clubhouse.”

  As he turned away, I saw that the back of his leather vest had several patches. There were the letters MC, a small patch that said 1%er, another that read New Orleans, LA, and the largest, central image featured a winged skull. The words The Wild Hunt were scrawled across the top.

  Now, why did the fuck did that one sound so familiar?

  AVAILABLE NOW:

  www.books2read.com/darkglitter

  PACK EBON RED

  The Seven Mates of Zara Wolf #1

  By C.M. Stunich

  I am wolf; I am human; I am neither; I am both.

  I am werewolf.

  And I have seven Alpha Males as my mates.

  All mine to kiss and hold and touch, seven handsome men for my bed.

  My boys represent the biggest packs in North America.

  But I am the Alpha Female and I rule them all.

  One day, the packs might force me to choose.

  But my heart, it won't allow it. Things could get … bloody if I have to fight for my boys.

  For now, three glittering dark courts threaten our existence with their glamorous cruelty:

  the vampires, the witches, and the fae.

  Werewolves are missing from all the packs, and my boys and I, we have to find them.

  Or find out who's killing them.

  Because I'm the mistress of my men, my packs, a girl known simply as White Wolf.

  I've promised to protect the men I love, the family and friends I cherish.

  And the White Wolf … always keeps her promises.

  PACK EBON RED

  CHAPTER 1

  They were coming for me.

  I knew it; I could smell it. The metallic copper tang of blood came to me on the wind, like pennies and citrus, mixing with the ever present sweetness of pine. I paused, the fingers of one bare hand brushing gently down the rough bark of a tree, the other still warmly encased in a mitten and tucked in my pocket. Except for the slow, deliberate movement of my hand, I was completely still, listening, waiting.

  The soft whisper of boots warned me that Nic was coming. If he hadn't wanted me to know he was behind me, I probably wouldn't.

  “How many?” he asked, coming to stand beside me, close but not too close. It didn't pay to get too close to the next alpha unless you'd been chosen.

  My heart sunk as I glanced over at Nic, at the proud, straight ridge of his nose and those high, sculpted cheeks. Everything about him said Ebon Red, said too close to home to be chosen. I dropped my hand from the tree and curled my fingers into a fist at my side.

  “Sixteen, at least,” I said and then sighed, reaching into my left pocket for my phone. It was doubtful I'd get any reception out here, but it was worth a try. “And they've killed something,” I said, paused, pursed my lips. “Recently.”

  Nic let out a low growl that curled my fingers tight around my cell, made my throat go dry. I shouldn't let myself be so affected by him; it would only end in heartbreak and pain. I knew firsthand how dangerous it was. I was daughter to a woman who'd literally killed the man she'd loved most.

  I wouldn't find any sympathy back home.

  “Are they trying to cause trouble?” Nic asked, reaching up to grab the zipper on his jacket. “Or are they just too inbred to realize that Friday means Friday. Your mother,” he continued because nobody who'd ever met the woman would call her 'Mom'—least of all me, “will probably cut them out of the ceremony altogether when she hears about this.”

  I shook my
head, my heart fluttering with hope and dropping just as fast.

  “No,” I said, thinking aloud, watching with a practiced detachment as Nic shrugged his coat to the forest floor and sat down on it to start taking off his boots. If I listened carefully, I could hear my professor and my fellow Intro to Wildflowers classmates chatting about a mile off. The pack—whoever they were, I didn't recognize their scent—was farther off, maybe three or four miles out. If Nic and I stood here and waited, they'd be on us in minutes. “She needs this alliance. We need this alliance,” I said, a thousand reprimands rolling through my head all at once. It's always us and we, Zara, not me and I. “It would take a serious breach of etiquette for her to even consider cutting anyone out.”

  I took a deep breath and tried dialing my mother's phone—no reception. Ridiculous. I kept trying to explain how important satellite phones would be for communication. Spending as much time as we did in remote wilderness, I felt like they were essential. But … old habits die hard. The pack—and especially my mother—they didn't trust technology.

  I glanced down at Nic—shoeless, sock-less, shirtless. I had to swallow hard and look away as he stood up and dropped his jeans to the moist dirt beneath our feet. Nakedness was as easy as breathing for me, for all of us, but when it came to Nic … I felt the undertones there, the unspoken things we'd both like to do to each other in the dark. It made it hard, really hard. And then to stand here and talk about the ceremony? The implications of what, exactly, that ceremony meant were hard to ignore. Five suitors, five possible mates, five guys that I'd be doing things in the dark with that weren't Nic.

  “Yeah, well,” he said, pushing a hand through his dark red hair as I looked back at him, carefully avoiding looking at anything below his waist. “If forcing me to get naked in the middle of class doesn't count as a breach of etiquette, I don't know what does. Wait here, I'll be back.”