C2 Devils Wept

The howl of a big wolf that was nearby.

Startled, Lyra spun around. Her wolf-hunting instinct kicked in instantly.

She dropped suddenly to her knees, her gloved hands already moving with great reflexes, closed around the cold steel butts of the sliver-bulleted Beretta pistols strapped tight to both sides of her hips. She swung the guns out of her holsters and pointed the snub nose into the hellish darkness.

She looked to the right and then to the left. Cold breathed whistled from her clenched teeth. Her eyes, cold and sharp and trained, assessed the darkness.

Her heart was beating hard and fast—Not from fear, but from the thrill. That rush of excitement she gets when she’s about to do some killings.

“Come out!” She snarled. “I know you are out there, lurking around in the dark. Come out, you sonofabitch, so that I can blast you to pieces!”

The wolf was here, alright!

Yeah! Right in this pitch bloody darkness.

She could feel it. She could sense its presence.

It was watching her. Waiting.

Probably calculating how it was going to attack her. To sink his fangs into her skin and rip her apart!

“Come out, damn you!” She spat out impatiently. “Come on out now and show me what you got!”

But no wolf appeared.

She remained like that for a long moment. Ready and alert. Her mouth is dry. Her knees deepened in snow. The sense of danger was crawling all over her.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Incredibly, nothing happened.

Only the sounds of the gust of cold, snowy wind, the cries of owls hidden in the trees, and the moisture dripping from tree branches reached out to her.

Sensing no sign of danger, Lyra drew in a long, slow breath. Her body relaxed.

She got to her feet. She slid her guns back into their holsters and dusted the snow off her pants. Then she picked up her duffel bag and sauntered into the bar.

***********************

Just after Lyra had walked into the bar, a tall, blonde-haired, hard-faced young man stepped out of the stiffening darkness. His name was Darken TrueBlood. He was the Alpha of the Greyhoof pack.

Darken stood motionless, his body lean, rugged, and powerfully built. Inked across his wide open throat was a terrifying tattoo that looked like the gaping jaw of a wolf—from afar, it would seem his neck was inside a wolf’s mouth.

As he stood, his green-yellow eyes blazed thoughtfully on the entrance of the Big Red bar.

He was seriously thinking about Lyra—that beautiful, young, dangerous girl who had just walked into The Big Red bar, carrying a duffel bag.

Her scent—cinnamon, wild berries, crushed petals, and gun metal—had come to his nostrils from where he had stayed hidden, watching her from the darkness.

He had seen her whip out her pistols like she was born with them—Fast. Clean. Smooth. Like a fucking gunslinger.

She was a wolf hunteress! Her scent and guns had told him everything about her.

A wolf huntress?

Here in Devils Wept?

Darken’s lips slanted into a smile—but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was the kind of smile that meant one thing:

Hell is coming.

And that night, he was bringing real goddamned hell.

******************

A big man with red sandy hair stood behind the Big Red bar countertop.

His name is John Reddick, and he is the bartender and owner of the Big Red bar.

The bar door creaked open and Lyra walked into the bar.

John’s eyes went to the entrance. His brows deepened when he saw a girl standing at the entrance.

She was dressed in all black. In her hand was a duffel bag. On her face were dark glasses.

The girl took off her glasses with a smooth, clean ease.

John’s attention was immediately arrested as his eyes regarded her thoroughly.

She was a brunette, with midnight-black hair pulled back neatly in a ribbon ponytail. Her face was clear-cut, with cold, unfeeling features. Her dark, fiery liquid eyes shone like black onyx.

John's eyes lingered on her body for a long moment—at the firm breasts which pressed hard against her black tight-tee, at the curvy hips with her long, slim legs. He couldn’t see her backside from where he stood, but he imagined what it looked like. And his mouth went dry.

His imagination ran wild.

This girl was criminally beautiful.

And dangerous too.

The way she had come in.

The way she held herself.

With the way she carried that duffel bag in her hands.

All together with that animal sexuality oozing from her, told him she was not the type to mess with.

John wondered who she was.

Lyra felt the heavy-set barman behind the bar eating her up with his eyes.

She completely ignored him, glancing around the bar.

The air was cold and stinking with whisky and cigarettes. There were three customers who sat around a big table filled with beer cans.

Lyra stood for a moment, then she walked, slowly but confidently, up to the bar.

Unaware of the dreading danger that awaited her outside, she slid out a stool and sat on it, her movements easy and smooth, like a jungle cat.

She still didn’t look at the barman.

Not even a glance.

It was as if he wasn’t there.

John, puzzled and tongue-tied, continued to stare hard at her.

Who the hell is this girl?