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Noon sunlight streamed through the tall windows of a vast dining hall, a wealth of gold tapestry, high ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Seven witches clad in velvet and lace lounged at the long side of a table overflowing with delicacies And Breccan, hands cuffed behind his back, shirt stripped off of him, was to be the lunch entertainment One of the four trackers who had wrangled him inside shoved Brec center room. Head bowed and shoulders slumped, he stumbled forth. Whereas the tracker Quad strutted past him, chests puffed up and chins held high Excited whispers turned to rowdy cheers. The conquering heroes return, Brec scoffed, having ensnared a long-escaped consort. A pretty term for an ugly fact. A breeding slave The preening peacocks won a standing ovation. Only the witch in the middle, the place of prominence—the High Priestess perhaps—remained seated, her slow claps almost a mockery. Gaze on him. Assessing. Unwavering. Disturbing Those doe eyes, so familiar. Had she been one of his abusers? Unlikely. The years of captivity tended to blur together, yet he would recall a mistress like her Hatred ignited in his gut, a burning fuel of rage. Breccan had no masters. He was no slave, no prey. He was a predator, one they’d led straight into their fortified coop Brec clucked his tongue to mask the faint click as he picked open his handcuffs. Then stabbed his lock pick into a preening imbecile’s neck. Once. Twice. Thrice With a squeal, his victim floundered to staunch the arterial blood spray. In vain. The other three rounded on Brec, disbelief and malice contorting their features. Still, they charged him barehanded, not reaching for the swords strapped to their sides Foregoing lethal force, huh? Can always get themselves a new coven mate, so why waste a rare consort. Even a homicidal one. No such qualms on Brec’s part. Mangled carcasses soon littered the floor as he made quick work of the trio. Iron shackles, such fine witch-wasting weapon Chairs toppled with a cascade of crashes. Shrieks rang in the opulent hall. Frenzied diners dashed for the exits in disorderly fashion. Despite all their huffing and puffing, not a single door, not a single window would open Magic crackled and recoiled as Brec pressed a palm to the gates behind him. Odd, a telekinetic barrier. Only House of Motion had tele abilities, and this was a House of Craft coven—spells, potions, cackling over cauldrons Priestess still sat at the table, an island of calm in a sea of chaos. Mouth upturned, she raised a silver goblet in salute. Her upper lip was a tad fuller than the lower Brec frowned, none too pleased he’d noticed that enticing detail. Even less pleased that he deemed it entic A black pouch bounced off his chest. A hex bag? A blonde to his left squealed in distress—she’d gathered enough wits to fling the hex at him, yet not enough to recall their precious consorts were immune to all magic In two long strides, he reached the nitwit, grabbed her by the pompous up-do and bashed her skull into the nearest ornate mirror. The glass cracked and stained in red Teeth bared in a snarl, Brec dropped her limp body and homed in on the group cowering in a nearby corner. A husky guy with premature baldness shielded his three female companions with his broadness, a steak knife in his shaky grip Witches, lovers (of evildoing), not fighters. Brec almost felt pity while stabbing the brave yet inept hero in the chest—with his own cutlery—and let his corpulent form crumple to the floor. Their protector gone, the damsels scrambled to flee Pity Breccan may not have, but mercy he could muster Two mercy kills later, he stalked after the one who’d slithered away. She hobbled to the High Priestess of Nonchalance, yowling for help. Then blessed silence The last damsel flopped on the table, dinnerware rattling cheerfully, a split-blade dagger stuck in her neck. The stabby Priestess licked her blood-coated thumb clean Brec sneered. Grown tired of your own flock, Highness? I’m no Highness. She nodded at someone behind him. That one is He needn't look, well aware of the matronly witch sneaking up on him, battle axe in her chubby hands. Brec pivoted aside and the matron’s momentum propelled her past him. He yanked the weapon off her doughy grip, then swung it at her, cleaving her wig-adorned head almost cleanly off. Almost. It held on by a stubborn tendon Practice makes perfect. He turned back to Priestess. Or Not-Priestess Feet propped on the table, she tracked his menacing advance, all idle curiosity. Her demeanor, in utter clash with everyone else’s bumbling-idiot attacks and slapstick escape attempts, was rather galling As if there was a punchline only she was privy to Halting his strides, Brec perused the corpse-riddled dining hall. Something didn’t add up. This was supposed to be a ten-member coven. The odd woman out made eleven. Her clothes also didn’t match the others' frippery, not a single jewelry marring her light brown skin. Sleeveless grey vest hugged subtle curves, black breeches encased yard-long legs, scuffed ankle boots finished the look Travel outfit. Perhaps some unlucky visitor. Brec crooked a smirk. Lucky me The vexing creature grinned back. Now what, slayer? You think I’ll spare you, witch? Just because you aren’t one of them? He encompassed the strewn about cadavers with a sweep of his axe-holding arm Crimson droplets wept from the blade, splashing on the polished granite floor The woman’s gaze didn’t darken with fear. It sparkled with nefarious light. As if the Crafty Lot were an offering he’d lain upon her altar. An offering she fancied, a lot Unhurried, she put her feet down, I’m no witch. Exhibit A, and yanked her dagger out of the damsel carcass slumped next to her He threw the axe at her, without command from his brain. His fingers clamped on empty. As if that would stop its deadly trajectory Except the weapon did freeze mid-flight. Suspended in the air between them Hey! Genuine hurt flitted over her features. “Such needlessly aggressive move He clenched his jaw shut, quashing the urge to apologize. Hadn’t meant to attack; had reacted on instinct at seeing his enemy arm herself The axe clunked to the ground and skidded under a chair, propelled by an invisible force. So she had the gift of telekinesis, she had barred all exits. But why? If you are no witch, how do you explain your powers? he snapped Two bloody fingers twirled a glossy dark curl. Now he cares about explanations No, Brec did not. Assassin sent by a rival coven, or just a psycho, she was dead either way. Don’t! she warned Too late, he’d already lunged, hands ready to wrap around that skinny neck Quick as quicksilver, she sprang out of her seat—and onto his back. Pinned, facedown on the table. A scuffed boot pressed on his left wrist, his right arm twisted behind his back. To add insult to injury, she sat on his shoulders—facing his ass As the shock abated, panic flooded in and he thrashed, desperate to throw off his subduer Stop it, she scolded. Scolded as if he were an unruly kid. You only hurt yourself Fuck! You! he snarled, and kept struggling. To no avail. Her restraining grip didn’t give an inch, her body atop his unshakeable Changing tactics, he went limp, playing at defeated, and strove to calm his reeling mind. Deep breaths, count to five. One, two, three, four The instant her hold loosened a fraction, he bucked, hard as he could. Unbalanced, she jumped off of him, landing on her feet. Nimble cat. Quelling his unwelcome, irksome admiration, he aimed a right haymaker at her jaw. She didn’t even try to block, just danced aside and kicked the backs of his knees. Knees that hit the floor with a jarring jolt Heat seared his face at his second, embarrassingly easy defeat. He glared up, expecting some snarky remark how he was finally in his place. At her feet Instead, she was hurrying away, muttering, I’ve no time right now, no time at all She crouched by the crone he’d near-beheaded and used the dagger she was still holding to scoop out a chunk of brain? Brec sagged on his heels. She’d had that blade this entire time but hadn’t used it. Not even to threaten him with Lip curling, she ate the grey glob, shuddered and gagged. A few deep breaths, and she sliced open the witch’s belly, cut off a teensy bit of liver. An eat-swallow-gag repeat, then she wiped her red-stained fingers on the matron’s frilly dress A sense of déjà vu, a ghost of the day he was freed rose to the surface of his mind: Death’s angel stormed his cell gutted his most recent mistress cut off a morsel of liver, struggled to keep it down used the gown as a hand towel Eyes black as obsidian peered at him under the chime of falling shackles Brec studied the woman with renewed scrutiny Going around the hall, she cut into bodies, choking on nibbles of innards. Only one reason to do that—she was no witch but a devourer. A Witch Hunter Her kind had no gift yet could steal, and wield, any a witch’s. All they needed was a taste of the host’s blood. If still alive, that is. If dead, as long as just died, only the liver would do. So no idea why she would snack on the Priestess’ brains Perhaps she was a psycho Was she his angel as well, or did his memory play tricks on him? His cell had been unlit, her features barely discernible. But those doe eyes! And the way she choked on the mandatory pieces of flesh. How many fit that description? He got up, stepped closer. Not too close though. Brec may be a predator, but she was the predator. Bred to kill As he chanced another step toward her, she straightened, dagger held down by her thigh, and between them. A clear warning—she did not trust him. Fair enough Hands up in a peaceful display, he drew closer. Closer. Closer still. Eyes the color of bitter chocolate met his warily. Not black as obsidian… at least not now. Yet he knew. She was his Huntress. His liberator