Everett Frost: From Beloved Supermodel to Reformist Warlord
I freeze on the last one, re-reading his name over and over. Before I can get to the actual article, something moves in my peripheral vision.
Gripping my scythe, I whirl to see the two ghosts of the Nether vampires. They drift toward me, faces unfeeling as they seek my help to reach whatever afterlife monsters have.
This ability is already getting annoying.
“Nope. You two assholes can wait for Mommy Dearest,” I mutter, ready to get out of here and track down my quintet.
Grabbing the map marked with a big star showing I’m somewhere in West Virginia, I slip it into my borrowed coat pocket and leave the house. A conspiracy of ravens greets me with throaty croaks as I crunch through more snow, exhaustion weighing heavily on my strangely weak body.
Starting the engine of the car, I try to figure out how to back the damn thing up. After a few futile minutes, I scowl, put the car in drive, and hit the gas despite the pain flaring in my ankle. Crashing through part of a picket fence, I swerve haphazardly onto what I hope is the road.
If I’m in West Virginia, at least now I have an idea of where to go.
I just hope Halfton is still standing.
3
EVERETT
Walking through the white,mind-numbing nothingness of the blizzard is soothing. It almost makes it easier to stop thinking. To stop remembering.
Almost.
I love you.
The echo of the worst moment of my life haunts me even here, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere on a Tuesday in what is supposed to be summertime. Behind me, Asher Douglas nearly trips over something buried in the rising snow and cusses me out for the ninth time since we started this trek ten minutes ago.
“If you could stop with this never-ending winter, that'd be great,” he grits, catching up to me again.
The redheaded, burly ex-bounty hunter is taller than I am and bundled in so many winter coats that he would probably roll if I pushed him down the slight slope we're on.
I’m tempted. This mercenary is almost as much of a loudmouth as Baelfire was.
The passing thought of that dragon makes me wince before I turn to scan our surroundings. We’re on a large hill leading up to a copse of trees, which must be where we’re headed. Littleblack shapes are scattered in the tree branches, which is fucking irritating.
I already know what those are.
“Just transport us closer next time,” I mutter, annoyed when I hear a deep croak from up ahead.
Douglas adjusts his scarf to scratch at the bounty hunter tattoo on the column of his neck, shooting me a dirty look. “I’ve told you, transportation magic is an exact form of common magic. I’m only good with healing and wild magic spells. I’ve proven I’m shit at transporting, yet you have me transport you all the fucking time. It’s like asking a godsdamned toddler to paint you a portrait. Next time, hire a caster whose specialties match your needs.”
No point. This useful mercenary has earned my trust, which is rare nowadays.
Plus,sheonce took an inexplicable liking to him. That makes him a reminder worth keeping.
I ignore his continual griping and the exhaustion weighing on me as we approach the trees where there’s less snow. Sure enough, all the black blobs turn out to be ravens. There are half a dozen of them here, watching me.
They’re always watching.
I am so fuckingsickof being stared at.
Douglas doesn’t notice my growing irritation or how it makes the wind howl with more snow. He gets his bearings and quickly leads me to a crumpled skeleton at the foot of the biggest tree.
Trying to ignore the damn birds, I squat and brush aside dead leaves and snow to examine the remains. Sure enough, dark runes emblazoned on what’s left of the bones tell me it belonged to a necromancer. This one has all the same markers as the others we’ve found.
According to the medical examiner who almost shit himself when I dragged him to a similar site months ago, all signs pointto these necromancers’ cause of death being strangulation by their own intestines.
