I miss a step, suddenly transported to another place and another time when I was nestled in fiery arms, kept safe in the embrace of a hellhound who would have given his soul for me?—
Striker.
It’s been months since I remembered his name, let alone his scent. I’m certain this woman isn’t a hellhound herself, and yet she smells like the hellish fire of Striker’s beast.
It nearly sends me to the ground. Nearly forces my knees to buckle. The sudden weight of too many feelings… of connection and hope and love…
I shake myself. I need to focus. I don’t need those emotions anymore.
Even with my eyes momentarily closed, I’m not vulnerable. I can sense any attack from afar. But the level of power emanating from this woman tells me I need to be on my guard around her.
She continues to appear as unconcerned about my approach as she was about kneeling in broken glass. Her focus remains on the statue in front of her, but her words speak to a level of despondency that seems to defy any possibility of fear.
“Have you come to extract justice from me, Fury?” she asks.
There aren’t many supernaturals who would immediately identify what I am, especially in my current state of appearance.
My hair is tied back, and my telltale snakes are nowhere to be seen. I’ve also left my whip at home. There are no visible signs that I’m a Fury, so the fact that she knows what I am confirms how powerful she is.
“Should I?” I ask, keeping my voice light as I stop a mere two paces away from her. “Extract justice from you?”
“Yes,” she says, her shoulders slumping further. “For my failings. You should.”
I consider the broken glass. “It seems to me you may be punishing yourself enough already.”
She snorts before she finally raises her eyes to mine. “There is no punishment great enough to?—”
The sound dies in her throat, and her eyes widen as she stares at me.
“Dark saints,” she whispers, her lips remaining parted while her jaw has dropped.
I’m not sure what has alarmed her so much. She already sensed that I’m a Fury.
In a barely audible whisper, she says, “You’ve held a bone of Typhon.”
12. PEYTON PRICE
Warily, I consider the woman.
When she speaks of a bone of Typhon, she can only be referring to the White Wand. It was an ancient bone of that primordial deity, who was the father of all monsters.
I took hold of the bone and used it to defeat my enemies before I gave it to Striker and made him choose his path. He chose life.
I’m not sure how this woman could even know that I came into contact with the bone, let alone held it. And I’m not sure how to ask her without giving away information about myself. My instincts tell me that it would be unwise to confirm that I did, indeed, possess the wand at one time. At least, not until I know more about her.
I keep my expression neutral, limiting myself to a gentle arch of my eyebrows. “Typhon?” I ask as if I don’t know who that is.
The woman is on her feet in a flash, and for the briefest moment, the scent of fire grows stronger around her. Her gaze flashes across me, quickly searching my eyes. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“The bone.”
“What bone?” I ask.
Her brow furrows, a snarl on her lips that gives me a hint of her rage before she seems to rein it in.
She takes a deep breath, continuing to study me with piercing eyes while she says, “There are four.”
