Wanted dead or alive by three warring Goddesses, Oriana must journey into the heart of the Thornwood to seek the aid of a legendary phoenix and right the wrongs of her bloody past.
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Gordon didn't expect a warm welcome home from his heavily pregnant wife.
He certainly found it strange that as he turned onto his street, the Blood Moon Alpha walked out the front door, rare moonlight silvering the pale man's ashen whiskers.
And when Gordon shouldered his way inside, he definitely didn't expect to find Mysandra's lips sealed to the neck of a bottle, cheeks hollowed out as she sucked the last dregs dry.
"What are you doing?" Gordon shouted, knocking the bottle from her hand. It shattered on the stone hearth, shards flashing as they dispersed.
"How dare you?" she gasped, climbing to her swollen feet. One arm cradled the baby bump as if she hadn't just been guzzling poison that could stunt the child's development. Their child. "That was a gift!"
A million retorts came to mind, but all of them stalled as Gordon registered her attire — or rather, her lack of it. It was the shift of silky black netting she reserved for special occasions, like their anniversary. Raven hair spilled down her back, unbound and brushed to a careful shine, and there was even a touch of kohl around her cornflower eyes.
She'd been expecting her visitor. There were even two goblets on the table, but one was still full to the brim; Rogan hadn't stayed for long. Seeing him staring, Mysandra snatched at it, only for Gordon to backhand the goblet and send it sailing from her fingers. Wine raced through the air, splattering the wall like fresh blood.
For an instant Gordon lurched between memory and the present, a scream curdling in his ears. He yanked his elbow up and pulled the dagger against the resistance of another woman's throat, sagging with relief as the sound gave way to a wet gurgle and the judgment in their eyes went dark.
Yet another he'd killed for his lady wife. To help her climb the social ladder. To give the child growing in her womb the life it deserved, the capacity to choose its own fate, as Mysandra had reminded him time and time again. You either lead or you are led, she used to say, when she still deigned to talk to him.
And now she was killing their child slowly because she couldn't withstand the discomfort of six measly months without her vices. After all Gordon had sacrificed — all that life, his own humanity — she still shut him out and sought solace in the bottom of a bottle instead of his arms.
Gordon didn't know what that said about him.
A glimmer of residue on the wall caught his eye: mushy white flakes, like bits of desiccated parsnip collecting at the bottom of a soup bowl. "A gift from who?" he growled, dragging his finger through the garish muck. Whatever it was, it was gritty. Pulpy. "Answer me, woman."
