Read The Witching Hour (The Grim Reaper Saga (Urban Fantasy Romance)) for Free Online

lethal, and loyal, battalion in all of faedom, but she couldn’t resist trying to prove her superiority even to death.
    He stopped, eyeing the guards. It would be so easy to take them for granted. They appeared fragile, and too lean by half. Each had hair tied back at the nape in a severe queue. Their delicate features made them look weak, effeminate.
    But they were lethal and always deadly, thanks to the sword attached to their dun colored scabbards. Resting within the hilt of each sword was a red stone. Mereth en draugrim : Feast of the wolves.
    One knick from the blade and the victim went instantly mad--beginning to crave such things as bloody meat, marrow from bones. It was a sickness that only overcame the sufferers when the moon grew pregnant with light. The truth of the Weres was that they were the original creation of the fae.
    Biting now spread the disease, and so the younger Weres had no knowledge of the truth. The ancients of course knew, but had always kept the secret for reasons of their own.    
    Cian had no fear the guards planned to use the swords on him, but the threat was redolent in the air.  
    “Grim reaper,” Cahal the lead guard, intoned in a deep, barrel chested voice.
    His nostrils flared. She had to know the force was unnecessary. Red-hot heat snapped down his spine, turned his blood to molten lava. A tightness centered in his chest, the dread and hatred he’d harbored in his soul, awoke from its slumber.
    “Let me pass, Cahal. I only wish to speak with the Queen,” he said, his words edged in steel.
    Cahal lifted a snow-white brow as a glitter of antipathy flared through his ice-blue eyes. “Absolutely not.”
    “Morrigan!” Cian yelled, knowing he was only multiplying the beating by refusing to come groveling to her heels, begging her forgiveness. But he no longer cared.
    Cahal hooked his arm through Cian’s. Cian turned on his heel and slammed his palm against Cahal’s cheek. More guards jumped on Cian.
    Fingers clawed into his flesh. Nails drew blood. He swung his fists, his feet, and yelled. “Craven whore,” he bellowed, praying the goddess would hear him. “Hiding behind your dogs. Meet me!”
    Bodies slammed into his back, bringing him to his knees under the weight choking the air from his lungs. But the adrenaline was spiking, adding a ferocity to his attack that bordered on madness.
    Cian writhed. This was a fury he’d suppressed for far too long. The indifference and hostility of the righteous fae toward his kind, the indignity of being called “dog” or worse yet, not being called anything at all, had the boiling hatred festering over.
    Snapping of bones. Quick grunts of breath being released. The muffled noise of flesh striking flesh. It was a song in his ears, he grinned as he felt the of blood (his own, theirs, he had no idea) slid down his face.
    He grabbed two heads and knocked them together. The dull sound was sickening as the bones crumpled against the other. A boot slammed into his face. His nose rammed up through his skull.
    Then more feet connected, busting in his teeth, his cheeks. He was on the ground now, face down and being crushed under the pressure of a blanket of bodies. They slammed sword hilts into his face; the explosion of razor sharp pain inside his brain was immediate and excruciating. He hissed, finally blacking out as one connected with his temple.
    Blessed oblivion.
     
    ***
     
    Badb and Nemain returned, gliding toward The Morrigan. They landed on either end of her throne and cawed.
    She caressed the thick rope of leather in her hand. “Is Cian shackled in the chambers below?” 
    She’d heard all the words the fool had spat as he’d fought with her guards. He’d pay for the remarks with blood--bright, crimson, and overflowing.
    Nemain blinked her ruby red eyes.
    “Good.” The Morrigan’s strode toward the hallway. Her fingers twitched with anticipation. Her obsidian gown tightened at the chest with the excited rise of her