Hunters are a lonely breed, and Conor’s no exception, until the day he meets Brenna. Even though she slinks in unannounced and kills the wight he was hunting down, the girl’s a mystery and he can’t get that blinding smile or those gorgeous curves off his mind. Since they’re both after the same caster who’s unleashing these monsters, he suggests teaming up, and despite her initial reluctance, the hungry way she scans him down promises something powerful.
However, her secrets have repercussions, and faster than Conor can lift his Glock, he’s drawn into the web of kidnappings and Unseelie mischief, all concealing the machinations of a darker foe—one that plans to bring Philly to ruin.
If Conor Malone could ditch the responsibilities of his clan and somehow forget all the horrors he’d seen, he wouldn’t be stuck tromping through a nasty part of West Philly, trying to avoid stares and the permeating stench of bird shit. But no, the burden of tracking mythical beasts fell to those with the bad luck of being born into the wrong family. His family tree hearkened back to the likes of the Inquisition and Van Helsing—the original warriors against things that went bump in the night—hunters.
After passing the first couple of boarded-up houses and catching movement behind the cracked windows, Conor had his hand on his Glock. Despite the supernatural splatter board of blood, guts, and questionable ooze he’d witnessed through the years, he didn’t forget the atrocities humans were capable of.
Dark gray clouds collected overhead, laden and ready to spill over, although a sunny day wouldn’t make these streets any safer. High-crime cities like this one were the epicenters of the worst bloodsuckers, Unseelie fae, and a hodgepodge variety of nightmares crawling through the streets. Even with his trusty leather jacket on, he shivered as the cold wind swept the first few drops of rain to splash against his cheeks.
Because an easy hunt was too much to ask for. He heaved out a sigh as he picked up his pace toward the end of the block where the wight had last been spotted.
For the third time this week, one of those buggers cropped up in Philly, and he began to disbelieve coincidence. Move here, they said. You’ll always have work, they said. His dad’s friends might not be liars, but they were definitely dicks.
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A modern day Renaissance-woman, Katherine McIntyre has learned soapmaking, beer brewing, tea blending, and most recently roasting coffee. Most of which make sure she’s hydrated and bathed while she spends the rest of her time writing. With a desire to travel and more imagination than she knows what to do with, all the stories jumping around in her head led to the logical route of jotting them down on paper. She writes novels with take-charge women, ragtag crews, and emotionally savvy men. High chances for a passionate speech thrown into the mix.
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