Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 127527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 638(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 638(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
“You and your brothers keep an eye on things here in this realm now,” she guessed. “You watch out for signs that some might be around.”
“Do we?” Viper asked, airy.
She flapped an unimpressed hand at his evasiveness. “Whatever. Just remember not all hell-born who come here do so with ill-will.”
Viper held up his hands, his expression serious. “I’ll only have an issue with those who do. You don’t need to worry that I’ll come for your hellhorse.”
“If that changes and you target him, I’ll come for you.”
Viper smiled. “You know what, I like you.”
“So you should. I’m fucking amazing.”
He laughed and then turned to his brothers, who all stood around looking casual as you please even while injured and boasting streaks of blood on their skin and clothes. They looked not one bit unsettled by the evening’s experience. More like amped up. As if they’d just left a concert or live sports’ event or something.
Once the fallen angels had tended to the bloodhounds—like Maddox, they had the ability to heal wounds—they offered to help the ravens. The stubborn avians were having none of that, though. As such, the Black Saints then teleported out of the camp.
Teague swept his gaze over the clearing, taking in the bodies, ashes, and gore. “Let’s clean up.” As a thought occurred to him, he frowned at Larkin. “What took you so long to get here?”
She lightly scratched the corner of her mouth with one nail. “Huh. Funny story.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Leaning against the wagon’s bedroom doorjamb an hour or so later, Larkin watched as a broody Teague roughly kicked off his shoes, his expression hard as granite. “Are you going to be like this all night?” she asked.
“Like what?” he bit out, sharply swiping out his foot to kick both shoes into the corner near the laundry bag.
“Snippy and gruff.”
He shot her a petulant look. “I’m not snippy or gruff.”
“Not usually, no. But your current mood is somewhat foul.”
His lips tightening, he planted his hands on his hips and glared at her. “Of course it is. You were kidnapped earlier.”
Larkin bit down on her lower lip. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t reacted too well on learning what had delayed her arrival. His face had flushed a deep red, and a string of harsh expletives had all but exploded out of his mouth. He’d then gone on something of a rant, fluidly pacing up and down like a caged animal.
Knowing she would have reacted in a similar fashion in his shoes, Larkin had remained silent as he’d ranted, letting him get it all out of his system. His clan had done the same, sensing he needed it. Eventually, he’d cut himself off, sucked in a long breath, and announced that they all needed to focus on cleanup. So that was what they had done.
With the help of Slade, Archer, and Tucker, she and Teague had piled up every corpse—hell-animal, chupacabra, and hellhorse—and then eradicated them with hellfire. The smell of so much burning flesh and meat had been nauseatingly atrocious. Several hard flaps of Larkin’s wings had thankfully cleared the air of the terrible scents and had also sent all the ashes scattering.
Meanwhile, Leo had dug out a hose and used it to rinse away blood spatter and other bits of gore from the wagons, trees, and ground. It hadn’t been a fast or easy job, but the meticulous male had persevered until not a trace remained.
Saxon and Gideon had washed the dogs’ blood-matted coats with shampoo. Most of them had liked it. But Reggie had made whines of complaint during the entire process, and Dutch had tried to run off a few times as if they were bathing him in acid. Hugo, on the other hand, had fallen asleep mid-wash.
Once the hounds were all clean, Saxon and Gideon had put their collars back on. The simple act had morphed them back into their typical-canine form. According to Archer, a mage down in hell had enchanted the collars so that they’d alter the bloodhounds’ forms.
The ravens had washed themselves in the birdbaths in the wooded area. Baths that the guys had placed there, away from prying eyes, because the flock apparently didn’t like to bathe with an audience . . . like they stripped naked or something. It was weird, but Larkin didn’t say as much.
Once the cleanup was over, Tucker and Slade had made sandwiches for everyone. With the exception of Tucker, who’d made a point of washing his hands, the hellhorses had immediately gathered around the firepit to eat—evidently uncaring that their clothes and skin were still stained with blood.
They’d chatted between bites of their food, casual and relaxed. Like they hadn’t just participated in a battle. Maybe she should have expected such nonchalance, but it had surprised her.
Unlike the others, Teague hadn’t done much chatting. He’d mostly just sat there, surly and sullen, chewing a little too hard on his sandwich. As such, she’d known that he was still stewing over what went down with Holt.