Join Hekla and the remnants of the Bloodaxe Crew as they battle the evil, poisonous mist threatening the citizens of Istré--and perhaps all of Íseldur--in a novella following the events of Traveling the Road of Bones was only the start of Hekla’s troubles. The Bloodaxe Crew have arrived at the village of Istré--beleaguered and missing three of their members. They might be down in numbers, but Hekla “Rib Smasher” is determined they’ll complete their job all the same: defeat the monstrous, sentient mist and keep the citizens of Istré safe. What she didn’t expect is for Istré’s bull-headed chieftain to block her every move. Exasperated, Hekla throws caution to the wind for a single passion-filled night. But to her horror, the mysterious, red-cloaked warrior to whom she’d spilled her deepest secrets is the Bloodaxe Crew’s new temporary leader and ally--Eyvind Hakonsson. Hekla must now learn to play by Eyvind’s rules while guarding her heart. But when it becomes clear that his plans align with the chieftain’s, Hekla takes matters into her own hands. Nothing will stop her from keeping the innocent people of Istré safe--not even the man who haunts her thoughts.

Autorentext
Demi Winters is the author of The Road of Bones and Kingdom of Claw, books featuring softer female leads, grumpy heroes, and immersive worlds. Lover of all things fairy-tale, fantasy, and romance, Winters lives in British Columbia, Canada, with her husband and two kids. When she’s not busy brainstorming fantastical worlds and morally gray love interests, she loves reading and cooking.

Leseprobe
Chapter One

One week before the end of Kingdom of Claw

Istré

Hekla silently cursed herself as she peeled away from the warm firm body wrapped around hers. There was an art to extracting oneself from a bed companion—an art Hekla had never needed to learn. She had rules for dealing with her paramours, after all: No soft sentiments and no spending the night. But above all else, Hekla never allowed a man to have power over her.

Now she’d pay the price for breaking her rules. Hekla refused to consider how this man had convinced her to spend the night, not while contorting her body to slide out from under his heavy arm. Her bare feet hit the floor, and Hekla’s chest swelled with victory. But the incoherent mutterings coming from the bed made panic spiral inside her. There was movement behind her, and Hekla braced herself for the man to awaken. But he simply rolled onto his back and stilled.

Releasing a long exhale, she slunk from the bed. Her first thought was that she was utterly naked and without her prosthetic arm. Her second was that brigands must have broken into the room. Bleary-eyed, she blinked at the chaos before her. A chair overturned near the hearth, fur rugs bunched and jumbled about.

The grandeur of her paramour’s chambers was startling in the light of day. Between the twin hearths on either end of the room and the enormity of the bed in which her companion currently snored, she wondered how much such lodgings had cost him. But Hekla gave herself a mental shake and began the painstaking process of fishing her tunic and breeches from the detritus in the room. Where in the gods’ sacred ashes had her arm gone?

Pulling her tunic over her head, Hekla tried to piece last night’s events together. It had been the first of the Winter Nights, a celebration honoring the end of the harvest season, and the whole of Istré had gathered in the mead hall. Hekla had been in a sour mood. Her reasons were twofold: First, Istré’s local chieftain had gone forward with the celebrations despite the threat of a murderous mist. And second, the blockhead had refused her participation in the festival’s fighting games.

Instead, Hekla had watched Istré’s locals stumble around the ring, knowing she could best them all while blindfolded. It had been a frustrating night indeed; that was, until she’d found an outlet for said frustrations.

Hekla glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping man. An assortment of shining black braids spilled across his angular cheekbones and jaw, his full lips buried in a neatly trimmed beard. A memory flashed in her mind of those lips pressing kisses up her sternum. She whipped away from him with a shaky breath and resumed searching for her missing arm.

She’d been reckless to lose track of it.

A sharp sound split the air, and Hekla’s hand went instinctively to her dagger. It took her a moment to realize it was only the man’s snores. He rolled once more, but she sensed he’d soon awaken.

Where was her gods-damned arm? She considered leaving without it. She could write to Axe Eyes. Have him arrange the production of a new one. The Tailor still had her measurements. Hekla could continue this job one-armed until a replacement was found.

It was at this moment that a gleam caught her eye—her arm, buried beneath a rug near the hearth. And with that, another unwelcome memory surged back. An expanse of golden skin as the man lay on that rug, clutching her hips while Hekla rode him . . .

She forced the thought aside and snatched her prosthesis before edging toward the door. Hand on the door latch, Hekla couldn’t resist one last look toward the bed. But as she glanced his way, her companion’s dark eyelashes fluttered.

With serpent-quick speed, Hekla dashed through the door. She didn’t dare breathe until she reached her own chambers.

• “Open up, Fire Fist!” Hekla bellowed, pounding her left fist against Gunnar’s door. “The crew from Kopa is here and we’re to meet them this morning!” She paused, waiting for any sign of life in the room beyond. As expected, only silence met her ears.

  With a sigh, Hekla rested her forehead against the door, sorrow and worry mingling within her. Ever since Ilías’s death, Gunnar had been a shadow of himself, preferring to stay enclosed in his rooms. Hekla had done what she could to help him through his grief—had brought him food, drawn him baths, and even urged him to speak of his sorrows. And while she’d been content to pick up the slack so Gunnar could grieve in peace, today was different.

  Hekla had returned to her chambers to find a note beneath her door. It seemed Eyvind bloody Hakonsson had arrived in Istré to take over the job with the mist, and he was three days early. Had Hekla known she’d be expected at the arse crack of dawn, she wouldn’t have partaken in such late-night activities.

  “Come on, Gunnar,” Hekla pleaded, thunking her head against the door. “Let us go down for the daymeal. Meet Hakonsson and his men. Then you can return to your chambers.”

  A floorboard groaned, and the door cracked open, revealing Gunnar’s tall, broad frame, clad in a rumpled tunic. His skin, normally a vibrant, deep brown, was ashen. New lines were carved beneath his eyes and into his brow. He looked, to put it mildly, like he’d aged a decade since Ilías’s death.

  Hekla schooled her face to hide her reaction.

  “Let us get through this,” said Gunnar blandly, closing the door behind him and pushing past Hekla.

  With a relieved exhale, Hekla trailed behind him. She wished she could find the right thing to say to Gunnar—to bring back the jovial Fire Fist who loved puns and pocketing everyone’s sólas at games of dice. But everything had changed since that day on the Road of Bones. They’d lost No Beard that day, the Wolf and Axe Eyes soon after. Never in a hundred years would Hekla have guessed she’d be holding the Bloodaxe Crew togethe…