PROLOGUE
Excerpted fromThe Book of Stars
Author unknown
Warning: Living text subject to change
They are ancient warriors, evil to the core and loyal only to one another. Known as the Astra Planeta, Wandering Stars, Warlords of the Skies—the beginning of the end—they travel from world to world, wiping out enemy armies. Drawn to war, they turn even the smallest skirmish into a bloodbath.
Glimpse these warlords, and you’re soon to greet your death.
Having no moral compass, they kill without mercy, steal without qualm, and destroy without guilt. Their aim is simple, their goal fixed. Revive a mystical blessing to experience victory for five hundred years, whatever the cost. A necessary requirement in their endless battle with Erebus the Deathless, the Dark One, Master of the Depths. Without this blessing, the Astra automatically acquire a curse. Five hundred years of utter defeat.—Page 1
The time has come to renew the blessing or lose it. One after the other, each of the nine Astra will be charged with an impossible task. Two have already proven successful. Let the third now demonstrate his worth. His name is Roux Pyroesis, Son of Mars, the Torture Master—the Crazed One. A violent past has left him unable to experience the touch of another without experiencing terrible pain.
Using a trinite blade, Roux must cut out the heart of the most powerful female in existence: the Ation queen. For a ruthless killer and expert in agony, there should be no easier task. End another life? With pleasure. For this battle-hardened warrior, a victim is a victim. But how will he react when he discovers his newest target is a beauty he can touch without experiencing pain—a fierce harphantom gifted to him by Fate?—Page 10,521
1
THE INVASION
Harpina, the harpyrealm
Two months ago
“I would do bad things for a maple-glazed donut,” Blythe the Undoing said to the warrior with his back to her. She smiled when he slowly pivoted. A window display of at-home guillotines loomed behind him.Themust-have this summer season.
They stood in the middle of the town square, surrounded by overcrowded shops and harpies in a hurry to get somewhere. How could Blythe not notice the grade A man-beef amid the chaos? He was six feet three of sculpted muscle, golden skin, and rugged appeal, with a wild dirty blond mane.
Just her type.
“Any interest in acquiring a maple-glazed donut?” Blythe inquired, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.
“Perhaps.” He gave her a languid once-over. “Tell me more about these bad things.”
He stood beneath an awning, at home in the shadows. He’d obviously tried to blend in with the other males in the realm, wearing a well-fitted white cable-knit sweater, worn jeans, and scuffed combat boots. Standard nice guy attire. Not really her thing. But thick leather wrist cuffs and multiple spiked rings hinted at the rough alpha within.
“I don’t know if you can handle the heat,” she said, flirting.
Leering at her, he asked, “Are you sure a sweet thing like you can handlemyheat?”
Blythe inwardly fanned her cheeks. Well, well, well. No more hints about the alpha within. He’d decided to show off. “Me? Sweet?” She batted her lashes at him. “I come with a warning, handsome. Small dynamite, big boom.”
After all, she was the centuries-old daughter of the legendary Tamera the Widow-maker and two ancient evil gods.
Yes, Blythe had three parents. No, she didn’t want to consider how.
Anyway. With such a stellar bloodline, she wielded abilities even the oldest of immortals struggled to comprehend. Granted, she hadn’t used those abilities in eight years, and her skills were embarrassingly rusty. But. Once upon a time, she’d been a highly skilled and merciless assassin.
Although, yes, she might be considered sweetness itself when compared to a manticore. A being able to morph into a wonderfully grotesque combination of a lion and a scorpion. And that’s exactly what this guy was. The mane always gave them away.
Manticores topped the short list of the fiercest, slyest shifter species in existence. Her favorite flavor of jam. Didn’t hurt that this particular manticore practically burned her corneas. Hot, hot, hot!
Voice throaty, he said, “Then I’d better acquire a maple-glazed donut.”
“Yes, you’d better.” Slits in her leather top allowed the small wings on her back to flutter freely as she stepped into the shade, pressing against him. “But first, I should make a down payment.”
Laban, her consort of eight years and the father of her only child, Isla, wrapped strong arms around her waist and grinned. “You are too sexy for your own good.”