Page 58 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

My laughter was cut off by a vision, and I hissed, “Don’t grab the blade when you set that down—you’ll slice your hand open.”

August froze, then shot me a glare. I shrugged, grinning.

“Occupational hazard,” I said, tapping my temple.

He smirked but rolled his eyes. “Thanks, babe. I’ll try not to maim myself on the axe.”

Instead of setting it beside the woodpile, he pivoted and threw it into the target pinned to a tree. It struck dead center with a resonant thunk, the handle still vibrating.

My brows lifted. Axe throwing wasn’t part of our usual arsenal.

Bjorn, perhaps?

That grin curled slowly across my face. Without looking away from the embedded weapon, I raised a hand. August slapped me a high five before scooping up the firewood. I crouched and did the same, relishing the sting of cold against my palms.

The world had long since surrendered to snow. Light glimmered across the surface like powdered glitter, the sky washed in gray, save for the smear of soft pastels fading over the western horizon. The last stretch of winter clung stubbornly to the mountains, storms rolling in exactly as I’d foreseen.

As we neared the cabin, the air thickened—woodsmoke, roasting meat, and pine. But beneath it all lingered something else. Familiar. Male.

I smirked at August as he scented him too.

“Kingsley?” he whispered.

I nodded, and we quickened our pace. Smoke curled from the metal chimney in lazy spirals.

“How didn’t we feel him?”

I raised my brows and waited.

August’s grin came slow, dawning bright. That’s what he does. That’s why we’re here.

I nodded again as we stepped onto the porch. August had a way of storing away little pieces of information for later retrieval. He preferred to rely on me for instant recall—maybe to flatter me, maybe because he liked hearing me talk—but when nudged, he remembered.

We call him the Alias. Freya may be the Wraith, but Kingsley? He can vanish—and he’s damn good at making others disappear with him.

Not the Smuggler?

My grin sharpened. That could work too, I guess.

August balanced the logs in one arm and opened the door for me. It swung inward with a soft squeak, letting warmth rush out to greet us. The roast filled the cabin with savory spices, my mouth watering on instinct. At least I’d remembered to buy enough portions.

Kingsley sat in the corner, perched in a low leather chair, his brown eyes fixed on the fire. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “If you’re going to eat my food and drink my coffee, you could at least call first.”

A coal burst in the iron stove, sending sparks popping.

I arched a brow. “I’d be happy to. Do you even own a phone?”

At that, Kingsley smiled wryly, brown eyes flicking up to me as he ran a hand over his tight russet curls. “Perhaps our anonymity might discourage visitors.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed, “if you didn’t have a clairvoyant for a cousin.”

“Indeed,” he sighed. “So. It’s time, then?”

My lips pressed into a thin line and I nodded once.

Another sigh. He didn’t try to hide the weight of it—shoulders sinking, expression pinched. Kingsley wasn’t precognitive, but like Aren, his intuition rarely led him astray. The response had been similar through all of our stops. Nobody wanted a visit from Aren’s Angel of Death. If Grayshell was asking for help, it meant things had gotten dire.

“Alright,” Kingsley muttered. “We start tomorrow.”