Night stalker, p.1
Night Stalker, page 1
Night Stalker
PREQUEL NOVELLA
BRANWYN BLOOD: THE EXILED FAE OF TEXAS
BOOK 0.5
L.B. CARTER
For Chanell
Who fought with love
Protected with hugs
And encouraged with joie de vivre.
Who saw with her heart
And shared it with all
Who unknowingly needed her.
Rest in peace and love, flicka.
Contents
Note to the Reader
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
What’s Next From the Tylwyth Teg?
Body Snatcher Sneak Peek
Books by L.B. Carter
About the Author
©2022 L.B. Carter
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Jessica Allain at Enchanted Covers
Interior art by Damian (@Damian.in.the.den on Instagram)
About the Book
From Underhill to Hill Country… exiled Fae hunt for vengeance.
A failed mission. A chance for redemption.
A shamed half-breed Fae seeks to recover all she lost.
A failed mission. A chance for redemption. A shamed half-breed Fae seeks to recover all she lost.
My name is—well, I shouldn’t tell you; there’s power in knowing an Elf’s name. And Uncle just used mine to send me on a dangerous mission for the king... alone.
He’s hoping I won’t return, neatly eliminating the family’s shame. I’ve been trying to compensate for being half Pwca my whole life. Now, it’s time to embrace it.
I’m not the only one after the child. But the prize my foe covets will be mine. I will get my redemption and my revenge.
I refuse to lose what little I have left.
Night Stalker is the origin story of the Branwyn Blood: The Exiled Fae of Texas series by award-winning, internationally bestselling author L.B. Carter, which intertwines dark Welsh/Celtic lore, supernatural crime mystery, and mercenary action in a noir urban fantasy with antiheroes, gray villains, and diverse characters.
Note to the Reader
This novella is a gift for my newsletter subscribers in thanks for their ongoing support. Please do not link, share, or otherwise distribute this story. It’s JUST for YOU!
The Branwyn Blood: The Exiled Fae of Texas series intertwines dark Welsh/Celtic lore, supernatural crime mystery, and mercenary action in a tense noir urban fantasy with antiheroes, gray villains, strong women, and diverse characters that reflect real people.
This haunting series is perfect for fans of Patricia Briggs (Mercy Thompson), Faith Hunger (Jane Yellowrock), Shannon Mayer (Rylee Adamson), Ilona Andrews (Kate Daniels), and Seanan McGuire (October Daye).
Please note this series contains some language, disturbing scenes, and themes of abuse/oppression in this series that may be triggering for some readers.
Check out the mood board on Pinterest. And the character art (including a few from this novella) on my blog and the series page.
I hope you enjoy Night Stalker! Stay tuned for more Branwyn Blood via my newsletter. Sign up at LBCarter.com.
Happy reading and stay curious!
~L.B. xx
Prologue
The child sleeps soundly as the Gwrach y Rhibyn folds her membranous leather wings and lands on the quaint bungalow roof. A greasy strand of stringy dark hair slides from behind her hunched shoulder, and she lets out a low, keening moan toward the moon.
The irresistible scent of the child on the faint breeze passing through the valleys drew her in; it was stronger than usual and new in the area, fresh, unique. The musk was like an appetizer, taunting her with the succulent nectar that was to come.
In anticipation of the sharp tang of blood sliding luxuriously down her throat, saliva pools in her mouth and snakes unheeded down a row of pointed, slender, onyx fangs.
A similar rivulet trickles down a well-worn path from the corner of her eye to her chin.
“My child,” the Hag of the Mist rasps in a weak sob. “My child.”
Her bare feet tramp across the tiles, causing them to clack against each other. The house frame creaks beneath her slight weight, belying its age. Likely, it’s younger than the terrifying creature of the night who drops to her knees and crawls the last short distance toward the eaves above the child’s bedroom.
She hadn’t had conscious intention that night when she came out of one of her reveries and succumbed to her thirst. Dragging her emaciated body from a starved stupor, she’d emerged from her hidden river cove high in the Welsh forests ready to hunt for blood.
Her attention is scattered and blurry from deficiency. She would not notice if anyone snuck up on her, so focused is she on her own target.
Twitching a shrewd gaze over her shoulder, the Gwyllion scans the dark residential street. Only the trees shift, swaying slightly in the wind in the sparsely populated town. Moonlight plays on the leaves as they danced, generating a shushing sound like rushing water.
But the elves are one with the shadows; any could be lurking in wait.
What more could they steal from her? Taking her life would be a mercy; they would never offer her that kindness.
Her stomach clenches painfully, long past the point of growling, and Gwrach y Rhibyn digs her claws into her midsection until warmth flows over nearly translucent skin stretched taught around a frail skeleton. She inhales deeply, the aroma of her own blood, though less sweet than any man’s or child’s, snaking into flared nostrils.
Her mind goes berserk, escalating her desire into an uncontrollable craze.
Wrapping her nails around the lip of the roof, she slides forward on her stomach with the lubricating aid of the seeping wound. Gwrach y Rhibyn snaps her wings out again, letting the sharp talon at the curve of each black appendage hook between roofing tiles for purchase. Her hair cascades like black wax ahead of her descent as she stretches her wings until her view lowers below the top of the window frame.
The hag’s ragged breath catches as she sees the lump curled in the bed. So small. So innocent.
Hers.
Another hunger pang stabs through her belly, and a wanton groan slips from her thin lips.
The child tosses and turns.
The monster in the window watches and waits until the little one is still for several minutes before reaching out her gnarled fingers and prying the window open.
She’s careful to pause and ease it over a particularly creaky segment, wary of disturbing the child’s slumber. When the opening is no wider than a foot, she slithers inside, tucking her wings tight to her emaciated frame to fit through.
A gust of wind that follows her in skims across the top of her hair, fresh air flicking around the stale scene. Keeping to the shadows, she circumvents the spotlight of the moonbeam. The lock clicks in the bedroom door, then the hag creeps toward the bed, careful not to awaken the serene child. Her crooked back cracks as she rises, her gaze glued to the peaceful being.
Hers.
A different kind of ache burns her core. For a moment, someone else appears asleep before her. Age-old grief grips her heart.
Her baby had been ripped from her, leaving her empty, searching, alone…
“My child, my child.”
This one could be hers, her child.
A gnarled hand stretches out, barely visible in the gloom, and gently brushes the child’s rosy cheek, plump and warm. Gwrach y Rhibyn’s breath skitters out in a rush.
The child stirs again.
“Shhh.”
Bending low, the wraith inhales talcum powder and lavender soap. A drip of saliva plops on the blanket tucked up under the child’s chin. Gwrach y Rhibyn pulls it down to expose the girl’s neck and fixates on the pulsing artery.
A frown distorts the child’s placid face for a moment. When nothing moves again, she settles into the lull of her dreams.
After a trying pause, the hag opens her jaws wide, the full row of black, snakelike teeth poised over flushed skin. Quickly, she pierces the supple flesh to avoid hurting the child, and a taste more divine than anything she’s previously sampled floods her mouth, cascading down her parched throat.
The spice of magic is unexpected in the human realm. A changeling? A… one of them?
The taste turns sour, and the drinker rears back.
But no. The child’s ears are less prominent; her skin tone has a darker tint, like muddy water thick with sediment; her facial structure more natural, less perfect. A dirty nail lifts the young girl’s lip, revealing teeth that appear human.
The child groans and pulls away, turning on her side. The dark puncture wounds stare at the hag. And she stares back, waiting impatiently for sleep to steady the rise and fall of the child’s ribcage.
Then the spirit lunges, desperate for more.
That spice… it is bizarre but not unwelcome. The hag makes a low sound of delight, sucking hard, gulping back thick swallows of rich blood.
A tap on the window snaps Gwrach y Rhibyn’s awareness away from her meal. Whipping her head around, she huddles over the girl protectively, teeth displayed in threat.
Hers.
Across the room, moonlight glints off a pair of large milky eyes, sharp white teeth, and gleaming silver hair. The hag inhales hard in a hiss of annoyance, and the scent that filters through the open window confirms the identity of the voyeur.
That is one of them… a monster… a Fae.
Gwrach y Rhibyn snarls softly.
Here to take another child. Hers. That’s what they do. They take.
No.
They have taken enough. She fought their kind off before and failed. Not this time.
Hers.
The monster will die before she claims the innocent.
It isn’t simply an intention; it’s an inevitability, a truth. Because as soon as the thought congeals in the wraith’s mind, a scream expels from her throat, foretelling the end of a life.
The spry woman has already infiltrated the space, unwelcome in the child’s domain. So, Gwrach y Rhibyn’s deafening pitch causes the intruder to pause for a split second in a wince as she withdraws the wooden stake from a sheath at her hip. The room is too confined to allow her to retrieve the bow from her shoulders, and the iron dagger on her thigh is useless against a being that was once human.
In that moment of hesitation, the old specter’s hand shoots across the bed, and her claws slash first one way then the other, leaving several crisscrossing streaks of mauve on the Fae woman’s chest.
She sucks a breath in through her teeth and trips backward but withholds further noise.
The Fae care about secrecy.
The Hag of the Mist cares about the children.
Taking advantage of her stumble, the old woman pushes the fight further away from the child. Unfortunately, that moves her into proximity with the poignant fragrance of the freshly spilled blood. Dire thirst, unquenched due to the interruption to her feeding, tugs her blindly closer.
Gwrach y Rhibyn cries out as the stake pierces her side without warning, wrenching away and swiping her hand in retaliation. The Fae crashes into the wall.
“Bran? Branwyn! What’s wrong?” The frantic voices of the child’s parents accompany a sudden banging on the door.
The first scream, the banshee proclamation, must have woken them. The second, when the stake lodged in her side, brought them running.
The door rattles as they attempt to open it. “Bran, open the door! Is it a nightmare?”
The child herself cowers in the corner of the bed, crying and shivering.
None of them need worry. The child is safe. The hag will ensure it. Hers.
The child’s special blood sings in her arteries, strengthening her like she hasn’t been in months. A cruel grin pulls at cracked lips, causing the desiccated skin to split. She laps up the seepage, but it does nothing for her. She craves Fae blood now.
A second hit to the disoriented woman sends her to the floor, slow to roll over, struggling to rise onto her hands and knees. The wraith raises a hand to slash fragile gossamer wings and stops.
No wings.
The Fae appears to be past puberty. She must be defective. She has no easy escape. She will be left a husk, just as her kind did to the hag.
“Death comes,” she predicts.
The Fae rolls her head in a daze and blinks one unfocused eye, the other eyelid slit, covered in blood, and swollen shut.
Involuntarily, the hag’s spiked tongue flicks out to lick the succulent droplets. She takes no care when ripping a new opening in the Fae’s throat. The Hag of the Mist shudders; the tingle is there again, but the taste is acrid, earthy, and sour, nothing like the child.
It’s wrong.
But it is also right—it is just.
The sweet fulfillment of vengeance washes over her senses. The parents’ desperation vanishes from her awareness. The groans of her victim, which lessen as she becomes compliant, nearing death, fade into white noise.
Some unknown amount of time later, something heavy knocks into her, halting the transfer. She snarls, spinning to face the new threat.
A great dragon swells to fill the space, unfurling out of nothing.
A Ddraig?
The child is distraught now, and her parents weep from the other side of the door. Sirens wail through the open window.
How has a dragon come in through such a small entry?
In seeming answer, the dragon shrinks below her waist. Scales smoothen into grey skin, hair sprouts, and horns roll into overlarge ears that protrude from a round face. Wings retract into spindly arms, and rear legs become as short and stout as tree stumps.
Not a Ddraig. A shapeshifter. Another Fae. This kind preys on humans as well, but they stay out of her way, their lights waiting in the swamps downstream; she feeds how she needs, and the will-’o-the-whisp do the same.
But now, he is intervening.
He edges in front of the Fae woman in a defensive stance. The goblin is there to protect, as the hag does the child.
The shapeshifter brandishes his teeth, designed for grinding through bone, tearing muscle from flesh, and ripping apart tendons. He has no other obvious weapon, but his ability to shift into any creature gives him an advantage.
Yet, he chooses not to return to Ddraig form—or any other dangerous animal—a curious decision.
He shuffles slightly away from the woman.
Ah. She is his weakness. He is afraid of hurting her.
She flexes her claws and stretches her lips wider in a facsimile of a grin.
The door behind Gwrach y Rhibyn crashes open before she can pounce. She peers over her shoulder, turning her head unnaturally far around, and releases a hiss of frustration.
In that pause, the window shatters.
While she’d been distracted, the monster’s friend has absconded with her. Mimicking a dragon’s form once more, he’s smashed the entire window, frame and all, to the ground, creating a massive hole in the wall.
The humans crowd the frail old woman with weapons while the parents cradled the child and rush from the room.
No! Hers. Her child. Taken again.
Backing out of reach, the wraith laments, a wail of loss forcing the humans to press their palms to their ears. Infuriated, the Hag of the Mist dives into the night, flying high over the trees, leaving the humans to gape after her.
Whether it’s their imagination—a vivid nightmare, a trick of the light—or if they believe in the supernatural, the legends will be perpetuated.
Either way, humans will continue to fear the creatures of the night, the creatures that steal into their realm from Underhill and terrorize. As they should.
And so, now, should the shapeshifter and the Fae woman fear the Hag of the Mist.
Chapter
One
Hanging a story above ground with one hand, I’m tempted to crumple the letter. The moment my fingers curl, however, it fizzles out of existence, raining sparkles that zap my skin gently. The summons is gone before I can tip it closer to the faint glow emanating from the moon to try to glean a few words more than my name.
My true name.
I relatch my fingers around the bending flower box rim. Dread cramps my stomach. The last time my uncle called me to court—the only other time in my life I’ve seen my true name on paper—was after… to scold me. Being injured and unconscious is no excuse.
