Page 1 of Crown Me (Immortal Vices and Virtues: All Hallows’ Eve #3)

Bron

I let the wolf shifter land the first punch.

He’s a newcomer to this fine establishment and doesn’t yet know his place.

That’s okay. He’ll learn soon enough.

Oomph! I let out my breath and stumble back a step, making a show of knocking into the side of the bar, as if his wild swing into my stomach might have winded me.

The nearest patron, a stately man sitting only three feet away, side-eyes me without fluster, deftly catching the barstool I knocked over before it can hit the ground.

The stately man was trying to grab my attention before the wolf shifter—who, judging by the scent of him, is as drunk as a skunk—swerved into me and then had the audacity to tell me to watch where I’m going.

I raise a finger to the stately patron. “Give me a second.”

He answers me with a quiet nod and that’s all we have time for before I’m compelled to return my attention to the wolf.

I evade the wolf’s second swing, catch him easily around his stomach, and drive him back toward the only empty seat at the nearest table.

“Sit,” I say, shoving him into the chair.

His head lolls as he blinks rapidly and cranes his neck, trying to look up and focus on me. He’s also trying to get back to his feet, but both of my hands are placed firmly on his shoulders, keeping him in his place.

I’m not a small person.

Most supernaturals think twice about picking a fight with me.

Particularly because those who know me also know I’m the owner of this establishment and pissing off the owner of this establishment is known to be a bad thing.

I may not be standing behind the bar serving the drinks or wiping glasses until they’re squeaky clean, and I may not bat an eyelid at the odd brawl, but I demand a certain decorum.

Number 1 on my list: Don’t pick a fight with the owner.

“Stay,” I order the shifter, quickly glancing back at the bartender—another wolf shifter, albeit a very sober one—who is quickly mixing up a concoction to calm the troublemaker.

I recognize the small vial of pink potion, two drops of which the bartender drips into the drink he’s preparing.

A powerful witch prepared that pink potion for these exact scenarios. When ingested, the liquid will bring on sudden and complete sobriety.

“You don… wanna… fight me?” the shifter slurs, struggling weakly against my hold.

When he can’t get free, he tries to twist far enough to poke a finger at my chest. “What are you? Chicken ?”

The room falls quiet.

Whatever hum of conversation was still sputtering along during our tussle stops.

The place is packed and all heads turn our way, some faces filled with trepidation, others with glee. Patrons who come to my bar are often travelers who know they can stop here for a break on their journey around the hot Sahara Desert.

They know what’s what.

My grip tightens around the shifter’s shoulders.

Now he’s really pissed me off.

“Chickens are noble creatures.” I growl, a hint of my animal surging upward that makes the other patrons sitting at this same table hurriedly push back their chairs and skuttle away. “I’d be happy to be a chicken.”

The wolf’s eyes widen. He must have enough smarts left within his liquor-addled brain to realize he just poked the bear.

Literally.

His focus swivels to the embossed sign above the bar and then back across the room to the bird that, right at that moment, flaps gracelessly up to the wide ledge outside the nearest window.

It pecks at the exterior glass, tapping away in the silence.

The windowpanes are covered with dust on the outside. They’re filthy, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I could no sooner stop the moon from rising at night than I can stop sand and grit from coating the exterior of this building.

But I keep things clean inside. The windows are shut to keep the dust out. The air inside is cool and always fresh. There’s plenty of water, along with an assortment of other drinks. A small selection of meals. Nothing that contains chicken.

Inside this establishment is a haven from the scorching heat of the day and the bitterly cold nights.

The ambience was a gift from another powerful witch.

Unlike the witch who brewed the potions for me, this one made me swear never to utter a word about her helping me.

One look in her ghastly eyes convinced me to agree.

The chicken now sitting on the window ledge continues to peck happily at the glass.

Tap-tap-tap.

The wolf shifter focuses back on the embossed sign.

It reads: The Chicken.

When newcomers first glance at the sign, they snicker.

Often, they’ll snort and ask, “What the fuck is up with that sign?”

Then they squint at what’s written in smaller lettering along the bottom of the wooden board.

I lean in closer to the wolf as the tension rises around me. “Want to read that message out loud for me?”

The shifter gulps. “ Those who play chicken with Death, get dead .”

“Yeah,” I say, a soft growl. “And guess what?”

“What?” he asks, his voice a strained whisper, beads of sweat rolling down his face. He seems to be regaining his senses with every passing second. He may not need that potion after all.

I let myself smile. With the lifting of my lips, my teeth sharpen, my nose elongates into a snout, and my eyes redden with all the crazed bloodlust that lives in my bear’s heart.

I let my beast speak, his voice a fearsome snarl. “ I’m Death .”

All it would take is a single swipe and I could rip this fucker’s throat out.

His face drains of blood and his lips barely move as he stares back at me, frozen, his eyes wide with horror. “Fuck.”

I tell myself I’ve scared him enough.

I’m certain he’ll never disrespect me—or chickens, for that matter—ever again.

A moment later, the bartender places the drink he was preparing firmly down on the table. It makes a soft thud on contact.

He doesn’t say anything before he quickly removes himself from my proximity. Even he doesn’t want to be around me right now.

“Drink,” I order the wolf.

“Yes, sir.” The wolf reaches for the glass, swallows the liquid down in several big gulps, and then looks up at me hopefully.

Within seconds, the haze over his eyes clears and his focus appears crystal clear. It only serves to make his cheeks paler.

“With your permission,” he says, no longer slurring his words. “I’d like to be on my way. Preferably in one piece.”

I lift my hands from his shoulders and let him go, watching him retreat to the door.

The magic within this place protects it from the blistering heat outside, even when the door opens.

Then the door closes and he’s gone.

The patrons resume talking, although the two men and a woman who were sitting at this table don’t return to it. They find a nook in the far corner instead. It seems they’d rather squish in together than come anywhere near me.

Their choice is wise.

With difficulty, I take a step back, roll my shoulders, and rein in my beast.

I can’t ever let my bear surface for longer than a few minutes.

Beyond that, the danger of him taking over is too high.

He’d turn this room—any room, actually—into a pool of blood and mangled guts if I let him and he’d have a fucking glorious time doing it.

My bear… Well, he lost his mind for reasons I don’t dwell on.

After fully retracting my animal’s features, I turn back to the stately patron at the bar, the one who was trying to get my attention earlier, only to find him gone.

Or perhaps, transforming would be more accurate.

Oh… fuck.

His features morph into those of an old woman.

An old and very powerful woman, whose countenance is so ghastly that my mind struggles to process her crimson eyes, blood-red hair, and black veins, all of which blur into a dark abyss of death and blood that threatens to swallow me.

This witch is a mistress of illusion. She was the one who created the ambience every patron is enjoying within the walls of my establishment.

Unfortunately, now that she’s here, I’m certain that ambience is about to be disturbed.

“Hello, Bron,” she says, her voice sending shivers down my spine.

She’s the oldest member of a secretive and secluded coven of three witches: the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. Those who know of them call them by different names. Some call them The Coven of Three , others call them The Triarchy , and still others call them simply The Three .

Technically, the Coven of Three is no longer a coven of three . They lost their Maiden over five years ago, although they’ve kept that fact quiet, the Mother and the Crone continuing on without her.

Despite the help they’ve given me… I call them trouble .

“Hello, the Crone,” I reply, using her formal title, even though it doesn’t roll naturally off the tongue, but that’s the least of my concerns.

Very few supernaturals alarm me. Even the leader of my House—the House of Spirit and Saphire—doesn’t faze me. And he’s Odin, the fucking God of Lightning.

This woman? She scares the shit out of me.

I’m actually a little chuffed that I’m still standing. The three patrons seated directly behind me—within the Crone’s line of sight—pass out the moment she looks at them, their heads hitting the bar with hard thud s.

My bartender, bless him, crumples to the floor on my right, his wolf appearing for a brief moment before his eyes close.

The Crone rises quickly to her feet before any patron can try to escape, casting her horrifying gaze around the entire crowd.

Each one of my customers collapses where they sit or stand, a cascade of thud s and crashes as they drop their drinks, fall face-first into their food, knock their chairs over, or slide to the floor like wilting flowers. One makes it an impressive two steps toward the door before he passes out.

Poor bastard.

I try to find my voice, determined to ask the Crone what she’s doing here and what she wants, but I can’t make a sound. My eyes water and my throat constricts. It seems that standing upright is my only achievement right now.

Thankfully, the Crone must be satisfied now that everyone else has entered a state of unconsciousness because her features change again, a glamour washing across her face and body.

My legs wobble with relief when I find myself now looking into the far more pleasant—albeit stern—face of a woman with silver hair and bright, blue eyes who’s wearing an elegant black pants suit.

More elegant than I was expecting, actually. It looks like her hair might even be styled. Like she’s dressed up for some reason?—

I shake myself.

“Okay, the Crone,” I manage to rasp, working on bringing moisture back to my mouth. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” she says. “It’s not so much what you can do for me …”

She inclines her head toward the front entrance on the far side of the room.

The door bursts open.

A rush of hot air bursts inside, bringing with it swirling amber dust, along with a chicken, who squawks as she dashes out of the way of a woman I’ve never laid eyes on before.

More startling than the heat rushing into the room, which shouldn’t be possible, given the spell the Crone placed on this place, is the newcomer’s clear fury.

Her chest heaves and her breathing seethes audibly between her teeth while her left hand remains planted on the door where she shoved it.

Are there cracks in the door’s surface?

I don’t stare at the door long enough to figure that out because this woman…

Damn .

Her glistening, brown hair is streaked with red, or maybe she has red hair streaked with brown, but whichever it is, the strands blow across her face in the hot wind, her tresses such a long length that they wrap around her narrow waist.

Through the strands, her glaring eyes meet mine. The darkest brown, framed with crimson eyelashes and equally crimson eyebrows.

I take in the rest of her. Perfect lips. A delicate chin with a cleft in it. Tall. Commanding. Dressed in black pants and a red halter top.

Fuck me. She’s easily the most beautiful… and without a doubt the most ferocious… woman I’ve ever beheld.

“Where is it?” she roars at me. “What have you done with it?”

I blink at her.

Where is… what ?

Taking a glance around me, I verify that she is, indeed, speaking to me and not to the Crone or someone else. Not that anyone else is awake?—

“Answer me!” She storms toward me, somehow managing to pick her way through the myriad of fallen supernaturals without a single downward glance.

It doesn’t take a genius to detect the immense power rising around her.

She fucking glitters with magic.

Beautiful, gorgeous… very alarming magic.

Her hand snaps toward me across the distance and a magical force unlike anything I’ve ever experienced thumps into me.

One minute, I’m looking at her. The next, I’m lying on my back on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what happened.

Shimmering power swirls in the air above me. Shiny and alluring, drawing inward with every thudding beat of what can only be her black boots smacking the wooden floor before she appears above me, sunlight illuminating her form. Her curves and flowing hair and legs that go on for miles…

And her furious eyes, which could skin me alive.

Ah, hell. I might enjoy it.

Despite the clear threat to my survival, I manage a groggy smile. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

And then, to my embarrassment, I black out.