Page 17 of Brandon’s Mate

They only needed a few stitches and like maybe one cast

There might have been a couple concussions tho

Colt: Small ones

Remy: Have to admit, it wasn’t pretty

Colt: But I still am

Facepalm.

Kitty: Just get here. Brandon might be in trouble

Remy: We should be there by tomorrow

Kitty: Hurry. And *try* to keep your dicks in your pants

Colt: Is it our fault we’re irresistible to women?

Kitty: I’m barfing now. You are skanky man ho’s.

Remy: You love us

He followed that with about six “blowing kisses” emojis.

Kitty replied with a barf emoji and stuck her phone back in her pocket, shaking her head. Assholes. Although, even if she’d never admit it to them, they were still the two people she most wanted at her back.

Tough, loyal, and completely badass. If they’d left those guys with only stitches and mild concussions, it was because they’d been holding back. They could probably kill six or eight guys singlehanded without breaking a sweat. Especially if they were humans.

Kitty untangled herself from the kudzu and went back to the car. At least she knew she was headed in the right direction. If she kept going, hopefully there would be an actual town in her future.

The crow was still sitting on the branch, watching her, its unblinking gaze raising the hackles on the back of her neck.

She put the car in gear and pulled back into the road, keeping an eye out for a happening metropolis of 497 people.

As she drove away, the crow launched itself out of the tree. Then it purposely detoured to crap on the bright red hood of her Catalina before it flew off.

Kitty jammed her middle finger into the air.

Welcome to fucking Farville.

Chapter 6

The town of Farville was about as exciting as you’d expect. Kitty cruised down the one main street, the powerful engine of her Catalina rumbling underneath her, the sound and the shiny candy-apple red of the custom paint job turning heads all down the street.

Not that there were many heads to turn. It was a shabby little town that looked like it had its best days at least fifty years ago. Main Street had about two blocks of storefronts, over half of them empty and boarded up. A dingy café, a couple of bars, a bank.

And a vibe. A bad vibe that raised the hackles on the back of her neck again. It came mainly from guys in black leather motorcycle vests with a logo of flaming wings.

Fucking crows.

The other people in town gave them a wide berth, like the young mother with her kids who crossed the street right in front of Kitty’s car just to keep from passing a group of them on the sidewalk.

Bad place, her wolf said. Bad birds. Kill the bad birds?

I’d prefer not to, but I’m not ruling out the possibility.

In less than ten minutes she was out the other end of town, past a lumberyard and a junkyard and back in the woods again. She followed the road over a cattle guard and around a curve, and then she hit the brakes, a little gasp escaping her lips.