The Wolf of White Roaring knew what the world saw when they looked at Arthie Casimir: driftwood washed up on a faraway land, lone and assuming. They couldn’t have been more wrong.
She was forged of shrapnel words and gunmetal bones. An enigma wrapped in tailored armor and violet-gray curls. She was color in his world that had begun to bleed black and white. Half vampire, half human, more like he once was than any other soul to have crossed his path.
The Ram had nearly taken her from him, just as the Ram had taken everything else.
He found her bleeding in an apartment on Nimble Street.
“She struck the match,” she whispered, an oath in her voice as death came for her, swift as a tempest. He should never have left her alone.
“Now we’ll burn her to the ground,” he swore.
Then the Wolf of White Roaring scooped her into his arms and took her away.