Savage Sister: Book 3: Chronicles of a Supernatural Bounty Hunter, #3

By Alex Fox

Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off Rebel...

Rebel Weston has been waiting for the ax to fall. Her brother disappeared from rehab a month ago, and now his car has been found abandoned by the side of the road.

Even worse? He vanished in bayou wolf country, lost inside the heart of the Acadia Pack, the original loup garou.

When Rebel goes to negotiate his release, she realizes too late that the pack is led by a half-crazed, blood-thirsty Alpha who's under the control of a dark witch. And that witch has plans for her brother... big plans.

But no one messes with her brother and lives to tell about it.

When the going gets tough, this sister comes out kicking ass.

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Praise for the Chronicles of a Supernatural Bounty Hunter:

 

★★★★★ "A captivating read with a fabulous strong heroine, and a tantalizing new world to explore!"
★★★★★ "Plenty of action, and characters that you wished lived in your neighborhood!"
★★★★★ "A very satisfying ending."
★★★★★ "I can't stop binge reading this series! Rebel is definitely my Spirit Animal."
★★★★★ "Her characters are so real, they seem more like close friends, and the way she describes the locations, you feel you are actually there."
★★★★★ "I would recommend these books to anyone that likes fantasy magic novels. Best books I have read in quite a while."

Perfect for fans of K.F. Breene, Ilona Andrews, Patricia Briggs, Devon Monk, Seana Kelly, Faith Hunter, Shannon Mayer, Annette Marie, Jennifer Blackstream and Debra Dunbar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Fox
• Release date: Nov 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223662099

Book preview

Chapter 1

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Agilvgi , her brother whispered. WAKE UP.

Rebel Weston snapped up in bed, sweating. She was already reaching for the gun she kept strapped between the mattress and the headboard.

Heart hammering, she searched the room as the sun filtered in through the lead-glass windows. Hensley only ever spoke to her in the Cherokee language when he was serious. He only ever called her sister in Tsalagi when he had something terrible to say.

Like the day he told her their parents had died in a car crash. Like the day he told her he was leaving the Cherokee Nation Reservation without her. Like the day he called her, wounded in the VA hospital.

Hens? she whispered, though she knew he wasn’t there. She was alone in the little apartment she rented from Ms. Dorothea Lafitte in New Orleans. Rebel hadn’t seen Hens since she’d taken him to rehab in Texas a couple of months back. She hadn’t spoken to him in just as long. Not since he’d disappeared into thin air…

Rebel threw the covers back, swinging her legs out of bed. She’d only just recovered from getting ground into the earth like a cigarette butt by an ArchDemon. Her body was healed, thanks to Sébastien Gael’s magically awesome vampiric blood, but as she stood, Rebel recognized begrudgingly that she had the stability of a newborn foal.

Hens, what happened to you? she asked aloud.

She set the gun down and reached for her phone instead, replaying the message she’d gotten the night before:

Rebekah Weston, this is Sheriff Wilshire over at Renard Parish in Louisiana, said a man with a Cajun accent thick as molasses. We found an abandoned vehicle near the Pearl River registered to a Mr. Hensley Weston. I believe he’s your brother? The address on his license is registered to you. Please give us a call as soon as you get this.

She’d gotten the message before the crack of dawn after staying up late drinking with Gael on Ms. Dottie’s front porch. Rebel figured she could call and talk to the switchboard operator or wait until a decent hour to get the sheriff himself. Although she hated admitting it, she wasn’t a hundred percent yet, as evidenced by the fact that she’d fallen asleep almost immediately after sitting down on the bed.

She put her head in her hands, closing her eyes to concentrate. She hadn’t seen her brother clearly in the dream, but she knew his voice like her own. Was he dead? Was he hurt? She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. In the quiet of her little apartment, Rebel focused on connecting with her Raven as the sounds of morning birdsong filtered into the room.

She felt her Raven shifting restlessly, the brush of wings against her consciousness, but she couldn’t quite get to her Spirit Place. The deeper she breathed, the more aware she was of the underlying anxiety in her heartbeat. She was revving too high, like a horse stuck in a stall, restless and waiting to go, go, go! Rebel opened her eyes with a harsh sound. She couldn’t meditate. Not now.

Shit, where was Hensley?!

When she was strained or over-taxed, connecting with her Raven was like trying to land on the right radio station on an old-fashioned dial during a storm. You knew it was there, but you just couldn’t quite reach it through the static.

Pushing up off the bed, Rebel reached for her phone, sending a text: Feel like a road trip to Renard Parish? Heading out this morning.

She got dressed slowly, taking time to braid her hair as New Orleans humidity rose with the sun. She could smell freshly baked beignets as Ms. Dottie puttered around the kitchen downstairs, singing an old gospel song.

The dichotomy of that woman continued to amaze her. She was one of the most powerful natural-born witches in the South, daughter of the Voodoo Queen herself, and yet she still went to church every Sunday. Rebel thanked her lucky stars for the gift of her friendship and protection ever since she’d arrived in the Big Easy. Life was considerably more exciting and certainly more delicious with her around.

Rebel decided on leggings since she planned to drive to wherever Renard Parish was located. Figured that’d be more comfortable than jeans. She pulled a tank top on over her bra and tied a hoodie around her waist just in case she didn’t get time to change after nightfall. Nothing fancy but ready to go in a pinch.

Then Rebel gathered the state map she’d purchased when she’d arrived a couple months back, preferring to look at paper before resorting to the Google Maps overlord. Reading maps and understanding general topography felt like a lost art to her. That said, the map basically shows Renard Parish was a tiny-ass town deep in a wooded area that looked like swamp country. So much for that.

Next came her boots, one fitted with a slim holster for her knife and the other fitted for her compact Ruger Revolver, loaded with hand-loaded silver bullets just in case. Her new motto since entering the bizarre world of the supernatural was: if it don’t kill ’em, then it better slow ’em down.

Ms. Dottie was just sprinkling powdered sugar on the beignets as Rebel walked into the cozy kitchen. She had some Dixie jazz music playing on the old radio as she smiled at Rebel from the kitchen counter by the oven.

"Morning, honey-chile’! You’re looking fit as a fiddle! Ms. Dottie told her, pointing to the chair at her vintage dinette. Sit on down, and I’ll get you some coffee."

"You sit down, and I’ll get you some coffee, Rebel said, wagging her finger. You’ve been up on your feet baking. Let me do the one thing I know how to do in the kitchen."

Well, alright then, Ms. Dottie replied with a smile. She pulled out a chair and took a load off, crossing her little sandaled feet at the ankle. This morning she wore a pretty red polka dot house dress with her hair in its usual Marcel wave, neat as a pin.

Rebel moved around the kitchen slowly, taking her time making Ms. Dottie’s chicory coffee exactly as she liked it—in a porcelain cup with a daub of whipping cream and half teaspoon of sugar. Rebel’s tastes were more straightforward. She liked her coffee hot as sin and black as her soul. Preferably in a travel mug the size of her head.

She sat down across from her landlady and pseudo-auntie and laid out the map. Ms. Dottie, what do you know about Renard Parish? She found the Pearl River near the border to Mississippi, tracing it down to a huge wild management acreage that fed straight into the Gulf.

"That’s bayou country, chile’, Ms. Dottie told her. Acadian-descended wolves run wild there."

Rebel looked up. Acadian?

The original Cajuns. Came all the way down from Nova Scotia, back when Louisiana was just swamp and alligators, she clarified, glancing at the map. Do you have a skip in Renard Parish to pick up?

No, but I did get a call from their sheriff, she said pointedly. Apparently, my brother’s car was found on the side of the road.

Ms. Dottie’s brows shot up to her hairline. "Oh, no, chile’. And your brother wasn’t in it?"

Rebel shook her head. Looks like I need to go hunting for him.

Well, you need to call ole’ Linc, Ms. Dottie advised, referring to Lincoln Lennox, the Alpha of the New Orleans Pack. He’ll know the Alpha for the Acadians and get you some help over there. Wolves are territorial, you know. Better to let him grease some of those wheels for you.

Rebel popped a hot beignet in her mouth, groaning. Good Lord, did you sprinkle these with sugar or cocaine?

Bad girl! Ms. Dottie chastised, though she laughed. Better yet, ask Aric Exline to take you. He’s from Renard originally. His people are probably still there. He’ll be better help than anyone to help you find Hensley.

Chapter 2

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Rebel picked up her phone. Already texted him, she said, glancing down at the screen. Not sure if he has the time to go though, or if he even wants to.

Sure enough, Aric Exline, her part-time bodyguard and part-time mage-hunting partner had already texted her back.

WAIT FOR ME was all it said.

She raised her brow at the shouty capitals.

That boy would go to the fifth ring of hell just to hold your handbag, missy, Ms. Dottie clucked as she sipped her coffee.

One, I don’t need help with my handbag, and two, I’m not ready to joke about Hel or getting dragged there yet, Rebel retorted, shaking her head in consternation. Her close brush with Ben-Ronové still made her shudder. She unconsciously rubbed her sternum just thinking about his hoof there, smashing her into the ground.

Ms. Dottie’s eyes gentled. You’ll feel more like yourself soon. Just need a little time is all.

I can’t believe I bound myself to a demon, she admitted. Rebel couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was certain the ArchDemon had occupied her dream-state more than once with his cloven hooves, massive horns and coal-red eyes.

Yes’sah, Ms. Dottie clucked. I do believe that move shocked us all.

I worry sometimes— Rebel bit her lip. She took a breath. If she should tell anyone, it was Ms. Dottie. "I just worry that you-know-who is still here, inside my Spirit Place, waiting. I’m worried I made a bridge for him here, and he’ll figure out one day how to cross it."

The old witch sat back, tilting her head. "Tell you what, chile’, I’ll talk to manman about it, she promised, referring to her mother, the late great Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. And I’ll consult with the covens at high tea this week. We’ll think of something between all of us. Draw a circle of protection around your Raven, just in case obeah, that bad spirit, tries to come back."

Thank you, Rebel said sincerely. She was so far out of her wheelhouse on this, she didn’t even know where to begin. She’d only really started to wrap her mind around the world of the paranormal after a couple months in the city.

New Orleans was a special place, situated on powerful ley lines that amplified the powers of multiple supernatural species including werewolves and vampires, in addition to preternatural humans like witches and mages.

Growing up a loner on the reservation, Rebel had always hung out at the periphery, aware of her otherness but not sure how to vocalize it, much less put it into context outside of the Cherokee culture and folklore.

She’d grown up hyper-aware of her ability to see and communicate with ghosts, but what little she knew about her Spirit Walking skills came from her late guardian, Keith Penny. What she didn’t know about her own abilities could fill a novel.

Hens himself had some unusual gifts, but he’d never really tapped into them in the same way, preferring instead to focus on the outward world. He’d been so focused on leaving the rez that they’d grown apart even before he left for the military. His return had been rocky to say the least.

Linc will be by to check the final work on the sunroom today, Ms. Dottie informed her, gesturing to the new glass-enclosed space she’d had added to her home after the ordeal with Laurent Moreau. It was a lovely space, with a small greenhouse area for her herbs and medicinal plants, in addition to a quaint sitting area for her to relax.

What time will he be here?

Oh, within the hour, I’d suspect, Ms. Dottie replied, glancing at the cuckoo clock on the wall. He’s an early riser, and I may have told him I’d bake beignets.

You love spoiling us with your cooking, Rebel told her. I better eat a couple more before the wolves show up and inhale them all.

You better, the older woman replied with a laugh.

She was surprised to hear the unmistakable rumble of Aric’s Chevelle SS in front of the house. She checked the time stamp on his text. How the hell did he get here so fast?

Rebel had just stood up when Aric appeared at the back porch in jeans and a t-shirt, his eyes bright as hammered gold in the morning sun, menace radiating from him like a spiked aura.

She was just about to open the screen door to invite him in when he growled, so low and fierce all the hair stood up on the back of her arms. His wolf aura felt supernova hot, like he was close to shifting. Even from a few feet away she could feel the tension vibrating in him.

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him through the screen door. Had that motherfucker actually