Burn Bright Patricia Briggs Read Online Free

  Titles by Patricia Briggs

The Mercy Thompson Series

MOON CALLED

Blood BOUND

IRON KISSED

Os CROSSED

Argent BORNE

RIVER MARKED

FROST BURNED

NIGHT BROKEN

FIRE TOUCHED

SILENCE FALLEN

The Blastoff and Omega Serial

ON THE PROWL

(with Eileen Wilks, Karen Chance, and Sunny)

Cry WOLF

HUNTING GROUND

FAIR GAME

DEAD HEAT

Fire Bright

MASQUES

WOLFSBANE

STEAL THE DRAGON

WHEN DEMONS WALK

THE HOB'Southward Deal

DRAGON BONES

DRAGON Blood

RAVEN'S SHADOW

RAVEN'S STRIKE

Graphic Novels

ALPHA AND OMEGA: Weep WOLF: VOLUME 1

ALPHA AND OMEGA: Cry WOLF: Book TWO

Anthologies

SHIFTER'S WOLF

(Masques and Wolfsbane in i volume)

SHIFTING SHADOWS

ACE

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Information

Names: Briggs, Patricia, author.

Title: Burn bright / Patricia Briggs.

Description: New York : Ace, 2018. | Series: Alpha and Omega ; 5

Identifiers: LCCN 2017052720 | ISBN 9780425281314 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698195837 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Werewolves—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Paranormal fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Urban Life. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction. | Occult fiction.

Nomenclature: LCC PS3602.R53165 B87 2022 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017052720

First Edition: March 2018

Cover illustration past Daniel Dos Santos

This is a piece of work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and whatever resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

For Michael, my heart, who taught me to follow my dreams.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to those who helped me shape this story: Collin Briggs, Linda Campbell, Dave and Katharine Carson, Michelle Kasper, Ann Peters, Kaye Roberson, Bob and Sara Schwager, and Anne Sowards. As always, any mistakes that remain are mine.

CONTENTS

Titles by Patricia Briggs

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE: A TALE WITHOUT AN Ending

Chapter 1

CHAPTER two

Chapter 3

CHAPTER iv

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

Chapter 8

Affiliate ix

CHAPTER 10

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 12

Near the Author

PROLOGUE

A Tale Without an Ending

Once upon a fourth dimension, there was a small jump that, touched past the globe's spirit, bore a sparkle of magic scattered in its cold, pure water. It was only a little magic, simply it brought skillful things into the globe—tiny bits of goodness built-in of the tiny bits of magic.

In that location is a certain sort of evil that cannot abide happiness, even such humble joys as lived in that jump.

Such an evil came to dwell at the spring, culling victims from those who came to seek the little surcease information technology offered. Eventually, fifty-fifty the world'due south magic could not cleanse the evil from the water, and the spring's small magic was turned to darker uses.

Thus died a little joy in the world, and evil was satisfied for a time.

This evil held the now-polluted spring, one style or some other, for a very long while. Fourth dimension changed, and the evil changed with it, grew more clever about drawing prey to it. Sometimes information technology fed upon innocence, sometimes magic, sometimes beauty—but the evil ever took satisfaction in robbing the world of whatsoever good it could find.

It became aware of one who sought, similar the jump once had, to do a piffling expert in a earth now dour and night. On the evil one's webs came whispers of a monster who fought other monsters. The evil deemed information technology no more of a meal than a thousand others like it. Still, it could non, by virtue of what it was, let such a one to alive. It prepare a snare to catch one who was a hero—for heroes are delicious when they fall. It set a snare to trap a monster considering even evil fears monsters, a little.

The one who sprang the trap was truly a monster. The i who triggered the snare was also a hero.

But this i was an artist, besides, and non simply whatever artist. Such an artist, he was, as found beauty and joy in the world and shared it for all to see. An creative person who, like the spring had, spread little magics around and left happiness where in that location was none earlier.

An artist such as that was a bigger mouthful than evil, even such an old and wicked evil every bit this, could swallow easily.

Much was lost in the battle, and it cost both sides dearly. As far as anyone knows, the fire of the battle burns withal.

Affiliate

1

This was bad. This was so very bad.

He ran total tilt, ghosting through the trees. The branches and brambles reached out and extracted their price in blood and flesh for running at such speed through their territory. He could experience the ground absorb his blood and his sweat—feel it stir at the gustation. Dangerous. Feeding the earth with his blood when he was then upset was not wise.

He almost slowed his feet.

No one was chasing him.

No i had fifty-fifty known he was there. They'd seen the trees who'd obeyed his will, but they had non seen him. The copse . . . he might take to respond to her for the trees.

She'd told him to run, and he had paused to telephone call the trees. That was not how their bargain was supposed to work. Only he couldn't just let them take her, not when it was within his power to finish information technology.

Call up. Call up. Think. The words were his, but he heard them in her phonation. She'd worked so hard to give him rules. The first rule was think.

It was funny that everyone believed that she was the danger, that she was the crazy one. Very funny—and his lips stretched in a grin just the woods could meet. Information technology wasn't amusement that caused his feral smile. He wasn't sure exactly what the emotion was, though it was fueled by an anger, a rage so deep that the world, angry by his blood, rose eagerly to do his bidding. The world, out of all the elements, was the hardest to wake just the almost eager for violence.

He could just go dorsum. Become back and teach them what they got for touching someone he loved . . .

No.

>
Her voice once again, ringing in his ears with power. She was his dominant, though he was so much older, so much stronger. As such, she wielded power over him—a power that he'd given her out of love, out of despair, out of desolation. And their bargain, their mating bail (her word, then his) had worked for a very long time.

Anyone who cared to await effectually would know how well her hold on him had worked—there were still copse on this mount, and he could hear the birds' startled flight equally he ran by them. If that bargain had failed, there would be no birds, no trees. Nothing. His was an quondam power and hungry.

Merely their mating had given him rest, given him prophylactic. His beautiful werewolf mate had brought honey to his sterile being. When that hadn't been enough, she had brought order to his anarchy as well.

Order . . . that word . . . No, orders was the word that sifted through his roiling thoughts. She had given him orders for this situation.

He vaulted over a deadfall with the grace of a stag.

Call the Marrok, she had told him. And also, Right the hell now. That was the correct task. Telephone call the Marrok for assistance. But the reason for his speed—his right the hell at present—was because if he allowed himself to deadening, he would turn around and . . .

The mountainside groaned below his feet. A soft shift that only someone like him—or like his true beloved—would experience.

His fleet footsteps . . . which had slowed . . . resumed their former speed. She was live, his honey, his mate, his keeper. She was live, and then he had to telephone call the Marrok and not heighten the mountains or call the waters.

Not today.

Today, he had to call the Marrok and tell him . . . and his mate'southward voice rang in his head as if she were running by his side.

I know who the traitor is . . .

* * *

• • •

CHARLES TIPPED HIS father's computer monitor and so that it was at a better bending and wiggled the keyboard until it felt right.

He'd told Bran that he could run the pack just fine from his own domicile while Bran was gone, just as he had the last dozen times that the Marrok had to be abroad. But this time had looked equally though information technology might last awhile, and his da had been determined that it was of import to go along the rhythms of the pack the same.

Information technology wasn't that he didn't understand his da's reasoning—some of the hoarier wolves under his da's command weren't exactly flexible when it came to modify—but understanding didn't make it any easier for Charles to function in his da's part, his da's personal territory.

Charles couldn't work in the office without making it his own—and wasn't that just going to set the play tricks amid the hens when his da got back and had to reverse the process. But Bran would sympathise, as i dominant male understands some other.

Charles had to acknowledge, if just to himself, that he'd moved the mahogany bookcases to the other side of the room and reorganized the titles alphabetically by author, instead of by subject affair, just to mess with Bran. Anna, he idea, was still the merely person on the planet who honestly believed he had a sense of humor, so he was pretty sure he could make his da believe the rearrangement was a necessity.

Charles hadn't moved the bookcase until Bran called him this morning time, not quite a month later on he'd left the pack in Charles'south keeping, to permit him know that his initial business was concluded—and Bran had decided he would take another calendar week to travel.

Charles couldn't call up the concluding fourth dimension Bran had taken a vacation from his duties. Charles hadn't realized that his da was capable of taking a vacation from his duties. But if the rearrangement of Charles's life was no longer essential, but required, then he felt costless to make some changes to make his life easier. And then he'd rearranged his da's office to suit himself.

Fifty-fifty in the redecorated room, it took Charles longer than normal to lose himself in his piece of work, his wolf restless in his male parent's place of power. Eventually, the hunting game that was international finance grew interesting enough that Brother Wolf let himself be distracted.

It was a complicated trip the light fantastic toe, to play with money at this level. The battle pleased Brother Wolf, the more than so because they were expert at it. Brother Wolf had a tendency toward vanity.

Eventually, drawn in by the subtle chase for clues in the electronic data on his screen, he sank into what his mate called "finance space," chasing an elusive bit of rumor, stocks rising for no apparent reason, a new company seeking financing but at that place was something they weren't maxim. He couldn't tell if what this visitor was hiding was practiced news or bad. He was running down the groundwork of an engineer who'd been hired at what looked to be an abnormally high bacon for his title when he was pulled out by the audio of the door hitting the wall.

He looked up, Brother Wolf foremost at this interruption to his hunt. It didn't help his temper that it was his da'due south mate who'd barged into (what was at present) his territory without permission.

"You have to exercise something about your wife," Leah announced. She didn't react to his involuntary growl at her tone. When she spoke of Anna, she would do improve to talk softly.

He didn't like Leah. At that place were a lot of people in the world he didn't like—most of them, fifty-fifty. But Leah had made it very easy non to similar her.

When his da had brought her back with him, Charles had been a wild matter, lonely and lost. His da had taken his much-older blood brother, Samuel, and been gone for months off and on. Half-mad with grief at the death of Charles's mother, Bran probably hadn't been the best person to raise a child when he was dwelling.

Charles'south uncles and his grandpa had done their best, merely Brother Wolf had not always been as willing to ape beingness human every bit he was now. A werewolf child born instead of made, Charles had been (as far every bit he knew) unique; no one, certainly non his mother's people, had any experience dealing with what he was.

A skilful part of the time Bran had been gone, Charles had roamed the forest on four anxiety, easily eluding the homo adults tasked with raising him. Wild and undisciplined as he'd been, Charles had no problem albeit that his x-year-old self had not been a stepson that most women would have welcomed.

Still, he had been very hungry for attention, and Leah's presence meant his da was around a lot more. If Leah had fabricated fifty-fifty a little effort, his younger self would accept been devoted to her. But Leah, for all her other personality flaws, was deeply honest. Near werewolves were honest by habit—what good is a lie if people could tell that you are lying? Simply Leah was honest to the core.

It was probably one of the things that allowed Bran'southward wolf to mate with her. Charles could run across how it would exist an attractive feature—simply when someone was mean and modest inside, it might be meliorate to keep tranquility and hide it, honest or non, rather than display information technology for the world to see. The outcome was a mutual antagonism kept within (generally) the premises of politeness.

Charles honored her equally his da'south wife and his Alpha's mate. Her usual politeness to him was brittle and rooted in her fear of Brother Wolf. But, since she was a ascendant wolf, the fear she felt sometimes fabricated her snappish and stupid.

Brother Wolf recovered his atmosphere faster than Charles. He told Charles that Leah was agitated and a little intimidated, and that had made her rude. Blood brother Wolf didn't like Leah, either, only he respected her more than Charles did.

Other than the growl, he did not answer immediately to her request (he refused to call up of them as orders, or he might have to accept an action about them that did not involve annihilation she would capeesh). Instead, he raised a paw to enquire her for silence.

When she gave information technology to him, he spent a moment leaving himself clear notes about the suspicious engineer that he could follow up on subsequently, as well every bit highlighting a few other trails he'd been investigating. He concluded the other changes he wanted to make, then backed out of his dealings as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Leah waited in growing, but silent, indignation.

Finished packing upwards his business, he looked upward from the scree

n, crossed his arms over his chest, and asked, in what he felt was a reasonable tone, "What is it that yous wish me to do with my wife?"

Obviously, his response wasn't what Leah had been looking for considering her mouth got even tighter, and she growled, "She seems to remember that she's in charge around here. Just because you lot accept been placed in charge temporarily doesn't let her the correct to give orders to me."

Which seemed out of character for his wife.

Oh, the disregard for pack hierarchy, traditional or otherwise, was typical of his mate. Anna would not, Charles thought with affection, know tradition if it flake her on the ear. His Anna had carved out her own, fluid place in the pack hierarchy—mostly by ignoring all the traditions completely. It did non, even so, make her rude.

Nothing good had ever come from sticking his nose in business that had nothing to do with him.

"Anna is Omega. She doesn't have to obey the Marrok," he told her. "I don't know why y'all remember she would obey me."

Leah opened her mouth. Closed it. She gave him an exasperated growl, so stalked off.

For a conversation with his stepmother, he idea on the whole information technology had gone rather well. That it had been short was the best part of information technology.

1 of the reasons he had resisted moving into Bran's home while the Marrok was gone was considering he knew Leah would be in, harassing him all the time. He paused to consider that because, until this very moment, she hadn't done that. This was the showtime time she'd interrupted him at piece of work. He wondered, as he began playing with the numbers on the screen in front of him, what it was that his da had said to Leah that had kept her out of his hair this finer.

Before he was seriously buried in business organization again, Bran's telephone rang.

"This is Charles," he said absently—every bit long as it wasn't Leah, he could piece of work while he talked.

There was a long pause, though he could hear someone animate raggedly. It was unusual plenty that Charles stopped reading the article on the up-and-coming tech visitor and devoted all his attention to the phone.

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