Free Chain of Shadows (Blood Skies, Book 6) by Steven Montano Page A

city-state at both the ground level and from the sky, and their arsenal was impressive.  Several rode on Hookwings, enormous reptilian fliers with multiple fanged mouths and four enormous sets of wings.  Both the giants and their mounts were easily visible from a distance.  These were the true Doj, Deep Doj, who could grow to twenty-feet tall and yielded lances like swords and rifles the size of cannons.  Like their Hookwings the Deep Doj were few, and most chose to remain far underground, away from men and vampires and wars.  The White Mother and the warlocks of Ath had secured an alliance after the Battle of Bloodfield, when the Ebon Cities had wiped out one of the Deep Doj’s few topside settlements.  Rather than return to their home in shame the survivors chose to remain and aid humans with the war effort.  Their fortress was on the ground in the shadow of Ath, a block of stone and iron with a fused and smoking core like a fallen meteorite.  The giants roamed within, keeping to themselves except when they were called upon.  If their numbers weren’t so few they could have truly changed the tide of the war. 
    The Bloodhawk flew over the Doj compound.  Ronan counted less than a dozen of the giants, and wondered if he’d be able to kill one if he had to.  He knew it was wrong of him to wonder that.  Normal people might question where the giants came from, and what it was like there; they’d wonder what the giants ate, what they had in common with humans; they’d wonder if the Doj would ever earn their chance to go home and return to their rightful place. 
    None of those questions interested Ronan in the least.  He only knew how to do one thing well, and no matter how much he tried to fool himself that was never going to change.
     
    They’re at the border.  They taste life on the other side, and it’s intoxicating.  They want it, need it.  The very smell of the untainted reality beyond the barrier makes their jaws slaver with anticipation and lust.
    He stands at the precipice of that oozing black, a pillar of darkness which fills the sky.  He feels drawn to the wall of dead fluid, pulled like he’s falling towards a vertical night.  Clawed hands stretch against the other side of the prison’s rippling surface. 
    He doesn’t resist.  A razor caress of pain tickles at the edge of his mind.  Smoking ebon claws skim across his naked flesh.  He feels rank animal breath on the back of his neck.  Eyes like coals stare into him. 
    A weapon weighs heavy in his hand.  He turns and sees a shining beacon behind him, a glare of white light.  He hears his own voice screaming in the distance.
    All around him is the black void, a sea of grisly ink. 
    It’s their bodies , he realizes.  They are the night.  They are oblivion.
    The weapon grows heavier.  He can barely move his arms.  Talons take hold and peel his skin away.  His feet smoke against the cold earth as he stumbles, intoxicated with power.
    He tries to speak, but only a growl comes out.  He moves across a bone-colored landscape, a crumbling bastion of solid matter in the oily sea.  The light shrinks, and he gives chase. 
    He can’t let it escape.
     
    The first blast jarred Ronan awake.  He thought it was part of his dream, a dream he instantly forgot upon waking.  All he could recall was that it had been something about wolves, and the night.
    The second blast rocked the Skyhawk even harder.  The vehicle shook so violently Ronan banged his head against the wall. 
    “ Fuck!” he shouted.  “Ow!”
    “ What the hell was that?!” Stark yelled.  Panicked voices echoed through the dark, and the dull roar of the failing engines cut through the walls.
    The ship had proved to be too crowded for anyone to have quarters to themselves.  Creasy, Ronan, Grail, Stark and Reza shared a single room, a large and narrow chamber with uncomfortable cots bolted into the walls, weapons racks up above, and small storage lockers next to the