Charm
Praise for Tracy Wolff’s Crave series
#BookTok
“I have not enjoyed a book like I’ve enjoyed this in a long time.”
—Danisbookish
“I love the Crave series.”
—MunnyReads
“Esta saga es mi mejor descubrimiento (this saga is my best discovery)!”
—Albazamoraexpo
“READ THIS SERIES!!”
—Theemmarae
“OMG! I’m obsessed.”
—Isabellagerli
“Fue tan bueno que lo leí dos veces (it was so good I read it twice)!”
—Marianaboooker
“This is now a Crave stan account!”
—Grapiedeltaco
“I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say literary masterpiece.”
—Heybiancaj
“Ok but why is it so cute?”
—Bookswithsierra
“Absolutely epic love story!”
—caroline_cares
“La Crave Saga para mi: hogar (the Crave Saga for me: home).”
—Letiziaalg21
More praise for Tracy Wolff’s Crave series
A #1 New York Times bestselling series
A USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and Spiegel international bestselling series
“It will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very end… You’re going to be waiting eagerly for what will be coming next.”
—The Nerd Daily, on Court
“A wild ride from start to finish.”
—Hypable, on Covet
“So many twists and turns, you need a roadmap for this thrilling adventure.”
—Culturess, on Covet
“YA Feminist Must-Reads of 2020”
—Glitter magazine, on Crush
“Throw in some deadly intrigue to mingle with the dark secret Jaxon bears, and you’ve got a recipe for YA vampire success.”
—Bustle, on Crave
“Harry Potter meets Twilight.”
—The Charger Bulletin, on Crave
Also by Tracy Wolff
The Crave series
Crave
Crush
Covet
Court
Katmere Academy: An Insider’s Guide
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Preview of Last of the Talons copyright © 2022 by Sophie Kim
Entangled Publishing, LLC
644 Shrewsbury Commons Ave., STE 181
Shrewsbury, PA 17361
Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Liz Pelletier
Cover art and design by Bree Archer
Stock art by Renphoto/gettyimages and Dem10/gettyimages
Interior endpaper design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Interior design by Toni Kerr
ISBN 978-1-64937-149-2 (Hardcover) ISBN 978-1-64937-363-2 (B&N)
ISBN 978-1-64937-300-7 (BAM) ISBN 978-1-64937-301-4 (TARGET)
ISBN 978-1-64937-364-9 (WALMART) ISBN 978-1-64937-129-4 (Ebook)
ISBN 978-1-64937-382-3 (B&N BF Signed Edition)
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2022
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedication
For Andrea Deebs,
the most badass mother a girl could ever ask for.
Thank you for being mine.
At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage.
1 Nearly Gutless Grace—Grace—
1
Nearly Gutless Grace
—Grace—
My head feels strange.
Actually, every part of me feels strange, and I don’t have a clue what’s going on.
I think back over the last few minutes as I try to figure out why I feel so hollow and unmoored, but all I can see is Jaxon’s face. He’s smiling at me as we walk down the hall, and we’re joking about—
Just like that, it all comes flooding back. A scream tears through me, and I instinctively jerk away from Hudson’s blade.
Except there is no blade, I realize as I arch backward.
There is no Hudson.
No Jaxon.
No hallway—and no Katmere Academy. In their place is a vast, dark emptiness that has panic clawing at my insides as I struggle to figure out what’s happening.
Where am I?
Where did everyone go?
What is this odd weightlessness that fills my every cell?
Did Jaxon’s brother actually kill me with that sword?
Am I dead right now?
The idea slinks into the corner of my mind and seizes the breath in my lungs.
Panic grows into full-blown terror as my eyes strain to see more than an inch into the inky-black nothingness that surrounds me. I frantically run my hands over my body in an effort to find the death blow. To confirm—or please God, debunk—the idea that I am dying or already dead.
Oh God, I don’t want to be dead. The thought slams through me. Please don’t let me be dead—or worse, a ghost.
Dating a vampire is one thing, but please, please, please don’t make me a ghost. Getting stuck haunting Katmere Academy’s hallways for an eternity as Nearly Gutless Grace is so not my idea of a good time.
But as I finish my personal inspection of myself, I notice there is no wound to find.
No blood.
Not even any pain. Just this weird numbness that refuses to go away as it turns me colder with every second that passes.
I try blinking fast a couple of times to clear my vision, and when that doesn’t work, I rub my eyes, and then I force myself to look around again, ignoring my sweaty palms and shaking hands as I do.
But nothing’s changed. Darkness still surrounds me on every side—and not just any darkness. The kind that only happens when there is no moon, no stars. Only a sky as black and empty as the terror growing inside me.
“Seriously? As black and empty as the terror growing inside you?” a sarcastic voice with a very proper British accent asks from deep in my head. “Melodramatic much?”
I’ve gotten used to a voice in my head sometimes telling me how to survive over the last couple of weeks, but this is totally different. This guy sounds like he wants to hurt, not help me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Really? That’s your big question?” He yawns. “Soooo original.”
“Fine, then will you just tell me what’s going on?” I demand in a voice that is way more high-pitched—way more frightened-sounding—than I would like. Then again, truth in advertising is a saying for a reason…
Still, I clear my throat and try again. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”
“I’m fairly certain I’m the one who should be asking those questions, Princess, considering you’re the one dragging me along for this ride.”
“Dragging you?” My voice breaks. “I’m the one trapped here with no clue about where here even is, let alone who I’m trapped with. Of course I have questions, especially since it’s too dark for me to see anything.”
He makes a noise that should sound sympathetic but is actually anything but. “Yeah, well, there is a solution for a large part of that—”
Hope leaps in my stomach. “Which is?”
He gives a long-suffering sigh. “Turn on the fucking light. Obviously.”
A quick, sharp click of a switch being flicked echoes through the emptiness. A half second later, brightness floods the world around me.
2 Head Space, Talk Space, Give Me Some Space—Grace—
2
Head Space, Talk Space,
Give Me Some Space
—Grace—
Pain assaults my eyeballs, and I spend a few interminable seconds blinking like a mole just emerging from the earth. But when I can finally see again, I realize I’m in a room. A very large loft, at least half the size of a football field, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretching the entire length of the wall in front of me.
The top shelf is crowded with candles of every size and shape imaginable, and for a moment, a new worry creeps in. But a quick glance around shows that there’s no altar in sight. No jars of blood. No creepy spell book meant to hasten my journey to the afterlife.
Which I take as a very good sign. I mean, there are only so many times a girl can handle being the human sacrifice du jour. And I’m pretty sure I’ve already reached my limit…plus one.
Another quick glance around reveals nothing scary at all about the room I’m in. In fact, the entire area looks like one of those fancy furniture-catalog showrooms.
The three main walls not covered in bookshelves are painted a bright white, with lamps and chandeliers bathing the entire space in soft, warm light. My gaze bounces around the space, a gorgeous mix of modern and rustic furniture in white, tan, or black arranged into eight distinctive areas by the strategic placement of rugs and seating.
There’s an area filled with albums crowding two giant black metal shelves and an impressive media cabinet. Farther down is an exercise space, a target-practice area, and then a gaming section dominated by a massive flat-screen TV and a super-comfy-looking couch with game controllers scattered on the white cushions. There’s a bedroom area with a big white bed, library space with rows and rows of books filled to bursting on too many bookshelves to count, a reading nook with a black accent wall, kitchen, and what must be the bathroom in the rear.
Everything feels almost soothing. Like coming home.
Well, unless, of course, you count the disembodied voice that keeps talking in the back of my head. A voice that, very definitely, does not belong to me or my conscience.
“Do you like the accent wall? It’s Armani black,” he says, and I have to grit my teeth against telling him what he can do with his Armani black, not to mention the condescension he’s got dripping from every proper British syllable. But antagonizing whoever this guy is doesn’t seem like the best bet right now, especially not when I still have to get my bearings.
Instead, I settle for trying—one more time—to get some answers. “Why are you doing this to me?”
A heavy sigh. “There you go again, stealing my line.”
I’m so freaked out that it takes a moment for his words to register. When they do, I can’t help squawking and throwing my hands wide. “I already told you, I’m not doing this! I don’t even know what this is.”
“Yeah, well, sorry to contradict your self-delusion, but it’s got to be you. Because vampires can do a lot of things, but we sure as fuck can’t do this.”
The way he says “fuck” this time comes out more like “fook,” his accent growing heavier with each word, and I have the inane urge to giggle.
“Yeah, well, neither can I. In fact—” I break off as the rest of his words sink in. “You’re a vampire?”
“Well, I’m sure as shit not a werewolf. And since I’m not breathing fire or waving a magic wand out of my arse, you do the maths.”
“I don’t know what you’re waving—out of your ass or otherwise—because I can’t see you,” I snap. “Where exactly are you, anyway? And, more importantly, who are you?”
He doesn’t answer—big surprise. But before I can say anything else, there’s a small sound behind me, like the whisper of expensive fabric brushing against itself.
I whirl around, fists raised and heart pounding, only to find a very tall, very good-looking guy with a modern pompadour and excellent taste in clothing, if the black silk shirt and black dress pants are any indication. He’s leaning a shoulder against a bookshelf as he stares at me through narrowed arctic-blue eyes, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
It takes a second for what I’m seeing to register, but when it does… Oh my God. Oh. My. God. This is Hudson. Wherever this room happens to be—whatever it happens to be—I’m trapped in it. With Jaxon’s sociopathic older brother.
3 I Do Like a Good Cup of Hurl Grey—Grace—
3
I Do Like a Good
Cup of Hurl Grey
—Grace—
Just the idea has my stomach clenching and drops of nervous sweat rolling down my spine. But if my very short time at Katmere has taught me anything, it’s to never show fear to a paranormal…at least not if I hope to get out of the situation alive.
So instead of screaming my head off—which part of me totally wants to do—I narrow my eyes right back at him. Then brace myself for God only knows what as I say, “Looks like the devil really does wear Gucci.”
He snorts. “I already told you I’m a vampire, not a devil—though I suppose you could be forgiven for confusing the two, since you know my wayward little brother. Also, to be clear, this is Armani.”
He says the last with the same reverence I usually reserve for cherry Pop-Tarts and Dr Pepper in the middle of a long study session.
I nearly laugh, and probably would have if I wasn’t still reeling from the knowledge that this guy really is Hudson. In the flesh. Which means that whole moment in the hallway when I stepped in front of a sword wasn’t a hallucination. Lia’s plan worked—Hudson really is back. And for reasons I don’t understand, I’m trapped with him in a Pottery Barn catalog.
As thoughts of everything I’ve heard about him these last couple of weeks race through my head, I choke out, “What exactly do you expect to get from doing this?”
“I already told you, this is your little soiree, not mine.” He glances around with disdain. “And it’s not exactly hopping, now, is it?”
“God, you are such a jackass.” Frustration races through me, overwhelming the fear I should probably be feeling. I know this guy is a stone-cold killer, but he’s also annoying. As. Fuck. “Could you just forget for one second that you’re a psychopath and tell me what you want?”
At first, it looks like he’s going to keep arguing with me. But then his face closes up, his eyes going blank as he answers, “Isn’t it obvious? I want to have a tea party.” His British accent is as sharp as a switchblade as it skates across my skin. “I do hope you like Earl Grey.”
I barely resist telling him what he can do with his Earl Grey—and his sarcasm. But I have bigger fish to fry. “If you think I’m going to help you hurt Jaxon, that’s not going to happen.” I’d rather he just kill me now than let him turn me into a weapon against the boy I love.
“Please. If I wanted to hurt that little bastard, he’d already be dead.” His voice is flat, his eyes bored, as he pulls out a cobalt-blue pocket square and starts to polish the face of his very expensive-looking watch.
Because polishing jewelry really is of the utmost importance right now.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I say, shooting him a skeptical look. “But isn’t he the one who killed you?”
“Is that what the tosser is telling people? That he killed me?” He gives a very proper sniff. “Not bloody likely.”
“Considering it’s been about a week and a half since I participated—unwillingly, mind you—in a ceremony to bring you back from the dead—”
“So that’s what all that racket was?” he interrupts with a yawn. “And all this time I thought you were auditioning for the werewolves’ yearly howl-a-thon.”
My eyes narrow at the insult. “You know, you’re an even bigger asshole than they said you were.”
“To be fair, what’s the point of being a small arsehole?” he asks, brow raised. “Mummy dearest always taught me if you’re going to do something, you might as well be the best at it.”
“Is that the same ‘mummy dearest’ who assaulted Jaxon when you died?” I respond, voice scathing.
He stills. “Is that how he got that scar?” He’s still staring down at his watch, but for the first time since we began talking, his voice is devoid of its usual sarcasm. “He should have known better.”
“Better than to kill you, despite everything you did?”
“Better than to trust her,” he murmurs, and he sounds a thousand miles away. “I tried to—” He breaks off in the middle of the sentence, shaking his head like he wants to clear it.
“Tried to what?” I ask, the words slipping out even as I tell myself to let it go. It’s not like I can believe anything he says anyway.
“Doesn’t matter now.” He shrugs and goes back to polishing his watch. And smirking in that way that makes me want to scream and get the best of him at the same time.
I shove my hands into my pockets—so I don’t try to strangle him with them—and my right hand brushes up against something that makes my heart sing. I tug the phone from my pocket and hold it up triumphantly. “I’ll just call Jaxon to come get me—and take care of you once and for all!”
Hudson mutters something under his breath, but I don’t pay him any attention. My pulse is racing as I tap open my messages app. I can’t believe I didn’t think about my phone before now. I bite my lip as I ponder what to say. I don’t want to send Jaxon into a complete panic for my safety, but I really want him to come fast. In the end, I settle on a short message.
Am fine. Trapped with Hudson though. Sending location.
I hit send, then scroll down and tap “share my location.” And wait.
After several seconds, a message pops up saying the text couldn’t be delivered, and I nearly cry when I notice I have no bars. I blink away tears as I shove my phone back into my pocket and say the only thing that matters. “I want to go back to Katmere.”
“By all means.” Hudson must realize my phone isn’t working because he gestures to the elaborately carved wooden door that’s several feet away from us. “Feel free.”
“You didn’t bring me here through that door.” I don’t understand how I know that, considering everything between Katmere and here is a blank, but I do.
“Once again, I didn’t bring you here at all,” he answers, and the smug amusement is back.
“Don’t lie to me,” I grate out. “I know you did this.”
“Do you?” He lifts one dark, perfectly arched brow. “Well, then. Since you know everything, enlighten me. Please. How precisely am I supposed to have managed all of this?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know how you did it?” I shoot back, and by now my fingernails are digging into my palms so hard that I’m afraid I’ll draw blood…which will lead to a whole new slew of problems. Especially considering, “I just know that you did. You’re the vampire, after all.”
“I am, indeed. And that matters because…?” This time both brows go up.
“Because you’re the one with the power. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeats with just a hint of scorn. “Except I already told you. Vampires can’t do this.”
“You don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you?”
“Why not?” But the look he shoots me is somehow both condescending and accusatory. “Oh, right. Because if something strange happens, it must be the vampire’s fault.”
No way I’m going to fall for the “poor little vampire” routine he seems to be taking out for a spin right now. I know exactly what he did. And exactly how many people he’s hurt with his actions.
Including Jaxon.
“The reason I don’t trust you has nothing to do with you being a vampire,” I tell him. “And everything to do with you being a psychopathic prick with a god complex.”
That startles a laugh out of him, followed by an amused, “Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Oh, I’m just getting warmed up.” I put as much badass into my voice as I can muster up. “Keep me here much longer, and I promise I’ll make sure you regret it.”
It’s obviously an empty threat, considering there’s not much I can do that will hurt Hudson.
Something he is very much aware of, judging by the look in his eyes—not to mention the “oh yeah?” grin he’s wearing as he pushes off the bookcase to stand to his full height. Right before he says, “Tell me, Grace. How exactly do you plan on doing that?”
4 Every Little Thing He Does Is Not Magic—Grace—
4
Every Little Thing He
Does Is Not Magic
—Grace—
Hudson crosses his arms over his chest as he waits for me to answer. The only problem? I don’t have an answer. Partly because I haven’t been in this new world long enough to understand how anyone’s powers work, even Jaxon’s or Macy’s. And partly because Hudson is being so jerky about the whole thing that it’s impossible for me to think.
I mean, how can I come up with a plan when he’s staring at me like that, his bright blue eyes amused and his ridiculous lips twisted into that obnoxious smirk I’m growing to know all too well?
There’s no way. I can’t. Not when he’s just waiting for me to fail. Or worse, to ask him for help.
As if.
I’d rather go another round with Cole and his not-so-merry band of werewolves than ask Jaxon’s brother for help. Besides, it’s not like I can trust anything he says anyway. He is a known murderer, liar, sociopath, and God only knows what else…
It’s the last thought that gets me moving, that has me racing toward the door. Hudson says that he’s not the one to blame for us being here, that I’m the one doing this. But isn’t that what any sociopathic liar would say if he wanted to convince someone to stay put?
It is, and I’m not falling for it one second longer. I’d like to get out of here with my skin—and everything else—still intact.
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