The crash was so violent that Evelyn Carter’s coffee pot slipped from her hands and shattered across the tile floor. Without thinking, she grabbed the old baseball bat she kept behind the counter. Years of running a roadside diner alone had taught her one rule: when a door explodes open in the middle of a blizzard, you prepare for the worst.
Only then did she see the man staggering inside.
He was enormous, his beard stiff with frozen ice, his leather jacket crusted with snow. A jagged scar ran down his face from the corner of his eye to his jaw. The symbol on the back of his jacket made Evelyn’s grip tighten around the bat.
A skull with wings.
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