22
Freya’s Home
Sandhills, Nebraska
Miles paced the small shanty that the ice shifter, Freya, called home.
A bitter breeze swept through the dilapidated house, making him and the other Rogues shiver. He doubted the frigid woman even felt the need to turn on a furnace. She probably didn’t even own one.
Freya sat on the bed, wrapping Boyd’s broken ribs carefully in fresh bandages. Miles was relieved to see he was not dead after all, though he appeared to be close.
He was propped up on a half a dozen pillows. His color seemed off, and his breathing sounded labored.
He’s not getting better, is he?
She shook her head and finished dressing his wounds.
“Hang in there, old friend,” he encouraged anyway, afraid to touch him. He was in too much pain already.
“Charles is gone,” Boyd rasped,
