The shrill tone split the air, grating like nails on stone.
Isabella rolled her eyes before she even turned. Here we go. That voice. That pitch. That attitude.
It had prejudice written all over it.
Every single time someone saw Cyrus in his true form, there was always one dramatic idiot ready to scream demon or curse or abomination. And from the way that voice sounded—sharp, judgmental, absolutely annoying—this girl was the idiot of the day.
Isabella turned, squinting toward the noise, and spotted the culprit.
Two women had stepped out from behind the guests.
Twins.
Pretty in a raw, earthy sort of way—sun-kissed skin, long limbs, thick hair that looked like it had been brushed with fingers instead of combs. Their clothes were made from soft animal hide, stitched tight in all the right places, showing off curves clearly meant to draw attention.
One was glaring at Cyrus in open horror, her mouth already half-open again like she was about to launch into a prayer of exorcism.
