Cecily Wolfe's Blog: The Start of Something New - Posts Tagged "enter-to-win"

Welcome to the YA Scavenger Hunt! This bi-annual event was first organized by author Colleen Houck as a way to give readers a chance to gain access to exclusive bonus material from their favorite authors . . . and a chance to win some awesome prizes! On this hunt, you not only get access to exclusive content from each author, you also get a clue for the hunt. Add up the clues, and you can enter for our prize--one lucky winner will receive one book from each author on the hunt in my team! But play fast: this contest (and all the exclusive bonus material) will only be online for 120 hours!

Go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page (http://www.yash.rocks/) to find out all about the hunt. There are FIVE contests going on simultaneously, and you can enter one or all! I am a part of the GOLD TEAM, but there is also a red team, a blue team, a green team, a purple team.

If you'd like to find out more about the hunt, see links to all the authors participating, and see the full list of prizes up for grabs, go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page: http://www.yash.rocks/p/prizes.html

SCAVENGER HUNT PUZZLE

Directions: Below, you'll notice that I've listed my favorite number in GOLD. Collect the favorite numbers of all the authors on the blue team, and then add them up (don't worry, you can use a calculator!).

Entry Form: Once you've added up all the numbers, make sure you fill out the form here to officially qualify for the grand prize. Only entries that have the correct number will qualify: http://www.yash.rocks/p/enter-here.html

Rules: Open internationally, anyone below the age of 18 should have a parent or guardian's permission to enter. To be eligible for the grand prize, you must submit the completed entry form by April 7 at noon Pacific Time. Entries sent without the correct number or without contact information will not be considered.



I have the pleasure of featuring a deleted scene from
Winter War Awakening by the incredibly talented Rosalyn Eves. You can add this YA fantasy trilogy (WWA is the third and only recently released) to your Goodreads to-read list here: https://www.goodreads.com/series/170332



Be sure to follow & read more about Rosalyn on social media and her website, and to see how you can purchase her fantastic trilogy:

www.rosalyneves.com
https://www.facebook.com/rosalynevesw...
https://twitter.com/RosalynEves
https://www.instagram.com/rosalyn.eves/

Without further ado, here is the deleted scene, along with a note from the Rosalyn herself:

Author’s note: My editor and I revised the beginning of Winter War Awakening multiple times, trying to figure out the right starting point. Eventually, we settled on a scene some weeks in the future, so this deleted scene spans some of the time between Lost Crow Conspiracy and Winter War Awakening. I’ve edited to avoid too many spoilers (though anything in the book descriptions is fair game!)

The night was clear and bright, a handful of stars scattered across the sky like salt spilled across a table, a breeze snaking across the flat plains. Less than a day from Buda-Pest, though even that short distance seemed too far. I hugged my knees close to my bound chest and watched Zhivka dance her fingers across the tips of the flames, tiny pricks of fire fluttering over her knuckles before falling back to earth. The samodiva’s eyes glowed like coals in her face.
“Fool,” a voice said low beside me, and I started. I had not realized the lidérc had drawn so close to me. She pulled worn leather boots off her feet and wriggled her goose feet. “Anyone passing the road might see her.”
A wave of relief, quickly suppressed. The lidérc had been speaking of Zhivka, not me. I had not entirely accustomed myself to the strangeness of her existence—this creature of nightmares who was now my traveling companion. I had dreamed of her before I ever saw her, a night terror back in Eszterháza. After the Binding spell broke, I had seen her kill a man outside Buda castle, a fierce grin on her face. Now we warmed ourselves at the same fire.
My cousin Mátyás called to Zhivka. The samodiva cast him a long look, then rolled her hands again across the fire, caressing the flames one might a lover. I could not tell if Mátyás’s cheeks were pink from the reflected fire or something else. Glancing sidelong at Gábor, who sat between me and Mátyás, I found him, like Mátyás, staring at Zhivka.
A prick of jealousy, savage and sudden. I shook myself and turned back to the lidérc. We had not shared above a dozen words in the few days we’d travelled together; mostly, she stayed near Mátyás. “I remember you,” I said, “from Buda-Pest. I never thanked you for helping us free the prisoners that day.”
“Freedom was thanks enough,” she said, her eyes still on Zhivka.
“What do--?” I began. A howl split the night, long and drawn out. It was echoed moments later by a second cry, more distant.
Around the fire, the six of us froze.
Only Emilija stirred, moaning a little, the blanket covering her as she shifted in her sleep. The Croatian girl desperately needed the care of a trained doctor: the bits of broth we’d managed to get down her wouldn’t sustain her much longer. Our current plan was to take her to Buda-Pest, to the doctors in the Rókus hospital where Noémi had once worked. When she was safe, we’d resume our hunt for Noémi.
Beside Emilija, a white dog with black spots raised his head alertly. When Emilija did not respond, he huffed and settled his head again on his forelegs.
But if the wolves on the plain betokened what I thought they did, our problems were much closer and more pressing than a girl who might be dying on our hands.
Mátyás cocked his head to one side, his eyes half closed. I imagined he was reaching with his Animanti sense, trying to see if they were ordinary wolves or the great dire wolves Vasilisa had used to hunt us.
Another howl. Was it only my imagination, or was the sound nearer?
My cousin’s eyes opened. “Wolves, for certain. I cannot tell if they are more than that.”
The lidérc spoke. “We should go. If they are her wolves or not, I do not know. But there is some unrest in the air that I do not like.”
From the shadows just beyond Mátyás, Bahadir added, “I agree.” The Turkish bandit had been quiet for much of our journey. I knew little of him, other than his scrupulous politeness and his frequent prayers. Mátyás had said he was grieving one of the bandits who had died in their camp.
Mátyás stood, pulling on a light wool dolman. “All right. Gather everything, and we’ll be off.”
It took only a few minutes, working in silence, for Gábor and Mátyás to lift Emilija into the cart, her dog leaping up to curl beside her; for the rest of us to gather the remnants of our meal and snuff out the flames. Zhivka crouched beside the coals for a long moment, stirring them with her finger, before mounting Holdas behind Mátyás. Gábor lifted me onto his horse, then swung up behind me.
We returned to the arterial road leading from the great plains into Pest. I strained, trying to hear something in the air beyond the soft clump of hooves and the rattle of the cart wheels. But the wolves, whatever they hunted, had gone silent.
We rode in grim silence for some time, Mátyás leading the way on his great moon-colored horse, Bahadir pulling up the rear and scouting behind us for trouble.
When Vasilisa did not immediately appear, I relaxed, leaning my head back against Gábor’s shoulder. A kiss, light as rain, dropped against my hair. I wished he would plant that kiss against my skin—better yet, against my lips.
No one spoke again until the early hours of the morning, when we were all drooping from exhaustion and conversation was the only thing keeping us awake.
“We shall have to change Emilija’s clothes before taking her to the hospital,” I said, nodding at her red-lined cloak, her long blue-and-white stockings and sandaled feet, the black fur cap perched on her braided hair. “The Hungarian doctors will not want to aid a Croatian soldier, not when her father is martialing an army along the border.”
The grave rents across Emilija’s stomach where the wolves had caught her were still angry and raw, despite frequent changing of her bandages. But it was more than just fever and infection that kept her so still—Vasilisa was praetheria, one of the most powerful I knew, and the damage to the girl was likely magical as well as physical.
“Good idea,” Mátyás said. “If you and Zhivka will handle that, Gábor and I will take her to the hospital, since you’re known to some of the doctors there, and we can’t risk anyone recognizing you.”
“And the rest of us?” Bahadir asked.
“Wait for us just outside the hospital. Stay together.”
The thin light of dawn brought the plains alive around us: bird calls trilling through the copses, long-horned cattle stirring in the fields, a farmer riding away from his tanya. In the distance, we could see a low hanging smudge against the sky. Smoke, from the factories ringing Pest.
The sight of the city seemed to revive our flagging spirits.
The sporadic buildings alongside the road grew denser. We passed black-ringed factories and drew into the heart of Pest as morning crowned. The churches and shops of the belváros pressed up against palaces like ardent suitors.
I had not been in the city for months.
I had been so happy here: I had found a place in a movement and the world had seemed limitless.
Then everything had changed and nothing had. The Buda-Pest I had known felt a million miles away—farther still, now that I was surrounded by familiar landmarks.
We turned onto Rákóczi street and marched along the road until we reached the hospital. Gábor and Mátyás carried Emilija into the building. Bahadir waited beside the doorway, crouched beside Emilija’s dog and murmuring to it. Poor beast, I thought. It wouldn’t be allowed to stay with its mistress, no matter how it longed to. I knew the feeling. I pulled some hard cheese from a pocket and munched on it. Both the praetherian women stared at me.
I held some out to them. “Hungry?”
The lidérc’s lip curled. “Not for that.”
A crowd massing at the end of the street, where the Duna river split the twin cities of Buda and Pest, drew my attention. I tucked the cheese back in my pack and squinted down the street. Zhivka came to stand beside me.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Stay here.” I hadn’t gone more than half a block before I realized both praetheria were following me. Zhivka gave me a look, as if daring me to comment.
The crowd was gathered around a group, mostly men, wearing red plumes in their hat.
The red stopped me in my tracks. War.
I tugged at the sleeve of the man nearest me. “I beg your pardon, sir. Can you tell me what has happened?”
The man looked at me for the merest second before shrugging his arm away from me. I’d forgotten, again, that I was dressed as a boy, and a poor one at that. He might still have dismissed me as a lady, but were I in my finery, he would not have been so blatant about it.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the lidérc lunge toward the man. I caught her, and she hissed at me. “He was being insulting.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but that’s not a fight I want to pick right now.” Still, I felt absurdly warmed that she cared enough to feel affronted on my behalf.
Or perhaps she was simply spoiling for a fight.
Zhivka sidled up beside the man instead. She patted down her wild red hair and batted her lashes experimentally. Forbidden by Mátyás from using her glamour on humans, she had been practicing more acceptable mortal wiles. She laid a hand on the stranger’s arm.
“I beg your pardon, kind sir. I’m but a lowly woman, but I confess to a burning curiosity. Can you tell me what the red plumes mean?”
I rolled my eyes. Zhivka hadn’t yet perfected the right balance of flirtation and outright fawning. Not, it appeared, that this mattered. The gentleman’s eyes lit up. Clearly, he missed the feral edge to that same smile.
“The emperor sent a letter to Kossuth Lájos threatening to revoke all the liberties we won in the revolution. Kossuth and a deputation went to Vienna to protest, and to ask for the emperor’s support against the Croats. The emperor returned his answer: a refusal.”
“So it will be war then?” Zhivka asked.
“War,” the man confirmed, his fingers brushing his red feather. “Kossuth has already left the city to solicit troops for the Honvéd army.”
War. We’d be playing right into Hunger and Vasilisa’s plans.
Zhivka was poised to ask something more, but I’d begun to fear we’d been gone too long, and I tugged her away. I did not want to imagine the conclusions Mátyás and Gábor would draw were they to come out of the hospital and find us missing.
When the boys returned, I told them what we’d witnessed in the streets, about the near-open declaration of war against both Austria and Croatia. I told them also that Kossuth was gone from the city, raising an army.
“Damnation,” Gábor said.
Indeed.
#
Pilvax café was much as I remembered it—the broad open space beneath brick arches; the parquet floor; the students clustered around tables, talking excitedly about changing the world. Only now it was war, rather than revolution that fired them.
Mátyás and Gábor each targeted a group of students. I trailed behind Mátyás, feeling self-conscious about my street urchin look.
Gábor wanted us to wait in Buda-Pest until Kossuth returned. Though neither Mátyás nor I would consent to remaining in the city indefinitely, we both agreed to remain a few days, making inquiries about Noémi around the city. She had been looking for Mátyás when she left; it was not unlikely that she might have made similar queries in the city. Bahadir and the others remained behind at the threadbare hostelry we’d found. In two days, we’d visited more cafés, hotels, and old university colleagues of Mátyás’s than I cared to count. Even a few drawing rooms, though Mátyás had made those visits alone.
“Eszterházy Mátyás?” The first group of students echoed, looking variously confused, befuddled, or outright bored. “Never heard of him, or of a girl looking for him.”
A wounded look flickered across Mátyás’s face. Did it hurt his pride to know he was forgotten so easily?
“Is she pretty?” One of the students asked, showing a flicker of interest.
Mátyás grimaced—I don’t suppose he’d ever thought much about whether his sister was pretty—so I jumped in. “Very,” I said, and the students perked up. “Blonde curls, blue eyes, dimples. You’d remember her.”
“I wish a girl like that would come looking for me,” sighed a rather thin, pimpled boy. “What did you say her name was again?”
“Eszterházy Noémi.”
“Eszterházy?” A newcomer drifted over, his eyes hidden beneath a slouchy hat of the type favored by revolutionaries. “I knew an Eszterházy once. Not completely worthless, for a noble.”
“Petőfi?” Mátyás asked, surprise warring with joy in his voice. “You’re still here.”
The poet tipped back his hat, revealing the brilliant eyes I remembered, and the finely shaped mustache I had not. “Mátyás? I’d heard you were dead.”
“Oh, that,” Mátyás said, drawing Petőfi away from the others. “Yes, that’s true.”
The poet waited a long moment, clearly expecting Mátyás to elaborate. But my cousin only smiled and rubbed his fingers across a small ornamented cross he wore.
“If this is how death looks,” Petőfi said, “then one would no longer fear it. But you are clearly no longer dead. So—how?”
“I hardly know,” Mátyás said, serious for once. “One of the praetheria that was released in the Binding brought me back to life.”
“And it has taken you all these months to come back in search of your sister? Where have you been all this time?”
If it had been anyone else, I might have trusted their sense of self-preservation to keep them silent. But Mátyás was entirely deficient in that department and had, besides, a well-developed sense of the ludicrous.
Don’t admit anything, I thought at him, wishing I had some of my mother’s Coremancer persuasive skills. Petőfi was no great lover of Kossuth’s, but word had a way of getting out.
“I’ve been a highwayman. On the puszta.”
Oh, Mátyás. You daft, beloved fool.
Petőfi burst out laughing. “But of course! Because when one dies—or rather, nearly dies—a highwayman is the only answer to the remaining questions of life.”
“Have you seen Noémi?” I interrupted, before the two fools before me got carried away with their romantic notions of highway robbery.
Petőfi lifted his eyebrows at me. Then a look of astonishment flooded his features, transforming his supercilious expression so abruptly it made me smile.
Unexpectedly, Petőfi laughed. “Miss Anna Arden, as I live and breathe. I heard the young archduke found you charming.”
Heat flamed up my cheeks. “It’s lovely to meet you too.”
“He’s dying, you know.”
I gasped. Franz Josef was dying? “How?”
“A spell, they think. Possibly praetherian. He’s hung suspended between life and death since the night they announced the praetheria were to be sequestered. The archduchess has offered wealth enough to buy a small kingdom for anyone who can save him, but so far, no one has.”
My body flushed cold. I remembered that night, Vasilisa casting a spell on me to transform me into a vision of winter and saying she hoped I’d break a man’s heart. I had kissed Franz Josef—and any good student of fairy tales knew that kisses were untrustworthy magic. They could cure one’s true love—but they could curse as easily. Had I brought this illness on Franz Josef? Surely not. Kossuth said it was praetherian-made.
Vasilisa was praetheria. An insidious voice wormed through my skull.
“I am very sorry to hear of this,” Mátyás said. He began to say something else, but his voice was overshadowed by a new tumult. A crowd burst through the doors, a handful of young men flushed and shouting. At first I thought they were drunk—it was only just midday, but students did not seem to care much about social expectations. But then their shouting resolved into words.
“Lambert’s in the city! They say he’s heading for the pontoon bridge.”
As one, the students in the rooms surged up. Petőfi was already heading for the door when I caught Mátyás.
“Lambert?”
“The man the emperor appointed Imperial Commissioner over Hungary, ignoring the fact that we’ve elected our own prime minister.” A divot appeared between my cousin’s eyes.
I watched the churning crowd eddying out of the café, a knot tightening in my gut. What could the students want with such a man? Surely, they weren’t eager to welcome him to the city.
“Come on,” Mátyás said. “The bridge isn’t far from here.” He followed the mass of students, and I followed him. The enthusiasm of the students still lingered in the air, a powerful undertow pulling us in its wake.
When Gábor fell in beside me, I clutched his hand, tightening my fingers around his as though he were a lifeline meant to save me from drowning.

****

It's almost time to visit the next page on the GOLD TEAM hunt, but first, you need to know that I have participated in the hunt this many times:



and also that I have a BONUS GIVEAWAY that includes two paperback ARCs (Crown of Feathers and The Similars), a soccer charm, and silvertone soccer ball earrings - you can enter here: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/disp...

Why soccer jewelry? The book that is part of the GOLD TEAM giveaway is my own That Night, and if you've read it, you know that one of the characters is a soccer star on her high school team. Or she was. You can see my fancasting for the trio of best friends in this heartbreaking story by visiting my GOLD TEAM teammate, Kat Ross: http://katrossbooks.com/news.html

The next stop on the hunt is over at Amalie Jahn's site here: https://www.amaliejahn.com/blog

GOOD LUCK and thank you for participating!