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The Magnetic Magic Series Is Complete! :)

Thanks to everyone who picked up the adventures of Luna and Duncan, a couple of middle-aged werewolves dealing with the challenges of property management, treasure hunting, and booting bad guys in the butts in the Seattle area.

The final novel, Triumph of the Wolf, is now out in ebook, paperback, and audiobook.

For ebooks, you can find the series on Amazon (exclusive for a few more months before it goes out into the other stores) here:

Magnetic Magic

For audio, it’s available in many stores, but here’s the series page for a few of them:

AudibleGoogle PlayChirp BooksKobo (I believe you can listen via Kobo Plus if you don’t want to buy.)

Thanks for reading (or listening)!

 

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Lots of New Audiobooks! :)

Hi, reader friends!

I’ve had a number of new audiobooks come out in the last couple of months, both releases to go with new novels and also older titles, so I wanted to do a round-up post here. If you enjoy listening to stories, I hope you’ll check them out!

The Curse and the Crown (epic fantasy/romantasy):

These are produced by Podium Audio and narrated by Amanda Dolan. For now, they’re out on Audible, but I’ve heard that Podium is going to start distributing them to other stores too, so keep an eye out.

Shadows of Winter (Book 1)Lake of Sorrow (Book 2)Sentinel of Time (Book 3)

Magnetic Magic (contemporary fantasy with a middle-aged heroine):

Way of the Wolf (Book 1)Relics of the Wolf (Book 2)

Science Fiction

Fractured Stars (a clean sci-fi romance)Junkyard (a prequel novella to Fractured Stars)

That’s it for now, but my narrator is working on Book 3 in my new Magnetic Magic series, so check back later for that one!

 

The post Lots of New Audiobooks! :) first appeared on Lindsay Buroker.

Way of the Wolf (Magnetic Magic, Book 1) Preview Chapters

It’s a new year, and I have a new series for you!

Divorcee. Empty nester. Werewolf.

A snarky 40-something property manager, Luna is used to dealing with late rent, clogged toilets, and melodramatic tenants. But quirky werewolves,  mysterious artifacts, estranged relatives, and attempts on her life? Even she may not have the experience to handle all that. 

Way of the Wolf, Book 1 in the Magnetic Magic series, is set on Earth in modern times. Modern times with… werewolves.

If that sounds like your kind of story, you can pick up a copy today:

https://books2read.com/MagneticMagic1

If you’d like to try before you buy, you can find the opening chapters below.

Chapter 1

If something weird was going to happen in my life, it was guaranteed to occur when I was carrying a ninety-pound toilet across the parking lot.

It was a heavy load for a forty-five-year-old woman, even one whose werewolf blood gives her extra strength, but that didn’t keep me from stopping to frown at a guy wielding a metal detector. Whistling cheerfully, he swept it back and forth through the woods along the property line of the apartment complex.

With wavy salt-and-pepper hair that fell to his jaw, a tidily cultivated three days’ worth of beard stubble, and a black leather jacket, he could have walked off the front of GQ. Had I seen his picture on a magazine, I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but in person… there was something about him that put my hackles up. Something… feral.

“You can do whatever you want on the city land,” I called to him, “but once you step onto that lawn, the grounds belong to Sylvan Serenity Housing.” I waved to indicate the five acres of grass, trees, and pathways that sprawled around the complex’s two-hundred-plus units that were clumped in several two-story buildings.

As the property manager, it was my job to shoo away treasure-hunting trespassers, even if he hadn’t crossed the line yet. After almost twenty years working for the owners, I felt obligated to watch out for their interests and also for the tenants. And maybe I was a touch territorial. I blamed the wolf blood for that, even though the monthly potions I consumed kept my lupine tendencies on the down-low.

The guy looked over at me, his brown eyes widening in surprise, probably because the person addressing him held a new one-piece toilet. “Why, my lady, I wouldn’t dream of trespassing.”

My lady?

His accent was vaguely British but muddled, as if he’d left home a long time ago and lived many places. My experiences with James Bond movies—all watched due to my ex-husband’s preferences—and Monty Python—a reflection of my preferences—did not lead me to believe anyone in the UK said my lady anymore. Nor were Europeans wandering a greenbelt in a suburb north of Seattle common. Shoreline wasn’t a tourist area, especially not this stretch, with the freeway traffic roaring past beyond the woods.

“Glad to hear it. Is that your van?” I jerked my chin toward an old Roadtrek with half the back windows blacked out—or maybe blocked. The vehicle occupied a guest-parking spot. White with blue trim, it had been modified for off-roading, with large studded tires that lifted it several inches higher than usual. On the side, blue cursive writing read: Full Moon Fortune Hunter.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

“That’s not what I asked. If you’re not a guest of a tenant, you can’t park there.”

“You’re very strict for… the plumber? The maintenance woman? What did you say your name is?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, as a gentleman, even though we haven’t had formal introductions, I feel compelled to ask if you need assistance in toting that large, ah, are you carrying a… loo, my lady?”

“A Kohler Highland with elongated bowl and quiet-close lid. Only the best for our tenants.” Only the best that had been on sale and was a model that had proven reliable in the complex. Since I was the handywoman as well as the property manager, that latter was important.

“So it is a loo.”

“You’re swift.”

“Actually, I’m Duncan. Duncan Calderwood. Now that you know me, who might you be?”

“The person who watches over this place.” My instincts told me not to give him my name—or anything about myself. If that van was still here tonight, I would call to have it towed.

“Like a security guard?”

“I can be.” I gave him my best warning glower, one that people tended to find intimidating, even if I was only five-foot-three and one-hundred and ten pounds. Not only did I have sharp canines, but enough magic lingered about me that they could sometimes sense the danger in my past, even if it had been decades since I’d been anything but a mother, wife, and employee. “By choice,” I murmured to myself.

“Ah.” He—Duncan—smiled, not intimidated in the least. “That burden can’t be light. I believe your muscles are aquiver. Do you need assistance?”

“They’re not quivering, and I don’t want help.” Grudgingly, I made myself add, “Thanks,” though the guy rubbed me the wrong way.

He twanged even my dulled senses. If not for the potion, I might have more easily detected what was off about him. I might have smelled what was off.

I shook my head. The toilet was getting heavy, so the mystery would have to wait until later. I continued up the meandering walkway to A-37 while Duncan went back to whistling cheerfully and sweeping the metal detector from fern to clump of mushrooms to cedar log. What he expected to find out there, I couldn’t guess. Now and then, homeless people camped in the woods, but they weren’t known for stashing strongboxes full of gold and jewelry around their tents.

As I set the toilet down and fished in my pocket for the master key for the apartments, a faint beeping drifted across the lawn. From the metal detector?

Duncan bent to investigate a fern as a pair of motorcycles roared into the parking lot. The noise startled him, and he spun, raising the metal detector in both hands like a staff while dropping into a practiced fighting crouch. With those reflexes, he had to have been in more than a few skirmishes in his day.

The male motorcycle riders, neither wearing a helmet, tore through the parking lot, circling it twice as they eyed the cars. They glanced toward me, then at one of the tenants driving in, and roared back out.

I glared at them, suspicious since crime had increased in the area lately, and glanced toward the cameras mounted around the grounds. The two men had looked like they’d been scouting the place. Hopefully, the modest vehicles of the tenants hadn’t interested them that much.

Duncan lowered the metal detector, waved at me, and went back to investigating the fern.

“Yeah, you’re sus too,” I muttered, borrowing one of the words my younger son favored.

Thinking of my boys sent a twinge of loneliness through me. Cameron had been gone for two years, but Austin had left for Air Force training only that summer. I’d only been an empty nester for a few months.

Wanting to keep an eye on my visitor, I made more trips back to my beat-up pickup than necessary to collect my tools, a wax ring, and the new toilet innards. Apparently done with the fern investigation, Duncan had returned to wielding the metal detector over the damp fallen leaves and brown needles under the trees.

A stray black cat that lived on the grounds, despite my many attempts to evict it, avoided me as it sashayed through, on its way to mooch from people who left food out for it. The reaction was typical. Human males still hit on me now and then, admiring my curves, olive skin, blue eyes, and thick hair that I ensured stayed black. Animals were another matter. Felines, in particular, sensed the lupine in me and either avoided me, hissed at me, or, if they could manage it, bit me.

The cat spotted Duncan in the woods and halted abruptly, its back arching and its fur going up. A hiss of pure loathing escaped its feline lips.

“Now isn’t that interesting?” I murmured.

The word feral came to mind again. But maybe the term I wanted was lupine.

Could Duncan be a werewolf? One who, like most, didn’t take alchemical substances to tamp down the need to shift into wolf form every full moon?

The cat’s reaction certainly suggested something odd about him. That was a more extreme reaction than the stray gave to me.

If Duncan was a werewolf, what could have brought him here?

As far as I knew, the Snohomish Savagers—my family’s pack—were the only werewolves in the area. And they didn’t take well to trespassers. None of them consumed potions to dampen their magic, so they were even more territorial than I.

I looked at the metal detector with more consideration than before. Was Duncan looking for something specific rather than random lost prizes?

He either didn’t notice the cat or ignored it. He turned his back toward the apartments—and the feline—and ambled deeper into the woods.

After staring at him for a few more seconds, the stray slowly backed away. Finally, fur still up and tail straight out, the cat ran into the parking lot to hide under a car.

“I’m only the property manager,” I told myself. “It’s not my job to confront lupine strangers.”

Duncan shouldn’t have been able to hear from that distance, but before I stepped into the apartment, he sent a long look over his shoulder in my direction. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

I sighed. Something told me this guy was going to be a problem.

Chapter 2

Twenty minutes later, with the water turned off in A-37 and the old toilet removed, someone knocked at the door. The tenant was at work, so I answered it warily, a premonition suggesting trouble was seeking me.

I expected Duncan, coming to do more than call me my lady. Instead, a college-aged kid of mixed heritage stood on the concrete-aggregate patio. With a slight build, neatly combed red hair, almond-shaped eyes, and tan skin, he wore a business suit and carried an expensive man purse. Okay, maybe it was a messenger bag, but the gilded leather sported a Stefano Ricci logo. Man purse was the term that came to mind.

Past his shoulder, parked in one of the staff spots next to my dinged and dented truck, rested a gleaming blue Mercedes G-Wagon. All kinds of unlikely vehicles had entered the premises today.

“Are you… lost?” I asked the kid.

Lost and looking to be mugged? This part of Shoreline wasn’t even vaguely ritzy, and I thought of the earlier motorcycle riders who’d cruised through, not to mention the metal-detecting werewolf.

Admittedly, whatever Duncan was up to, petty crime probably wasn’t it. He had disappeared, prompting me to get my hopes up that I wouldn’t need to deal further with him, but his camper van remained in the parking lot. Also, a faint beeping drifted out of the woods.

“No.” The kid smiled at me, but it appeared forced, and he looked me up and down like I was a panhandler about to beg for change.

The jeans and flannel shirt I wore, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, weren’t exactly business-casual, the suggested dress code for the property manager, but I was in handywoman mode today, so it seemed justifiable. Besides, it wasn’t as if the owners came by to check up on me that often.

“Are you Luna Valens?” the kid asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Bolin Sylvan. My parents sent me.”

Er, maybe I was getting checked up on.

“Sylvan, as in the owners of Sylvan Serenity Housing?” I waved to the apartment complex.

I’d met Rory and Kashvi Sylvan, but they traveled a lot, and I usually interacted with their businessperson, Ed Kuznetsov.

“Yes, I’m their son. I’m here for…” Bolin took a deep breath, one that involved baring his teeth and visibly bracing himself. “I’m to be your intern.”

“My what?” I’d heard him, but my brain didn’t want to process the words.

Movement in the woods drew my eye. Duncan had reappeared, and he was peering at us from behind a few ferns. No, he was peering toward Bolin.

Was he eyeing the expensive man purse? Hell, maybe Duncan was interested in petty crime. If he stepped onto the lawn, I might have to tackle him. Maybe the stray cat would help me take him down.

“I’m going to be your intern,” Bolin said slowly, probably thinking I was slow.

Not usually, but I didn’t want to be trailed around by a college kid driving a car worth three times my annual salary. Before taxes.

Worse, what if the owners wanted to eventually swap me out with him? What if, after more than twenty years of working and living here, I was being asked to train my replacement?

“Only temporarily. Probably only for two or three months. Hopefully.” Bolin winced as he looked at my clothes again and then around at the apartment complex, as if it was a sleazy slum.

It was far from that. Sure, it had been built in the seventies, so it lacked modern amenities, but, thanks to me, the buildings and the grounds were impeccably maintained. The facade and interiors might be dated, but they were otherwise in good condition, and the tenants all had excellent credit histories, were gainfully employed, and paid their rent faithfully. I made sure of that.

There was nothing slummy about the place, and I caught myself baring my own teeth. It startled Bolin, and he stepped back.

I forced my lips to chill out, reminding myself that my canine teeth were imposing. That was something the monthly potion couldn’t change.

“I’m sure it’s a good job, and that you’re very capable,” Bolin hurried to say, not so dense that he didn’t realize he’d offended me. “It’s just not what I was planning on after college, not what I’d been promised. My parents always said— Well, I majored in accounting, you see. For them. I mean, I like numbers, and I’m decent at math, so it was okay, but when they said I’d have a job in the family business, I assumed that I would do their books and get to travel to all the places where they have investments. Like Malta and Saint Lucia and Singapore. I didn’t think I’d be hounding people for rent checks at the first property they ever bought in—” Bolin’s lip curled so much that his gums were visible, “—Shoreline.”

He said it like the suburb was the sweaty unshaven armpit of the Seattle area. It was not. Sure, it wasn’t as romantic or exotic as Singapore or Saint Lucia, but lots of good people lived and worked here.

“A lot of the tenants have direct withdrawals for rent, so the books aren’t that hard to keep. And I track the expenses faithfully. As for duties perfect for an intern, I’m installing a toilet today if you want to help.” My eyes probably gleamed with pleasure as I extended my arm into the apartment.

Bolin reeled back, as if I’d suggested he descend into a sewer tunnel to fix an effluent leak.

“I… I can show you my résumé.” He looked faint.

Maybe plumbing wasn’t listed as one of his core competencies.

“Okay.”

When Bolin opened his bag to retrieve his résumé from a leather portfolio, I glimpsed a vial of glowing green liquid and blinked. That wasn’t a bottle of cologne. And was that a silver twig nestled in the bag next to the vial?

Bolin noticed me peering in and snapped the man purse shut.

“Are you visiting a coven for a ritual later?” I asked, curious but not that fazed.

An old witch who lived in the complex was my potion supplier, so I had passing familiarity with the paranormal in the Seattle area. After all, I’d been born into a pack of werewolves.

Beeps came from the woods before Bolin could answer. They had an odd twang to them, more like SONAR equipment than the noises the metal detector had made.

Still half-hidden behind the ferns, Duncan gripped another device in his hands. When he noticed me looking over, he covered it and backed out of view. The strange beeping stopped.

I was going to have to confront the guy; I could tell.

“Here.” Wary, Bolin handed me the paper. He hadn’t answered my question about coven visitations, but he also hadn’t looked puzzled by it.

I skimmed over the résumé. It listed numerous college accolades and extracurricular activities. There was no mention of work experience, not even hinting of a summer spent flipping burgers at Wendy’s.

“This is going to be fun for both of us, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Two to three months,” Bolin said sturdily, managing not to sneer or bare his teeth again. “That’s what my parents said. I need to get on-the-ground experience and prove that I’m a competent employee, and then they’ll give me a real job in the family business. I’ll have a nice office, an opportunity to travel, paid vacation time, a retirement match, and annual bonuses.”

I thought about mentioning that I didn’t get any of those things, unless bonuses included the Christmas fruitcake and gift card, but I was fairly certain Ed was behind distributing those to the property managers.

Bolin squared his shoulders. “I’m prepared to prove myself.”

“Well, the toilet is this way.” I extended my hand into the apartment again, though I couldn’t imagine asking the kid to do more than hold my wrench. The next two to three months were going to be a huge pain in the ass. I could tell already.

Bolin didn’t move from the walkway. “Don’t you have any data that needs crunching? Or work orders written up or something? I like writing.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re quite the wordsmith.” I pointed at a line on the résumé, right under a promise of fifteen years’ experience playing the violin. “Second place in the Regional Scripps Spelling Bee.”

“It would have been first, but Latin and I don’t get along as well as we should. Your name is Latin, you know. Luna for moon is obvious, but were you aware that Valens is Latin too? It means strength.” Bolin eyed my bare forearms.

“Yeah, my pack—my family is originally from Italy, a long time ago.”

Bolin squinted at me, and I wondered if he knew I was a werewolf. Ed had some suspicions about that, and I hadn’t been willing to lie completely when he’d brought it up. I had, however, assured him I didn’t turn into a wolf when the moon was full and wouldn’t eat the tenants. He’d grunted and said as long as I got the work done during the days, he didn’t care what I did at night. I’d been somewhat bemused that he thought my job ended at five p.m. but had been grateful he’d been reasonable and hadn’t mentioned how often tenants needed help after dark.

“You don’t really fix the toilets, do you?” was what Bolin asked. “You call a plumber for that, right?”

“Unless things are a real mess, I do most of the repairs around the place myself. I save the business a lot of money because I’ve learned to—”

The roar of motorcycles sounded in the street, more than two this time. The riders who’d cruised through earlier had returned—with backup.

Six men on Harleys roared into the parking lot, five carrying baseball bats or crowbars. One gripped a handgun.

Shit. I wasn’t bad in a fight, but I didn’t want to launch into a battle against a biker gang with firearms.

“Call the police, intern.” I waved Bolin toward the leasing office, then jogged for the parking lot, hoping that pointing out the security cameras would dissuade the intruders from starting trouble.

I hoped that, but I doubted it would prove true. As I approached, I stayed behind cover, darting from tree to bush to lamppost, not trusting that these guys wouldn’t shoot me. Even if I’d only seen one gun, the rest of them could have concealed firearms.

The riders shouted gleefully in a foreign language as they roared through the parking lot. They slammed their baseball bats and crowbars into the sides and backs of vehicles, leaving dents and broken glass.

I glimpsed red-rimmed eyes in their surly faces and figured they were on drugs.

“The police are coming!” I yelled at a thug swinging a baseball bat at a parked Toyota.

Glass shattered, and the guy rode toward another target without glancing at me.

Fury surged up within me, making me wish I could still change into a wolf. Then I could have leaped on them without fear and ripped their throats out. And if they’d shot me in that form, I would have recovered rapidly from the wounds, my magical power healing me.

But after more than twenty-five years, I doubted I would ever be able to change again. I had only my humanity to rely on.

Or so I thought. A startling tingle coursed through my veins, the hot tingle of werewolf magic. Alarm rather than relief swept through me. There was a reason I’d started taking those potions. Fantasies of dealing with bad guys aside, the last thing I wanted was to turn into a wolf in the middle of the day in the apartment complex where I worked.

The hot tingle meant it was closer to time for another dose than I’d realized. I took a deep slow breath, trying to calm my body, but it was hard with motorcycle riders creating anarchy in my parking lot.

“Nobody here has valuables, you dumbasses,” I yelled as one rode past, his crowbar waving in the air. “Get the hell out of here!”

“You’ve an interesting negotiation style,” a calm voice said from behind, startling me.

Duncan.

“I’m not negotiating. I’m cussing those bastards out.”

“Allow me.”

Duncan stepped out into the parking lot to intercept two riders heading toward Bolin’s G-Wagon with their weapons raised and savage glee in their eyes. If Duncan was armed with anything more than that metal detector, I couldn’t tell.

“Idiot.” I grabbed a head-sized rock from a garden bed and hurled it as one of the riders roared close.

He was looking at Duncan and didn’t see my impromptu projectile coming. My blood might be dulled by the potions, but there was nothing wrong with my aim. The rock slammed into the guy’s face hard enough to knock him off his motorcycle.

Duncan, wielding his metal detector like the staff I’d considered earlier, struck another rider on the side of the head. That man also fell, his motorcycle hitting the ground, the wheels still spinning.

“That’s what you assholes get for not wearing helmets!” I grabbed another rock.

The guy with the gun had stayed in the back row of the parking lot, but when he saw my attacks, he rose up on the footrests. He leveled his firearm at me over the roofs of the parked cars.

I swore again and dove behind a stout cedar.

Before the man could fire, Duncan sprang onto the roof of a car as if he’d launched out of a cannon. As soon as his feet touched down, he leaped again. He flew toward the rider, kicking at the guy’s face before the vandal could turn the gun on him. They both went down, Duncan a blur of movement as he managed to keep from getting tangled up with man and motorcycle.

Still gripping his metal detector, he sprinted after two more thugs roaring around the parking lot on their Harleys. They’d stopped breaking windows, and they focused on Duncan, pointing their bats at him like jousters riding toward a target.

Since the shooter was down, I leaned out from behind the tree to grab another rock. Intending to throw it at the would-be jousters, I took aim, but another rider tore toward the G-Wagon with a crowbar.

A shriek of, “No!” came from the walkway.

Bolin ran toward the SUV, his man purse flopped open, and the glowing green vial in his hand. He threw it at the pavement between the G-wagon and the approaching motorcyclist. Glass shattered, and visible vapor flowed out so quickly, it was as if it was alive. There was no breeze, but hazy green tendrils formed and wafted toward the man.

Nostrils twitching, he jerked his head back. His motorcycle wobbled as he clawed wildly at his eyes.

Since he was distracted, I hurled my rock at him. It smashed into the side of his head. As with my other targets, the blow was enough to knock him off his motorcycle. Without a rider, it pitched sideways, stopping shy of crashing into the G-Wagon.

Reminded of the threat to Duncan, I grabbed another rock. But he didn’t need help. Not only were the two attackers he’d faced down, bleeding and groaning on the pavement, but their big motorcycles were on their sides, the engines stopped, the frames warped, and the handlebars and other parts torn off.

I stared. How the hell had that happened?

It looked like they’d been run over by a train or had crashed into a cement wall at top speed. Neither could have happened in the parking lot. There was only… Duncan.

He stood calmly in the middle of the motorcycle carnage, straightening his jacket and tucking in his shirt. Once the state of his attire again suited him, he bent and picked up his metal detector. It didn’t appear damaged in the least. He didn’t appear damaged either.

Duncan smiled easily when our gazes met, as if nothing unusual had happened, as if raw power didn’t emanate from him, as if he hadn’t ripped motorcycles apart with his bare hands.

“This day is getting more and more concerning,” I muttered.

~

Want to continue on? You can grab the ebook or paperback online (audiobook in the works!):

https://books2read.com/MagneticMagic1

 

The post Way of the Wolf (Magnetic Magic, Book 1) Preview Chapters first appeared on Lindsay Buroker.

The Curse and the Crown: First Audiobook Available!

If you’ve been following along with my The Curse and the Crown romantic fantasy series, you know it just wrapped up with the fourth novel, at least in ebook and paperback format. But you might have been waiting for the audiobook versions. I’m happy to say that Book 1 (Shadows of Winter) is now available on Audible:

https://www.audible.com/pd/Shadows-of-Winter-Audiobook/B0D9HL625S

It’s a juicy 12+ hours of listening pleasure.

This series is being produced by Podium Audio and narrated by Amanda Dolan. The rest of the books are in the works so it won’t take as long for the rest of the audio versions to come out.

If you check them out, I hope you enjoy them!

 

The post The Curse and the Crown: First Audiobook Available! first appeared on Lindsay Buroker.

The Tracking Trouble Series Is Now Complete!

I’ve just published Tested by Temptation, the fifth and final novel in my Tracking Trouble urban fantasy series, on Amazon. Many thanks to those of you who’ve followed along and read all of Arwen’s adventures as well as those of Val (Death Before Dragons) and Matti (Legacy of Magic).

For now, I’m giving my Seattle-based urban fantasy world a rest, but I might be back one day for more. The ebooks will stay exclusive to Amazon for a while longer, but the audiobooks are available in many stores.

I’ll be removing my A Witch in Wolf Wood series (contemporary fantasy slow-burn romance) from Amazon’s exclusivity program soon so that I can publish it in all the stores.

As for new books, next up is a return to high fantasy. You can look for the first in a new series from me later this spring. For more details before then, as well as pictures of dogs and dragons, you can follow me on Facebook or Twitter. There’s also Instagram, but that’s almost exclusively dogs.

The post The Tracking Trouble Series Is Now Complete! first appeared on Lindsay Buroker.

A Goblin Christmas (free holiday bonus story)

In what’s becoming a tradition, I’ve written a last-minute Christmas short story to share.

It hasn’t been through my editor yet, so it’ll be rough, but if you’d like something to read, this jumps ahead about six months in the Tracking Trouble storyline (so it could be Christmas).

It’s mostly about a new goblin heroine, so no big spoilers for the main storyline, but there is something that takes places in Tracking Trouble Book 3 (with Matti and Sarrlevi) that is evident here, so if you absolutely want no spoilers, you might want to wait until you’ve finished Book 3. Also, a cleaned up version of this story will probably get tucked at the end of the final book in the series.

As always, thanks for reading!

A Goblin Christmas

Gizsla of the Steamwrench Clan gripped a blue US postal mailbox taller than she was and peered across the street at the Coffee Dragon. Any second, she would muster the nerve to go in and ask for a job. Another goblin was employed there, and dozens of goblins gamed and guzzled espresso in the loft. The owners didn’t mind their kind, and Gizsla was a hard worker. She could do this.

A huge black wolf loped out the front door and leaped onto a food truck parked at the curb. He lifted his snout toward the wintry gray sky and roared, his bushy tail swishing several times. Appearing quite full of himself, he roared again.

Gizsla wiped her damp palms on her thin dress. Maybe she couldn’t do this.

Even though she’d been to the coffee shop a couple of times and knew the name of many of the powerful beings who visited there, she’d never spoken to any of them. They didn’t know her from any other goblin, and most tall people considered her kind to be pests.

The door at the end of the food truck opened, and the half-dark-elven archer and baker Arwen Forster peered out. Despite her mixed blood, she appeared fully human, with an apron tied around her waist, flour dusting her clothes, and forks stuck into her blonde hair to keep her locks back. The last time Gizsla had seen her, she’d used sticks for the purpose.

The werewolf noticed Arwen—or perhaps sensed the aura of the other powerful being inside the truck—and leaped to the sidewalk and loped away from the food truck.

“Did we offend him somehow?” Arwen asked. “Or was that just his response to trying the dark, dark roast for the first time?”

“The goblin-fuel coffee beverage is quite stimulating.” The half-dragon, Azerdash Starblade, leaned through the doorway, his shoulder brushing Arwen’s.

“I’m glad he didn’t pee on Nin’s truck,” she said. “It’s a pain when the shifters get territorial.”

“Had he done anything so disrespectful while we were inside, I would have incinerated him.” Starblade’s other half was elven instead of human, and he had a predatory aspect even when he wasn’t in his dragon form. With these words, his violet eyes glowed menacingly.

A chill went down Gizsla’s spine, and she second-guessed herself. She badly needed a job, but working in an establishment visited by such powerful beings could be deadly to one as small and insignificant as she. People like that could accidentally slay a goblin with their magic without even trying. To make matters worse, Gizsla sensed the full-blooded dragon, Zavryd’nokquetal, inside. He had to be shape-shifted into human form to fit, but that didn’t make him less deadly.

“Nin doesn’t allow the incineration of her customers,” Arwen said, “especially around the holidays. It’s a time to have a generous spirit while cheerfully decorating our hearts, our homes, and select coniferous trees.”

“Some might consider flaming werewolf fur to be cheerful.”

“Not the wolf.”

“Their kind are dour and without cheer.”

“Especially when on fire.”

Green-skinned fingers clasped Gizsla’s arm. “I won’t let you do it.”

Gizsla frowned at her younger sister, Vareeka. “You’re supposed to be at the park, watching my girls.”

“They’re with Hargok. Now that mama has passed, it’s my duty to look out for you.”

“I’m the older sister, so it’s my duty to look out for you. And that’s why I’m here.” Gizsla took a deep breath to steel herself. “I’m going to get a job in the human way and earn money. Work Leader Tinja said I can only move my family into the urban goblin sanctuary if I can earn five hundred Earth dollars to pay for our board and show her we’re serious about succeeding as entrepreneurs.”

“The park is free.”

“And full of vandals, gangs, and shifters who like to eat goblins.”

“That is true. It’s scary at night. And sometimes during the day.”

“It’s not a safe place to raise children. I’m going to get my girls out of there. And you too.” Gizsla waved to the coffee shop. “This is our way out. Once I have a job here, we’ll be able to move to the safety of the sanctuary.”

Vareeka folded her arms over her chest. “It’s as dangerous as the park in there. I’ll go in with you.”

Another frisky werewolf loped out and roared. It had to be the coffee. Maybe it had been spiked with another more potent substance for the human holiday season?

Vareeka dropped her arms, squeaked, and ran down the street.

As the other one had, the werewolf soon left. Telling herself she had nothing to fear from patrons high on caffeine and holiday snacks, Gizsla strode toward the front door. All she had to fear was failure.

Before Gizsla reached the coffee shop, the door to the food truck opened again. Arwen stepped out with a tray of brown gingerbread cookies in the shape of pinecones, the tips of their scales dusted with powdered sugar to look like snow.

“Are you going inside?” Arwen asked.

Gizsla, not certain the half-dark-elf was addressing her, looked around before touching her chest.

“Yes.” Arwen smiled. “Sorry, I’m Arwen. And I’m a little…” She glanced toward the coffee shop as a half-orc female walked out, the roar of laugher and dozens of conversations escaping with her. “I get a little nervous in there when it’s so crowded.” She lowered her voice. “And also when it’s not.”

Gizsla blinked. The deadly archer with powerful dark-elven magic got nervous? And not from enemies trying to kill her but people sitting and chatting and drinking? Arwen wasn’t a three-and-a-half-foot-tall goblin who had to worry about being stepped on. How strange.

“If you’re going into the shop,” Arwen said, “would you mind letting everyone know that the latest batch of cookies has cooled and is ready to purchase? I didn’t realize the first three hundred would go so quickly this morning.”

“I can tell them.” Gizsla didn’t know if the patrons would listen to her, but she would attempt to deliver the message.

“Thank you. Here. Please try a couple.” Arwen held the tray at goblin nose level.

The delightful scents of ginger and molasses and spices Gizsla couldn’t name tickled her nostrils, instantly prompting her to salivate. She took two cookies and chomped into one.

“I grow the ginger and some of other spices on our farm, even those that can be difficult in this climate. I use… a few tricks.”

Magic. That was why the cookies were so good. “They’re delicious. Even though they’re missing some key goblin ingredients.”

“Such as lard collected from roadkill?”

“Oh, you’re familiar with the culinary traditions of our people.” Gizsla beamed a smile at her. So few with human blood bothered to learn about goblins and their culture.

“A little bit. I’ve had a lot of feedback from the goblin customers since I started selling my baked goods here once a week.” Arwen’s own smile was rueful. “I also get feedback from Val’s mate.”

“Val? Do you refer to the Ruin Bringer?” Gizsla whispered. “And her dragon? Lord Zavryd’nokquetal?” Gizsla glanced toward the front window, though the shape-shifted dragon wasn’t visible to her. From the sidewalk at her height, she could see little but the ceiling beams and lamps.

“I call him Zavryd, and yes. He’ll eat only meat, meat without a marinade or sauce, and certainly not gravy containing sugar of any kind. I’ve heard he does enjoy beef and lamb seasoned with Mediterranean seasonings, so I’ve made special gyro cookies to tempt his palate. Well, Nin said to call them meaties, since they don’t qualify as cookies, and she doesn’t want false advertising. I haven’t tried them on Zavryd yet, but the shifters like them. They’re more likely to have a sweet tooth—a sweet fang—so I put berries in theirs.”

Gizsla nodded. She didn’t know what a Mediterranean seasoning was, but her people also enjoyed those meats.

After finishing the pinecone cookies, Gizsla headed inside to look for Nin, the quarter-gnome Earth native in charge of daily operations of the coffee shop, including hiring people.

Reminded of Arwen’s request, Gizsla called, “There are fresh cookies ready to be purchased outside.”

She wasn’t sure her small voice would carry over all the conversations, but numerous sets of ears turned, and nostrils twitched in the direction of the open door. Someone from almost every table rushed out to the food truck, and Gizsla scrambled to get out of the way.

Laughter flowed down from the gaming loft, and a die the size of her fist bounced off a wall and down the stairs before sailing toward a table. A placid orc sitting there moved his coffee mug before it landed in it. A goblin head peeked around the corner halfway up the stairs.

“Did it land?” a reedy voice asked from the loft above.

“No,” the peeping goblin said. “He moved his cup.”

“Drat. That’s another zero.”

“You’re very bad at this game.”

“Moving targets are hard to hit!”

“You see what I have to deal with?” a woman with blue pigtails asked, her voice just audible over the dozens of conversations taking place at tables throughout the shop.

Not a single seat was empty, and some patrons were standing in groups. The clientele included ogres with heads that brushed the rafters, shifters who appeared human except for fangs that flashed when they ate their cookies, and mixed bloods of all sorts with their hands wrapped bracingly around their mugs.

In a corner, four goblins were ignoring their gaming brethren upstairs to work on a hydraulic stand supporting what Gizsla had learned was called a Christmas tree. Brightly wrapped gifts were stacked all around it, more than would have fit if not for the stand jacking up the evergreen.

An elf with twin babies in a chest carrier made from green vines watched and shook his head remorsefully, perhaps disturbed that the tree had been slain for the holiday. A half-dwarf female was on her back under the evergreen, like a mechanic changing oil on a human conveyance, applying enchanting magic to the boughs and trunk.

Matti Puletasi, Gizsla decided, and the elf was Varlesh Sarrlevi. They were friends of the owners. She’d seen them in here once before.

“I can’t kick out the goblins,” the pigtailed woman continued. “They pay too well. Where do their kind get so much money, anyway?”

Belatedly, Gizsla realized that was the very woman she sought: Nin.

“They don’t pay taxes or rent,” a tall blonde woman next to her replied. That was the Ruin Bringer. Appropriate for someone of that name, she wore a great dwarven sword in a harness across her back, as well as a magical firearm in a thigh holster. She either expected trouble or always came prepared to defend the coffee shop.

“It must be nice to be a goblin then,” Nin said.

Gizsla sighed wistfully. If only. She did not know how to pay human taxes, but she would have to pay rent to move into the urban goblin sanctuary. But it would be worth it. She wouldn’t have to worry about humans forcibly clearing out goblin encampments, theft from gangs or rival clans, or poor weather when the rains grew bad. The sanctuary would be a much better place for her children, and Gizsla would have an opportunity to learn from the founder, Work Leader Tinja, who thrived in the human world despite her green skin.

Nin hustled off to clean up spilled coffee at one table and collect empty mugs from another.

Another mixed-blood woman worked behind the counter, and a quarter-dwarf man was carefully wiping smears from display cases holding enchanted decorations, but Nin had to handle the busy room by herself. She looked frazzled. Matti and Sarrlevi’s babies started crying, people kept asking her questions, and a human male—how had he seen through the enchantments that hid the Coffee Dragon from those without magical blood?—kept inviting her to join him at his table.

Nin held up a finger, promising him, “Soon.”

Gizsla bit her lip. Nin needed help. She needed a capable and hard-working goblin employee. This was the opportunity Gizsla had been waiting for.

With her arms full, Nin almost ran her over when Gizsla approached. Exasperation flashed in her dark eyes before she smoothed her face and smiled. “Yes, may I help you?”

“I’m a very hard worker, and I am seeking employment,” Gizsla said. “Do you need assistance?”

Nin’s lips pressed together. “I am short-staffed because my last goblin employee pickpocketed patrons, spent half his time gaming with the customers, and stole the paper-towel dispenser for a project before fleeing back to his home world because a justice enforcer came seeking him.”

Gizsla digested the excess information, then nodded. “So you do need assistance.”

“Not from a goblin.”

Gizsla nodded, having expected this—few of the taller races respected goblins, so they had to fight harder than most to earn positions in society. As she was about to offer her first argument about why she should be hired, a thunk sounded.

Another oversized die hurtled down the stairs, ricochetting off the wall, and bouncing onto a table and into a mug held by a shifter. Even though he was in human form, he shoved back his chair and roared, like the bear he could turn into. Slamming his cup down on the table, he faced the stairs, where the same goblin as before peered around the corner.

“I will rip your head off and use your bloody hair to polish the floorboards.” The shifter was only two steps from the stairs when Nin, moving surprisingly quickly for an almost-mundane human, stepped in front of him with her hands raised.

“No ripping and polishing over the holidays, please.” She plastered a smile to her face and pointed at his mug. “May I get you a refill? Complimentary, of course.”

The shifter bared his teeth.

Nin faced him down and kept smiling. Meanwhile, the goblin on the stairs called, “Three points,” up to the loft before disappearing. A cheer floated down from above.

“I will include a cookie,” Nin said. “Or one of Chef Arwen’s meaties.”

“The kind with cranberries,” the bear shifter said.

“Naturally.” Still smiling, though it looked painful, Nin took his cup.

She almost tripped over Gizsla, who’d ensured she would be in Nin’s path.

“You need assistance badly,” Gizsla said.

“Not from goblins.”

“As I said, I am hard-working with children to care for. I’m not like those immature goofspheres that only play games.”

Nin mouthed, “Goofspheres,” and Gizsla feared she had gotten the human term wrong.

“Nin,” the man in the D&D T-shirt said, “maybe you could give her a trial day. You could use some help.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Especially since you won’t let me assist you, even though it would be a chance for us to work side-by-side and spend time together on the holiday. Romantically.”

“You did not find it romantic when I let you wash dishes on Thanksgiving.”

“That’s because you were supposed to do the chore with me, you washing and me drying. I had it all worked out until your espresso machine broke down.”

“I am sorry, Thad. Running a thriving but chaotic coffee shop is not romantic.”

He looked wistfully at her and then even more wistfully at Gizsla.

Gizsla raised her eyebrows as Nin turned a more thoughtful gaze on her.

“You have experience?” Nin asked.

“I have been cleaning up after goblins for my entire life. And, as I said, I have children.”

“That is the kind of experience that is useful here. Much more so than that of a software engineer.”

“I heard that,” the man said dryly.

“There is a Christmas story about three gifts delivered by wise men,” Nin said. “If you can successfully deliver three gifts to the Coffee Dragon, I will hire you on a probationary period.”

Gizsla nodded eagerly, though she couldn’t imagine what kinds of gifts one would give to a building. Something better than having its floorboards washed with blood from a decapitated head, presumably.

“Goblins are handy and good at making gifts,” Gizsla offered.

Nin rolled her eyes. “I do not want anything made out of recycled bathroom fixtures—especially our bathroom fixtures.” She waved toward a hallway in the back. “Consider these to be more tasks. If you can complete them today, I will give you a job. If you are successful, it will indicate you are the type of employee we need.”

Though slightly disappointed that reconstituting bathroom fixtures wasn’t a project being offered, Gizsla nodded again. “I’m ready. I must earn five hundred Earth dollars.”

“First, find a way to entertain Matti’s babies so they don’t cry tonight at the holiday party.” Nin pointed to where Sarrlevi was cooing at the twins in an attempt to appease them. Matti had finished enchanting the tree—it now appeared to have snow on the boughs, and it glowed green—and leaned in close as they discussed whether someone needed to be changed and if the Coffee Dragon’s recently maimed bathroom fixtures had been repaired.

Gizsla scratched her jaw. She knew many goblin songs and nursery rhymes that had occasionally delighted her children when they’d been babies, but would those unique twins—her senses told her they were one-quarter human, one-quarter dwarven, and half-elven—be entertained by such?

“Second,” Nin continued, “you will find a way to put a smile on Lord Zavryd’s face. He has been complaining that human holidays are ridiculous, due to the lack of races and duels, and is also peeved because Sarrlevi is too busy with his fatherhood duties to go on a quest with him this year.”

“A… smile?”

Would Gizsla have to approach the dragon for that? Even in his human form, the aloof Zavryd, with his arms folded across the chest of his black elven robe as he frowned around the shop, looked anything but approachable. Even a dragon in a good mood could kill a goblin with a flick of his talons.

“Yes,” Nin said.

Gizsla had expected to clean up messes and deliver beverages to patrons, not have to make dragons—or babies—smile.

“And finally,” Nin said, “my customers dearly need you to convince the goblins in the loft to stop hurling dice down here and trying to get them to land in people’s drinks.”

“Here, here,” a half-orc at a nearby table muttered.

Though daunted by the first two tasks, Gizsla might be the ideal person to accomplish the third. She’d been putting rowdy young goblins in line since before she’d become a mother herself. Those fools in the loft might be older than most kids that needed to be disciplined, but she was accustomed to goblin males taking a while to mature. A long while.

“If I can do those things, I can have a job?” Gizsla asked. “I’m saving money to be able to move my family into the urban goblin sanctuary in Green Lake. It is much safer than living in the park.”

“A worthy goal, but you might not want to mention it to Sarrlevi or Zavryd,” Nin said. “They live on that street and already feel that house is overly populated by goblins.”

Gizla had heard the sanctuary had powerful and dangerous neighbors, but she didn’t mind. If anything, having such beings nearby ought to deter trouble.

“I’ll start right now,” Gizsla said.

While Nin refilled the bear shifter’s mug with coffee, Gizsla headed for the Christmas tree where Sarrlevi remained with one baby. Matti had taken the other to the bathroom, a place Gizsla had learned was for relieving oneself. Strange that humans—and so many of the coffee shop patrons—did not use bushes outdoors. Would there be bathrooms at the urban goblin sanctuary? If so, Gizsla might have to teach her children to use the ceramic water-filled bowls, such as humans did. Given how high they were, that would be a challenge, but Gizsla knew how to do deal with challenges.

The baby in Sarrlevi’s hands started crying again as Gizsla approached.

“Greetings, Lord Elf. I am Gizsla, a future employee here.”

“I am uninterested in being served.” For a male holding a squirming baby, the elf was as aloof as the dragon.

“Your child may wish something. Does she like goblin singing?”

“She’s never heard goblin singing. Only cackling from the dice-hurling maniacs in the loft.”

“Perhaps I could offer her a song?”

The baby lifted a grasping hand toward tree branches draped with silver tinsel and ornaments, many shaped like dragons.

“I believe our children are distressed by the hordes of people and sounds and smells in here,” Sarrlevi said. “I would not stay, but Matti has promised to enchant people’s gifts if requested, and she has also been invited to the human holiday party tonight. I am standing adjacent to this lone tree, in case the scent of pine appeals to our half-elven babies, but it’s possible they’re disturbed because they can detect that the tree has been slain for this festival.”

Gizsla didn’t think the babies were old enough to detect their own toes, but she smiled. “For elves, slain trees are most distressing.”

“Yes. As are noisy and crowded establishments in cities built on the ground.” The way Sarrlevi looked around suggested he was at least as distressed by his environment as the babies. The kid looked like she wanted one of the dragon ornaments. Like the rest of the tree, it was glowing green.

When it didn’t float off the branches and into her grasp, the baby cried again.

“Does she need a change too?” Matti asked, returning to Sarrlevi’s side, the second baby in her arms.

“I do not smell evidence of that,” he said.

“Your elven nose is keen.”

“All of my senses are keen. It is what attracted you to me.”

“Yeah, the first time I met you, after you slew werewolves in my backyard, that’s all I could think about. How hot your nose was.”

“You thought many parts of me were an above average temperature,” Sarrlevi said smugly. Their eyes glinted as they flirted, and they might have kissed, but the baby let out another bawl.

“This is probably because they’re starting to teeth,” Matti said. “I forgot to bring the rings for them to chew on.”

“May I try to help?” Gizsla hopped onto a table and grabbed the closest dragon ornament.

Sarrlevi lifted a hand, as if she might represent a threat, but Matti rested her own hand on his arm and smiled at Gizsla. “Go ahead.”

She glanced toward Nin. Maybe she’d heard about the three tasks.

Gizsla dangled the dragon ornament above the baby. The grasping fingers stretched for it, grabbed it, and lowered it to chew on. Matti reached over to extract it, but the baby threw the ornament first. It sailed over Gizsla’ head and landed on the floor, which prompted more crying.

“Considering our children have only one-quarter dwarven blood, they can be a touch brutish,” Sarrlevi said.

“Don’t forget the human blood,” Matti said. “It lends brute tendencies too.”

“I have observed that in the native species on this world.”

“Maybe she thought it was a cookie.” Gizsla debated what else the baby might like.

“A child of yours would be more delighted by a piece of cheese, would she not?” Sarrlevi smiled at Matti.

“Equally delighted, maybe.”

“Can she have hard foods?” Gizsla didn’t know how old the child was—six months, perhaps?—or when human—or elven or dwarven—babies were old enough to consume more than milk.

“We’ve just started giving them a few things,” Matti said, “mostly because they were gnawing on their crib rails.”

Another cry sounded, this one echoed by the twin.

“Perhaps I will take them outside to walk among living trees,” Sarrlevi said.

Gizsla held up a finger, then ran to the coffee counter, where numerous snacks could be purchased. She selected two individually wrapped slices of cheddar cheese.

“I’ll pay for this once I’m hired,” she promised the barista.

That prompted a scowl and a long look at Nin. Nin was watching Gizsla, her shoulder to the Ruin Bringer’s elbow as they discussed who knew what. Nin waved her fingers.

Taking that as permission to use the cheese, Gizsla found a plastic knife. A crude implement for what she had in mind, but she’d carved food into shapes to entertain her children when they’d been young, and she managed to make something dragon-like if not entirely accurate. Once she had carved both slices of cheese, Gizsla rushed back to Sarrlevi and Matti, not wanting them to leave before she could complete the first item on her quest.

“Is that a duck?” Matti eyed the shaped cheese.

“I believe a horned tragraknorith,” Sarrlevi said.

“They’re dragons.” Gizsla climbed on the table again and held them above the fussy babies. They stopped crying long enough for their eyes to focus on the cheese slices. “Much tastier than ornaments, I’m certain.”

“It’s a decent cheddar,” Matti said. “I insisted on quality when Nin was ordering.”

“Inferior to dokdok cheese,” Sarrlevi said.

“Most things are.”

Matti wriggled her fingers, a few tendrils of magic wrapping around the cheese slices, and they started glowing green, like the ornaments on the tree. The cheese also grew harder. Maybe the babies weren’t ready to gnaw down chunks of cheddar yet, so Matti wanted the slices to be more like the teething rings she’d forgotten.

“I don’t think that’s going to…” Sarrlevi started to say, but both babies cooed and waved their fingers at the gifts, and he trailed off.

Gizsla lowered the cheese dragons for them. When they went into the babies’ mouths, the cooing turned into contented sucking sounds.

“I guess we should have tried that sooner,” Matti said sheepishly. “Cheese is even better than teething rings.”

“I will acquire dokdok cheese soon.”

“And shape it into a dragon?” Matti patted Gizsla on the shoulder.

“Those are clearly horned tragraknoriths,” Sarrlevi said.

“Or ducks.”

They shared smiles.

Gizsla didn’t care if her carving wasn’t that accurate. The babies had stopped crying. She looked toward Nin to make sure she’d seen and counted this as a task completed.

Nin, whose arms were full of empty dishes again, met her gaze and nodded back at her.

The Ruin Bringer, who must have heard about the quest, held up two fingers as she smirked toward Lord Zavryd. Why did Gizsla have a feeling she and many Coffee Dragon employees had previously tried to find a beverage that would suit his tastes?

Not to be deterred, Gizsla marched past his table, out the front door, and up to the food truck. Arwen was delivering cookies while Starblade loomed at her side, ready to incinerate any disrespectful patrons. Many of those who’d rushed outside when Gizsla had announced the fresh cookies had already been served, so she didn’t have to wait long to reach the front of the line.

“I would like two meaties, please,” she stated.

Arwen used tongs to slip flat hunks of pulverized and re-formed meat into a bag. “That’ll be four dollars.”

Gizsla had already been reaching for them when she heard the amount. Of course, money would be required. And Nin wasn’t in sight to nod that Gizsla was on a mission and would pay Arwen back.

“The cookies earlier were free samples,” Arwen added, “but quality ingredients are pricy so I have to charge as a rule.”

“They are for a drink for Lord Zavryd.”

“I charge dragons too,” Arwen said.

“And half-dragons,” Starblade murmured.

“Yes, but you can pay in massages.” Arwen tapped his shoulder.

“I am on a quest to seek employment at the Coffee Dragon,” Gizsla said. “Should I be hired, I will have the funds to pay you back.”

“What if you’re not hired?” Arwen asked.

“I could give you a goblin massage.”

“What does that involve?”

“More squeezing and groping than the human version, I believe, but no human has ever massaged me, so I’m not positive.”

Arwen’s lips rippled with what might have been distaste. She handed the bag to Gizsla. “Take them.”

“Thank you.” Gizsla hurried inside and grabbed a chair so that she could stand on it to see over the counter to the barista’s work area. She pointed at a blender. “May I borrow that to make a drink for a dragon?”

The barista glanced at Nin, who nodded again. By now, a number of people were watching Gizsla’s quest.

Though she felt self-conscious, she took the blender, delved into a container full of ice, and dumped some of it inside.

“Are you making a smoothie?” the barista asked. “Lord Zavryd won’t drink such a thing. He abhors sweets and fruits.”

“I’ve heard that.” Gizsla tossed the meaties in after the ice.

That caused more lip rippling from those who watched, those who were mostly human anyway. A couple of the shifters observed with interest when Gizsla pushed the button to blend everything together, the machine crunching and whirring with great enthusiasm.

Before it had completed its task, Gizsla sensed the great aura of Lord Zavryd approaching. Startled, she almost fell off the chair.

His eyes cool, Zavryd flattened a hand to the top of the blender. Though he didn’t press a button, magic flowed from him, and the blades stopped spinning.

“Goblin, you and your kind will stop the incessant noise you constantly make in this peaceful drinking establishment.”

“I…” With the powerful aura of the dragon so close, fear washed Gizsla’s words from her mouth—every thought from her brain—and she struggled to respond.

“Val,” Nin said, “I think your dragon broke my blender. There is smoke coming out the back.”

“Sorry.” The Ruin Bringer fished in her pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it to Nin.

“It is a Cuisinart. That will barely cover the lid.”

The Ruin Bringer gave her a flat look and produced two more twenties.

“Do not forget about the rampant inflation that has been afflicting this nation of late.”

After sighing, the Ruin Bringer handed the rest of her money to Nin. “Zav, don’t be a bully, please.”

“The goblin plague infesting this place is intolerable. Not ten minute ago, one of their dice would have pelted me in the head, had I not acted to protect myself.”

“You incinerated it and the clothes off the goblin responsible,” the Ruin Bringer said. “They’ve lost enough.”

“They never learn.” Zavryd’s baleful gaze returned to Gizsla.

She wanted to throw her hands up and proclaim her innocence. Instead, remembering her mission, she gently took the blender from Zavryd, removed the lid, grabbed a mug, and poured a serving of the icy meat-colored concoction.

“I may throw up,” the barista said, a hand to her stomach.

Zavryd’s nostrils twitched.

“An offering for you, noble dragon.” Gizsla bowed her head as she held the mug toward him.

“Hmm.” After eyeing her suspiciously for a moment, Zavryd took the mug and sniffed it. “Goblins and other lesser species should make offerings to dragons.”

“Of course,” Gizsla said, keeping her head down.

“Do not look in my direction when you say such things, dragon,” Sarrlevi said from across the room.

“I merely wished to ensure you were observing what proper behavior is for a lesser species.”

“I know you are not insinuating that an elf and a goblin are similar.”

“When it come to how they should serve dragons, they are.”

“You are pompous and odious.”

“Your insults may prompt me to challenge you to a duel.” After sniffing the meatie smoothie again, Zavryd took a sip. And then a guzzle that drained half the mug. “Ah, yes. Finally, this establishment offers a beverage suitable to the dragon palate.” With his eyelids drooping, Zavryd walked to the Ruin Bringer and linked arms with her. “Come, my mate. Let us celebrate this holiday in the nest.”

“What about the party tonight?” the Ruin Bringer asked in amusement.

“We will have our own party.” Zavryd led her out the door.

Gizsla wiped sweat from her brow—having a dragon that close was terribly unnerving—and headed for the Christmas tree. She had one more task to complete.

Not one but two dice clattered down the stairs, one hitting a troll in the leg and one bouncing off one of the display cases the quarter-dwarf was cleaning. Fortunately, the magical glass wasn’t damaged by the projectile.

“Zero points,” the goblin referee called up to the loft.

The troll who’d been struck roared in irritation.

“Possibly negative points,” the goblin corrected.

Another roar followed, and the troll grabbed his club.

“Definitely negative points.” The goblin squeaked and disappeared from view.

Nin hurried to intercept the troll. “Why don’t I get you a free drink?”

He growled, but his shaggy white brows perked at the words.

Nin held up a finger toward the barista. Meanwhile, Gizsla removed tinsel draped on the Christmas tree, finding enough of the material to braid and shape into a basket. Since Matti, who’d recently demonstrated her enchanting ability, was nearby Gizsla asked for a favor. She was happy to help, and the haughty Sarrlevi even contributed some of his power.

After delivering a drink to the surly troll, Nin came over to see what Gizsla was doing. “This is about the time I go upstairs to yell at the goblins and tell them to behave, but if you have a plan… you might know better how to deal with your kind.”

“I know well how to deal with my kind.” Gizsla smiled and held up the basket she’d woven.

Nin eyed it dubiously.

Gizsla nodded confidently. “This will only take a moment, and then you will wish to employ me.”

Nin looked to where Zavryd had been sitting and toward Matti and Sarrlevi’s babies who were happily sucking on their cheese-flavored teething tools. “Carry on.”

With the slightly enchanted tinsel basket in hand, Gizsla marched up the stairs toward the noisy goblins. Nin and several curious patrons trekked up after her.

Gizsla had never been in the loft, but she had an idea about what to expect and wasn’t surprised. Two dozen goblins were split between gaming tables and a television with a couches and chairs. The loft was covered in gizmos and contraptions that included everything from miniature catapults—those were probably how the goblins launched their dice—to an egg-shaped chair rolling around with an occupant inside to toy vehicles made from recycled traffic signs. What had once been a robotic vacuum had been dissected for parts, and the housing was upside-down and holding a pile of potato chips. There were coffee cups everywhere.

“I just cleaned up here,” Nin muttered.

The goblins froze when she, Gizsla, and the other customers appeared. Several had been in the act of loading the catapult, but they tucked their dice-filled hands behind their backs and smiled innocently. A goblin with a chalkboard on a stand flipped it over, so the score being tallied wasn’t visible.

“A female,” one whispered, nudging another and looking at Gizsla.

“She’s pretty.”

“They so rarely come up here.”

“Because you play simple goblin games,” Gizsla said, deciding to be flattered by their interest, though she didn’t see any likely providers in the lot. “If you played a sophisticated elven game that showed off your more attractive abilities, then more females might seek you out.”

“Seek us out?” One with a squeaky voice touched his chest. He lowered his voice. “That’s never happened.”

“Because you’re a buffoon,” another said.

“What elven games are you speaking about?” the chalkboard goblin asked. “We are too short for their sports. And tree climbing.”

“I refer to a game that would prove your magical aptitude and smarts.” Gizsla touched her temple, then walked to one of the tables and rested the tinsel basket in the center. “You must unravel this and free all the strands of tinsel using only your minds.”

“What?” one blurted. “No tools?”

“The tool of your mind,” Gizsla said. “As an elf would use.”

“But we have wrenches!”

“And catapults.” One goblin squinted at the tinsel basket as if he might put it in the siege engine and hurl it at the closest wall to unravel it.

“Are you afraid to use mental magic?” Gizsla asked. “Are you… incapable of performing in such a manner?”

She looked the one who’d called her pretty up and down, hoping he would want to play this new game if she reminded him that female attention might result. Of course, Gizsla couldn’t promise that female goblins would flock to them if they unraveled tinsel with their minds, but it might keep the rowdy gamers quiet for a couple of hours, and the enchantment Matti had put on the basket would ensure it wasn’t an easy task—even if they cheated and used tools.

“I’m very capable!”

“We’re all capable.”

“We will try it, but we must have more coffee to fuel our brains.”

“Oh, yes. More coffee.”

Several fistfuls of dollars—not singles or fives but twenties—were thrust toward Nin. She accepted them and took orders.

“You see why I’ve struggled to kick them out,” Nin murmured as they headed downstairs, leaving the curious patrons to watch the goblins quietly staring at the tinsel basket. “They buy a lot of coffee. But it stimulates them and makes them insane. I thought secluding them in the loft would help, but it hasn’t been as useful as you’d…” Nin trailed off when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Every patron in the coffee shop was looking at them. Not only at them but up the stairs, though nobody else had followed them down. Maybe they were noticing the lack of dice flying down from above.

“This is our new employee, Gizsla,” Nin announced.

That earned a few grunts, but mostly, people kept looking up the stairs.

“She has convinced the goblins to be quiet and put away their dice for a while,” Nin added.

That brought a much more enthusiastic response, a cheer that bounced off the walls even more loudly than goblin dice. Several people came over to thank Gizsla, and some even dug out money and handed it to her. As wrinkled dollars and fives and even tens were stuffed in her grip, Gizsla looked at Nin in confusion.

If this kept up, she would soon have enough to move herself and her children into the urban goblin sanctuary, but… “Why are they giving me money?”

“I think those are tips.”

“I haven’t served your patrons yet.”

Nin patted her on the shoulder. “Yes, you have.”

THE END

The post A Goblin Christmas (free holiday bonus story) first appeared on Lindsay Buroker.

Tracking Trouble, a New Urban Fantasy Series

I’ve returned to the world of Death Before Dragons and Legacy of Magic to write a new series with a new hero and heroine.

You might remember briefly meeting Arwen Forester (the half-dark-elf tracker) toward the end of Legacy of Magic. And the half-dragon Azerdash Starblade? He was also around (and freed from a magical stasis chamber) in Legacy of Magic. Now, they get stories of their own. If you haven’t read my other series, you can still pick up this one without confusion. You might just wonder at all the quirky established characters popping in.

If you’re interested, Book 1 is Marked by Magic, and Book 2 (Bound by Blood) is also available with the third novel in the works.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you have a great 2024!

 

The post Tracking Trouble, a New Urban Fantasy Series first appeared on Lindsay Buroker.

Cursed Is out, and the Legacy of Magic Series Is Complete!

Urban fantasy fans, if you’ve been waiting for my Legacy of Magic series to be complete before starting it, you can now jump in. I’ve just published the eighth novel (Cursed) and don’t have plans to write more with Matti as the main character. It’s always possible that will change, but I’ve set things up for a spinoff series (yes, LoM was already a spinoff of Death Before Dragons :D) and am turning my focus to that for the fall.

It’s been a busy year for me, with a dog surgery and more chaos to come, so I’m enjoying the relative ease of writing in the dragon-filled Seattle area in an already established world. I hope you will continue to enjoy these adventures. Don’t worry. I definitely have plans to return to high fantasy and space opera in the future.

For now, the Legacy of Magic series in ebook form is exclusive to Amazon. The audiobooks are not exclusive and can be found on Barnes & Noble, Google Play, Kobo, Audible, and other stores. One day, LoM and DBD will also be available in ebook form everywhere (if you didn’t notice, I’ve just made my Star Kingdom and Dragon Gate series available on all the platforms).

As always, if you want to get all my ebooks (with an audiobook option) before they release on Amazon or anywhere else, you can subscribe to my Patreon (there are only charges in the months when I release new books).

Thanks for reading, and look for more from me in the fall!

 

The post Cursed Is out, and the Legacy of Magic Series Is Complete! first appeared on Lindsay Buroker.

Legacy of Magic Bonus Stories + New Book (Fused, Book 6)

As usual, I’m not the best at updating the website, but here’s some quick news for you.

The sixth Legacy of Magic novel (Fused) comes out on Amazon this coming Wednesday. (You can order it here.) Not sure if you’ve missed some installments? The list of the whole series is here.

I’m also putting together a collection of short bonus stories that will go out for free to all subscribers of my fantasy newsletter. That’s here if you’ve missed signing up.

The collection includes an edited version of the Christmas story that I posted here last winter and two new adventures that take place after the events of Book 6.

Lastly, I’m planning to publish my Star Kingdom and Dragon Gate series in all the other stores in the next month or so, which means taking them out of Kindle Unlimited (indies are required to be exclusive to Amazon to be in KU, and the payment rate has been going down, so I’m starting to move stuff out of there). For now, my Legacy of Magic, Death Before Dragons, and A Witch in Wolf Wood series will remain in the program. All my books are still for sale on Amazon; SK and DG just won’t be in KU going forward (that is a lot of acronyms, yes).

If you get your books through Kindle Unlimited and want to read those series, please check them out soon. If you borrow them before they leave KU, they’ll remain on your device even after they’re out.

Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful rest of the month!

 

The post Legacy of Magic Bonus Stories + New Book (Fused, Book 6) first appeared on Lindsay Buroker.

Legacy of Magic Bonus: Interview with Varlesh Sarrlevi

As the author responsible for recording the biography of half-dwarf/half-human Matti Puletasi’s life, I wish to be thorough, so I’m venturing out to speak to some of her acquaintances. Even the dangerous ones. Even the elven assassins. I’ve armed myself with three kinds of exotic salads (catnip to elves, I understand) from the fancy organic grocery store in the hope of mellowing Sarrlevi a touch so he’ll answer my questions. Let’s see how it goes!

Hello, Varlesh Sarrlevi. Or do you prefer Mr. or Lord Sarrlevi?

I am of noble blood.

So, Lord. Got it. Did you enjoy the gift of exotic lettuces and kales? Are you willing to answer a few questions about yourself? 

To what end?

I’m writing a biography on Matti’s life and adventures. You’re been a part of them lately. I want the text to be thorough. 

Thus to create a publication that will lead the unwashed, armpit-scratching miscreants that seek her magical hammer to her doorstep?

No, no, this is for readers who enjoy following the exploits of people having interesting adventures. They’re great people. I’m positive they bathe regularly and hardly ever dig in their own armpits. 

*silent stare*

Some of them even like reading about you! 

The females.

That’s possibly true. I can see you’re busy, so I’ll get to the first question…

You’re spending a lot of time with Matti, but your feelings for each other are a bit ambiguous. I’m not sure she knows what to make of you.  How would you describe your relationship?

Feelings are important to include in the biography?

Oh, yes. Readers love feelings. 

You said they enjoy interesting adventures. In the short time we’ve worked together, we’ve battled many foes. Shall I detail the maimings, beheadings, and eviscerations of our enemies? 

Uh, no. I’ve already noted the beheadings, and the readers actually aren’t that big on detailed descriptions of eviscerations.

They sound squeamish.

Maybe so. About the feelings… Do you like Matti? Or are you only hanging around with her because of your personal goals?

I will not share information that could be used by our enemies.

Like feelings?

Precisely.

But you consider Matti’s enemies to be your enemies? You said our enemies. That suggests you’re aligned with her, or wish to be, doesn’t?

It is not healthy for biographers to pry into the affairs of assassins. 

Okay, we’ll skip those questions. What can you speak about? Did you like the salads? The Herbivore Hash? What about the Phytophagous Produce Pack? I was impressed by the vocabulary word on the deli sign.

They are adequate.

I’ll let the deli know that you raved.

*Silent stare*

Next question, you say? Do you have any hobbies? 

Honing my magic-using and weapons-fighting skills, the better to hunt down targets and compete my missions.

Uhm, yes, we know about that. But how do you relax after you’ve hunted and slain? Do you like to read? You had books on the shelves of your study.

As you know, that study—and house—was destroyed by dragons.

Yes, that is unfortunate. But do none of your other houses have books? Games? Musical instruments? Do young elves learn to play the piano? 

They learn to play the tasasheyvo, a string instrument that emulates the rippling of a stream flowing over rocks. 

I’d think you’d be more of a drummer. You liked Matti’s metal music, didn’t you?

I am indifferent to Earth music.

All of it?

Yes. 

I bet you’re a hard person to Christmas shop for.

*bland gaze*

Okay, let’s move on. What motivates you? You told Matti about your past, your family. Do you feel driven by what happened when you were young?

I did not know I was sharing that story with her biographer. 

She didn’t tell me anything. I have a magical scrying device to better observe my subjects. 

To spy on them. 

As an assassin, you can’t object to such methods. You’re three hundred years old but have never had kids. Or a wife. Is that anything you desire? 

*tiniest hesitation that may have been imagined* I have earned many enemies over the years. It would be imprudent of me to have vulnerabilities that enemies can exploit. 

Like kids? 

Yes. 

Maybe you could retire, and your enemies would forget about you. 

They have long memories. Some are dragons. 

Inconvenient. 

Yes. 

You could have your family and hide out in a wild world. I hear dragons aren’t hot on Earth. 

Few intelligent and sane beings are. It is a cesspit infested with mediocre people squabbling over substandard resources. One can barely summon decent magic here. 

Thus making it the perfect place to hide. Who would bother looking for you here?

We will end this discussion now. 

Because you have a date with Matti? 

I am bringing her cheese. 

A hot date. 

*baleful look*

~

That’s it, folks. My apologies for the brevity. Sarrlevi wasn’t as forthcoming with me as I would have wished. If I’d asked more questions, he might have drawn his swords…

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