Aldrea Alien's Blog, page 38

Weekend Writing Warriors – #8sunday

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Still with Dark One’s Bride, my dear Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday Folk. I’d hoped to further along by now, but things happened, so I’ve only just reached the end of chapter two. Which would be fine, if it wasn’t for the fact that most of it was written previously… Grr.

 

This piece takes a little leap from last week’s with Clara finally arriving at the Endlight castle…

The dreadful swaying slowed then, at last, they came to a halt. The carriage rocked further as the driver stepped down and several thuds on the carriage wall at her back spoke of her luggage being removed from the storage rack above.

Clara hastened to smooth her skirts, gave up and focused on her sleeves. She was dressed from head to toe in rich black silk. The hems and sleeves were heavy in grey embroidery, dark echoes of the Great Lord’s fiery symbol. Content that everything was presentable, she sat on the edge of her seat and waited for someone to open the carriage door, all the while desperately fighting the urge to do it herself.

The latch clicked and the door swung out into the bustle beyond.

“Clara?” Tommy called. Her page stood by the door, his sweet face pulled into a puzzled frown. During the last few stops, she’d all but leapt from the carriage.

Don’t forget to check out the other excerpts.

In Pain and Blood – Chapter Sixteen

[image error]In chapter fifteen, Dylan and his new companions reached civilisation and perchanced upon a hound who is determined to join them in the trek back to the tower…

Remember, you can get these chapters, and all the R-rated ones, straight into your email by signing up here, which will be the case for next month’s chapter.

If you want to read the story in a slightly friendlier format, you can find all non-exclusive chapters on Wattpad and Inkitt.

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

Marin paced the compacted dirt road before the entrance to The Drunken Pilgrim. Dawn had come and, with it, a remarked lack of the hound’s presence. Still, they lingered. “This is bullshit,” she muttered for perhaps the fifth time since he had insisted they wait. “What do we need a hound for, anyway?”

Authril sleepily lifted her head from where she leant against the doorframe. Although the mattresses the innkeeper offered were softer than the ground, none of them had gotten much sleep thanks to the ruckus from the wealthier customers upstairs. “Hounds are meant to keep spellster’s under control,” the warrior mumbled. “And kill them if they become a danger. I thought everyone knew that. Didn’t your parents ever tell you spellster-hunting stories?”

Marin grunted and waved a hand in Dylan’s direction. “But according to your own word, he hasn’t attacked anyone who wasn’t trying to harm him. By the gods, he barely uses magic unless we ask. You think someone that full of power would piss it.”

Dylan winced at the image the woman’s words conjured in his mind.

The hunter whirled on him, curious. “You haven’t actually done that, have you?”

“Not to my knowledge.” There were a few babies who were capable of more than rudimentary protection magic, but for the most part, their abilities didn’t start to manifest themselves until they were toddlers. He couldn’t imagine how his guardian used to discipline him.

“My dear woman,” someone said in a familiar rich, rolling tone. “It hardly matters whether or not he chooses to use his magic, it is that he can use it whenever he so desires, even if it were only to ‘piss it’ as you so eloquently said.”

Dylan spun at the voice to find the hound standing in the open doorway of The Drunken Pilgrim. How had the man managed to get there without any of them seeing him?

He watched Tracker trot down the steps, the end of the man’s waist-length, russet braid bouncing from side to side in a fashion that brought to mind the cup-and-ball toys the children of the tower servants played with. He’d never seen the attraction in the game—spellster children tended to have other activities to occupy their minds—but it was hypnotic to watch.

“The gates are open,” the hound said, clapping his hands together. “We are all ready to be on our way, yes?”

“It would’ve been better to leave before the crowds gathered and the roads became choked,” Authril said.

Tracker shrugged as he strode passed the woman. “Naturally, but I had business to finish up before we left.” The man halted in front of Dylan, giving a considering hum as those honey-coloured eyes looked him over. A dozen little silver and gold rings and cuffs adorned the elf’s ears. They glittered in the early light as the man tipped his head up.

Dylan straightened his back, resisting the urge to shuffle on the spot.

Something familiar lingered in the way the man’s lips twisted. “You seemed not quite as tall in the dark. No matter. What is it that they say in the army when handing over charge of you to another?” Tracker snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes. I believe it is… your arse is mine.”

Dylan jerked back a step, his brows lifting. “I… They— That’s not what they said.” The mischievous glint in Tracker’s eyes told him the man already knew that, but his tongue persisted in its task of correcting the elf. “And in any case, I’m not leashed.”

Tracker tipped his head, his mouth crooking just that little bit more as he visibly fought to suppress a smirk. “And that is the very reason we are here today, yes? But as long as you cause no trouble, we will be fine. Come.” He clapped his hand on Dylan’s back. At least, Dylan was certain the man had been aiming for his back. What those long fingers had connected with was a little lower. “It is a long journey to the tower, but not as long as if we continue to stand here.”

The hound led them through the streets. It was a different way from the one they’d taken yesterday and, unlike the previous afternoon, their course was jammed with people and carts. Stalls lined most of the streets they travelled, turning already narrow ways even more so.

Tracker seemed to have little issue with the crowd. People tended to move out of his way, almost without even knowing they did, and closed behind the man as he pressed on. The rest of them weren’t as fortunate.

Dylan squeezed past a few such clumps of people, desperate to keep the hound in sight lest he be accused of attempting to escape. A dog bounded across his path, forcing him to halt or fall on the poor creature. He stumbled a few steps sideways, his shoulder bumping into a pole. His hand lunged for something to keep him upright.

“Watch where you’re going,” a woman’s shrill voice pierced the crowds as the awning the pole held up shuddered. “And get your paws off my melons!”

He swiftly removed his hand from where he’d grasped a crate of… yes, they were certainly watermelons. The pole at his back wobbled under his full weight. Please, no. He didn’t need some merchant mad at him for destroying her stall on top of everything else.

Strong, long fingers grabbed him, pulling him away from the awning framework, which remarkably stayed in place. “Come on,” Authril said, chuckling. “Let’s get you out of here before you bring the whole village down.”

He followed the warrior around a corner where the street widened and the crowd, although still quite numerous, didn’t press so heavily around them. He exhaled in relief upon discovering Tracker had slowed, clearly waiting for them to catch up.

The rest of their journey to the gates was mercifully uneventful with much of the crowd at their backs. He ducked his head as they reached the gate, though the guards paid them no more attention than the merchants and common folk around them. They trailed behind a cart until they were able to spread out along the road.

It wasn’t until they were through the gate that he realised this wasn’t the same entrance they’d used yesterday. The other road had been relatively straight. This one seemed to slither down the hill and past fields where it disappeared into a forest sitting in the distance. Beyond there, the town of Oldmarsh.

Dylan glanced over his shoulder, scowling at the silhouette of Toptower’s namesake peeking over the village walls. If he never entered another crowded street, it would’ve been too soon. Except, he’d have to suffer the town ahead if he was ever going to make it back to the tower.

Home. He lifted his gaze, a part of him hoping to spy the massive building that he’d spent the last twenty-nine years of his life in. Nothing. Foolish to think there would be when it would take them a little over two weeks to reach on foot. Just a fortnight before he was leashed again. At least he’d be prepared for it this time.

The day grew colder as they pressed on, the clouds obscuring the sun in the possible threat of rain. Dylan hunched his shoulders against the wind nipping at his face. He could practically feel the moisture building in the air. At least this time, he’d have a tent to shelter under come nightfall should the sky make good on her threat.

Entering the forest proved no shelter from the chill. Dylan rubbed at his arms, seeking to work up enough friction to keep warm. He tried to take some solace in that he wouldn’t be quite so cold once they settled for the night. That just made him more anxious for the day to wind down.

Feeling watched, he glanced to his left to find the hound staring at him. “What?”

“Do you not have other means of warming yourself? A cloak, perhaps?”

“Not any means I can use.” If they were to linger in one spot, he could attempt the air-heating trick Henrie taught him several years back. He already used it to dry his hair, so applying it to his entire body shouldn’t be too much of a stretch. But on the move, it was a pointless waste of his energy. “And as we barely managed enough money to pay for the tavern last night, what makes you think we could afford clothing?”

Tracker silently undid the clasp at his neck, removing his cloak. “Here. It should help keep the chill off.”

Dylan pushed aside the offered length of thickly-spun wool and leather. “I wouldn’t dare ask you to suffer for my sake.”

The man’s brows drew up in the middle. “It is clearly not as cold for me as it is to you. I insist you wear it.” Before Dylan could respond, the hound had draped the cloak over his shoulders. “We hounds are not all unfeeling terrors out to get you. I promise, I will not bite.”

“I know.” He drew the cloak further around him. The fabric still clung to the elf’s warmth. And, as he drew the collar up around his neck, he discovered the man’s scent had permeated the lining. A strangely pleasant aroma that warmed his cheeks. “The woman who brought me to the army camp wasn’t as gruff as I expected.”

The hound smiled. “Fetch rather leaves people with that impression, yes.”

Fetch. Dylan frowned at the road ahead, his thoughts lost to the first time someone had spoken the other hound’s name. Fetcher and Tracker. Odd enough for one to be called such, but both? The more he thought on it, the less the words sounded like names.

“Shouldn’t we look about for a place to set up camp?” Marin asked, breaking Dylan from his musing. The woman had joined Tracker at the front of the group. “It’ll get dark soon.”

With her frame being only slightly shorter than Dylan’s, the hound’s height didn’t quite reach her eyes, forcing Tracker to look up to speak with her. “We can easily walk for a few more hours before the light fades.”

Marin scrunched her nose. “For you, maybe. Not all of us can see as well in the dark as an elf. Besides, I want enough light to lay out some traps. See if I can’t snag us a rabbit for breakfast.”

The hound sighed. “If it pleases you, dear woman, we shall find somewhere to stop. We will…” There a subtle change to the way the man walked. Where before each footfall fell in a casual, confident stride, there was now an odd fluidity to the movements. “…look off the road momentarily.”

At Dylan’s side, Authril’s pace slowed. She grasped her sword hilt, her head swinging towards the dense bushes to their left. “Bandits,” she whispered, the word softly hissing through her barely moving lips. “Stay behind me.”

“Well, well,” said a voice from somewhere amongst the underbrush. “Look what we have here.”

Marin skittered back from the fore to stand beside the hedgewitch.

There was a rustle amongst the bushes to his left. “That’s right, lovely,” another voice said, this one most certainly belong to a man. “Get nice and close with your friends.”

Glaring at where the sound came from, the hunter fumbled with her bow. “Come here and call me that again, you bastard,” she muttered as she nocked an arrow. “I’ll put two in your eye before you could blink.”

A woman stepped onto the road, followed swiftly by half a dozen men and women. The woman spread her arms wide as if she greeted old friends. “Welcome to my part of the forest, weary travellers.”

Out the corner of Dylan’s eye, he caught Marin aiming her bow.

“Tell your red-haired friend to lower her weapon,” said a man from the bushes on their right. “We have you surrounded.”

Tracker turned his head enough to look over his shoulder. “Do as he says, my dear woman. There are rather more of them than it looks.”

Sneering, Marin lowered her bow.

The bandit leader nodded. “Now, I’m certain you can surmise the sort of situation you’ve gone and got yourself in. Since you seem so very keen to cooperate, we’ll make this quick. Hand over everything you own.”

“My dear woman, just because I am not eager for bloodshed does not mean I am willing to offer up what is rightfully mine.” Tracker planted himself before them, his arms spread. “And it would be unwise to continue that line of thought.”

“Just listen to master elf, here,” one of the women chuckled. “Thinks he can get off paying the toll with a little chatter.”

As one, the bandits laughed.

“It doesn’t work that way, you pointy-eared bastard,” the woman snarled. She bounced a dagger in her hand, the edge glinting with each fall. “You either cough up your valuables or we slit your throat.”

A smile stretched the hound’s lips. Dylan was certain that, had the man directed such an expression at him, he’d be quickly evaluating his options. “Allow me to make a counter offer,” Tracker replied, drawing his sword. “I will give you this one chance to leave with your lives.”

“What?” one of the men laughed. “The five of you against all of us? I don’t fancy your chances of leaving here alive, elf.”

“Priests always have coin,” said another.

A third jerked his chin towards Dylan. “Never seen one in green robes before, but I’m willing to bet that just means he has more than the others.”

Tracker opened his mouth in silent comprehension. “I see where you and your friends are mistaken. My dear man, he is no priest. Perhaps you should show these good people what you really are?” the hound said to Dylan over his shoulder.

Frowning at the elf, Dylan let a ball of fire flare to life in his hand.

As one the bandits jerked back. If Tracker had hoped to scare them off, then it wasn’t working. They seemed uncertain, wary like the tower mousers against a large rat, but their faces spoke of desperation, of hunger.

He snuffed the fireball and quietly tried to count the number of men and women. Not an easy feat when they kept shifting about in the undergrowth. Thirteen, maybe? It rather depended on whether the shadows in the foliage held more than just a man or two.

Movement in the bushes preceded an arrow. Dylan threw his hands up in front of him, lowering them only at the bandit’s collective gasp. The arrowhead protruded through his shield, the fletching jutting beyond. His palm stung. He glanced at it to find a bead of blood welling there. That was too close.

The hound twitched and the archer went down, a blade glittering in his throat.

“Filthy elf,” the leader spat. “Kill them! All of them.”

The bandits charged.

The two elves met the front of the group. The hound was a whirlwind of death, those who dared to come within reach fell back screaming or dead. Authril followed close on the man’s heels. She drove her sword into one of the bandits, bashing in the face of another with her shield as the woman attempted to close.

Dylan bounced on the balls of his feet, uncertain what he could do to aid them. A barrier would work only for as long as it took for the bandits to change tactics. A direct attack could scatter them, but it could also run the risk of hindering the others. He couldn’t be responsible for a hound’s death, not even indirectly.

The flash of movement on his flank drew his attention. He spun around, not willing to be caught out the same as last time. A man was closing in on him, his sword already swinging.

Dylan jerked back from the first swipe, his barrier shimmering as the sword tip grazed the outer curve. A pulse rippled through the air.

The man hit a tree with a sickening crunch and fell.

Dylan didn’t have time to check and see if the bandit was dead. Now he’d turned, he saw that, whilst the two elves fought the bulk at the fore, Marin and Katarina were dealing with those sent to surround them. The way those bandits were spread out left him with far more opportunities to assist. Still couldn’t risk fire so close to the trees, but a spray of ice would—

An arrow smashed into his barrier, shattering.

He lifted his arm, sparks of lightning flowed from his fingers to arc between them. Dylan scanned the bushes for the archer.

Marin found them first and another of the bandits collapsed on the edge of the clearing.

A second man lunged at the hunter before Dylan could cry out a warning, managing to knock the bow from Marin’s hands. Snarling, she turned on him, her knife bared. They fell to the ground, tumbling through the undergrowth. There was a scream, then Marin stood, wiping the blood from her face.

Katarina was having a harder time, harried by several men at once. He ran towards her, slowing as he caught something move in the trees above her. A woman. The glint of a blade in her hand.

“Duck!” Dylan roared, throwing out a bolt of lightning when the hedgewitch dove to one side. The woman jerked, her back arching and arms spread as the bolt ripped through her. Forks of lightning shot off her body, seeking ground. He fought them, forcing them to spread until they lanced through the stunned men, before letting it stop.

He stood there, staring at the four bodies lying charred and bleeding. Not a one moved. The scent of cooked flesh, not unlike that of the roasting boar, filled his nose.

Cold seeped through to his bones. His stomach twisted. Bitterness hit the back of his throat. Dylan forced the bile back down. This wasn’t the time for weakness. There could still be others. He needed to—

Slowly, he became aware of the silence at his back. The lack of screams, of steel hitting flesh, of fighting.

He turned to find the two elves standing amidst what had become of the other bandits. Or at least, Authril stood, if only barely. The hound flitted from one corpse to the other, examining them. Occasionally, he would pluck something from their bodies. Small pouches, rings and the like.

“Utter bastards.” Authril spat on the headless corpse at her feet. “I didn’t survive the massacre of my company to be taken down by the likes of you.” Her shield lay several feet away and she took a wobbling step towards it, using her sword as a cane. Her other hand was tucked across her stomach, discretely trying to clutch her side.

Dylan picked his way through the carnage, trying not to focus on the broken, twitching bodies or the blood splattered everywhere like a painter’s nightmare. His stomach twisted. He gritted his teeth.

His foot fell on a slippery patch. A quick glance down revealed it to be the loop of a woman’s intestines, the rest of it snaking out of her gut just like a coiled mass of greasy sausage. His stomach rebelled. Before he could stop himself, he was doubled over and heaving up his midday meal all over the corpse.

The hound eyed him from where he was crouched by one of the bandits, his russet brows lifting even as he cut a pouch from the dead man’s belt. “And they sent you into the army?”

“He’s new to the whole killing and mutilated corpses business,” Authril answered before Dylan could find the breath to.

With his stomach still cramping but empty, Dylan halted before the warrior. “Let me see your side,” he rasped.

She grunted and moved her hand. “Damn needle daggers. Slipped right through.” Blood stained her side. A smile quivered its way across her lips. “Guess it’s a good thing that the hound found you when he did. You would’ve been pretty much screwed for protection otherwise.”

“Stop talking as if you’re going to die.” He carefully unbuckled the side of her armour. There was a small puncture hole in the padding beneath. “I can heal this.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than a broken bone.”

“Not for me.” Dylan placed a hand on her side and let his magic get to work. The outer wound would be easy to mend, even for a simple physician, but inside… He was pretty sure the blade had angled up to hit her kidney. In any other circumstance, he could see why Authril thought the stab wound was a death sentence. “Hold still, this won’t take long.” He concentrated his focus into convincing the quickening of the elf’s natural healing to not let the organ die and, when it responded, loosened his grasp to allow the flesh to seal itself.

Finished, he stumbled back a few steps to lean against a nearby tree and catch his breath. He really needed to get this queasiness under control if he was going to be of any use to the army or they might decide to leave him in the tower. He couldn’t go back to that sort of life, not knowing the Udyneans faced little in the way of opposition.

A groan came from amongst the bushes.

Dylan glanced at the other two women of their little group. Both calmly enough all things considered. They seemed intact, or at least didn’t clutch at any obvious wounds, which meant the sound came from another. Pushing himself upright, he staggered towards the noise. It was the man he’d thrown against a tree. The bandit had come to and was trying to get to his feet.

Tracker straightened from his distasteful task of looting the corpses. “What is this? We have a survivor?” He strode over to the groaning man. With one shove of his boot, he rolled the bandit onto the man’s back. “Well now,” he said, crouching at the bandit’s side. “That was quite the misjudgement your group made, yes?”

The man laughed. It was a watery, breathless sound that spoke of a punctured lung. “Anna said you’d be easy pickings. Told her you can’t sneak up on an elf.”

A small smile tweaked the hound’s lips. He gently helped the man to sit up against the tree. “Tell me,” he all but purred. “Are there any more of you?”

Dylan frowned. He could’ve sworn Tracker had sheathed his dagger along with his sword, yet there it was dangling between those long fingers, hidden from the man’s sight.

The bandit shook his head. “This is all of us, I swear.”

“Good.” With one deft flick of his wrist, the dagger came up to plunge hilt-deep into the man’s side. The hound waited until the bandit stopped twitching before withdrawing the blade to silently clean it on the man’s tunic.

Dylan’s gaze slid to the bandit, vainly searching for some sign of life. “You didn’t have to kill him.” These people weren’t some slavers from Udynea. The man was defenceless, injured. What threat could he have possibly been to them?

“They’re bandits,” Authril said. “They likely already had a price on their heads. Even then, their lives were forfeit from the moment they attacked us.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the death they’d brought, forcing himself to take in every severed limb and lonesome head. A handful more than the original six he’d first seen had engaged the two elves. Nine in all without including those that’d attacked their flank. And each one lost their life. These people had been why the overseers sent spellsters, sent him, to fight Udynea.

Tracker cleared his throat. “Consider it this way… If we had not been here to take their lives now, then they would’ve only preyed upon others, perhaps even killed them as they sought to kill us. Think of it as doing those honest people a favour.”

Dylan frowned. It made sense. It didn’t mean he had to like it. It didn’t help that the man was covered in the blood of those he’d slain or that his pocket were full of their valuables.

“Such a scowl. My dear spellster, if you had glared at them like that before all this, they might have run away.” The hound bounced to his feet. “We should wash off this blood, yes? I believe we passed a stream a little ways back, it could lead to something larger.”

Dylan stared down at his hand where Authril’s blood still stained his skin. Such a small mark required nothing more than a basin and a little time. “I don’t have much blood on me,” he murmured to himself. He should’ve been dripping in it, should’ve killed that bandit outright rather than let the man suffer a worse death.

A hand clapped onto his shoulder, the strength behind it dragging his side down. “That may be,” Tracker said, “but some of us are not so fortunate. Come, if luck is merciful, we will find a place to camp before nightfall.”

He trailed after the man as Tracker strode back the way they’d come. Luck be merciful? He didn’t see any of the gods granting him mercy anytime soon.

 

My playlist for this chapter remains as instrumental…

Weekend Writing Warriors – #8sunday

[image error]New month, new book. Wow, after such a long time with In Pain and Blood, too.

This time, my dear Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday Folk, it’s from Dark One’s Bride. For which I really wished I could make a decent blurb for, because I’ve got bupkiss there right now.

 

Anyway, this is the sequel to Dark One’s Mistress and picks up five months after it with Clara travelling alone to Endlight…

People lined the road, busy with their lives of work or begging or just plain keeping back from the Great Lord’s black carriage. Nothing different about them to give away where they were. It was oddly disappointing. For years, anything beyond Everdark had seemed so exotic, but the journey here had swiftly shown her how wrong she’d been. With every mile, she’d hoped Endlight would prove different.

Sighing, Clara flopped back into the seat. She wanted to hammer on the roof, demand the driver reveal their present destination. Only the stranglehold she kept on her impatience stopped her. That and Lucias’ men took it upon themselves to ignore her completely unless it conflicted with the Great Lord’s wishes.

Don’t forget to check out the other excerpts.

Out With the New…

[image error]Fare thee well my old desktop wallpaper. Hello, new one.

 

May has gone, as has my “vacation time” from writing. Not that I’ve been doing much vacationing, what with tweaking bits of In Pain and Blood and readying myself for Dark One’s Bride, which I’ve been meaning to complete since before I started IPaB.

Seeing that I’ve been able to hammer out a rough 1k a day during my writing months, I’m giving myself two months to get DOB sorted as I know there are a few chapters I need to rewrite, new ones to put in place and some others that require filling out.

After that… I’m not sure whether I’ll turn my focus to Dark One’s Wife, Mapmaker, The Shadow Prince, To Target the Heart (which one prince in particular is starting to nag me about) or something else. I mean, providing things go well, there’ll be four more months after I’m done before December demands cut into my writing time. Maybe I’ll use that time to relearn how to make scented candles for when IPaB is released, because yeah, they’re happening…

Fraud Twice Felt by J.T. Hall

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[image error]Title: Fraud Twice Felt

Author: J.T. Hall

Release Date: 29th May 2017

 

BLURB

Three weeks after solving his old boyfriend’s murder, bounty hunter Derwin Bryant is trying to let go of the past and embrace his new life with Elliot Leed, a former rentboy and fellow Oddity. Elliot, meanwhile, is trying to adjust to working at Bob’s Bail Bonds and having a real relationship despite his strange power of Object Reading. Hanging over the couple is the fear that Roy Yoshiro, notorious gang lord, will make good on his threats to claim Elliot. If that happens, not even Derwin’s superhuman strength will be enough to protect the man he loves.

Their concerns are overshadowed when Derwin’s friend asks for help finding her missing son. It’s not long before the case takes Derwin and Elliot back to the crime-ridden underbelly of the city and straight into Yoshiro’s clutches. Two gangs are vying for power, and Derwin and Elliot get caught in the middle of their very public fight.

Derwin and Elliot must find a way to thwart both gangs’ plans and escape alive. This time, one misstep could spell disaster for all the inhabitants of Nis.

 

Available from…
Riptide Publishing | Amazon | Kobo | B&N

 

About The Oddities Series

The government wants to control Oddities. Regular people condemn them. And the corporations want to study their DNA . . .

Derwin Bryant is a bounty hunter, a demon hunter, and has an Oddity that allows him to feed on pain to increase his strength and speed. Elliot Leed is a rent boy turned private investigator with a rare Oddity of his own—the ability to read objects with strong emotional imprints. Together they take on cases that no one else can, in a city full of corruption, crime, and the forgotten poor.

It’s a tough place for two men in love to make a difference.

Check out The Oddities!

 

 

About J.T. Hall

J.T. Hall has been writing for many years under this name and others, and has appeared in magazines, anthologies, and online books. She earned her BA in creative writing from the University of Arizona, her Master’s in education from Argosy University, and works as an independent technical writer for state and federal programs. In her free time, she volunteers for the LGBT community and is active in the leather scene. She has a teenage daughter and a partner of over ten years. They live in sunny Arizona with three adorably cute dogs, three black cats, and a hamster who loves peanuts.

 

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#RainbowSnippets – In Pain and Blood

[image error]This, my Snippet Sunday and Rainbow Snippets folk, is the last piece from In Pain and Blood. Snippets from it won’t be seen again until it’s published. I’ll be turning my focus to Dark One’s Bride, which also means I won’t be participating quite so much in Rainbow Snippets.

Blurb: When a routine inspection goes awry, Dylan is left unleashed and alone. Afraid he’ll become prey for the King’s Hounds, he struggles to make his way back to the only safety he’s ever known. Or is it?

This section follows on from last week’s, where the guards were suggesting a rather thorough search of Tracker’s person. Altered slightly. It ended with: From his limited viewpoint, Dylan caught Tracker’s hand ball.

The action was also noticed by the second guard. He nudged the other man. “Looks like this one’s going to be a fighter.”

The first guard stroked his jaw. “I do love it when they struggle,” he drawled.

Dylan steeled himself, preparing to unleash a bolt of lightning at the first sign of the men advancing. If Tracker chose to retaliate, then they’d have to ensure the men went down fast and stayed there.

“Good sirs,” Tracker said, leaning back on the bed. The mattress above Dylan’s head sagged slightly. “I have nothing to hide.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” the second guard said, discarding his sword belt as the first man shut the door and tucked the torch into an empty sconce. “You just be a good little elf and do exactly what we say.”

The weight on the bed lifted as Tracker was pulled back to his feet. The guards pinned him between them. One toyed with the ties of Tracker’s stolen trousers, whilst the other rubbed himself against the elf’s rear.

Tracker tipped his head back against the first guard’s chest and chuckled. “My dear man,” he purred, grinding his backside against the man’s groin. “Why did you not say this was what you were after?” With one arm, he hooked the second guard, drawing him close enough to wrap both legs around the man’s waist. “It has been an age since I had two men in me at once. I can be most accommodating if you are looking to change that.”

“We’d prefer you struggled,” the second guard said, his voice thick. He’d managed to undo the ties of Tracker’s trousers and already had a hand down the back, pawing at the elf’s rear.

“I see,” Tracker murmured. He swung his arms behind him, caressing the back of the first guard’s head, digging his fingers into the man’s hair. “Very well.” Tracker jerked his hands. The crack of the first guard’s neck was sickeningly audible.

Do follow the links above to see other snippets.

On a Pale Horse Blog Tour

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The highly anticipated conclusion to the Revelations series is out now!

[image error]And behold a pale horse that carried the name death….

Management of The Underground, a New York club with a reputation for delivering a host of guilty pleasures, could have been a whole lot more fun if Cloris didn’t spend half that time avoiding Hades. Despite the burning attraction to the former God of the Underworld, she still harbors a nagging fear that her advances could rekindle the disturbing experiences of Hel’s hospitality. But when the four horsemen discover that it may be possible to hang up their mantels for good, Cloris is torn between her desire to no longer be a horseman and her hesitation that she could be anything other than death….

Regardless of the scars he gathered from enduring time at the hands of Hel, Hades craves nothing more than to immerse himself in Cloris’s attentions. Frustrated by his inability to convince her that he desires her in every imaginable way, he fears she only sees him as damaged or worthless. But when the horsemen decide to truly embrace mortality, he realizes that he will have to move quickly… or risk losing her forever.

In a race to the end, can Cloris and Hades embrace the love they could possibly share or will their stubbornness doom the horseman to live a life worse than death —remaining horseman forever?

On a Pale Horse is the exciting conclusion to the Revelations Series from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Monica Corwin. If you like the work of Larissa Ione, Karen Marie Moning and Kresley Cole you will love the four book to the Revelations series!

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Don’t forget to check out the first three books in the series too!

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[image error]Monica Corwin is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author. She is an outspoken writer attempting to make romance accessible to everyone, no matter their preferences. As a Northern Ohioian, Monica enjoys snow drifts, three seasons of weather, and a dislike of Michigan football. Monica owns more books about King Arthur than should be strictly necessary. Also typewriters…lots and lots of typewriters.

You can find her on Facebook , on Twitter, and on the web. Monica Corwin is also on Instagram.

If you want up to date information on releases be sure to follow her here on Amazon or you can join her newsletter.

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#RainbowSnippets – In Pain and Blood

[image error]Well, I was going to continue along the vein of the last snippet, but seeing that, In Pain and Blood is currently going through edits and won’t be seen from again until it is published, plus this is the penultimate week that I post pieces for Rainbow Snippets, I thought I’d post something a little nearer the end.

Blurb: When a routine inspection goes awry, Dylan is left unleashed and alone. Afraid he’ll become prey for the King’s Hounds, he struggles to make his way back to the only safety he’s ever known. Or is it?

This section is from where my characters are trying to escape. Dylan’s currently attempting to hide beneath a bed…

“What are you doing here, elf?” the first one asked, his eyes narrowing at Tracker whilst the other man surveyed the room. “Looking to do a little looting whilst all the other servants are confined to the main hall?”

“T-they are?” Tracker replied, sounding suitably flustered. He tucked one foot behind the other, rubbing at the back of his ankle. “I… Why I had no idea, good sirs.”

“I reckon we should pat him down,” the second guard said, leering. “Strip him and give every orifice a thorough search just to be sure he’s not hiding everything.”

The first guard gave his companion a punch to the shoulder, his gauntleted fist clanging against the man’s armour. “You think we should do that with every elf.”

From his limited viewpoint, Dylan caught Tracker’s hand ball.

 

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Herald (of Golden Dawn by Aldrea Alien)

Source: Herald (of Golden Dawn by Aldrea Alien)

In Pain and Blood – Chapter Fifteen

[image error]If you were one of those who signed up to receive chapter fourteen, you know what went down in that chapter. For those who didn’t and have been reading from the beginning, I’m sure you can guess a little R-rated stuff went on with one of the women. But now, Dylan and his new companions are about to reach civilisation in one of my favourite parts of the story…

Remember, you can get these chapters, and all the R-rated ones, straight into your email by signing up here, which will be the case for next month’s chapter.

If you want to read the story in a slightly friendlier format, you can find all non-exclusive chapters on Wattpad and Inkitt.

 

Chapter Fifteen

Unlike the city of Oldmarsh, he remembered passing through Toptower, although he’d not seen much of either place. Back then, the troop Fetcher had meant for them to join up with had gone on without them and the hound had halted their journey only long enough to procure his horse before trying to catch up with them.

This time, he was determined to see more than the outskirts.

The town sat on a hill, sprawled around the very structure that was responsible for its name. His history lessons told him it was once considered the most heavily fortified village in the kingdom, able to withstand an attack from even the most powerful of spellsters. Dylan eyed the walls. From afar, he rather doubted they would hold up against common siege weapons much less magic.

Their little group had joined the road some hours back, travelling alongside people and carts with the same goal of entering the southern gates. The noise hit him first. The creak and rattle of carts bumping along the road, the murmur of people, the steady clop of hooves and the patter of booted feet. After a week of travelling through the forest, the sounds were all but deafening.

Unlike the others, his passage didn’t go unnoticed. Being so close to the army camp, he supposed his attire was a little more conspicuous. He could perhaps pass himself off as a priest to the unknowing, the cut of his robe wasn’t that different from their garb, although he knew of no ranking that had them in such a colour. And he couldn’t be sure how many of those who watched him could identify an infitialis collar much less the lack of one.

They neared the gates and Authril dropped back from where she led them to march at his side. “Keep close to me,” she whispered. “If anyone asks, I’m your warden.”

Dylan tucked up the collar of his robe, ensuring it covered his neck. “Understood.” The last thing he wanted was to draw even more attention. He wouldn’t have come near this place if they hadn’t needed to replenish their supplies.

They passed through the gates with only a cursory glance from the guards who seemed to have more on their minds than one group of people amongst the throng trying to enter.

If he thought the din of the road was loud, the village roared with life. He didn’t recall it being this harsh the last time he was here. His gaze ran over the heads of those crowding the streets. Night would come in a few hours. They had to gather what they could before then to be able to leave at first light.

Within the village walls, the prickling sensation of being watched lingered in the back of his mind. He shrugged his shoulders, hoping to shake the feeling. Either someone was intent on keeping him in their sights or he was getting paranoid. It’s just for tonight. All he had to do was play the part of still being leashed, limit his magic to nothing and, hopefully, they’d be on their way to Oldmarsh before anyone could alert a hound.

Authril took the lead again once they were clear of the bottleneck the gate made of the crowd, veering off in the distinct stride of someone with a destination in mind. She marched them past stall owners hawking their wares, down streets where the only sounds were the flap of clothes drying on lines high above, and into a dead-end where grubby children in tattered clothes squealed and tumbled about. Here, she stopped before one of the many single storey buildings. A sign reading The Drunken Pilgrim hung over the door.

They entered the inn to be shrouded in the watery light of sputtering candles. He blinked hurriedly, trying to adjust his eyesight. There wasn’t much to the inside. Even full of tables and a handful of drinking patrons, the place had a distinct hollowed out look. There was the faint hint of coal smoke in the air, overlaying the more familiar woodsy smell of fire.

“Huh,” Marin muttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in here. It’s a cosy-looking place, isn’t it? If you don’t mind the whole entombed feeling anyway.”

Dylan was inclined to agree with the hunter, although the room likely wouldn’t have looked so bad if it were lighter. But the high windows running along one side of the room were blackened by years of smoke and the candles set in the big iron wrought wheels hanging from the ceiling threw off more wax than light. Much of the room’s illumination came from an open fire near the far wall. It burned with a low, sooty glow.

His eye was drawn to the walls above where carvings adorned the vaulted stonework. Primitive runes and swirls that ran from wall to ceiling and back again. Wards against evil. Or, more likely, against the all-too-possible threat of the encroaching Udynean spellsters. That he stood in the room was proof the markings weren’t worth the time taken.

“Hush,” Authril said to the hunter. “If you’ve been to Toptower before, then you know there’s only two inns and, believe me, you don’t want me stepping into the other one.” She marched up to the bar and banged a fist on the surface.

An elven woman not much taller than Authril, tottered through the door on the other side of the bar. Her dark, leathery hands gripped her apron, clearly hiding something within its folds. She eyed their group with a distinct lack of trust. “Can I help you?”

Authril leant closer to the woman, lowering her voice as she said, “I was told you’re acquainted with the leader of Danny’s Cutthroats?”

“Danny?” The woman’s face grew even more suspicious at the name. “Jilted you has he? Well, I’m afraid you won’t find him here.” She patted the warrior’s cheek. “Don’t take it the wrong way though, love. He’s always been a sucker for a pretty face, but you can’t tame a rogue like him on looks alone. He got the wanderlust in his soul. Much like his father, bless him.”

Authril shook his head. “I’m not after him, madam. He died last month. The Udyneans got him.”

“Oh.” Her hands came free of the apron to clutch at her chest. “Danny…”

“I’m part of his company. Well, all that’s left of it, really. He always used to say that, if we ever needed a place to sleep in Toptower, you would be the one to give us a fair deal.” Authril rifled through her belt pouch, withdrawing a small bag. She tipped the contents onto the bar top to the gentle clink of metal. “I don’t have much, but my friends and I need a place to spend the night.”

The woman eyed them over the warrior’s shoulder, her gaze lingering a little longer on him than Dylan would’ve liked. Did she recognise his robes as being army issue? More importantly, did she know of any hounds in the area? “I can’t give you a room for that, love,” she replied to Authril, her attention still on him. “There’s a fair deal and there’s beggaring an old woman. If Danny’s gone, then this business is all I’ve got, and it’s bad enough around here what with those girls going missing and—”

“It’s a big place,” Marin said. “People must go missing all the time.”

“That they do,” said one of the nearby patrons. A human, rotund and balding, his pasty, pockmarked face reddened from drink. “We get all kinds coming through here. Deserters are the worst sort, stealing anything that’s tied down. They don’t usually take off with young women, though. That’s new. I hear the guards are—”

“Shut your trap, you old sot.” Barely batting an eye, the innkeeper withdrew a cork from her apron pockets and threw it at the man, hitting him square on the head. “These good folk don’t want to hear your gossip.” The woman turned back to them to pat Authril on the shoulder. “Never you mind him, he’s had so much to drink that he’ll fall asleep soon enough. But to the matter at hand… If you’re desperate for a roof over your head, I’ve a few straw mats near the hearth that aren’t seeing any use. In memory of my Danny.”

“We’ll take them.”

“Wonderful.” The coin was swiped off the bar and into the innkeeper’s apron before the old woman had finished speaking. “Just be sure to be in before midnight. That’s when I lock up.” Giving another glare to the man who’d spoken earlier, she shuffled back through the door.

“Well then,” Marin said. “If we’re going to have any hope of boosting our supplies, I better see if my usual traders are in town.” She patted her pack, a slightly bigger and fuller version of what they all carried. The hunter had crammed it full of pelts, horns and other assorted bits before leaving her hut to the elements.

Authril nodded. “I think I’ll visit a blacksmith, see if I can’t get a few of the dents hammered out of this.” She banged on her somewhat tarnished breastplate. “We should meet back here at sundown. That should give us a few hours.”

“If it’s all the same, I’ll linger here,” the hedgewitch said, eyeing the drunk man the innkeeper had hit. “I want to hear more about these disappearances. We hardly ever have such things happening in Dvärghem.”

Marin wrinkled her nose. “Suit yourself.” Smiling up at Dylan, she hooked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Come on. I’m saving you before she sucks all of us into listening to some drunken man’s rousing rambles. Besides, I want to see if I can find a cloak that fits that beanpole of a frame.”

He allowed the woman to lead him out of the inn and spent a few hours tailing her whilst she flitted from one trader to another, waiting as she haggled down to the last copper, then using them to restock their supplies. Sadly, none of them involved a cloak.

The hours seemed to drag on. Eventually, boredom got the best of him and, as she met up with Authril outside the blacksmith’s shop, he parted ways to stroll through the village whilst the last of the day waned. In the twilight, the tower that gave the village its name was just a dark shape against the sky much like the building back home, only in miniature.

His stomach knotted at the thought of home. He halted, leaning against the corner of a building. People scurried by, involved in their own tasks. A pair of men clad in armour marched out one street and on past him, paying his presence as little mind as their sights seemed set on a man hurrying through the stalls at his back.

Dylan released his breath in one go. If the guards had turned their attention his way, they might’ve noticed his robe, paid heed to the dark green colour, and realised he was a spellster from the king’s army. Then they might’ve wondered why he wandered about without his warden.

He moved further around the corner, his gaze lingering on the tower in the hopes that if he stared long enough he could convince himself that this place housed everyone he’d ever considered as family. That he was only in the gardens. That these past few weeks were just nightmares.

It didn’t work.

The tower wasn’t his home. Not anymore. Dylan scrubbed at his face. What am I going to tell them? What were the overseers going to think of his return? Would they make an example of him or merely send him on his way? And where would he go if they leashed him again? There was no army camp.

Wintervale. His only hope was in following Authril to the capital and rejoining whatever defence the crown could muster.

Sighing, Dylan let the tower slip out of view and carried on down the streets. The light began to wane and with it, the people. He glanced about, panic tightening his chest. He’d meandered so much, both in Marin’s company and on his own, that he wasn’t quite sure which way lead to The Drunken Pilgrim. It didn’t help that, in the lantern-lit gloom, the streets all rather looked alike. He could wander for hours before finding the inn.

But sunset meant the others were all back at the inn. They’d come looking for him, wouldn’t they?

“Who am I fooling?” he muttered under his breath. If he was stuck with an unleashed spellster who barely knew a thing about surviving in the real world, a bastard who then got himself lost in a stupid city… Well, he probably wouldn’t have the heart to leave them behind, but he’d give it some heavy consideration.

And everything would be far easier for the others if he wasn’t there. They could all head straight for Wintervale, Katarina to the dwarven embassy, Authril to whatever was left of their defences, whilst Marin could find herself another place to build her home.

If he couldn’t find his way back on his own, then it was for the best.

Dylan breathed deep, trying to calm his mind. Beating himself up over it wasn’t going to solve anything. He just had to think. He’d been climbing for the past hour, so that meant the inn was downhill and… Hadn’t he passed a cart on the last corner? One with a lot of barrels?

It took a little wandering and backtracking before he found an empty cart over by what looked to be a cooper’s workshop. He turned the nearby corner. The street was empty save for the odd cat prowling across the rooftops, but familiar in a vague fashion. A dog barked somewhere far away. Another answered. It was a strange sound, one he’d only read about before leaving.

His travels took him by an alley entrance that he didn’t remember passing earlier. There was the faintest of movements within, dancing on the edge of his vision and swiftly accompanied by a dull thud. He slowed, steadying himself, focusing on letting a small, invisible shield wrap around him. Should he just defend? Whoever they were, they were either confident or stupid. If he misjudged which one it was, things could turn sour very quickly.

A blast of air should do the trick, just strong enough to knock them off their feet. It’d be relatively harmless and give him time for a more lethal attack should the need arise.

He took a few shuffling steps into the alley, searching for the source of the noise. There! Two little glittering specks in the gloom. They had to be eyes and their owner had to be aware they’d been spotted. Yet they didn’t attack.

Curious, he let a small ball of light drift on the air to illuminate the figure.

A large, black cat blinked back at him. It sat on a barrel, the remains of a rat between its front paws. The creature hissed, its back arching. Before Dylan could think to move, the cat grabbed its meal, vaulted off the barrel and vanished back into the alley shadows.

Shaking his head, he let the shield and light dissipate. Dylan turned from the alley entrance. Getting jumpy over a cat. What was he thinking? This wasn’t the forest. There were no massive boars, no enemy spellsters looking to kill him in the most painful way possible. No enemies of any kind. He was the strongest, most dangerous, thing in this village. Nothing here could harm him as long as he kept vigilant.

“Do not think about taking another step,” someone growled from the shadows. A hand grabbed Dylan before he could turn. His back hit the stone wall. The air rushed out of him, leaving him temporarily disorientated.

The dagger was the first thing he saw. Curved and sharp. In the dim lantern-light peeking out from the street, the blade bore an insidious purple sheen.

Barely daring to breathe, he followed the blade down to the bronze hand and onwards to the elven man glaring up at him. “If you’re after money. I have none.”

The elf’s sharp eyes, in a shade that reminded Dylan of rich honey, narrowed. “Money?” The man sneered. “My dear spellster, do I look like I need your paltry coin?” He spoke with the vaguely similar smooth accent of his old roommate, Sulin. The words tumbled off his tongue much like rock down a hill, catching occasionally on a soft trill or hiss. Only those born in Wintervale spoke such a way.

“I don’t—” The man knew he was a spellster? That could become problematic if he also knew of a hound in the area. Dylan lifted his hands, careful to ensure his palms remained facing away from the elf. As well as sharing a similarity in accents as his old roommate, the man was quite tall for an elf. Not quite as so as Sulin, but the top of the man’s head easily reached the base of Dylan’s neck. “Look, I really don’t want to hurt you.”

The dagger flashed up with barely a twitch from the elf, the flat of the blade tapping Dylan on the lips. “No more talking. I have been looking all over this village for the spellster everyone says is here and now I have you.” The point returned to his throat. “Now lower your hands. I am sure it has occurred to you that attacking me will do you no good. You would be dead well before I.”

His gaze dropped to take in the man’s armour. Hard to tell in the dark, but it looked well-made and leather. Not a common thief, then. A mercenary, perhaps? Something about the style nagged at him. He’d seen it before, as far back as the tower. Not on the guardians, but— The hound. Fetcher might have been human and a woman, but she’d worn the exact same armour. “You’re a hound,” he breathed, amazed he could say a word when it felt like his heart had relocated to his throat.

The man’s full lips twisted into a humourless smile. “How very astute of you. At least you are not entirely without your wits.”

“You have to help me.” Was it not a hound’s job to bring spellsters to the tower? Just like they’d done with Sulin and Launtil and countless others who’d been born outside the walls. And this elf would know the quickest route. “I need to get back to the tower.”

“So you admit you left.”

“Well, yes, but I was—” The minute change in the blade’s pressure against his throat stilled his tongue. The hounds will hunt you. His guardian’s words echoed in his ears. Safe in the tower, safe with a neck banded in metal, but venture outside without being leashed? Practically a death sentence. Any spellster rumoured to have fled the tower weren’t heard from again.

“The crown does not exactly take kindly to runaways.”

All the stories he’d ever heard about the hounds, the tales of what they did to those who fled the tower, flooded his mind and paralysed his body. They didn’t really drink spellster blood, did they? “Wait,” he said, trying to keep the whimpering from his voice. If he could get the hound to listen to him long enough to explain why he was unleashed, but surely once he showed the man how damaged… The collar. The hedgewitch still had it in her possession. “I—”

“Hush,” the hound hissed. “You will speak only to answer my questions. If they are not what I want to hear, if I think you are lying to me, I will make you regret ever leaving the tower. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Marin growled.

Dylan rolled his eyes towards the alleyway entrance. The women stood across its breadth, Authril with her sword bared and Marin with her bow already nocked. Never had he been so relieved to see a person as he was to see them.

“He’s under our protection.” Marin drew her bow, the whisper-thin tap of her arrow against the wood loud in the relative silence of the alleyway. “So you better get away from him right now. I won’t warn you again.”

“Dear woman,” the man replied, barely glancing away from Dylan, “this is none of your concern. He is mine now. Please, go about your business.”

“That’s a spellster you’re tangling with,” Katarina said. It was hard to make out without turning his head, but something gleamed in her hand. Her dagger? “You’re lucky he hasn’t tried to burn your face off.”

“He’s a hound,” Dylan replied. “Trying to burn his face off would only sign my death warrant.” If the hound died tonight and others of his pack discovered magic had been involved, even the tower wouldn’t be safe.

“Precisely,” Tracker said. “And as you say, my dear, he is indeed a spellster. Who are not supposed to be freely wandering the countryside never mind a village. For one to be doing so at night is very suspicious. Especially with all these kidnappings.”

Dylan swallowed. He had to agree with the man there.

“He came with us,” Authril said. “He’s only been in the village since this afternoon. Look at him, surely you can place the uniform.”

“Oh, I noticed. But it is such a ratty thing, yes? How simple do you think it might be to put on a dead man’s robes and look the part, dear woman? Any fool knows that a spellster who joined the army ranks is leashed.” The blade at his throat slid down, taking the neck of Dylan’s robe with it. “All I see is flesh.”

Katarina dug about in her pouches. “I have his collar.” She produced the twisted pieces of infitialis. “See?”

The elf eyed the remains and sneered, revealing a rather prominent canine. “That amount of destruction could only mean it exploded.” He gaze snapped back to Dylan. “And, if that were so, then why is he not dead?”

Dylan shrugged. They’d only the truth and, if the man wasn’t content to believe that, then there was no way to resolve this without violence. He gently opened his collar further and tipped back his head. “Because he’s a very lucky and scarred one? They’re telling the truth. I’m from the army.”

The hound peered at his neck, his russet brows knitting together in confusion. He lowered the dagger. “If that is indeed the truth, then why are you not on the front line?”

Dylan rubbed at his neck, finding no sign of injury. With additions given by Katarina and Authril, he recounted everything that had happened, from the ambush on his scouting party to the far wider assault on the main camp.

The man stood there, quietly listening, his gaze flicking between the women and Dylan even when they’d finished. Was he trying to determine if they were lying? Why not? He didn’t think he’d believe himself.

Finally, the hound sighed. “Either you are all telling the truth or you are most exceptional liars. But let us say I will believe your little story until I can confirm it.” He swung back to face Dylan, the considering glint in his gaze slowly twisting Dylan’s insides. “And you wish to return to the tower?”

Dylan nodded. Whatever the overseers planned to do with him had to be preferable to being slain here and now.

“Then duty binds me to the task of escorting you.”

“What?” Marin said. “A few minutes ago, you were planning to skewer him. If you expect me to believe that you’re not going to do him in the second we turn our backs, you’re missing arrows from your quiver.”

“You are quite welcome to stay or go on your way without him. I mistook him for someone else, but the fact of the matter is that, even if he is not who I was seeking, he is still an unleashed spellster outside of the tower, which rather supersedes chasing phantoms.”

Dylan frowned, not sure what the man was talking about.

“I must stay at his side until that is rectified in some way or the other.” He tipped his head, eyeing them all anew. “You are staying at The Drunken Pilgrim, yes?”

“Yes,” Dylan replied, earning Marin’s baleful glare. He shrugged. The elf already knew where they were spending the night—the innkeeper might’ve even been the one to tell the man—what point was there in lying about it?

“Excellent. I shall join you there at first light.”

Marin huffed and folded her arms. “Fine,” she conceded. “So you know where we’re sleeping. What makes you think we’ll still be around when you arrive?”

Dylan shook his head. She didn’t understand. There was little point in trying to evade a hound. Their entire existence revolved around hunting down spellsters such as him.

The man grinned as if the woman had made a huge joke. “Something as foolhardy as running would not keep me from my duty, dear woman. Regardless of your childish attempts you make, I would find him sooner than you believe.” He went to leave the alleyway, halting at its entrance. The long tail of his braid whipped around as he turned. “Oh, and since we will be travelling together, you may call me Tracker.”

 

My playlist for this chapter goes back to instrumental…