Slowly but Surely … Probably

Map of The Faelands was created on Inkarnate.com.

Greetings, good people! Here’s to hoping your 2021 has started off swimmingly or, at least, is becoming less of a shit show as we inch our way along. I’m starting mine with the understanding I’m going to hit my insurance’s out-of-pocket max pretty damned fast. Yay me. No, Mom, it’s not Covid-related, thank goodness–unless, it’s something worse than Covid plaguing me and then imma have to cut a bitch. Let’s just say I’ve yet to find a constructive way of dealing with my negative emotions and some people I know may or may not have been invited to my imaginary Fight Club and they may or may not have lost all of their teeth. It’s totally fine. You dream of beating the shit out of you others, too, yes? No? You’re disturbed? Alrighty then.

Any-hoo, I’m finally back to writing. It’s slow goings, but it’s going. I’m not used to this degree of slowness and I suppose I’ll have to figure out a way around it. Normally I can write pretty fast, as my typos and mistakes can easily attest. But, hey, something is better than nothing. I’m currently four chapters into my new novel. It needs a lot of edits, but I’m publishing the first chapter today on this post.

To overcome my lack of motivation (or at least try to), I’m going to put a few chapters out periodically to hold myself accountable. As always, I appreciate any and all feedback or suggestions. I’ve created five different outlines for how this story will play out and I’m not exactly sure which one I like best. I guess I’ll figure it out as I go. I mean, I think characters sometimes reveal things to authors that they hadn’t planned in the beginning.

Shadow’s Raven is Book 2 in my Crossing Daggers Series. Keep scrolling for the excerpt. For more info and links to the first book, Shadow’s Lyric, click here.

Happy Reading, friends!

Chapter One of Shadow’s Raven

“He’s very handsome, you know.”

“How nice for him.”

Another blow from the riding crop landed, this time across the middle of my face. My bottom lip split and I spat blood onto the floor, barely a foot from my aching knees. If I could have managed it, I’d have directed it to hit the bitch right between the eyes.

Alas, I had not spent my youth practicing the art of launching expectorate at a moving target. I blamed my mother, Circe, for my lack of phlegm control. While some races of witches believed sputum brought good fortune, Dianic witches did not believe in groundless fortuity.

We do not rely upon luck, Raven, and destiny is a farce. We blaze our own paths, the memory of her sultry voice chastised.

She’d been right. Luck was for suckers and I wasn’t a sucker–not that I knew what my path should be at this exact moment.

The nerves in my face were going haywire. Tingling had started a while ago, after a dozen or so rapid-succession strikes. I suspected the whip had traces of iron dusted upon the leather. Iron was bad news, even for a half-breed like me.

A swipe of my tongue caught the tangy trace of copper. The motion sent a drop of liquid trickling down the front of my chin. Holding my captor’s sharp stare, I calmly wiped my mouth on the sleeve covering my shoulder. My soiled clothes were rank and I nearly wrinkled my nose.

The view in my peripheral wasn’t pretty. The Otherland’s natural light, streaming in through the keep’s slender windows, highlighted the rust-colored stains on my once pristine white shirt. The material across my back was torn in several places. Thankfully, I’d been afforded some semblance of modesty and all my essential parts were still covered.

I waited for the Queen’s next move, ignoring the soft scoring of the bottom of her satin slipper sliding across stone. The sound grated against my ears. It wasn’t surprising she slithered around gracefully instead of stepping. It was, after all, how serpents navigated the world.

Unlike a serpent, Queen Sersha didn’t know when to strike hard. Today’s efforts at torture were unimpressive. There were a thousand better ways to torment someone. The unimaginative queen was trying to break me as one might try to break a horse–with a stern voice and a riding crop.

As if.

My biggest complaints had nothing to do with her direct hits. The skin at my wrists burned from the iron shackles, the ferric bonds weakening me to near exhaustion. There was an ache in my arms, the result of being chained to the large metal grommet above my head.

One of my shoulder sockets was hovering on the edge of dislocation. Though, this could probably be attributed to an injury from childhood that occurred well before I’d acquired the substantial healing abilities most species of Others achieved in adulthood.

At least I’d been smart enough to conserve some energy by kneeling during this morning’s little visit. I think Sersha preferred me on my knees, anyway. This way she could pretend I was bowing at her feet. Conveniently, it also made it easier for her to reach my face, something she seemed fixated on today.

The riding crop smacked lightly against her palm, in tandem with her unhurried steps. It wasn’t the worst of the Fae Queen’s tools, but it seemed to be her favorite.

It was a lot like Sersha. Precise. Mordant. Unable to finish the job on its own. I almost chuckled at the thought.

“Must you be so difficult?” she whined sullenly. “Lying with him is no hardship, I can assure you.”

Disgusting.

Mutely, I watched Sersha move around the empty chamber twirling the black leather instrument in her elegant hands, looking every bit the queen she was. Ruler of the Faelands. A descendant of royal bloodlines who carried her frame with poise and grace, fluid as a viper.

I’d seen Fae of both sexes throw themselves at her feet. The covetous eyes of the members of her court watched intently whenever she was near. She loved every second of their attention as much as she loved calling out those who did not meet her standard of envious regard.

I hated her.

I hated the gorgeous mane of red hair cascading down her back. Hated the way her hand-sewn gowns always hugged her thin, perfect figure. Hated how her dark green eyes shrewdly assessed, calculating how far she would have to push before I broke.

Sersha was so much worse than my father had said. She was an imposter, wearing her beauty like a cloak to hide the ugliness underneath.

A true queen would love her subjects, not tolerate their existence. Not play with their lives. Not steal them away from the kitchens solely because she’d taken note of the looks they’d received from her consort–one who likely had a roaming eye because his Queen hadn’t respected him enough to name him as her King.

I wished I’d never left Father and Kol, even though I’d hated that farm. No, that wasn’t right. I hated watching a male of worth live with the ghost of that shrew who was my mother. Still, I wished I had stayed.

Sersha sighed. “Is it money you desire? Land? A job to get you out of the kitchens? I can give you all three.”

My head shook, insulted. How many of her new pets took her up on such offers? Were the Fae who resided here really so easy to break?  I didn’t come to Ansley Keep to find wealth, much less humor this lunatic.

I’d only wanted to earn my place somewhere, to experience what life was like outside of our remote homestead. My dreams pushed me out of the nest, teasing me with hope there was something out there waiting for me to claim it. Something that was mine and mine alone.

Gut instinct brought me to Ansley Keep, and Father had preached my entire life to never ignore the little voice screaming from within. Confessedly, much to my own chagrin, I’d also been woefully curious about the Queen.

Because he loved me, and had taught me well, Father overcame his fear for my safety, of our legacy’s discovery, and let me go. We’d agreed a lowly job in the kitchens would keep me out of Sersha’s notice. If my spelling magic hadn’t been strong enough to mute the strength of my power, he’d have forced me to stay home.

What would my family think if they could see me like this, bound and kneeling in Sersha’s secret room? I could almost hear my Father’s lecture, reminding me that Ulriks did not get taken prisoner. He’d taught me better than to get caught a second time. When those males had stolen me away days after my tenth birthday, I’d had the excuse of youth and inexperience. At 25, I only had myself to blame.

If Father found out, he would do something foolish to save me, probably drag my twelve-year-old brother into it. Thank Hecate I’d had the sense to not share my past with anyone here. No one knew I was from Terek.

I’d gladly take my father’s lecture once I freed myself, something I needed to figure out soon. I should have figured a way out already. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been held prisoner before.

Unfortunately, dislocating my shoulder to wiggle free from my bonds wouldn’t work this time. I was never left alone when brought to this space. My cell, down in the lower levels, was virtually escape-proof, covered in iron and spelled by someone powerful. My best bet to get away was when they transported me to or from the Queen.

Or, preferably, if I could get Sersha to touch me. She was always careful, only coming close enough to strike with her weapon.  It was smart of her. I did have a few tricks up my sleeve, but in my weakened state, our skin would have to touch for me to use them.

As she paced in agitation, I allowed my eyes to roam. Maybe I’d missed something I could use to my advantage. The room was small and devoid of furniture aside from a single chair in the center. Two small window slits, too narrow to fit a body, lined the wall to my right. A variety of loops secured to the stone floors, walls, and ceilings, in various spots were used to secure prisoners.

That was it. No tools. No weapons rack. Nothing. This wasn’t the real torture chamber. It was the watered down version.

There was only one purpose to the room. It was where Sersha did her best to coerce her victims and mete out what she thought of as justifiable punishment when they didn’t bow to her whims. She got off on feeling like she had a hand in such things, as though she were the one breaking her captives’ spirits.

She wasn’t. The unbearable pain came courtesy of her minion, Dolan, deep in the bowels of Ansley Keep. The Queen didn’t have the stomach to do the real dirty work.

Sersha had yet to realize most of the servants knew of the room’s existence, just as they knew of what happened in the dungeon. They ran around with their heads down so as to never call attention to themselves. It was shameful to use fear as a way to control others.

Fingers snapped in triumph.

“Do you have a mate? Or are you under terms of a betrothal?” Sersha’s sing-song voice inquired, sounding like she’d stumbled upon the answer to the world’s greatest riddle. “I can assure you it won’t be an issue. Malcolm and I are nothing, if not discreet. Your male will never know.”

I hadn’t been sure my opinion of her could sink any lower. I’d been wrong.

“No,” I answered honestly. Most Fae could discern truth from lie, so there was no point in playing at any pretense. Plus, I wanted to make it clear my refusal came because it was my right to do so, not because I’d made a promise to some male. “I do not have a mate, nor am I living under the terms of a betrothal.”

“Then why?” she asked, clearly baffled by my continued refusal.

I didn’t answer this question. I never answered it. She should know why. If the Queen couldn’t grasp the concept of respecting fidelity between mated pairs, then she certainly wouldn’t understand why I would never allow my body to be used in such a way.

Sersha had asked this question at least a dozen times since taking me prisoner, weeks ago. I’d started to lose track of the days and I didn’t like not knowing exactly how long I’d been absent.

This was usually the point in our conversations where she’d call in her guard to choke me unconscious so he could move me back to my cell. It was the only way they could get my cooperation.

That first day, she’d said she would have done it herself but she didn’t want to risk getting blood on her new dress. Her words had been so adamant I wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. Sersha wasn’t the badass she so obviously wanted to be.

Though hidden, she had cracks. We all did. If I pressed, would she fall apart? Those who succumbed to emotions became careless. A careless Sersha might lead to a free Raven, and she was definitely more frustrated than normal today.

When she circled back around into my field of vision, I lifted my head defiantly. “Why would you want me to willingly lie with your mate?”

Something sparked in her eyes. Velvet-soft, she brushed the crop down the side of my neck and over my breast, then circled my exposed belly button, just under the edge of my torn shirt.

“You are unique, Raven. I’ve never seen Fae with eyes of violet.”

My eyes had likely been my downfall. I never glamoured them because it never held. Windows to the soul could not be dressed in a lie for long.

I’d erringly thought little of it after my arrival. Forest green may have been the primary eye color of most Fae, but it wasn’t a guaranteed outcome. There were variations within the gene pools. The Keep’s head cook had irises that were amber and at least two of the maids were blue. My own father’s had often been mistaken for violet when they held more magenta than anything.

Granted, Brokk Ulrik’s coloring was one of a kind. Most species of Other knew who he was on sight. When his enemies saw his purple-red orbs headed in their direction, they ran for their lives. Rightfully so.

I wondered what Queen Sersha would do if she saw him coming.

“Nor are you of the same build of a true Fae,” she continued.

The leather skated across the fabric of my top, then lightly tapped on the sides of each of my breasts. She liked to do this sometimes. It never hurt and it never felt sexual. It was merely odd. I thought she might be envious of my ample chest compared to her own diminutive bosom.

Most Fae females looked like Sersha, waif thin and dainty. Though I was petite in stature, I’d never been dainty and I refused to allow my body to hold onto the skinny physique of the Fae. I’d worked for years to build muscle tone, to gain physical strength. My mother had put me in the position where it had been necessary.

“Perhaps you are of mixed blood?” The last two words came out like she had a bad taste in her mouth.

I didn’t fall for the bait. I’d never tell her of my heritage. It would be too easy for her to track down my kin and attempt to use them against me.

“I see why he covets you. He would never act on it without my permission, of course. Malcolm has always been most loyal to me.”

“Then why push me towards him?” I threw back.

“Because he is loyal and I like to reward him for it. By denying himself what he wants, he will slowly grow obsessed. You will occupy his thoughts more and more, become a forbidden fruit, if you will. He would never take you against your will. But if I sent you to his bed, and you willingly went, he could slake his thirst and be done with it.”

“He’s your mate,” I stressed. It should have been explanation enough.

Sersha lifted one shoulder. “Don’t be so naive. Malcolm and I aren’t soulmates, and a soldier needs to be well-fed in all aspects of life to remain content. It’s worked before and it will work again.”

She’d pushed others into his bed before?

The leather tip dipped below my belly button, the first time she’d dared to go anywhere near there. Sickened by her antics, I jolted, halting her progression. Sersha took a few quick steps back. If she wanted a reaction, I’d inadvertently given her one.

I was done with this game. It was time to poke at the serpent’s nest.

“You want to feel like you have control over the situation, like you’re doing him a favor. No self-respecting female would ever tolerate her mate’s wandering eye–and she would never allow her mate to lay a finger on another. You’re pathetic.”

I spit again, as far as I could manage. It fell short, landing a palm’s width from the tip of her satin-covered toes. Sersha’s pale skin heated. Her green eyes glowed.

“Dolan!” she called.

The door opened and the echo of heavy feet thumped across the stone floor. “My lady.”

The large male loomed menacingly. Aside from his size and the color of his dark green irises, I had no idea what he looked like. He was dressed in the Queen’s royal guard attire of black leather pants and boots, blood red tunic, and a thick, dark brown vest stamped with the Fae Queen’s standard–a thorned red rose twined around the blade of a sword.

Unlike the other guards, he also constantly wore gloves and a black leather helmet. The head covering revealed only the eyes. Three small holes marked where his mouth should be. Surely it was hard to breathe inside such a thing.

“Take her back to her cell,” Sersha ordered. “I want her stripped and flogged. Use the rattan cane first. If she doesn’t cry after 40 lashes, switch to the cat o’nine.”

“Cry, my lady?”

“Yes, cry. Sob. Scream. Something!”

Dolan’s head turned to me, tilting. “How many lashes after I switch to the cat o’nine, my lady?”

I smirked. Dolan was smarter than he let on. Unlike his employer, he knew exactly how this would play out.

“As many as it takes.”

Dolan bowed then moved towards me, eyeing my throat. As his meaty hands cut off my oxygen, I held Sersha’s glare.

“I’ll break you, Raven. One way or another, I’ll break you,” she promised, her voice pitched with the notes of her rage.

You first, I mouthed, just as my body lost its fight.