The Siphoning The Redemption Series Book One D.T. Stubblefield

 

The Siphoning The Redemption SeriesBook OneD.T. Stubblefield
Genre: Fantasy Publisher: D.T. Stubblefield Date of Publication: September 4, 2023ISBN: 8987848906 ASIN: B0C9P3J5FMNumber of pages: 385Word Count: approx. 106,000Cover Artist: BeauteBook 
Tagline: Warring Worlds Align Against an Ancient Evil
Book Description: 
The Goddess is good. The Goddess is pure.
Assassin Drakon Deathmark has heard those mantras his entire life. It’s not until he comes face-to-face with her that he realizes she’s more demon than deity.
Drakon conceals his innate power while yearning for the magic derived from the goddess’s blessing, which is reserved for nobility.
When a treacherous mission goes awry, he uncovers a prophecy pitting him against an ancient evil intent on vengeance. Drakon and his allies must defeat a demon masquerading as a goddess, her growing Army, and unravel millennia of deceit before she lays waste to their world.
For Drakon, the path to survival means overcoming past trauma and possibly relinquishing the power he has worked so hard to acquire.
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Excerpt 

Drakon heaved himself through the open third-storywindow. His black cloak flowed about him, concealing him in shadow. His musclesquivered from the rapid ascent. Below, the clamp of boots and a mutteredconversation passed beneath the window and then receded.

Another close call.

This made the fourth such encounter of the night. Helived by a rule: two close calls and he would abort a mission. Each time heignored this simple rule, something untoward happened. His survival instinctsscreamed for him to turn back and return another night but time was short, andhe was dangerously close to missing his deadline. The manor grounds were an antcolony of activity, and it took him longer than expected to make it this far.Seconds dripped by, increasing his chances of being discovered.

Discovery meant death.

Silently, he settled into the wooden floorboards. Nogroan of protest announced his entry. Crouching, Drakon pulled the cowl of hiscloak lower and drifted wraith-like into the chamber. A breeze swept inward. Thecool, crisp air did nothing to purify the overwhelming stench of incensehanging in the bedchamber.

A light orb floated overhead, casting the chamber in awarm yellow glow, elongating the shadows in which Drakon hid. Art canvases ofall sizes hung on the stone walls, ornate furniture adorned every square inch,and a massive four-poster bed overflowing with furs stood at the chamber’scenter.

Drakon curled his lip in disdain. The warden’s blatantshow of wealth was in contrast to the poverty of the people he lorded over.Another warden charged with the well-being of commoners lining his pockets fromthe people’s labor. He hadn’t expected much humility from a noble, and evenless from a mage such as the Jenna City Warden.

Drakon’s orders from the king were clear. The wardenwas to appear to have died of natural causes. Drakon wasn’t privy to thetransgression the man committed to garner himself a spot on the king’s killlist. The reason was inconsequential. He didn’t care, nor did he mete outjudgments. The Royal Council dealt with such things. He was but the gnarledhand of death employed to dole out the punishment. Drakon recalled the deathand poverty he witnessed while traversing the Commoner District of the city andgrimaced. He would enjoy killing this warden.
The bedchamber was empty, as Drakon knew it would be. He committed his mark’sroutine to memory. The warden was middle-aged, but his habit of nightlydrinking and debauchery was legendary throughout the Kingdom of Somorrah.

Drakon’s gaze searched the chamber for the warden’sfavorite vice. There. A pitcher and glass sat on a table next to the bed;remnants of red wine stained the bottom of the glass. Drakon removed a vialfrom his cloak. A colorless, odorless liquid sloshed within its clear container.He would add one drop into the glass, and the deed would be done. He would sendword of the mission’s completion to the king. Afterward, he might take anoverdue leave of absence.

He moved toward the table. Laughter and shufflingfootsteps from outside the closed door froze him halfway across the chamber.The doorknob turned, and the door banged open. Drakon threw himself into theshadows of a wardrobe. Sounds of merriment drifted into the room and then weremuted as the door snicked shut.

The warden was early. Drakon hadn’t expected him untilnearer to dawn. He cursed inwardly. He couldn’t wait in the shadows until theman passed out. The king made his instructions all too clear. The warden was todie before sunrise. Drakon gritted his teeth. He would have to improvise. Hehated improvising. It reduced his chances of an undetected escape, but whatother choice was there?

He pocketed the vial and pressed against the wardrobe.The warden, red-faced and inebriated, stumbled on unsteady legs toward the bed,hauling a struggling woman behind him. He was small and slender, manual laborhaving never sculpted the muscles of his body. Like all wardens, he was also amagical mage. The man’s diminutive physique was no indication of his power.

Alabaster skin inked with tattoos peeked from thewarden’s robes, testaments of his magical aptitude. Only his face was unmarred.Each tattoo was a rune etched to guard the warden against the harmful effectsof drawing the goddess’s power. Such power came with a price, and the wardensprotected themselves with the tattoos.

The warden’s hair was a dirty blond, and his skin waspale but not an unearthly translucent. A mage’s hair, eyes, and skin lightenedwith their growth in magic. This mage wasn’t as strong as the others Drakon killed.His tongue prodded a void a molar once occupied as a reminder of past battlesagainst magical enemies. Thank the goddess for small mercies.

A sob drew his attention to the woman the wardendragged in tow. She was waif-like. Oily black hair concealed her face, and herchestnut skin identified her as a commoner. Her threadbare dress was torn atthe neck and thin enough to see through. She was probably a slave. He resignedhimself to the possibility of collateral. From the look of her, death would be preferableto her current lot in life. He could give her that escape, at least.

The warden yanked the woman forward. She struggled allthe more, whimpering and pleading for release. The warden cursed and slappedher hard enough to snap her head back. The blow whipped her face toward Drakonand freed it from its curtain of dirty hair.

Drakon’s eyes flared. A face smooth with youth wasdecorated with black and blue bruises and a split lip. Terror-filled eyesglistened with tears and, more disturbing, resignation. This was no woman as heinitially believed. It was a young girl.

The warden slapped the girl again. The crackricocheted off the walls, and she slumped dazed into the warden’s arms. Havingsubdued her struggles, the man dragged her to the bed and flung her across it.She curled into a tight ball and whimpered. The warden grabbed her thin ankleand yanked her toward the edge of the bed.

“Quit your yammering!” He climbed atop her, claspingher wrists in one hand. “You should be honored that I would bring a smut likeyou to my bed!”

Blood pounded in Drakon’s ears. Unbidden, darkmemories rushed to the surface of his mind.

A slave child. Powerless. Drakon blinked and shook hishead, trying to dislodge the memory.

Nausea rolled through him. His blood heated in hisveins.

Hay scratching tender skin.

Powerless.

With effort, he forced the memories back, slamming thedoor on their mental prison. Yet, the rage left in their wake had Drakondarting silently from the shadows and toward the warden, who tore at the girl’sclothing, before he realized he was moving.

The warden stiffened with awareness, some part of hisinebriated psyche realizing they were not alone.

Too late. Drakon’s blade slipped in the hollow at thebase of the man’s skull. The body jerked. Drakon twisted, severing the spine,and yanked the dagger free. The body slumped forward.

Blood gushed from the wound, coating the bed and thestartled girl beneath. He pushed the body aside and freed her.

Wide, oddly ancient eyes––much too knowing for achild—peered back at him from a tear-streaked face mottled with bruises. Shesucked in a deep breath, a preamble to a scream. His hand clamped over hermouth.

“Do. Not. Scream. I won’t harm you, but you willremain silent.” He stared into her shining, unblinking eyes.

“Nod if you understand.”

She nodded slowly, and he peeled his hand away, readyto place it back. She didn’t scream but sat up and eyed him with caution. Hegrabbed an unsoiled coverlet from the bed and tossed it at her.

“Cover yourself and get out of here. Tell no one ofwhat you’ve seen.”

Even as he uttered the command, he knew he was being afool. The only way to ensure her silence was to kill her, but he couldn’t bringhimself to kill an innocent. No doubt, her short life was filled withatrocities for which this night was but a culmination. Her petite frametrembled beneath the coverlet.

No. Drakon was not so far gone that he would kill aslave girl. His soul was black and withered, but he had not delivered it to thepits of Targarius. Not yet.

The girl’s throat worked. “Th–thank you.” Her voicewas an unsteady whisper in the quiet chamber.

He cleared his throat. Her thanks unsettled him forreasons he didn’t want to acknowledge. He turned, focusing on the warden, andgrimaced at the mess he had made. Blood soaked the bed beneath the corpse andpooled on the floor. A frozen mask of surprise rested on the man’s face. Hispale-blue eyes locked on the nothingness of death. Already pale skin drained ofits color as blood leaked from the body.

Drakon took in the tattooed runes on the warden’sskin. All that power and useless against a simple dagger. In the mage’sassurance in his magical superiority, he never suspected or spelled againstnonmagical attacks. It was the way of nobles—arrogance above intellect.

Drakon sighed. The man’s death would never pass fornatural causes. His moment of untethered emotion destroyed weeks of planning.The outburst he exhibited was out of character. His lapse of control annoyedhim, but he couldn’t dwell on it. He had to plan his next steps, or they wouldbe his last.

There was only one recourse left to him. He wouldremove himself from the city before the warden’s body was discovered. Butbefore he fled, he would retrieve the other reason he was eager for thismission. He bent over the body, rummaging through the folds of the robes.

“Where is it?”

He rolled the corpse on its stomach and patted itdown. He cursed. Nothing.

The warden always carried an object of power when hevisited Sura City. Indeed, this mission excited Drakon for this reason. Desireto own such an object clouded his logic. In hindsight, it went to reason thewarden would travel to court with additional protection. Nobles and commonersalike distrusted the king and the royal mage. The Jenna Warden would’ve been afool not to travel with safeguards. However, the man wouldn’t carry such itemsin his dwelling.

He should have understood this sooner.

Drakon stood with a grunt of frustration, wiped hisblade on his leathers, and returned it to its sheath. If the mission wentaccording to plan, he would’ve had time to search the chamber. As it were, hewould be leaving without his prize.

He spared a glance at the girl. Shock had yet torelease her from its grasp. If the warden’s guards found her, they wouldsacrifice her in Drakon’s stead. He hoped she didn’t waste his gift of mercy.She would live or die by her action or inaction alone.

He sprinted to the window and glanced out. No sentriesstood guard or moved across the grounds. That was good, and no one would enterthe warden’s chamber until the maid arrived for the morning cleaning. Drakonwould be long gone by then. As if summoned by the thought, a creak sounded fromthe door.

“Rainore? What the devil is taking so long? Finishwith the—”

A slender man, clad in nothing more than skin and hismage tattoos, stopped mid-stride into the room. His pale-blue eyes locked onDrakon’s cloaked figure, widened, and then flicked to the body cradled in acrimson stain on the bed.

He screamed.

About the Author: 
D.T. Stubblefield was born and raised in a rural town in South Carolina. After reading Skeleton Crew by Stephen King, she was certain she would grow up to be an amazing writer. Those plans were placed on hold when she decided to study mass communications and not creative writing in college. After graduating, much to the disappointment of her seven-year-old self, D.T. did not become a writer or journalist, instead, she entered the world of the federal government as an editor and eventually became a manager.
Craving an outlet from the pressures of her job, D.T. did what she always did during stressful periods: she wrote. She wrote the beginnings of many novels (some of which were so bad they will never see the light of day!). She wrote during her lunch breaks, in the middle of the night, and on the weekends.
Until one day, D.T. wrote a story she fell in love with. A story that she couldn’t wait to share with the world. She wrote a story set in a kingdom trapped within a magical barrier, terrorized by monsters, and where an assassin was foretold to unite warring peoples and overthrow a demonic goddess. 
The premise of The Siphoning was born six years ago while D.T. sat in evening traffic on I-495, and now she is ready to share it with the world.
Website: https://dtstubblefield.com/
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