The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye (Amra Thetys, #2)

by Michael McClung

“There’s a thief down in Lucernis, likes to swear by my testicles, of all things. Annoyed me for years, that one.”

He chuckled. “‘Kerf's shriveled balls’ indeed. Cheeky wench…”

There was even a warm, easterly breeze that kept the steaming miasma rising from the gutters at an endurable level.

Lightning struck the spire just then, and the raw power of it convulsed my body. At the same time, a scream rose from the depths of the dome, a rising bubble of agony that was more than sound. It enveloped me and turned my own pain into a tiny corner of an agony that enveloped the world and knocked me out.

Every second I was alive was a second I wasn’t dead.

That was one of the things I liked about Holgren—he wasn’t one for false bravado. That sort of thing generally gets people killed.

Low Country magic tended to be vicious, as befitted a region with a centuries-old tradition of vendetta.

Light blossomed from his fingertips and engulfed the fiend’s head, but to call it simply light is to say a sea contains a little water. It was as if a heatless sun had sprung from his outstretched hand. Closing my eyes just wasn’t enough. I threw my arm over my face, and still, my eyes pained me.

Fear is a powerful motivation. Fear mixed with hope becomes a grand sort of magic.

Either we’d make it or we wouldn’t. I refused to waste any time looking back.