Between (The Chronicles of Between, #1)

by L.L. Starling

“Gussie,” Esther interrupted. She gestured wearily at the flask. “We discussed this, and you agreed—no drinking on school property.” Old Mrs. Landshome frowned, her myriad wrinkles cascading down toward her chin in a sort of fleshy domino effect. “Doesn’t sound like something I’d agree to.”

“Where is your sense of adventure?” she asked Lyla, linking their free arms together. “In my other coat. The warm one.”

“Here,” Mrs. Landshome said, handing Sasha a steaming cup of coffee during recess. “Drink this. It’ll fix all your ills.” “Thanks!” Sasha said. “Just what I—” She paused as the unmistakable smell of hard spirits wafted up from the cup, making her eyes water. “Mrs. Landshome, did you spike this coffee with alcohol?” “No,” the old woman said. “I spiked the alcohol with coffee. It’s the better way to do it.”

“I’m not going to hit you,” she told him. The elven knight’s eyes flew open in surprise. “Why ever not?” “It’s no fun if you ask for it,” Lyla said. “It can be,” the blond knight said, winking at Lyla.

Lorn rolled onto his side, away from the intrusion. “I will defenestrate anyone who disturbs me right now.” “Ooh, big words, Boss,” Izzy snickered. “Fancy,” Setzl said approvingly. “Spell it,” the imp with the small notebook said, clutching his stubby pencil.

“Not tonight,” Lorn swore. He took advantage of the Nightmares’ momentary distraction and cast again, surrounding himself with a wall of flames. “It is Wednesday. I refuse to die on such a ridiculous day.”

“Will Her Majesty’s pretty friend Lyla be attending the coronation?” Ash asked, a little too nonchalantly. Lorn’s eyes narrowed. “She is blonde.” Ash inclined his head with a grin. “I had noticed that.” “The woman required to lift your curse must be red-headed. Which means you could only dally with Lyla and no more.” Ash opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again with a sigh. “A pox on my curse,” he said instead and took a long sip of ale. Molven patted him on the shoulder and refilled the prince’s tankard. “Think of the bright side,” Lorn said, trying to cheer his friend up … somewhat. “Would you truly want to dally with the best friend of a woman who did not hesitate to run down a man with a mail truck? A woman who was willing to beat your crotch to a pulp had I not intervened?” Ash looked down into his tankard, his shoulders hunched forward, his expression decidedly gloomy. “You make several excellent points, and yet I cannot find it in me to care.” Lorn shrugged. “It is your crotch. Good luck.”

What's Prince Ashlyn's curse? 🤔

“Tell me the good news first,” Lorn said to Maddox. “Assuming there is any. Actually, I take that back—if there is no good news, make some up.” “I shall try my best to be both accurate and deceptive.”