Bell, Book, and Scandal by Josh LanyonChapter One
“Merde.”
I scowled and sucked on the slice across the pad of my thumb. I didn’t taste blood, the papercut wasn’t that deep, but my tongue tingled with the flavor of…
Odd.
I picked up the letter opener, slit open the envelope, and several glossy black-and-white photos spilled out and slid across my desk.
Black and white? Who took black-and-white photos these days? Who took photos these days? That’s what phones were for, right?
I reached for the nearest photograph, studied it curiously—and dropped it as though it had burned my fingertips.
A man and woman locked in naked—very naked—embrace.
I didn’t recognize the man, though the large tattooed pentacle on his back indicated maybe I should.
The woman was my sister-in-law. Jinx.
I drew in a deep breath.
Well, this was…unexpected. And unwelcome.
I bowed the envelope to check for a letter. I was anticipating something with misshapen letters cut from magazines and spelling trouble, but there was nothing. Just the photos.
Not that that wasn’t plenty right there.
I rested my fingertips on the photos, closed my eyes, concentrated… To my surprise, there it was. The scintilla of the arcane. Magic.
I opened my eyes.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Was there any possibility this wasn’t a threat? That the intent was…what? Hey, here’s something you might want to keep an eye on? I considered that theory hopefully, but I couldn’t quite convince myself that these photos had been sent with anything but ill intention.
To what end, though?
Money, right? That was the way these things usually worked. Not that I had any practical experience of blackmail.
Yes. Blackmail.
It wasn’t a complete surprise.
Or rather, yes, it was a surprise—especially given that Jinx seemed to be the target—but we weren’t the first family in San Francisco to get one of these poison parcels. John had been losing sleep—a lot of sleep—over the past month with the discovery that the city’s high society appeared to have fallen prey to a well-connected extortion ring.
John is John Galbraith. My husband—but more importantly, in this context at least, SFPD’s new police commissioner.
The plot had only come to light because one of the victims, the Rev. Canon Angela Tzeng had had the guts to go to the police and report an attempt to blackmail her. Tzeng was supposed to be consecrated October 1st as the first female bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Northern California, but her courageous move had been rewarded by the blackmailer releasing information about a teenaged pregnancy to the press. It was the Twenty-First Century. You’d think— But you’d be wrong. The revelation of Tzeng’s youthful mistake was damning information in the eyes of both the public and the diocese. Now Tzeng’s very future in the church was in question.
Needless to say, no other victims had come forward. Not openly. Not officially. But they were out there.
“Someone’s going to get killed,” John had said the other night. He was not a guy for kidding around, and he was not kidding then.
I considered the pile of photos before me. I couldn’t help thinking that choosing Jinx as a blackmail target was kind of a stretch.
Yes, these photos were revealing and embarrassing, but at twenty-five, Jinx was a grown woman. The fact that she was a sexually active grown woman would likely only come as a shock to John. She did not hold public office. She was not married. There was no reason I could see that she shouldn’t have sex with whoever she pleased, although I had to wonder about her good sense in choosing a guy who’d branded himself with the Sigil of Baphomet.
Jinx had been studying with the Duchess for the past few weeks, so she surely knew better. And if this guy was not a poser, if he was Craft, he ought to know better too. But this photo might be months old. When I’d first met Jinx, she’d been a little bit of an occult fangirl. Actually, she was still a little bit of an occult fangirl.
But I digress. As usual.
That the photos had come to me, made me wonder if Jinx had already been approached and had brushed it off. You have to care a lot about what other people think to make a good blackmail victim. When it came to what other people thought, Jinx had, in the mortal vernacular, zero fucks to give. In fact, there had been a time, and not so long ago, when I thought she’d have taken delight in appalling both John, who was twenty years her senior, and her mother, Nola.
And when it came to Nola, who could blame her? I felt the urge to appall Nola now and then myself. Not that I had to try. My existence was enough to keep my mother-in-law in a constant state of pall.
Which meant what?
That the real target was me? The assumption being that I would pay up to keep Jinx’s past from embarrassing her? From embarrassing me? No. From embarrassing John.
Of course.
Because John was the vulnerable one. As Police Commissioner, San Francisco’s first gay police commissioner at that, John was the one with something to lose. The news that the police commissioner’s younger sister was a devil worshipper (oh, I could already hear all the idiotic and ignorant things people would say) would certainly bother the hell out of John—and might even impact his political future. John was an ambitious man. A man with a plan.
So why not send this packet to John?
Oh, right. Because John was as honorable as he was ambitious. He would not be blackmailed. He would see Jinx burned alive—in the court of public opinion, that is—before he paid one cent of blackmail money.
The blackmailer was relying on me to pay up to protect John from himself.
Mistake.
If I had learned anything in the four months I’d been married to John, it was that honesty was the best policy. At least with John.
Ghost Town by Pandora Pine
PROLOGUE
Atticus
Casa Flores, June…
Atticus Dupriest hated his job. It wasn’t because he was one of those lazy-ass millennials who wanted the world served to him on a silver platter. It was because Casa Flores was haunted.
Growing up flamboyantly gay in Alabama, Atticus had his share of heartbreak, misery, and hatred. The only thing that got him through those dark days was his part-time job at a chain restaurant. He worked his ass off for the tips that would one day allow him to make his dream a reality.
When he was thirteen years old, two years after he painfully admitted to himself that he wanted to kiss Dalton Honeycutt more than his next breath, he’d seen a travel documentary on Key West. Atticus had fallen in love with the tropical paradise instantly. He knew this was the one place in the world where he would be able to be himself, no questions asked. No bullying. No judgement. Other men who liked to kiss men. In a word: heaven.
Every single dollar he made at the restaurant went into his Key West fund. He didn’t spend a penny to treat himself to ice cream or designer jeans. It all went toward being able to live his dream.
What a dream come true it was. At first…
Atticus was able to find an apartment easily enough. He’d started out serving and tending bar at one of the restaurants on Duval Street. He loved the vibe of the tourists and hearing all about their adventures on the island. The one thing he was struggling with was finding time to explore his new home. Between working full-time and his shifts not ending until 4am, he’d been sleeping until afternoon and missing out on valuable daylight hours.
One of the guys who tended bar at the restaurant had a solution for Atticus. Bart had lived in Key West for twenty years and knew everyone. He mentioned an opening in the housekeeping department at Casa Flores. Atticus had been interested right off the bat.
The hotel was an adult-only establishment, which meant no dealing with snot-nosed, over-privileged kids. In addition to making minimum wage, he’d also get tips. It had seemed like a no-brainer to leave the rowdy nightlife on Duval Street behind and move to the hotel where he’d have a set schedule, working daytime hours. That schedule would allow him the opportunity to get out and see Key West and participate in the nightlife, rather than slogging through an eight-hour shift watching everyone else have all the fun, then sleeping through the sunshine.
He’d heard stories from guests at Casa Flores when he was working on Duval Street. Stories that didn’t quite seem believable. The scent of roses in one of the bedrooms when no flowers were present. Voices in the night speaking in Spanish. The sounds of a woman weeping. Items falling onto the floor that hadn’t been precariously placed.
Atticus had laughed along with the bar patrons and served up another round. Along with Savannah, Georgia, Key West was one of the most haunted places in America. If you believed in that kind of thing. Nothing sold hotel rooms like a good ghost story. Atticus just assumed that’s what was going on at the bed and breakfast. It never occurred to him Casa Flores was actually haunted.
Not until it was too late, anyway.
Nowadays, it was so easy to search the internet and find stories about Casa Flores. Tourists read about the “strange” occurrences and wanted to book that hotel. Once those tourists were tucked in for the night, their imaginations did the rest. Atticus knew the need to belong or be a part of something was so strong that people weren’t above lying. “Oh, yes, I smelled roses in Room 11…”
The building was over a century old, things were bound to go bump in the night. He assumed they also went bump in the day, but who was around to hear them except the staff? Women wore rose-scented lotion. Rose tea was served in the dining room. There were bowls of potpourri all over the mansion and a central air conditioning system that recirculated air.
In Atticus’s mind, all of the “hauntings” were explainable using simple common sense. Until they started happening to him. It was a different matter altogether when his own five senses couldn’t explain what was happening around him.
Here he was, on another Wednesday morning, the start of his work week, pushing his housekeeping cart down the hallway to Room 11. Above the door was stenciled, “Live Your Spirit.” Atticus had no idea what the hell it meant, but so long as his spirit wasn’t living in heaven, he supposed it didn’t matter overly.
Room 11 had been the bedroom of one of the Casa’s two owners. Concepcion Flores had chosen this room with a view of Fleming Street as her own. The road would have been much different in the 1890’s with no automobile traffic and without the crowds of vacationing tourists.
Knocking on the door, Atticus held his breath. He found himself hoping the couple who was staying in the room was still there. He knew that would only be putting off the inevitable, but his heart was pounding so hard that he could feel the beats in his toes. “Housekeeping.” He knocked for a second time.
Atticus counted to one hundred before using his master key to enter the room. After checking the bathroom and finding it empty, he knew he was alone. He gathered up the used towels and placed them in the bin for the laundry. The bed was next.
Folding the white comforter, he set it on a nearby chair. He was in the process of shaking a pillow out of its case when the scent of roses caught his attention.
Atticus felt his stomach tighten. This was a bad sign. He kept stripping the bed, hoping the rose scent was as far as it would go today. He slipped the second pillow from its case, stacking them both on top of the comforter.
Walking around to the opposite side of the bed, Atticus stepped into a cold spot. Freezing in his tracks, he blew out a breath which crystallized in front of him, just like it used to do on cold winter days back home. He took a quick step backward and the room was its usual temperature.
Looking up at the ceiling, Atticus located the vent for the central air conditioning. It was all the way across the room above the chair where he’d stacked the comforter and pillows. Lifting his hands over his head, he didn’t feel any circulation of air. He knew the cold spot in the room wasn’t from the AC vent, but his logical mind had to check to be sure just in case this cold spot was caused by something other than Concepcion Flores.
“H-Hello, Ms. F-Flores.” Atticus couldn’t figure out if his voice was shaking from stone-cold fear or from the cold spot. He supposed both were logical answers. That’s what he needed right now: logic.
“Viene la muerte,” an accented Spanish voice replied.
Atticus spun around. He was still alone in the room. His heart racing harder than before, he tried to focus on the words that had been spoken. Not the best student to ever pass through the doors of Sheffield High School, his Spanish was a bit rusty. He knew muerte was some form of the word death. He had no idea what the verb, viene, meant. Now wasn’t the time to check his phone for the answer.
“Habla Ingles, Ms. Flores? I’m sure you’re saying something fabulously important.” Unfortunately, asking if the spirit could speak English was probably not the most PC thing he could have done. Not that a century-old ghost would know anything about being politically correct.
The room was silent. Maybe he’d never heard the words in the first place. Sighing, he moved back toward the head of the bed to continue stripping it. He was pulling the third pillow from its case when the door slammed shut behind him. While the sound was still echoing, he heard the deadbolt engage.
Spinning around, Atticus saw he was still in the room alone. He’d wedged a stopper against the door to keep it open while he serviced the suite. Even if someone had pulled it out for fun, there was no way the door would have slammed like that. It would have swung shut gently, engaging the regular door lock when it was completely closed. A tendril of dread snaked up his spine to wrap around his heart.
There had been stories at the hotel about this very thing happening, the deadbolt engaging when there was no one in the room to turn the knob. The front desk had the key to the deadbolt for Room 11 handy for instances like this. In the few months he’d worked here, he’d known of at least five times when it needed to be used to let patrons into this room. There was no way to lock the deadbolt from outside the room. Guests were only given the key to the room, not the bolt.
“I’m s-sorry if I offended you, Ms. Flores.” Would that help appease the spirit who’d just mentioned the word “death?” Atticus shook his head. He needed to do his job. He couldn’t allow this foolishness to slow him down. There was a schedule to keep and other duties waiting for his attention.
“Viene la muerte,” the voice said again. The words were spoken in anger this time.
Gathering up the dirty sheets into a big pile, Atticus walked toward the door. He was simply going to turn the deadbolt, let himself out of the room far enough to grab the door stopper and then finish cleaning the suite. He didn’t have time to deal with this paranormal crap.
Two steps from the door, his foot caught on something, sending him crashing to the floor. The left side of his face exploded in pain. Twisting his head to look behind him, Atticus’s worst fear was confirmed. There was nothing to trip over. His stomach pitched. No one had ever reported anything like this happening in Room 11.
Gingerly sitting up, he lifted a hand to the left side of his face. There was no blood, but he could already feel the area around his left cheekbone starting to swell.
A sound caught his ears. It started low. To his scrambled brain it almost sounded like someone crying. That had been one of the things reported in this room. The sound of a woman sobbing. Sighing, Atticus climbed back to his feet.
He stepped into the bathroom to take a look at his face. There were words written on the mirror in lipstick. Viene la muerte. Atticus screamed. His legs gave out under him, sending him crashing against the side of the bathtub. As he stared up at the words on the mirror, the sound got louder.
In that moment, Atticus realized the voice wasn’t sobbing. It was laughing.
A Warrior's Heart by Jaclyn Osborn
Chapter One
Malik
“Again!” I circled Nereus, watching his movements.
His reaction time was decent but still too slow. In the time it had taken him to see my attack and dodge it, I could’ve easily taken his head clean off his shoulders.
“Yes, sir,” he panted, righting himself. Sweat matted his brown hair, scrapes covered his arms, and his knees were bruised from the countless times he’d been knocked to the ground.
What mattered was he got right back up.
Training recruits for the king’s army had kept me busy over the years, yet my mind still wandered to Prince Lorcan and how I should be at his side, keeping him safe. He had insisted I return to Avalontis though. He and his mate had moved to Emerald Cove, a seaside town in the surface world, and had settled down there with their young son.
“That’s enough for today,” I said. “Wash up and meet in the mess hall.”
“Yes, sir.” Nereus nodded before joining the other men nearby.
I left the training field and made my way down a narrow path toward a spring. I was covered in dirt and sweat and didn’t want to enter the palace in such a state of disarray. After removing my clothing, I dove into the cool water, finding it refreshing after a long day.
Floating on my back, I stared up at the large dome that surrounded the kingdom. The sea thrived on the other side of it, and I watched a school of fish swim by.
Avalontis was unlike anywhere else in the world. The underwater kingdom was surrounded by a magical barrier, allowing the merfolk within to walk around in their human forms and enjoy life as most humans did. There were swimming holes, gardens, and forests of colorful trees. Our home had been created by magic. King Triton had wanted a place for the merfolk to live together in peace.
And we did. For the most part.
I only stayed at the spring long enough to rinse off the grime. Once I was dressed, I walked toward the palace. The structure could be seen in all areas of Avalontis, for it was grand and golden and stood higher than any other tree or building.
A man approached me on the path.
“Evening, sir,” Dathan said, bowing his head. His dark blond hair curtained around his face with the action. He was a servant for the royal household. “The king has requested your presence in his private dining chambers.”
I had intended to eat with my fellow warriors in the mess hall, but the king’s invitation couldn’t be ignored. An invitation, perhaps, but one I couldn’t refuse.
“Very well.”
When we reached the palace, the guards outside the entrance saluted me. Once upon a time, I had been the captain of the army. Enemies far and wide knew my name. Feared it.
I nodded to the guards and kept walking.
The entrance hall exuded luxury: gems in the tile floor, jewels entwined in the chandelier, and gold-lined columns. The king fancied shiny trinkets, and signs of that fondness could be seen all throughout the palace. I took the grand staircase up to the second floor and walked down the long corridor to my chamber.
If I was to dine with the king, I wanted to change out of my training clothes and put on more suitable attire.
Before reaching my chamber, I saw a familiar face in the hall. And, just like it had done for the past few years when seeing him, my heart beat a little faster.
Troy.
Light brown hair fell to his shoulders, some of the strands braided and pulled back, and gold shimmered on his eyelids, emphasizing his violet eyes even more. The netted top he wore did little to cover his softly toned chest, and his trousers hugged his ass and hips to perfection.
I stopped my approach and watched him a moment. He stared at Lorcan’s old bedchamber with a forlorn expression.
“Standing outside his door won’t bring him back.”
Troy startled. “You nearly gave me a fright.”
“Nearly?” I stepped closer. “I believe I succeeded in doing so.”
He curled his nose and put his hands on his hips. “I don’t need any of your sass right now.”
I grinned. If anyone was sassy, it was the male before me.
“I just…” Troy touched the wooden door. “I miss Lor. It’s strange for him not to be here.”
Troy and Lorcan had been inseparable since they were toddlers. Lorcan’s absence had torn a hole in the way of things. Everything felt off. The reminder of him—such as his old room—still stung even years later.
“I miss him as well,” I said. “When I visit him next, would you like to accompany me?”
Troy beamed. “I’d love to!” His smile was like the sun breaking through dark water, casting rays of light into a murky abyss. However, it soon fell as a frown took its place. “But perhaps not.”
Humans frightened Troy, and he avoided traveling to the surface because of it.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to change out of these old rags and meet the king for dinner.”
“Need help?” Troy arched a thin brow and swayed his slender body.
My body stirred.
Gods, why did I feel this way around him? He was only twenty-three years of age, and I was… well, much older.
Once a merman—or mermaid—reached adulthood, their aging slowed. For every ten years that passed, we only physically aged one. I had the appearance of a male in his early thirties, but I was closer to one-hundred and forty.
Troy was still just a boy.
“I can manage on my own.” I turned away from him.
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
I knew if I looked at him right then, he’d appear every bit as mischievous as he sounded.
Over the past year, Troy had dropped hints that he was interested in me, though I wasn’t certain if he was serious about the advances. He was a flirt. More than that, he loved attention.
Trust in others was something he lacked, however, and the flirting never went further than a few verbal exchanges and giggles.
In my bedchamber, I tugged off my leather armor before pulling on a clean pair of trousers and a cotton shirt, adding a belt to hold my dagger. Other daggers were hidden at each ankle. I could never be too careful, especially as of late with some of the merfolk rebelling against their king.
King Triton’s chamber was in another wing of the palace. Moving down the hall, I passed the grand staircase and turned down another corridor. Tapestries hung on the walls, showing scenes of sea battles. Triton had sunk many ships in his lifetime. He controlled the tides using the conch he wore around his neck, and many of his valued riches had come from attacking sailors at sea. Prior to the treaty with the humans, anyway, which stated neither side could incite violence against the other.
Outside his door, I knocked and waited.
“Enter,” a cold voice said from the other side.
I stepped into the room and did a quick survey of the area, checking corners and glancing at the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view of the palace gardens beyond them. There were many windows in the palace, showing the sea outside the magical dome. Troy liked to perch near the window and watch the fish swim past.
Now’s not the time to think of him.
I turned to the king and bowed. “Your Majesty.”
Triton sat at the head of the rectangular table, holding a goblet between his fingers. His long, silver hair fell to the middle of his back and, like Troy’s hair, many of the strands were braided. He was much older than me, but he didn’t look a day over thirty. Creamy skin covered every inch of his impeccable form, and his eyes were as blue as the sea.
They could be just as cold too.
“Sit,” he said, motioning to the chair to his right.
I did as he instructed, remaining silent.
He was more than my king; he was my friend. But our friendship only went so far. He had told me on more than one occasion that he would have no problem removing my head if I disobeyed him. Whether that was true, I didn’t know, but I dared not risk it. He hated for anyone to speak out of turn, and thus, I waited for him to tell me why I was there.
Zander, his manservant, entered the room holding a large tray of food and placed it on the table in front of us. Fish with lemon, roasted potatoes, and warm bread. The servant was incredibly beautiful, which I knew was why the king favored him.
“Enjoy your meal, Your Majesty.” Zander bowed to Triton. His blond curls bounced, and when he lifted his head, his gray eyes met the king’s. They exchanged what I could only describe as an affectionate stare before Zander turned to me. “Sir.”
He then exited the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Triton was known to bed many of the royal servants. He admired all beautiful things, just like the riches and jewels he possessed. However, I sensed there was something deeper with Zander. The tenderness in the king’s eyes as he gazed upon the younger male could not be mistaken.
The tenderness left his expression now. He stared at me with an iciness that pricked at my skin. As a god, his mood changed like the tide. He could be both self-serving and selfless, depending on the day.
“Eat,” Triton said, taking a wedge of bread from the platter and slathering it in creamy butter. “You must be starved after training.”
I cut off a piece of the fish and chewed it. The food was much better than what the soldiers were given, and guilt trickled through me at the fact. My men ate well, but nothing compared to this. They were in the mess hall now, probably draining their mugs of ale and shoving bread, meat, and cheese into their gullets.
I should be with them.
“We’ve known one another for many years, Malik.” Triton drank more wine before setting the goblet down. “Tell me what’s troubling you. Are you not pleased with your position in the army? I can remove Captain Orta and have you take her place—”
“That won’t be necessary, my king.” Captain Orta was a brilliant leader and I wished her no ill will. Whereas I had enjoyed leading the army in the past, I no longer wished to do so. “I’m pleased with my duties.”
“So, I suppose it’s my son that has you so melancholy?”
“Prince Lorcan is missed every day, yes. Though, his absence isn’t what ails me. I was only thinking of my men and how they were expecting me in the mess hall this night.”
“I see.” Triton smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, causing the jewels woven in the fabric to glimmer in the candlelight. “We should discuss the reason you’re here, so you can return to them.”
“I meant no offense, my king. I’m honored to dine with you.”
“We have had our quarrels in the past, dear friend, but you are the only male alive who I trust at my back. Never forget that.” Triton’s expression briefly softened. “My inviting you to dine is more than for the pleasure of your company I’m afraid.”
I dropped my fork and focused on him, waiting.
“The human king is searching for something,” Triton said, gliding a finger along the rim of his goblet. “My scouts have observed him in secret meetings with his council and speaking of a weapon.”
King James, the human king, was as wicked as they came. For years, he’d tested the boundaries of the peace treaty between land and sea, one set in motion hundreds of years ago. The treaty stated that the land belonged to his royal bloodline, and the sea belonged to Triton. Though it was only speculation, we believed King James wished to overthrow Triton and rule the sea and all its inhabitants.
For money. For power. Humans were always waging war for such things.
“What kind of weapon?” I asked.
His blue eyes darkened like a storm in uncharted waters. “The trident of Poseidon.”
“I thought the trident was destroyed upon the sea god’s death.”
The king’s gaze shifted to the door as Zander walked in. The manservant refilled our goblets with wine, keeping his eyes downcast. Triton lifted a hand and gently caressed Zander’s side before the servant left again.
“The trident isn’t destroyed,” he answered in a cool tone. “Only… hidden.”
King James was on his way to finding it then. Using it.
“What’s stopping you from retrieving it?” I asked. King Triton could move through the sea faster than anyone. With the simple blowing of the conch around his neck, the waves did his bidding.
“The location is unknown to me,” he answered, irritated by the fact. “Upon my father’s death, the trident disappeared. Shielded itself from my powers to locate it. Swords, bows, any weapon forged is said to have a soul. When its master dies, it mourns. I believe the trident suffered such a fate.”
“So, the weapon hid itself out of grief?”
“Precisely. I don’t know how the human king learned of the trident, but it cannot fall into his hands, Malik. The trident was forged by Hephaestus, and it not only has the power to control the sea… but to kill a god as well.”
Understanding dawned on me. Triton couldn’t be killed by any mortal weapon. Neither sword nor arrow could pierce his skin. Canon fire had no effect on him. If King James was in search of the trident, it would verify our suspicions of his motives.
The only way to rule the sea was to kill the god who governed it.
“You believe the human king will be able to find the trident?”
“Nothing is certain. I’ve searched for it for years and found nothing.” Triton sighed and took a drink from his goblet. “I believed if it was hidden, it was safe at least. Yet now that King James is on a mission to locate it… we must act. We can wait no longer.”
“What of the treaty between land and sea?” I asked. “Does it still stand?”
A sinister gleam sparked in Triton’s eyes. “For now.”
I straightened in my chair. “What are your orders, Your Majesty?”
I would do anything he asked of me. My sword and my life were his to command.
“Simple.” Triton’s stare cut right though me. “Find the trident before the human filth does.”
Simple. Highly unlikely. The trident had been missing for centuries and I didn’t know where to even begin in the search.
“Yes, my king.”
“The details of this mission must stay confidential. Be selective of who you tell and choose your party wisely. If King James catches on that we know he’s searching for the trident, we will lose the advantage in this war.”
“War? You said the treaty stands.”
“Only on paper,” he responded. “King James will break the treaty as soon as the moment arises. You know better than I how quickly the tides can change… how friends can become foe, how allies can become enemies. Surely your late husband can attest to the same.”
Grief gripped my heart at the mention of Aeon. He had been killed in battle many years ago when one of our men betrayed us, telling the enemy our plan of attack. We had walked right into a trap.
No. I had led them into that trap. I was to blame.
“Yes. I’m all too aware,” I said through gritted teeth. It was one of those instances when Triton intentionally hurt me with his words in order to motivate me to do his bidding. And it worked.
“Seek out the seer called Phantos,” Triton said. “He dwells in the southern isles, deep in the mountain. He will set you on the right path.”
“How do you know of him? Have you sought out his help before?”
“I have.”
“And?”
The king’s icy blue eyes landed on me. “Enough with these questions. Your duty is to follow my orders, not question my decisions. Am I clear?”
In my gut, I sensed… something. An uneasiness that twisted through the pit of my stomach. However, I put my faith in my king. In my friend.
“Yes, my king.”
“One more thing.”
I waited.
“You are free to choose the members of your party at your discretion, but my son must join you on this mission.”
“The prince? He will not approve of this.” Lorcan had spent his whole life trying to get away from Avalontis and his duties as prince.
“I care not for his approval,” the king snapped. “I have let him live in the surface world. I have allowed him to have his family and do what he wishes. But the time has come for him to embrace his destiny. He will accompany you.”
I nodded.
He waved his hand. “You’re dismissed.”
Before I reached the door, however, he stopped me.
“Do not fail me, Malik.” Triton held my gaze, and within the blue swirls of his eyes I saw a warning.
He needn’t voice that warning. I understood all too well.
When I entered the mess hall, one of my men greeted me and shoved a drink into my hand. He then held up his own drink.
“To the commander!” he said.
The other men mirrored his actions. “To the commander!”
I took a small sip of the mead before setting it aside. I hardly ever drank. I preferred to have a clear mind. I’d need it with the upcoming mission. First things first, I needed to choose the party that would accompany me. And then?
The mission would begin.
Fluke and the Faultline Fiasco by Sam Burns
Fluke, naturally, did not mind wandering through town next to Gideon and me on a horse.
I mean, he didn’t have to ride the horse, so of course he didn’t mind. He just had to avoid getting caught underfoot, and given his relationship with Marron, that wasn’t too difficult.
The horse absolutely babied him.
When both had to fit through the same space, Marron stood back and let Fluke through first. When Fluke started sniffing at a dog that growled at him, Marron nosed him out of the way and stepped in between.
Shut up.
It was not the same as my relationship with Gideon.
It was, on the other hand, utterly adorable.
As we rode through the streets of Junction, I yawned and leaned back into Gideon, my eyelids getting irritatingly heavy. Finally, now, my body was ready to sleep, when I couldn’t.
“It’s too early for the coffee places to be open, or I’d suggest we get you some.” Gideon said when he nudged me awake for the second time. Or maybe the third. “I could take you home, and me and Marron could keep looking?”
I shook my head. Then my whole body, to try to wake myself up. “No, I’m fine. I’m sure you could find it, but the convergence talks to me. If it needs to say something, I need to be there.”
Behind me, Gideon grinned. “You don’t say?”
“What?” The sharp edge of my own voice was enough to wake me up a little.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, all faux nonchalance, leaning forward to whisper in my ear. “I just seem to remember a whole lot of worry about being a class two mage who couldn’t do anything. Little different from the man who knows we’re better off with him in the lead.”
And that was fair. It was hard to complain at him for speaking the truth.
Okay, no, not really, I was just too tired to bother. I flipped my wrist to check the time. Three in the morning.
You appear to be awake, the cheerful message appeared on my watch face. Would you like to turn off sleep mode?
Fuck my entire life.
Sympathy by Jordan Castillo Price
There was a time when I would’ve been able to carry the biggest shrub in the yard without breaking a sweat. The yew I was currently loading up was big, no doubt, but I was only bearing half the weight. My brother Chip had the other end of the root ball. And even so, the strain of maneuvering that damn bush into the back of the van just about killed me.
“God damn it, Tony, pull.” Chip gave the root ball a shove that crushed my hand against the door hinge and I saw stars. I lost my grip for a second and lurched to recover, even though moving fast under all that weight was gonna come back to bite me in the ass later. I couldn’t just drop the yew on Chip—it’d squash him. And then I’d never hear the end of it.
I tried to brace my good leg and pull harder, get the lousy root ball up over the bumper, but it was no use. Leaves slicked the bottoms of my boots and I had no choice but to catch myself with my other leg—the useless leg—and the pain that shot up my spine was a cold, relentless kind of pain, nothing at all like the pain of my skinned knuckles. It was a pain that promised to linger. For days.
My good leg caught on the lip of the corrugated bed and finally I had leverage. I hauled one more time, and the burlap cleared the bumper.
I let go and wiped my forehead on my sleeve. I was drenched. Even my upper lip was wet.
“If you can’t cut it,” Chip said, “maybe you re-think selling your third of the business to Sal and me.”
Sal and me, Sal and me…. It never ended. “Maybe Sal and you should have been the ones out here loading the truck.”
Of the three of us, I was the youngest brother, and the biggest. And I figured I’d done a lifetime’s worth of hauling for Sal and Chip in the years before the accident. I’d never said as much out loud—but I’d done my damnedest to convey it with looks that were nasty enough to peel paint.
Not that Chip noticed. He liked his beer cold, his TV loud, and his dinner on the table when he came home from work. It took more than a pissy look to let the air out of Chip’s tires. “Alls I’m saying,” he rambled on, “is you take your cut, maybe you can go to school.”
“Oh God, not this again.”
“You don’t wanna go to Penn State? How ‘bout the community college? I heard you can bring in forty, forty-five grand a year with a two-year degree.”
“What the hell do I want a degree for?” Potosi and Sons. That was all I’d ever wanted to do, from the first time Dad let me work the backhoe.
“Don’t be stupid—you could figure out a way to get some kind of desk job.”
“I don’t want a desk job.”
“I’d think you’d jump at the chance…since your back didn’t heal right, and whatnot.”
My back. A daydream that featured a yew with a three-hundred-pound root ball falling on Chip—ideally from about ten feet off the ground—gave me something to almost smile about. It wasn’t my back that’d been broken. It was my pelvis. Apparently the two-syllable word was one syllable too many for my Neanderthal brother.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and headed back toward the office, and did my best not to limp. It cost me. But everything in life has a cost, doesn’t it?
The phone was ringing when I came through the door, and I heard a series of sounds that had grown so familiar to me I could picture them without even poking my head around the doorframe. The clatter of computer keys—my brother Sal finishing a thought. A sigh—he hates being interrupted, unless the customer happens to be both female and available. A squall of old metal as he leaned back in the ancient office chair—a piece of furniture that weighed as much as a yew, with horsehair stuffing hanging out the splits in the leatherette seat, a holdover from dad’s regime that Sal, the oldest, claimed as his birthright. The thunk of his boot heels on the desk as he prepared to do business. Then a moment of silence as the ringing stopped and he raised the receiver to his ear. “Potosi and Sons.”
They were just phone-words, as empty as “hello” and “how are you” and “have a nice day.” But after the buyout conversation in the back of the van, the greeting rubbed me the wrong way.
I hit the work sink to splash off some of the sweat, but even over the thunder of the water into the deep metal basin, I could still pick out Sal’s voice. “You want what? Really? But you’ll want to transplant hazel in the Spring. I got some hostas you can fill in with, half off…uh, yeah, sure, we got it. Uh-huh. Youse got a truck, or you want it delivered and installed? Okay, gimme the address.”
The cold water felt good on my hands, my face, but the whole core of my body throbbed where I’d caught that yew the wrong way—and yeah, even my back would be aching well into the night—but my knees too, and my hips, especially my hips.
I pulled some rough brown paper from the dispenser and blotted my face. I could take stock for the rest of the day—Sal and Chip hated dealing with numbers that didn’t have dollar signs in front of them, so when I pulled out the inventory sheet they gave me plenty of room. I’d go through our evergreens for the rest of the day, drive home with a hot pack against my lower back, and settle in with some Vicodin when I got back to my apartment. No problem.
“Tony, we got another one of them chump-changers.” Unless you were willing to drop a grand to have your yard graded or your perfectly good old growth replaced with new hybrids that looked just like your neighbors’ azaleas and forsythias, you were chump change to Sal. “You want to do the dropoff?”
Maybe—if they weren’t in the market for yew. I wouldn’t mind getting in my truck that much sooner and breaking open the heat pack. “What’re they…?”
“Hazel, three units. I think we got some leftover stock in Greenhouse Four.”
I did the inventory, not Sal. Corylus americana. Greenhouse Two. Maybe forty pounds each—a lot more back-friendly than the yew. I’d manage. I turned toward the door carefully, so as not to aggravate my aching hip.
“And get this,” Sal went on. “It’s at the Hook House.”
