In her defense, I couldn’t blame the witch for keeping it to herself for as long as she did.
Because some shit just sounds crazy no matter how you say it.
Apparently, not two days after I’d taken the potion she’d prescribed, Circe’s island paradise had welcomed a visitor to its airspace—a flying, sentient island who called herself NeverEden. How said island had passed from Fae to the Titan Realm remained a mystery even to Circe, but the why had been remarkably straightforward: she’d come to collect her ailing citizens. Following a brief negotiation between James and a giant talking hound who’d served as the island’s emissary, all three had agreed to return home—especially once it became clear that NeverEden’s mere presence was enough to reverse the effects of the illness which plagued Tinkerbell and Tiger Lily. James had thought to bargain on my behalf, as well, but—between needing Circe’s care to stay alive and NeverEden’s declaration that I had other duties to fulfill—he’d been overruled.
They’d left shortly thereafter, though to where was anyone’s guess.
Ironically, Circe had been more shocked by my immediate acceptance of the whole affair than she was by the affair itself—no doubt afraid it would be one of those “you had to be there” moments that would leave me feeling either lied to or bitter. On the contrary, however, I’d been overjoyed by the news; knowing NeverEden was out there somewhere—not to mention the fact that Cathal would be looking after James and the other Neverlanders—was a great relief. One day soon, I swore, I’d track her down and reunite with them all.
But first, I had to go home.
I owed it to my friends, of course, but also to myself; Boston was the place I’d grown up, and no amount of travel—no matter how foreign—could hold a candle next to it in my heart. Now that Ryan was gone, I realized I needed to cherish the things I already had more, and that the people I cared about needed to know just how much I’d missed them. Christoff and his kids, the ever-dependable Othello, broody Scathach, loyal Robin, and Max...perhaps especially Max.
Of course, getting there would be the tricky part. Fortunately, I’d planned ahead by booking a river cruise with a certain boatman on his newly procured Phantom Ship—courtesy of Circe, who’d both retrieved and bespelled it to follow touch commands—in exchange for the ride and the bevy of goods I’d left in his safekeeping with a promise to see them returned as soon as goddessly possible.
Afterwards, of course, I’d focus on tying up some loose ends—like completing my end of the raw deal Freya had saddled me with, or tracking down someone who could help me litigate the territorial dispute between me and my nocturnal neighbor, or perhaps finally taking that trip to St. Louis I’d been putting off for ages. Depending, of course, on whether a certain wizard was free to show me around town...or to sneak me into a certain Fight Club. The future was rife with possibilities.
Regardless, if I’d learned anything from my tenure beyond death’s door, it was that life—provided you did it right—would always be too short, because you could never have enough of something so damned valuable.
Which was why, from now on, I was going to make the most of mine.
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Turn the page to read a sample of OBSIDIAN SON - Nate Temple Book 1 - or BUY ONLINE (It’s FREE with a Kindle Unlimited subscription). Nate Temple is a billionaire wizard from St. Louis. He rides a bloodthirsty unicorn and drinks with the Four Horsemen. He even cow-tipped the Minotaur. Once…
TRY: OBSIDIAN SON (NATE TEMPLE #1)
There was no room for emotion in a hate crime. I had to be cold. Heartless. This was just another victim. Nothing more. No face, no name.
Frosted blades of grass crunched under my feet, sounding to my ears like the symbolic glass that one would shatter under a napkin at a Jewish wedding. The noise would have threatened to give away my stealthy advance as I stalked through the moonlit field, but I was no novice and had planned accordingly. Being a wizard, I was able to muffle all sensory evidence with a fine cloud of magic—no sounds, and no smells. Nifty. But if I made the spell much stronger, the anomaly would be too obvious to my prey.
I knew the consequences for my dark deed tonight. If caught, jail time or possibly even a gruesome, painful death. But if I succeeded, the look of fear and surprise in my victim’s eyes before his world collapsed around him, it was well worth the risk. I simply couldn’t help myself; I had to take him down.
I knew the cops had been keeping tabs on my car, but I was confident that they hadn’t followed me. I hadn’t seen a tail on my way here but seeing as how they frowned on this kind of thing, I had taken a circuitous route just in case. I was safe. I hoped.
Then my phone chirped at me as I received a text.
I practically jumped out of my skin, hissing instinctively. “Motherf—” I cut off abruptly, remembering the whole stealth aspect of my mission. I was off to a stellar start. I had forgotten to silence the damned phone. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
My heart felt like it was on the verge of exploding inside my chest with such thunderous violence that I briefly envisioned a mystifying Rorschach blood-blot that would have made coroners and psychologists drool.
My body remained tense as I swept my gaze over the field, fearing that I had been made. Precious seconds ticked by without any change in my surroundings, and my breathing finally began to slow as my pulse returned to normal. Hopefully, my magic had muted the phone and my resulting outburst. I glanced down at the phone to scan the text and then typed back a quick and angry response before I switched the cursed device to vibrate.
Now, where were we?
I continued on, the lining of my coat constricting my breathing. Or maybe it was because I was leaning forward in anticipation. Breathe, I chided myself. He doesn’t know you’re here. All this risk for a book. It had better be worth it.
I’m taller than most, and not abnormally handsome, but I knew how to play the genetic cards I had been dealt. I had shaggy, dirty blonde hair—leaning more towards brown with each passing year—and my frame was thick with well-earned muscle, yet I was still lean. I had once been told that my eyes were like twin emeralds pitted against the golden-brown tufts of my hair—a face like a jewelry box. Of course, that was two bottles of wine into a date, so I could have been a little foggy on her quote. Still, I liked to imagine that was how everyone saw me.
But tonight, all that was masked by magic.
I grinned broadly as the outline of the hairy hulk finally came into view. He was blessedly alone—no nearby sentries to give me away. That was always a risk when performing this ancient rite-of-passage. I tried to keep the grin on my face from dissolving into a maniacal cackle.
My skin danced with energy, both natural and unnatural, as I manipulated the threads of magic floating all around me. My victim stood just ahead, oblivious to the world of hurt that I was about to unleash. Even with his millennia of experience, he didn’t stand a chance. I had done this so many times that the routine of it was my only enemy. I lost count of how many times I had been told not to do it again; those who knew declared it cruel, evil, and sadistic. But what fun wasn’t? Regardless, that wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it again. And again. And again.
It was an addiction.
The pungent smell of manure filled the air, latching onto my nostril hairs. I took another step, trying to calm my racing pulse. A glint of gold reflected in the silver moonlight, but my victim remained motionless, hopefully unaware or all was lost. I wouldn’t make it out alive if he knew I was here. Timing was everything.
I carefully took the last two steps, a lifetime between each, watching the legendary monster’s ears, anxious and terrified that I would catch even so much as a twitch in my direction. Seeing nothing, a fierce grin split my
unshaven cheeks. My spell had worked! I raised my palms an inch away from their target, firmly planted my feet, and squared my shoulders. I took one silent, calming breath, and then heaved forward with every ounce of physical strength I could muster. As well as a teensy-weensy boost of magic. Enough to goose him good.
“MOOO!!!” The sound tore through the cool October night like an unstoppable freight train. Thud-splat! The beast collapsed sideways onto the frosted grass; straight into a steaming patty of cow shit, cow dung, or, if you really wanted to church it up, a Meadow Muffin. But to me, shit is, and always will be, shit.
Cow tipping. It doesn’t get any better than that in Missouri.
Especially when you’re tipping the Minotaur. Capital M. I’d tipped plenty of ordinary cows before, but never the legendary variety.
Razor-blade hooves tore at the frozen earth as the beast struggled to stand, his grunts of rage vibrating the air. I raised my arms triumphantly. “Boo-yah! Temple 1, Minotaur 0!” I crowed. Then I very bravely prepared to protect myself. Some people just couldn’t take a joke. Cruel, evil, and sadistic cow tipping may be, but by hell, it was a rush. The legendary beast turned his gaze on me after gaining his feet, eyes ablaze as his body…shifted from his bull disguise into his notorious, well-known bipedal form. He unfolded to his full height on two tree trunk-thick legs, his hooves having magically transformed into heavily booted feet. The thick, gold ring dangling from his snotty snout quivered as the Minotaur panted, and his dense, corded muscles contracted over his now human-like chest. As I stared up into those brown eyes, I actually felt sorry…for, well, myself.
“I have killed greater men than you for lesser offense,” he growled.
His voice sounded like an angry James Earl Jones—like Mufasa talking to Scar.
“You have shit on your shoulder, Asterion.” I ignited a roiling ball of fire in my palm in order to see his eyes more clearly. By no means was it a defensive gesture on my part. It was just dark. Under the weight of his glare, I somehow managed to keep my face composed, even though my fraudulent, self-denial had curled up into the fetal position and started whimpering. I hoped using a form of his ancient name would give me brownie points. Or maybe just not-worthy-of-killing points.
The beast grunted, eyes tightening, and I sensed the barest hesitation. “Nate Temple…your name would look splendid on my already long list of slain idiots.” Asterion took a threatening step forward, and I thrust out my palm in warning, my roiling flame blue now.
“You lost fair and square, Asterion. Yield or perish.” The beast’s shoulders sagged slightly. Then he finally nodded to himself in resignation, appraising me with the scrutiny of a worthy adversary. “Your time comes, Temple, but I will grant you this. You’ve got a pair of stones on you to rival Hercules.”
I reflexively glanced in the direction of the myth’s own crown jewels before jerking my gaze away. Some things you simply couldn’t un-see. “Well, I won’t be needing a wheelbarrow any time soon, but overcompensating today keeps future lower-back pain away.”
The Minotaur blinked once, and then he bellowed out a deep, contagious, snorting laughter. Realizing I wasn’t about to become a murder statistic, I couldn’t help but join in. It felt good. It had been a while since I had allowed myself to experience genuine laughter.
In the harsh moonlight, his bulk was even more intimidating as he towered head and shoulders above me. This was the beast that had fed upon human sacrifices for countless years while imprisoned in Daedalus’ Labyrinth in Greece. And all that protein had not gone to waste, forming a heavily woven musculature over the beast’s body that made even Mr. Olympia look puny.
From the neck up, he was now entirely bull, but the rest of his body more closely resembled a thickly furred man. But, as shown moments ago, he could adapt his form to his environment, never appearing fully human, but able to make his entire form appear as a bull when necessary. For instance, how he had looked just before I tipped him. Maybe he had been scouting the field for heifers before I had so efficiently killed the mood.
His bull face was also covered in thick, coarse hair—he even sported a long, wavy beard of sorts, and his eyes were the deepest brown I had ever seen. Cow-shit brown. His snout jutted out, emphasizing the golden ring dangling from his glistening nostrils, and both glinted in the luminous glow of the moon. The metal was at least an inch thick and etched with runes of a language long forgotten. Wide, aged ivory horns sprouted from each temple, long enough to skewer a wizard with little effort. He was nude except for a massive beaded necklace and a pair of worn leather boots that were big enough to stomp a size twenty-five imprint in my face if he felt so inclined.
I hoped our blossoming friendship wouldn’t end that way. I really did.
Because friends didn’t let friends wear boots naked…
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Before the now-infamous Count Dracula ever tasted his first drop of blood, Sorin Ambrogio owned the night. Humanity fearfully called him the Devil…
TRY: DEVIL’S DREAM (SHADE OF DEVIL #1)
God damned me.
He—in his infinite, omnipotent wisdom—declared for all to hear…
Let there be pain…
In the exact center of this poor bastard’s soul.
And that merciless smiting woke me from a dead sleep and thrust me into a body devoid of every sensation but blinding agony.
I tried to scream but my throat felt as dry as dust, only permitting me to emit a rasping, whistling hiss that brought on yet more pain. My skin burned and throbbed while my bones creaked and groaned with each full-body tremor. My claws sunk into a hard surface beneath me and I was distantly surprised they hadn’t simply shattered upon contact.
My memory was an immolated ruin—each fragment of thought merely an elusive fleck of ash or ember that danced through my fog of despair as I struggled to catch one and hold onto it long enough to recall what had brought me to this bleak existence. How I had become this poor, wretched, shell of a man. I couldn’t even remember my own name; it was all I could do to simply survive this profound horror.
After what seemed an eternity, the initial pain began to slowly ebb, but I quickly realized that it had only triggered a cascade of smaller, more numerous tortures—like ripples caused by a boulder thrown into a pond.
I couldn’t find the strength to even attempt to open my crusted eyes, and my abdomen was a solid knot of gnawing hunger so overwhelming that I felt like I was being pulled down into the earth by a lead weight. My fingers tingled and burned so fiercely that I wondered if the skin had been peeled away while I slept. Since they were twitching involuntarily, at least I knew that the muscles and tendons were still attached.
I held onto that sliver of joy, that beacon of hope.
I stubbornly gritted my teeth, but even that slight movement made the skin over my face stretch tight enough to almost tear. I willed myself to relax as I tried to process why I was in so much pain, where I was, how I had gotten here, and…who I even was? A singular thought finally struck me like an echo of the faintest of whispers, giving me something to latch onto.
Hunger.
I let out a crackling gasp of relief at finally grasping an independent answer of some kind, but I was unable to draw enough moisture onto my tongue to properly swallow. Understanding that I was hungry had seemed to alleviate a fraction of my pain. The answer to at least one question distracted me long enough to allow me to think. And despite my hunger, I felt something tantalizingly delicious slowly coursing down my throat, desperately attempting to alleviate my starvation.
Even though my memory was still enshrouded in fog, I was entirely certain that it was incredibly dangerous for me to feel this hungry. Thi
s…thirsty. Dangerous for both myself and anyone nearby. I tried to remember why it was so dangerous but the reason eluded me. Instead, an answer to a different question emerged from my mind like a specter from the mist—and I felt myself begin to smile as a modicum of strength slowly took root deep within me.
“Sorin…” I croaked. My voice echoed, letting me know that I was in an enclosed space of some kind. “My name is Sorin Ambrogio. And I need…” I trailed off uncertainly, unable to finish my own thought.
“Blood,” a man’s deep voice answered from only a few paces away. “You need more blood.”
I hissed instinctively, snapping my eyes open for the first time since waking. I had completely forgotten to check my surroundings, too consumed with my own pain to bother with my other senses. I had been asleep so long that even the air seemed to burn my eyes like smoke, forcing me to blink rapidly. No, the air was filled with pungent, aromatic smoke, but not like the smoke from the fires in my—
I shuddered involuntarily, blocking out the thought for some unknown reason.
Beneath the pungent smoke, the air was musty and damp. Through it all, I smelled the delicious, coppery scent of hot, powerful blood.
I had been resting atop a raised stone plinth—almost like a table—in a depthless, shadowy cavern. I appreciated the darkness because any light would have likely blinded me in my current state. I couldn’t see the man who had spoken, but the area was filled with silhouettes of what appeared to be tables, crates, and other shapes that could easily conceal him. I focused on my hearing and almost instantly noticed a seductively familiar, beating sound.
Brimstone Kiss: Phantom Queen Book 10 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 26