by K.N. Lee
“Corbin? Ha! No, he fell over from the weight of the mage-detector. Splat,” she smacked a shallow puddle on the floor. “Face down in the mud. The wretch was trying to save my sister from her growing paranoia. The evil wizard was a third shoe trying to wedge himself between her little dance with death. So I took up her sword and avenged my sister.” Off my surprised look, she chuckled. “Well, who do you think that sword-besotted army darling sparred with all those years? Cornelius could barely handle his own dick much less a live blade.”
“Strange how widely truth varies from the fairy tales. Then again,” I waved my hand with a haughty flair, “mere facts should never trump a good story.”
She gave me an odd look “No girl, they shouldn't. How well did you know old Corbin?”
“I knew him very well.” I shook my head. “Not as well as you. He was only a hero to me, not a lover.”
“He was no hero, girl. He was just some man with a story people liked. The story just happened to be about him and he enjoyed telling it. So if you're going to save me, let's get on with it. Unless you'd rather hear another story?”
“I didn't come to save you. I came to save my mother. You're just a part of that, now.”
“Who are you, spy? Shed that wretched disguise and face me.”
“I'm not a spy and this isn't a disguise. You can verify that once we've gotten you past all these mage-detectors and your magic works again, right? The mage detectors seem to have a limited range. Once we get you out of the dungeons, somehow, the red dragon flies free, eh? But I will get you out. I need you to trust me, witch.”
“Easier to say than to do, by the gods.”
“Are we still talking about the escape plan?” I asked, quirking one eyebrow like Corbin did just to irk the old witch.
“No, damn it,” Maven said, biting her finger as she started to laugh hysterically. “Even with the hair and the breasts, I can still see a bit of Corbin the Hero lurking behind your eyes. A false reflection, girl. Believe me, I know that of which I speak.”
My G'fa was a great man. You are a liar and you abandoned your baby. “Forget about my eyes, old woman. I need you to take me to the leaders of the rebellion. Don't you dare try and tell me you don't know who they are. Don't you dare deny their names haven't been on the tip of your tongue for days while the Black Guards beat and crushed every one of your friends.”
“Who are you, girl?”
I let the silence linger. Maybe I retained more of the old man's quirky ways than I realized. “My name is Kelsa Destrus, daughter of Miranda Destrus, granddaughter of Corbin Destrus. All the fists of the five gods would not make me call you . . . ew, grandmother. You are a horrible person and that daughter you spurned is the only reason you'll still be alive tomorrow.” I stroked my chin. In the moment, I almost missed having stubble. “I just need to make a plan.”
“You can't be . . . You're my . . . ” Maven seemed in shock as she stared past me as though counting the stones behind my head.
The cell door reverberated in the hushed silence. “Major?” a guard's muffled voice called. “Forgive me, Major. I couldn't find Sir Corbin. Are you still with the prisoner? She's wanted for questioning by the empress herself.”
Screw planning, time to improvise. Seems like I dropped into one of those damn heroic escapades. What would G'fa do? I fished in my pocket for the necklace and tossed Maven her sister's ring. I hope that knowledge burned her when she wore it.
“Of course you couldn't find Sir Corbin,” I yelled at the door. “He's in here with me.”
The witch stared at me blankly. She held the ring pinched between her fingers like a tiny, golden scorpion while the chain dangled against her wrist like a twitching stinger.
“Put it on.” I gestured towards her wrinkled neck. “Against your skin. Move! Drape that thing around your neck.”
“Major?” The guard wrestled with the latch. “Are you safe? Has that witch bespelled the both of you?”
“Get in here, fool.” I adjusted my cap and turned to face the opening door. “Your prisoner escaped.”
~ The End ~
About the Author
Jeffrey Bardwell wrote his first fantasy epic when he was seven years old: a thrilling single page adventure. Subsequent stories have grown and matured alongside their author. He devours fantasy and science fiction novels and is most comfortable basking near a warm wood stove. When not writing, Jeffrey enjoys cooking, gardening, and shooing baby dragons from the compost bin.
The author lives on a farm and in a prior life worked as a community ecologist. He is overfond of puns and alliterations. He is also an unabashed history and mythology enthusiast and would love to hear from you.
Email at: [email protected]
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Also By Jeffrey Bardwell
THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES WITH
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Soul Trade
C.I. Black
With two college girls brutally murdered and a strange scrap of text the only evidence, FBI occult criminologist Rowan Hill is called to investigate her first case. Except before she can confirm the text is occult, she’s abducted by the dangerously sexy demon Seth and thrown into a parallel world filled with monsters. Their attraction is electric, but there’s more to him than meets the eye. His magic is her only path home, and he won’t return her until she finds his missing brother. But she can’t allow him to trap her. Someone in her world has murdered two girls and is about to kill again.
1
When Rowan was a teenager, her grandmother read her fortune and saw something so terrifying she refused to deal the tarot for her again. She couldn’t help but wonder, as her breath exploded from her lungs and sharp pain radiated around her heart if this was what the cards had foretold.
She stumbled, reaching for the alley wall to keep her balance, but her knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground.
Manny stood less than ten feet away with a revolver in his meaty hands.
She gasped against the pressure in her chest, unable to catch her breath and unable to make her mind work around what had happened.
Manny was a snitch, not a murderer. There wasn’t anything defiant about him. She’d never expected him to have the courage to carry a gun, let alone shoot her. But right now, staring her down, legs slightly apart, shoulders back, he seemed a completely different man.
Bright specks of light danced across her vision and tears welled in her eyes. The pain was incredible. She couldn’t tell if the Kevlar vest Agent Brown had given her had stopped the shot or not.
Manny lowered his gun and shuffled toward her through the mud and garbage. The gloom around him deepened, devouring the sliver of morning sunlight at the far end of the alley. All she could see was him: his ashen and bloated skin, round apple cheeks, and bulbous nose.
His image wavered. The shadows around his eyes and cheeks grew, emaciating him as she watched, revealing a sharpness to his features. He seemed too gaunt, too angular.
She blinked back the tears. The lights in her vision faded, overwhelmed by the darkness. Fighting past the fierce pain, she sucked in a shallow breath. The vest was too tight, too heavy. She struggled with the Velcro straps, but her fingers had no strength, and she couldn’t rip herself free.
The world twisted and swirled, flashing in and out of focus, and she pressed one hand to the ground to keep her balance. Coarse asphalt dug into her palm.
He took another step closer and crouched, his gun hanging from limp hands. He cocked his head to one side. His thick eyebrows squeezed together, crea
sing his forehead and drawing her attention to his eyes. They were so dark, all pupils with no whites visible. A pinprick of red burned at each center.
Her body whimpered — give up, lie down — but his gaze mesmerized her, pulling her deeper into a dark, smoldering vortex. His lips curled back in a fierce grin, revealing the glossy tips of sharp teeth.
She tugged at the neck of the vest. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, with the weight of it, the clinging shadows, and the glow from Manny’s eyes. All of it suffocated her: breath, thoughts, soul.
2
She jerked her eyes open, igniting an inferno in her chest. Every time she closed them, all she could see were those eyes and teeth and shadows. It was only eight hours since the — how had her boss put it? Incident? But she’d been released from the hospital and was on her way home.
Apparently, they couldn’t hold her for stupidity like her boss wanted.
The company sedan hit a pothole, sending another burst of pain through her and making it hard to breathe. She slid her gaze to her sullen boss, Alan Brown — Special Agent-in-Charge to her. Alan was too personal for a contract employee.
Brown’s anger simmered around him, filling the car, making his driving jerky as he wove in and out of traffic. An argument was pending. One she didn’t want to have but probably deserved. She’d been unconscious at the hospital for so long the doctors had run a CAT scan, but they still didn’t know what was wrong. Which scared the crap out of her more than the persistent images when she shut her eyes.
“Manny’s earlier behavior didn’t indicate violence,” she said. Might as well rip the verbal bandage off. She wasn’t going to be able to sleep if Alan didn’t say anything until tomorrow — although she might not be able to sleep for other, more obvious reasons. “He’s just a snitch, not the murderer. You said the vest was just a precaution.” Okay, so that was a weak argument. But it was the only one she had.
Brown gave her the look — eyes narrowed, mouth set in a tight line. It usually didn’t intimidate her but now seemed quite impressive. Guess it had needed guilt over wrongdoing to complete the effect.
“I thought the vest would have been a clue to stay by the car while Shannon and I went up to his apartment.”
“And I thought the job title researcher would have been a clue to keep me at my desk.”
“Your job is to notice things. We have two dead girls. I don’t have time for you to sit around and stare at photos.” Brown’s voice never rose in volume or pitch. It stayed a quiet rumble, and she couldn’t decide which was scarier, that or yelling.
She gazed out the window, unable to look at him. Late afternoon sunlight shone between skyscraper offices and apartment buildings while bright red, orange, and yellow leaves added a festive feel against all that gray and glass. Everything about the east coast city of Valleyfield was still perfectly normal as if she hadn’t just had the scare of her life.
“All you had to do was wait until I gave the all clear. Didn’t you learn any common sense with all the martial arts you got?”
And there was the rub, the thought that had her squirming in her seat. She’d heard a noise and gotten curious. She’d assumed the vest was an overreaction since Manny hadn’t seemed dangerous the last time they’d talked to him, and she hadn’t expected to see him in the alley. She certainly hadn’t expected him to shoot her.
It had all happened so fast.
Red eyes and sharp teeth flashed through her mind’s eye. Swallowing back her rising panic, she sucked in a painful breath.
She could deal with this.
Really.
And maybe if she kept thinking that, she’d believe getting shot in the vest wasn’t such a big deal.
Brown pulled off of Gossette Street. “Do I need to remind you how tentative the Occult Crimes Unit is?”
“I believe you just did.” She wanted to argue that she wasn’t field trained, wasn’t even an agent, only a contractor, but the fault lay entirely with her. The OCU was Brown’s baby, and he’d given up a prestigious position to lead it.
Besides, arguing about her lack of experience — and poor judgment — wouldn’t improve his bad mood. She’d already been banished to her home even though the team couldn’t afford to lose her at the moment. The OCU had its first serious case, a killer who had slaughtered two young women, and every minute that passed was a chance to find a clue to stop him.
“I need your expertise, Dr. Hill.” With a jerk, he parked in front of her building and killed the engine. “And you being on sick leave isn’t helpful.”
His expression was filled with something she’d never seen before. Could that possibly be concern? She didn’t want to acknowledge the situation was that bad. Just the thought of it made her twist.
She had fucked up. There wasn’t a polite way to put it. It could have only gotten worse if Manny had shot her in the head while she was down.
“Well, I’m fine. I don’t need an escort up.” She threw open the car door and staggered out.
“I expect you to call first thing in the morning,” he said as she slammed the door shut.
“Sure.” She rushed to the heavy glass door of the new multi-story high-rise and unlocked it before she had to say anything else to her boss.
It was bad enough she’d screwed up. To have him waste time by escorting her to her apartment like an invalid was more than she could bear. She wanted to be good at field work. Desperately wanted to be good at it. And logically, she knew time would solve that problem — if she survived any more stupidity. But they didn’t have the time. She needed those skills now.
Reaching the elevator, she pushed the call button. Her reflection stared back at her in the stainless steel door: copper curls that clung to her skull, and blue eyes almost too large for her narrow face to be attractive.
She looked tired.
She was tired. Up too early, working too late. Perhaps, with her research and classes at St. Anne’s College, taking the contract with the FBI was too much. But the extra money really did help with the student debt she’d have to pay off sooner rather than later, and occult crimes research was her dream job. She’d just never thought she’d be doing it all at the same time.
And the more she looked at herself, the more she could feel her mortality weighing on her. She’d been a hair’s breadth from death.
She wrenched away from her reflection, unwilling to examine her outside — or insides — anymore. The lobby was empty of people, probably because the area was barren of even basic furniture, so her gaze slid outside, desperate for a distraction. Pedestrians walked by, coats undone in the surprise autumn warmth. Cars flashed reflections of sunlight on the beige floor and ceiling as they whizzed down the street. A burst momentarily blinded her, and those on the street became shadows passing through a veil of bright gold. A woman paused to examine herself in the apartment building’s front window and adjusted her hair. Her eyes smoldered like red coals.
3
For a minute, Rowan was drowning again in that dark vortex, gasping for air and thought.
She blinked. The woman and the street appeared as they had before. Everything was still normal, except her.
A chill raced over her. The bell rang and she jumped, spinning around.
The elevator was empty.
Shaken, she stepped in and pressed six. As the doors closed, a man dashed across the lobby and slipped in beside her. He stood a few inches taller than her, his black wavy hair tied into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. A few stray strands, too short for the elastic, curled behind his ear. With high cheekbones, a long nose, and narrow chin, he could have been a model. For all she knew, he was.
He pressed ten, and she dropped her gaze to her feet, not wanting to stare.
A spicy cologne wafted over her, drawing a shiver of attraction.
His tan work boots were void of any dirt or scuffs. They were either new or worn for the style alone. The hem of his jeans was crisp and clean as well, the denim still dark. Her gaze, of its o
wn volition, traveled up his calf and along the side of his thigh to defined muscle that strained against the heavy fabric. Would that definition carry to his rear?
Her stomach squeezed and she cut off that thought fast.
Jeez, what was she thinking? She didn’t really care about his butt. She was an engaged woman, with a great guy waiting for her back home in Toronto. And once she’d finished her studies, they’d get married.
The bell dinged, indicating her floor, and she stole one last glance at the mystery man. She didn’t know why. She just couldn’t resist the urge.
His brown eyes, so dark they appeared all pupil, met hers. For a moment they reminded her of Manny’s eyes but instead of an empty vortex, this man’s gaze was filled with a steamy sensuality that screamed all man and all available. It was the kind of subconscious expression single men on the prowl had at nightclubs. Heat colored her neck and cheeks and her stomach clenched in a mix of embarrassment and desire.
He tipped his head to one side and smiled.
She stumbled out of the elevator, her heart pounding, feeling like a schoolgirl meeting a boy she had a crush on. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t even a year into her post-doctoral fellowship and already she was fantasizing about strange men.
Although there was nothing strange about that man.
She dragged her attention away from the closed elevator doors and headed to her apartment at the end of the hall. She needed to get home. That was all. Call her guy, wrap herself in a blanket, and eat ice cream. A good night’s sleep and she’d be able to attack the world again…