“He’s getting old,” Clarke noted as she arrived and gave the wolf a pointed look. “He was Rush’s long time companion when he was cursed, and he protected our cabin while Willow was a baby. This might be the last time she will get to see her old protector.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” Anise replied.
Clarke gave Anise a gentle smile. “It is, but it’s the natural order of life for those animals, and humans for that matter. Any creature without mana in them ages so fast. I’m still getting used to the idea that I’m not one of them anymore. Anyway, it’s good to see you, Anise.”
Caraway had said something similar to Anise back at the witch’s lair. If Anise was truly without mana, she’d have aged a long time ago. Somehow, knowing that made Anise feel warm inside. She smiled at Clarke. “It’s good to see you too.”
Clarke gestured to Laurel. “I think you might have met Laurel.”
“Sort of.”
Laurel bit her lip. “Yeah, that’s my fault. I was a bit preoccupied the last time we met.” She made the fae hand-sign for an apology—a fist in circles over her chest. “It was rude of me.”
Anise laughed it off. “You weren’t rude. I was the barmaid. I served you a drink. That’s all.”
“Yes, well, if it’s all the same to you, if I hadn’t been so angry at Thorne, I would have taken the time to give you a proper hello.”
Clarke waggled her brows at Anise. “I see my little gift went to good use?”
“Gift?” Anise frowned.
Clarke tapped a bite mark scar on her own neck. Laurel laughed and tapped her own. Then they both made eyes at Caraway’s fresh mating mark.
“Oh!” Anise blushed. “You saw us getting together in a vision? Is that why you gave him the portal stone for here? How embarrassing.”
“Not at all!” Clarke replied. “Actually, we’re here for another reason.”
Anise cocked a brow.
“What reason?” Caraway asked as the Guardians arrived.
Laurel took Thorne’s hand, and Anise couldn’t help noticing the matching blue markings entwining both their arms. Rush and Clarke had similar identical markings on their hands. They were magnificent. Like water reflections living on their skin.
“I wanted to thank you for helping me out when I first arrived. Waking up two thousand years after my time wasn’t so easy to deal with. And this lout didn’t make it easier at the start,” Clarke said, pointing to Rush who grunted irritably. She laughed. “Anise, you and Caraway were so kind to me that night in the tavern. So—” She shared a conspiring look with Laurel. “We’ve come up with a solution that keeps you two together.”
Thorne frowned. “I told them they were meddling.”
Rush also clenched his jaw. “But it’s a good idea.”
“What?” Anise asked. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Laurel grinned. “I’ve been working with the Prime to raise the public profile of the Order. Too many fae-folk don’t look favorably on the organization and it’s been a real problem lately. High King Mithras is gaining power, and it’s not good. So I’ve convinced the Prime to station trusted Guardians in cities and towns around Elphyne so the Order always has a point of contact for anyone with questions. No more mystery. I think if we make each Guardian seem more approachable, like an ambassador as well as a protector, then more fae will want to volunteer to be initiated. The Order won’t need to seek tributes from children anymore.”
Thorne squeezed her shoulder and a look of sheer pride crossed his face.
“What does that mean for us?” Caraway asked.
“It means,” Rush elaborated. “The two of you can live together in a city of your choice. Caraway won’t need to live at the Order grounds, and instead of heading out into the wild on missions, he can work at improving the Order’s image in the city he’s stationed at.”
“Couldn’t think of a better Guardian for the job.” Thorne clapped Caraway on the back.
“We can be together?” Anise could hardly believe it. Caraway could stay a Guardian, and they could stay together.
Their eyes met, held, and then Caraway rushed to pick her up in a bone-crushing hug. Her mind whirled. Could it be that simple?
He put her down, eyes searching hers. “Where do you want to live?”
Immediately, her heart took her home, to Crescent Hollow. But the familiar pang and panic of her attack left her mouth dry at the thought of returning there.
No, she told herself. This time it was different. She was different. She had to stop letting her fears take hold of her. Sure, she’d had bad memories there, but there had also been good memories. And fae lived a long time... possibly forever. Hopefully, she and Caraway would share a long life together. She smiled up at him and for the first time in a long time, wanted to go home.
“Let’s go to Crescent Hollow.”
He grinned back at her. “I was hoping you would say that.”
Rush cleared his throat. “Let’s go inside and you can tell us about the Ice-Witch while Willow plays with Gray. Thorne and I will take your intel and the sample of snow back to the Prime. Your mission is done, Caraway.”
Clarke stopped her mate with a hand to the shoulder. “Let’s just get the snow sample. I think the newly mated couple might want to spend some alone time together.”
Rush’s eyes widened when he caught the fresh mark on Caraway’s neck. A blush hit his cheeks. Both he and Thorne quickly made excuses to leave. Both were so rushed, she knew they were contrived, but was grateful all the same.
Anise smiled when she looked at her new friends and realized just how far she’d come. No longer did those taunts from her memories haunt her because Anise did have friends. She had a lover. A mate. And she had a future. It didn’t matter what she looked like on the outside. It only mattered how she lived her life and the love she invited in. That jaded Ice-Witch had it all wrong.
Anise looked up into Caraway’s eyes, she knew her life would be the opposite of lonely. It would be filled with love, kisses, and wishes come true.
The End.
Catch up with more Fae Guardians on Amazon Kindle, or visit Lana’s website for more details on other editions.
Also by Lana Pecherczyk
The Deadly Seven
(Paranormal Romance)
Sinner
Envy
Greed
Wrath
Sloth
Gluttony
Lust
Pride
Despair
Fae Guardians
(Fantasy/Paranormal Romance)
The Longing of Lone Wolves
The Solace of Sharp Claws
The Dreams of Broken Kings
Game of Gods
(Romantic Urban Fantasy )
Soul Thing
The Devil Inside
Playing God
Game Over
Game of Gods Box Set
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About the Author
OMG! How do you say my name?
Lana (straight forward enough - Lah-nah) Pecherczyk (this is where it gets tricky - Pe-her-chick).
I’ve been called Lana Price-Check, Lana Pera-Chickywack, Lana Pressed-Chicken, Lana Pech…that girl! You name it, they said it. So if it’s so hard to spell, why on earth would I use this name instead of an easy pen name?
To put it simply, it belonged to my mother. And she was my dream champion.
For most of my life, I’ve been good at one thing – art. The world around me saw my work, and said I should do more of it, so I did.
But when at the age of eight, I said I wanted to write stories, and even though we were poor, my mother came home with a blank notebook and a pencil saying I should follow my dreams, no matter where they take me for they will make me happy. I wasn’t very good at it, but it didn’t matter because I had her support and I liked it.
She died when I was thirteen, and left her four daughters orphaned. Suddenly, I had lost my dream champion, I was split
from my youngest two sisters and had no one to talk to about the challenge of life.
So, I wrote in secret. I poured my heart out daily to a diary and sometimes imagined that she would listen. At the end of the day, even if she couldn’t hear, writing kept that dream alive.
Eventually, after having my own children (two firecrackers in the guise of little boys) and ignoring my inner voice for too long, I decided to lead by example. How could I teach my children to follow their dreams if I wasn’t? I became my own dream champion and the rest is history, here I am.
When I’m not writing the next great action-packed romantic novel, or wrangling the rug rats, or rescuing GI Joe from the jaws of my Kelpie, I fight evil by moonlight, win love by daylight and never run from a real fight.
I live in Australia, but I’m up for a chat anytime online. Come and find me.
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The Heart and Soul of Ragnar the Red
Immortals of the Apocalypse: An Origins Novella by Daniel De Lorne
About The Heart and Soul of Ragnar the Red
If a hero dies alone in a cell, will anyone remember his name?
1686. Discharged without honor from Sweden’s army, Ragnar the Red is forced to watch as a monster emerges from his dark past and slaughters his band of outlaws with a swipe of his hand.
Imprisoned in a remote jail cell, Ragnar has thirty days to escape before his captor takes his final revenge and smites him with the same fate that befell his men.
Desperate to be immortalized in saga, Ragnar seduces his enemy in an attempt to seize his secret magic for his own ambition.
If he succeeds, kings will tremble at his name and nations will fall…but at what cost to his heart and his soul?
If you like enemies to lover, forced proximity, and hot Vikings, you’ll love this prequel to the Immortals of the Apocalypse trilogy.
Chapter 1
Sweden, 1686
A thousand men could not have done what Ragnar and twenty on horseback had achieved. Loaded down with tax collections liberated from the King’s soldiers, they plunged into the protection of the forest. A late autumn wind blew at their backs, aiding their flight and bringing warning of any pursuit. Its chill cut through the back of Ragnar’s coat.
A thousand men…
He had only to keep a handful of that number happy through the long nights of the approaching winter, and with the day’s plunder surely none would turn deserter. One man was no longer his concern; a musket shot ending his life. Ragnar had taken his vengeance and routed the soldiers, lain waste to their lives for killing that one underling, and only stopped when his band demanded they return to camp. He had not appreciated their censure in the middle of his battle haze, but he had seen their reason and ordered a withdrawal. They sought safety now the deed was done.
While the forest called to his men, a warm and comfortable bed in a fine castle beckoned from his memories. He whipped his horse hard. Åke would admonish him for his rough treatment of the beast, and in turn he would show Åke how rough he could be. Much as the young man liked it.
The day’s light faded early, helping to cover their flight. The temperature dropped once enveloped in the shadows of the darkening forest, and their speed slowed so as not to endanger the horses more than necessary. One hoof placed wrong and they’d lose the animal. With what they’d ransacked, they could afford another, but he never liked to lose a good horse if he could help it.
His men held their tongues, fearful of drawing attention to their escape. It wasn’t the eye of the law they warded against but the malevolent gaze of the supernatural. Despite the months they’d traversed Halland’s forests, learning its sounds, its ways and defenses, many of the men still crossed themselves when crossing its boundaries. They warded against the Skogsrå, the seductive female spirit with the fox’s tail who drew men into the shadows with her song and stole their souls.
Ragnar put no stock in their superstitions. They were for peasants. The Skogsrå was nothing more than a creation to explain the loss of foolish men who’d wandered off and lost their way forever. But he relied on his men and was forced to indulge their delusions until the day when he had stolen enough, killed enough, and won enough to become the hero he needed to be. Because heroes were denied nothing. The nobility would welcome his return, hail him their champion, and the revenge he’d finally visit upon those who had wronged him, his father chief among them, would be his. Then this unpleasant low point would be relegated to myth and the ghosts of a forest far from his Småland home.
They reached their camp in the last of the natural light, guided by the flickering campfire he ordered kept small. Åke was waiting for him as he halted. He threw the blond and beguiling young man his reins.
“The raid was a success?”
“Was there any doubt?” He dismounted and walked away from the glint in Åke’s eye. “Tend the horses.” As if Åke needed to be told.
“As my lord wishes.”
Åke’s breathy subservience poked the embers in Ragnar’s blood, but they had to be smothered. Åke could not become another Absolon, not that he had anywhere near Absolon’s skills.
Not with his horses. Not with his cock. Not with his heart.
But Absolon had been a warning and one he was doing his best to heed. His men would only accommodate so much frivolity from him, and with winter fast approaching and their chances to raid curtailed, desertion would be the least of his worries. Two fewer men with whom to share the spoils made an attractive reason to murder—even if that meant killing Ragnar the Red.
The ten men who’d remained at camp saluted him as they hurried to unload the loot from their fellows. He and another man would take it the next day to a secure stronghold deep in the forest, their one hope of keeping it safe until required. It was apportioned equally among them; even he took the same cut though he deserved more. He may be their leader, but his act of goodwill and equality ensured only limited loyalty. Three men knew of the stronghold’s location—him among them—so he had relative surety that its contents would not vanish.
Though perhaps he could use the Skogsrå to his advantage and expedite his escape out of this outlaw’s existence.
The dampness in the air forced Ragnar to huddle inside his coat, the thrill of the ride and the kill having abated. He sought the closeness of the fire but remained standing to surveil the men. Once the horses were tended and the loot deposited, they gathered around the fire. Wine passed hands and Ragnar sensed a tension: the taut frisson between a successful raid and the loss of a brother.
Ragnar raised his cup. “To Jöns. A good man who gave his life so that we may live. Skål!"
“Skål!" The men charged their cups and drank deep. They refilled their vessels and drank again. Murmured conversation limped in and Jöns’ demise was soon swept into tales of the raid. Their voices grew louder, a few laughed raucously, and some cheered for Ragnar. Others failed to meet his eye, but he caught the hard twist to their mouths and the accusing glances that passed between them. A loss was still a loss, even for one such as he.
“Ragnar the Red” they called him, though not purely on account of his dark auburn hair and beard. He had fashioned himself into a legend with a firm hand, a generous spirit to his followers, and tactics that inspired fear in great men. But he needed more than the thirty men beneath his command to recognize him for it. It should not be so difficult.
Their Swedish heritage had plenty of Viking heroes to draw from, even if much time had passed since Erik the Red and Ragnar Loðbrók had plundered lands and claimed them for their people’s glory. He could muscle his way into those conquerors’ fellowship—even if his father and brother never invited him into theirs.
Men bade him sing and he obliged. Keeping his rich voice low to soften their noise, he transfixed them with a ballad of Svipdagr.
He would have gladly counted himself among the wily champion’s hallowed company
. One day he would. After all, had he not risen against the odds as second son to a noble family and become a great military strategist?
Never mind that his path had deviated thanks to a brilliant—yet failed—rout during a battle against the Russians. Five hundred men slaughtered, his reputation in tatters, and his rank and honors stripped. Those who’d long resented him had taken the opportunity to make his fall complete. His father, a count of ancient lineage, removed his protection once and for all and would never speak his son’s name again. In return, Ragnar would not speak his or his line’s until he took his place among Sweden’s heroes.
Then his father would know how wrong he had been.
His voice took on a hard edge as Svipdagr’s quest to speak with the shade of his dead mother grew darker. Not a man moved as he lost himself in the tale that twisted with his own.
Little more than a year had passed since he’d been forced to make his way alone. Well, not alone.
With Absolon, the farmer turned ferocious berserker. Hair whiter than Åke’s, muscles bigger, taller, broader, heart more open, more willing, more generous. Absolon—soldier, protector, lover—survived the failed strategy and deserted rather than stay where Ragnar was not. They’d endured the first winter living like common thieves hiding in the forest until Ragnar had settled on his path to restoration.
He gathered men to him, other former military who had become disillusioned one way or another, a handful of peasants who wanted a life of adventure. Absolon had stayed through it all and would have stayed until the very end if not for the others’ growing distrust and the shame they felt it brought their leader that he should be so enamored with another man. It didn’t fit the legend.
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