Only Broken Things Are Free (A Pygmalion Fail Book 3)

by Casey Matthews

  “How’s she taking the news that you won’t be her commanding officer anymore?” I asked.

  “Constantly trying to renegotiate her fee as a mercenary.” From Tammagan’s sour expression, I could guess how that was going.

  Dak and I had no interest in waiting a week to disembark in the nearest city, so I set to drawing a skiff. We’d head back to where I’d lost Leo and then on to Amyss, where we hoped to find more information about pocket dimensions and—perhaps—what Cassandra had done before meeting up with Ronin.

  I did finally make some time to pick Ronin’s brain. She told me everything she could about the Citadel and Cassandra, though I sensed they were painful memories. Her stories gave me a few possible leads.

  After sorting it out, I stood to leave her bunk. She set her hand on my wrist. “Once I find my daughter, if you like, I’ll help you on your quest. If you would have me.”

  I tamped down a sudden torrent of emotion. “I’d have you as an ally.”

  Ronin stood, which always surprised me because she was shorter in person than in my head. “I truly wish I hadn’t hurt you. Do you think it will ever mend?”

  “I don’t hate you.” Yet I was still angry. And while I had spent most of my anger on Dracon, I could feel it returning bit by bit. And no matter how much I wanted to kiss her, that anger would strangle anything that might exist between us. “But I can’t have you as anything more than an ally.”

  Somehow, I found the strength to turn around and walk out of her bunk without looking back. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done.

  Dak took one look at my face above deck and patted my back. “It’s okay, man. Your princess is in another castle.”

  I summoned the skiff an hour later. I’d been working on a sailing vessel, too, but wanted to save that for after someone taught Dak and me how to sail. For now, the skiff would get us to Leo’s crash site and then Amyss. It was built like a flying motorcycle with ornamental wings, and I realized too late we’d be riding double.

  “You’re certain this will get you all the way there?” Tammagan asked skeptically.

  “It’ll get us there.” The sky-cycle faced the Nell’s exit hatch and I threw one leg over, activating it. It goosed up a few inches and hovered over the weather deck. I tapped the console. “I’ve even got magical GPS. We’ll be fine, Mom, honest.”

  Ronin didn’t come above deck for the farewell. Much as that hurt, I was kind of glad. Elsie packed us a backpack full of provisions and made me swear I’d keep in touch; she told us where we could drop them mail in Amyss and ordered us to purchase our own mailboxes.

  Dak boarded behind me and we took off together, nudging the sky-cycle through the hatch. Wind hit us full-on and we both donned aviator goggles. “Off into the sunset?” I shouted over the wind.

  “Yup.” He sighed. “I was expecting more. Some loot, maybe a parade. Triumphant cut scene at the very least. Neither of us even got the girl.”

  “No, but the flying sky-scooter is pretty cool. Plus, a fresh start.”

  He chuckled. “Like having a big white sheet of paper to draw on?”

  “It’s a magical world, Dak, ol’ buddy.” I cranked the accelerator and the wind fingered through my hair. “Let’s go exploring.”

  The End

  Dear reader, we’ve reached the end of this series—for now. Feel free to try my other novels as I roll them out. As an indie author, the three best ways to encourage more of my work are to buy my stuff, encourage other people to buy my stuff, or to send me kind words.

  Dollars are appreciated, but probably nothing is more treasured than earnest words about my books. You can leave a review or reach me @CenterFringe or through www.caseymatthews.org.

  Acknowledgments

  The romanticized writer locked away in her room, all alone with ink and page, is something of a myth, and for two good reasons: first, while all the writing parts really are lonely, there’s nothing romantic about it. And second, there is no real “all alone” once you decide to publish. It is humbling to know that, in many ways, this work is not solely my own. It belongs also to the following people:

  My parents, I guess, who are primarily to blame. The fact I’m doing this instead of lawyering for tons of money is actually directly my dad’s fault, since he threatened to murder me with a chainsaw if I ever went to law school. Oh, and Mom, who took me to the town paperback book shop to meet her writer friends—Sherry, Gloria, and Laura—who had years to corrupt me.

  To Katie, who is perfect in every way, except (of course) that she chooses to spend time with me each day. She is my emotional and spiritual support in a world full of monstrous, moving things I don’t entirely trust.

  To Emily, who went before me and lit the way. A better friend I could not possess. That we despise all the same philistines does help. Check her out at www.menyoral.com, because her elves are full of sparkle, rage, and all that lovely stuff.

  To all the Scriptorati, who were more than just beta readers. A literary conscience was once described by Bryan Caplan as an imagined reader who alters your writing based on how they would feel about your work. I’ve had several for these books.

  To the Dragon Rocketship—that merry band of villains.

  To my cover artist, Akira007. I’ve never met him, but when Fiverr says “recommended, 5-star artist,” holy shit, they aren’t kidding.

  Reserved for last because of how honored I have been working with him: I must acknowledge John Hart, my editor, who took me on when I had but pennies. His skill and passion made this work not only better, but possible. You may find him at www.johntheeditor.com, or if not, then wielding the hammer Mjölnir, of which he is surely worthy.