Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  Another slap on the wall, then Lukan faced her. “Look, you’re right when you say I don’t love you. I can’t possibly because I hardly know you. But I’m willing to try, and that’s a start. I—I can even overlook this . . . obsession of yours with my cousin, if you promise to conduct yourself properly as my wife—especially when he returns. I cannot have the court talking about you and Axel behind my back.”

  Lynx’s mouth dropped in disbelief. She snapped it closed. Did he really think she could let this go? That she could trust him again? With no qualm or conscience, he had been willing to cross his uncle in their deal. What stopped him from backstabbing her if it suited his agenda? Lukan Avanov was a man devoid of honor. And men devoid of honor were like vipers—only to be trusted when their heads were crushed between two rocks.

  In the face of her stony silence, he cried, “You know Felix! You know how manipulative he is. What was I supposed to do?”

  Lynx pointed to the empty space where Axel’s bed had stood. “You fight for what is right, for what you believe in, no matter the cost. As much as I love Axel, I was not letting your pathetic uncle intimidate me. It’s called having a backbone.”

  Lukan shook his head, studying his feet. “Well, maybe I’m not as strong as you are.”

  “No, you’re not,” Lynx agreed. She folded her arms and studied him.

  Sniveling weakling that he was, she’d get no assurances from him. It was time to discover how Lukan saw the future—and to tell him what to expect if he had any illusions about trying to kill her again.

  She did not intend on becoming a typical Norin bride married to a murderous Chenayan emperor. “What are your plans for your reign? More of what your father served up? Or do you see things changing in Chenaya?”

  Lukan slumped down onto the chair. “There is so much to consider.”

  “Would you take guidance? Counsel on how to rule, what to change?”

  He looked up at her. “From whom?”

  “Me.”

  “A woman.” He shook his head. “What would the Fifteen say? Empresses are supposed to look pretty and host balls, not make decisions on government. Especially the kind of decisions you’ll want to make.”

  It would do no harm to remind Lukan of the curse if he would not see reason. “I am sure you’re aware that I am the woman Dmitri spoke of.”

  Lukan leaped to his feet. “Are you threatening me? I won’t tolerate it. I’m emperor now, and I won’t be bullied by anyone ever again.”

  “Yes, a thousand witnesses saw you and Felix murder the emperor. I doubt any of them would dare cross you. Me, I’m not so reticent.”

  Hoping he didn’t notice her blush, Lynx walked right up to him and deliberately brushed her body against his. His breath sped up, and his groin immediately responded. Lynx gritted her teeth against the pressure on her leg.

  “Lukan, you chose me to marry you because you think I’m a plaything. That was a serious misjudgment.” She pinched his testicles through his clothing. He screeched—more in surprise than pain, given that she hadn’t squeezed hard—and jumped back. Lynx let him go. “Try to hurt me, and I will emasculate you in ways you can only begin to imagine.”

  Lukan shook his head, his face more bemused than angry. “You never gave us a chance. From the moment you arrived here, you were determined to despise me. Why? Why even agree to the marriage?”

  It was time to enlighten him. “The only reason I married you was to fulfill an oath to my father. I’ve done that now.” She remembered her letter to her father with its promise that Axel would tell him everything there was to know about the ice crystals. Her heart burst into song, and she couldn’t resist grinning. “Winds know, I am freer now than I have ever been.”

  Lukan’s beautiful face turned scornful. “Free? You’re still my wife. My empress. You live here, in my palace. You’ll do what I say. I hardly call that free.”

  Before he could get too comfortable with his delusions, Lynx said, “Don’t for a minute think you’ll control me.”

  Lukan’s head hitched to the side, dark eyes calculating. “An oath to your father, you say? Don’t you Norin consider yourselves cursed if you break them?”

  How did Lukan know that? Lynx shifted, suddenly uncomfortable—and hating herself for it.

  “The cursing is moot,” she snapped, determined to quell any advantage he may think he had. “My oath was fulfilled when I married you today.”

  A triumphant smile danced across Lukan’s lips. “Then I hate to break this to you, but our marriage is not yet complete. Your oath to your father still stands.” He laughed.

  Voice ominous with threat, Lynx demanded, “What do you mean?”

  In Norin, marriage vows uttered together in front of witnesses constituted a legally binding contract. Mott had demanded to see bloodied sheets to confirm that she had indeed slept with Lukan, but he’d said nothing about needing them to clinch the marriage.

  “Sex.” Lukan stepped back from her, gloating. “No marriage in Chenaya is legal until it is consummated. Today, you and I merely performed a spectacle for the masses. The legal stuff happens in bed. My bed, which you will never be invited to.”

  Lynx’s blood chilled. She wanted to ask if he was joking, but that would show weakness. Not something she could ever admit to with Lukan.

  Lukan’s grin widened. “So, you can’t touch me until I have sex with you, and I won’t touch you. Who’s emasculated now?” He gave her a mock bow. “I do like how the day has turned out.”

  Lynx opened and closed her mouth. Was it possible she had lost?

  The burning in her leg, where just moments before she had felt the pressure of his groin, said that this war was far from over. She pulled her lips back in her most savage grin.

  “Oh, Lukan. You are as good as had. Enjoy your gloating while it lasts.” Lynx slunk toward him, swinging her hips provocatively.

  Lukan’s confident swagger faltered. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. And then he was gone, skidding out the door.

  Lynx laughed after him. “Like I said, Lukan, this war has only just started.”

  Her laughter faded. She had discovered every Chenayan secret—and more—that she had set out to find when coming here. No longer a Norin warrior princess, she was now empress of Chenaya with real power over her weakling husband.

  But was all that enough to fulfil Dmitri’s curse?

  Not without Axel at my side.

  No matter what happened, Axel had to survive.

  She strode over and flung open the window. Not caring who heard her, she leaned out and cried to the Winds, “Watch over and protect Axel and I will make you an oath that I will devote my life to fulfilling Dmitri’s curse.”

  The breeze caught her hair, whipping it across her face. She knew her prayer had been answered.

  She left the infirmary to face her new life dedicated to destroying Lukan and his Chenayan Dragon.

  THE END

  Continue the Crown of Blood Series in book two, Warlord’s Wager.

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  About the Author

  I am a South African, currently living in the UK with my husband Andrew, my three daughters, a yapping Toy Pomeranian, and a fantastic farm cat called Pixel. I spend most of my waking hours writing fantasy and science fiction books. My books are all set in fantastic worlds inhabited by strong heroines and sharp-mouthed heroes. To confuse things, I also write adventure travel books set firmly on planet Earth. When I'm not writing, I'm reading, traveling, herding kids around, taking dogs for walks, and avoiding all cooking.

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  Echo in TIme

  Book One in the Echo Trilogy
<
br />   Lindsey Fairleigh

  Echo in Time © 2013 Lindsey Fairleigh

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Created with Vellum

  About the Book

  Echo in TIme

  A young archaeologist…a forgotten god…a hidden Egyptian temple…

  Alexandra Larson isn’t human, but she doesn’t know that. As far as Lex is concerned, she’s simply an ambitious archaeology grad student with a knack for deciphering ancient languages.

  When Lex is recruited to work on her dream excavation and her translating skills uncover the secret to an underground Egyptian temple, she’s beyond thrilled…as is the enigmatic and alluring excavation director, Marcus Bahur. And as the relationship between Lex and Marcus heats up, a series of shocking revelations leave the young archaeologist reeling. Together, Lex and Marcus are all that’s standing between an ancient evil being and the power to alter the very fabric of time.

  Events set in motion by a dying god over four millennia ago pull the pair away from Seattle and into the heart of Egypt, where Lex learns that the fate of the world depends on one thing: her.

  Prologue

  “Meswett, know yourself and you shall know the gods.

  Meswett, trust yourself and you shall trust the gods.

  So it ends, from start to finish,

  as found in writing.”

  —taken from the Prophecy of Nuin, Old Kingdom, c. 2180 BCE

  I thought I knew people. I didn’t.

  I thought I could trust my family and my friends. I couldn’t.

  I thought I at least had some idea of who I am. Wrong.

  But here’s the real kicker: I never thought I’d be in the heart of an ancient temple, driven by desperation and hatred, ready to kill my own father.

  Screaming, I launch myself at him. My rage and sorrow are so great that I no longer have room for any other emotions. Coherent thought is foreign to me. I have one purpose—to destroy him.

  He doesn’t see me coming. He can’t see me coming. I’m moving too quickly, bending time to my will. It’s impossible, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

  “How—?”

  My father doesn’t have time to finish the question. I’ve already torn the gun from his grasp and pressed the muzzle against the side of his head.

  I flex my index finger.

  Click.

  Part I

  University of Washington Seattle, Washington

  1

  Unreal & Real

  “NO!” I screamed as a speeding, moss-green station wagon slammed into my graduate advisor, who had been running across the street.

  Dr. Ramirez’s body rolled up onto the hood, his head hitting the windshield with a sickening crack, before sliding back down and settling on the asphalt. His arm flopped out to the side, landing in one of the many puddles created by the morning’s incessant drizzle.

  “Oh my God! Dr. Ramirez!” I sprinted the rest of the way down the paved path, across the sidewalk, and onto the university’s main drag. As I knelt beside Dr. Ramirez, I dropped the copy of the Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology I’d been carrying—I’d been intending to show him an article on the discovery of a new Iliad manuscript, but the journal’s pages lay askew, dirty and collecting droplets of rain.

  My hands hovered over Dr. Ramirez, but I was too afraid of injuring him further to touch him. He was wearing his usual, casual professor’s garb—medium-wash jeans and a heavy, navy-blue raincoat—but it hadn’t protected him during the collision. The hair on the left side of his head was matted with blood, and his forehead looked slightly misshapen.

  “I’m so sorry!” the driver cried as she lurched out of the car, leaving the driver’s side door open. “I didn’t see him . . . He just ran out . . . Oh my God . . . I . . .”

  I ignored her and the flurry of activity taking place around us, instead reaching for Dr. Ramirez’s limp hand, which still lay in a puddle. Trembling, I placed two fingers on his wrist to check his pulse, but I felt nothing.

  “You killed him,” I said hollowly.

  The driver looked at me—into me—her eyes filled with horror.

  Gasping, I jerked upright. My right leg was curled under me, numb. I’d fallen asleep in one of the wooden torture devices that doubled as desk chairs in the Anthropology graduate office, and according to my stiff joints, it hadn’t been a wise decision. My beloved monstrosity of a desk—a battered, oak rolltop that might have been worth something if it wasn’t covered with as many dents and dings as carvings—had been an equally foolish place to rest my head. Damn, I thought as I took in the disarray under my elbows. A chaotic jumble of open books, photos, and papers was scattered across the desk’s surface, some with brand-new folds and wrinkles, and one with an unfortunate drool spot.

  “Fabulous,” I muttered, wiping away the wet stain with a tissue.

  Once again, I’d been attempting to decipher the ancient, oh-so-frustrating puzzle that had been driving me nuts all quarter. A combination of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs—two parallel, vertical lines, one with a flag-like protrusion, the profile of a lion’s head, a filled-in half circle, and a full circle with a smaller circle cut out of the center—that seemed perfectly content to remain undecipherable.

  Shaking with adrenaline lingering from the awful dream, I sighed, shifted my leg from under me, and lowered my head to rest my cheek on the desk. I stared at the end of my coffee-brown ponytail, unbelievably glad that I’d been asleep and that Dr. Ramirez hadn’t been hit by a car. It had been a dream . . . just a stupid, freakishly realistic dream.

  “Hey, Lex!”

  “Gah!” I exclaimed, jumping slightly and causing the invisible pins and needles poking into my reawakening leg to jab with renewed gusto. At seeing the short, excited man standing beside my desk, I shook my head and laughed. It was almost impossible to be irritated at Carson, whose diminutive build, artfully mussed brown hair, and bright blue eyes made him look more like a member of a boy band than a fellow grad student. “Seriously, Carson? Was that absolutely necessary?”

  He slapped his hand down on one of the open books, lifting it a few seconds later to reveal a folded hundred-dollar bill. “You win,” he said grudgingly. “I still think my article was far superior, but apparently my opinion doesn’t count.” He tossed an academic journal onto the desk beside the money. It was opened to an article titled “Fact From Myth: Cross-Referencing Texts Across Ancient Cultures to Decipher Unknown Symbols”—my article.

  With a smug smile, I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair. We’d made a bet several months back—a Benjamin to whichever of us was published by a major academic journal first. Though we’d both been co-authors or contributors to other people’s articles, neither Carson nor I had been published for our individual work. Until now.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t take one look at that monstrous title and toss your article into the trash,” Carson said.

  “Ouch! You wound me with your pointy words!” I exclaimed, clutching my chest dramatically.

  Carson flopped down in a chair beside my desk and let his head fall backward with a groan. “It’s not fair, Lex,” he whined, only amplifying his pubescent image.

  “You’re ridiculou
s,” I told him, laughing. I patted his knee, happily noting that my own leg was back to normal. “Maybe you’ll be in the next one . . . doesn’t Mediterranean Archaeology come out tomorrow? I thought you submitted a few things to them?” Remembering my dream, the Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology discarded on the grimy road, I stifled a shiver.

  Carson raised his head and stared at me with annoyance. “That’s the latest issue of Mediterranean Archaeology,” he said, pointing to my article.

  My blood instantly chilled, and this time I couldn’t repress a shiver. It was Thursday, and that particular journal was always delivered on Fridays. It’s just a coincidence, I told myself.

  Pointing to the open journal, I asked, “So, other than my amazing article, is there anything else in there worth noting?”

  Carson shrugged. “Mostly it’s just the usual . . . retranslations of this or that text, an update on Pompeii and the volcanic activity at Mount Vesuvius, an explanation of some new techniques for underwater excavating”—suddenly excited, he leaned forward and rubbed his hands together—“and, an analysis of a new Iliad manuscript. It’s fragmented, but it’s also the oldest version ever found.”

  Something in my chest tightened, and my lungs felt too weak to draw in enough air.

  When I didn’t say anything, Carson added, “Awesome, right?” He specialized in the classics—Homer, Plato, Catullus—practically worshipping the long-dead poets and philosophers.