by Frank Tuttle
Red fireflowers for grooms, read one entry. Yellow for rest.
Below that was Meet bev. supplier tomorrow noon.
I flipped through the pad, found more of the same.
“You missed that meeting, didn’t you?” I said. “I wonder why.”
I poked through the rest of the room, found nothing suggestive of a man planning a panicked flight away from the jaws of impending matrimony. What I did find, hidden in the far corner of the topmost sockdrawer, was a box that held a golden ring.
Tamar’s ring. I’m no jeweler, but I’m no infant, either. A man on the run could sell that ring for a quarter of its worth and still finance a very long trip. The fact that he hadn’t sold it told me he hadn’t planned on leaving at all.
I put the ring back where I found it, smoothed the bedcovers where I’d rumpled them, put everything as it had been. Then I put my ear to his door and listened for footfalls outside.
It was quiet. I opened the door and stepped outside and closed it behind me.
No one saw, shouted or rushed toward me with a club.
I was so happy I could have whistled.
But I didn’t. I patted my Avalante brooch and straightened my collar and decided that since Lady Luck was smiling I’d see if she’d join me for lunch.
I marched down the hall, all pretense of sneaking gone. Why sneak? I was a friend of House Avalante, and a lunch guest at Lethway. If any mere butler dared question my presence I’d show him the bottom of my nose.
I managed to locate the dining room by following the smells. The door was ajar, and from the hustle and bustle of servants and carts I gathered I’d nearly missed lunch.
I opened the door and stepped inside. A butler whirled to face me, his sudden expression of haughty offense marred by the full mouth of mashed potatoes he was struggling to swallow.
“I hope I’m not too late,” I said, before he could speak. “I was told downstairs there would be fried chicken. I prefer white meat.”
Lady Luck wasn’t just smiling but laughing and drinking straight from the bottle. A black-haired maid started filling a plate with chicken.
The butler fell into a fit of coughing. I breezed past him and helped myself to an empty glass and a pitcher of tea.
“Green beans, too, that’s a dear.” She smiled and piled them high.
Somewhere in the coughing fit, I suppose the butler spied my Avalante pin, because he tottered off to cover his mouth, waving the maids on as he turned. I grinned and grabbed a dinner roll. It was buttered and warm.
The maid pulled a chair out for me, and I plopped onto it.
“Too bad the meeting ran long. I was looking forward to lunch with the family.” I tore into the chicken.
“Oh, sir, the Lady never takes her lunch here anymore,” quoth the younger of the two maids. “Dines in her rooms, you know. Hardly leaves them, these days.”
“Hush, Margaret,” said the other, eyeing me with something like suspicion. “Fetch the gentleman a napkin.”
“This is good,” I said, between mouthfuls. “Someone here knows her business.”
“And what business brings you here, sir?” asked the suspicious maid. I pretended to wipe an errant crumb off my lapel, in case she hadn’t seen my brooch.
“Morris ram stabilizers,” I replied. Bits of Rafe’s conversation with Evis crept back to me. “Did you know that straight-bore mining drills wear out after only eighteen days? But not with a pair of Morris stabilizers on the forepins. They’ll go twenty-six days, or better. Factor that in with the savings in site idle time and wages spent on repairs, and you’ll see an overall boost to your profits of nearly one and a quarter percent over any six-month period. And I don’t have to tell you how much that means in profits over the life of a copper mine.”
I did not, in fact, have to tell her anything of the sort, because she gathered up a stack of plates and stomped from the room. Whether she’d bought my line of mining lore or was off to fetch the headsman I didn’t know.
Margaret of the inky-black locks grinned and poured me more tea.
“My father was a miner,” she said in a whisper. “I grew up around mines. There’s no such thing as a ram stabilizer, is there?”
“There probably ought to be,” I whispered back. “Are you going to scream for the Watch?”
“Depends. Are you here to help or hurt?”
I swallowed and met her eyes squarely.
“I’m here to bring Carris Lethway home.”
She just nodded and gathered plates.
“End of the hall. Take a right. Next time, a left. Third door on the right. Be gentle. She’s a nice lady. Just sick with worry.”
“Worry about Carris?”
She didn’t answer. She scooped up plates and fled, leaving me alone with a table-full of scraps.
I did linger and finish my chicken. I’m sure that illuminated a deep-seated flaw in my soul, but, as I said, it was good chicken.
The strongest net is no match for destiny.
A Cast of Shadows
© 2013 Hailey Edwards
An Araneae Nation Story
Daraja has grown up watching her brothers journey down the river on the traditional Deinopidae rite of passage. Each returned with riches from their travels, and lovers with whom to share their lives.
Now she has reached the age where she would strike out on her own to seek her fortune—if she were male. Instead, she is expected to sit patiently, weave her nets and wait for the river to bring a husband to her.
Patience, however, has never been her strong suit.
Brynmor haunts the forest surrounding the city of Cathis, his disembodied spirit inextricably bound to the wild canis roaming his lands. Until the day he stumbles across a brazen trespasser in his woods.
Compelled to step in when the canis suspect her of poaching one of their own, Brynmor fears he has lost a piece of his ragged soul to the feisty, adventure-seeking female. And when the canis confront the real poachers, he is forced to choose which life to sacrifice. Hers…or his own.
Warning: This book contains one heroine with a knack for weaving nets and one hero who relishes getting caught. Expect singing, some howling, ghostly shenanigans, and the start of a love that transcends death.
Enjoy the following excerpt for A Cast of Shadows:
Forget the canis; this male was the most dangerous creature in the woods. Black eyes ringed with sadness, dark hair tousled by his hands. His thin lips pressed tight as if guarding a mouthful of secrets. Before we ventured any farther, I was determined to pry at least one secret from him.
I used my grip on his hand to keep him still. “What is your name?”
He didn’t answer, but he did begin toeing the rocks at his feet.
“I won’t give you time to think of a lie.” I warned, “Tell me your name or I will leave.”
He glanced up slowly, seeming to have made a decision. “My name is Brynmor.”
“That sounds familiar.” I thought it over. “Wasn’t that the name of a Mimetidae paladin?”
“It was, once.” He used our joined hands and led me to the basin. He climbed in first.
I braced on his shoulders to avoid slipping on mossy stones. “You were named after him?”
“Not exactly.” He grasped my hips and lifted me over the ledge.
My toes curled when they touched the calf-deep water. “It’s cold.”
I caught him staring where my nipples beaded beneath my shirt. He said, “I can see that.”
I gave the front of his pants a frank assessment. “Pity I can’t tell if you were affected.”
His eyes shot open wide and his lips parted, but he didn’t utter a sound.
“It’s all right.” I patted him on the shoulder and waded past him to hold my hand beneath the waterfall’s spray. “You aren’t the first male to suffer the ill effects of icy water on his…pride.”
His gaze bored into my back. “I assure you, my pride has not been affected.”
“Of c
ourse not.” I smothered my grin as I turned to face him. “Now, why are we—?”
Brynmor’s face was inches from mine. His scowl lined his forehead and mouth. He stalked me back until I hit a stone ledge and a torrent of water soaked me from shoulder to toe. “It’s not wise to tempt a male who might see your flirtation as an invitation for more.” He bent down, and his soft lips feathered across my cheek. “Do you want more, Daraja?” He fit his hips to mine, and I gasped at the hard ridge of flesh he pressed against me. “I didn’t think so. Come on.”
He left me panting against the falls, asking myself, What in the gods’ names was I thinking?
Never one to shy away from who or what I wanted, when had I decided I wanted him?
One day my penchant for rebellion would land me in an early grave. How often had Father said so? If I wasn’t careful, the desire to explore the tingles burning my skin where Brynmor had touched me would land me in his bed. Dangerous to crave a male I had just met. No doubt that was the source of his appeal.
Before trailing after him, I ducked my head under the falls and prayed the rushing water would beat some sense into me. Let him think that was why my cheeks were flushed and I was breathless.
While shaking the water from my hair, I heard soft laughter and spotted him watching me.
Fresh heat burned in my cheeks.
“Are you ready now or should I make myself comfortable?” he asked.
“I’m ready.” I straightened my shoulders. “What is it you wanted to show me?”
“There is only one way out of Cathis, unless you go over or under the walls.” He stared into the forest. “The Mimetidae keep their prisoners in a grotto beneath the city. There’s a tunnel used for transportation and…private liaisons…near here.” He grinned at my surprise. “What’s another secret between friends? Besides you don’t strike me as the type to go about liberating prisoners.”
I shook my head. “My clan has plenty without me borrowing more from the Mimetidae.”
“Most clans do,” he agreed, bending to examine a pile of smooth stones.
Leaning over his shoulder, I asked, “Do you find stones so interesting?”
Amusement deepened his voice. “Not so much the stones as what they conceal.”
Ah. Our outing began to make more sense. “You have a cache hidden here.”
“I do.” He shook out his arms. “Give me room.”
“Why?” I backed up a step. “What are you doing?”
“Must you question everything?” He sounded as if he didn’t mind my curiosity.
So I said, “Yes.”
I believe he muttered about the inquisitiveness of the young or some such nonsense. If I had to guess, I bet his age was within five years of mine, so he was hardly an authority to lecture me.
As he worked, I hovered at his shoulder. “If the grotto’s proximity mattered to you, then you must have intended your cache to be part of a contingency plan. Say the city fell, you would take the secret exit through the grotto, stop here and then raid the cache before you went into hiding.”
He shook his head. “Only a coward leaves his city while it’s under siege.”
“Oh?” I savored the view while he worked. “Then why have this made? Why here?”
“The rest of your theory was sound.” He glanced up. “I did this for my family, to provide for them if I was unable to. We were poorer in those days. Their fortunes have improved since then.”
The words fell from my lips before I could catch them. “You have family in Cathis.”
Of course he did. What other tether could tie a male with no clan to Mimetidae land?
“I do.” He nodded. “This cache was meant for my son…and for my wife.”
“You have a wife.”
“I did.” Muscles in Brynmor’s neck twitched.
“I shouldn’t have asked.” It was none of my business, even after… No. It didn’t matter.
His thick voice carried over the frothing water. “We lived separately for years before…”
“You don’t have to tell me.” I didn’t want to hear how his heart belonged to another. Or that his earlier burst of passion was the response of a male deprived from activities in his marital bed.
“It’s not what you think,” was all he said.
“With married males, it never is.”
He didn’t disagree with me, but straightened with a grunt. “Here you are.”
A shimmering gold pendant set with a glossy black stone hung from his fingers on a slender chain. My fingers curled with desire to snatch the bauble and examine it. When he coiled it in my palm and folded my hand closed over it, my covetous heart fluttered despite the blow he had dealt it.
My first treasure—the first spoils earned during my journey—warmed my hand.
“This is yours.” He tapped my clenched fist. “Or it can be if you earn it.”
“A net is all you want?” I wanted to be very sure. “I can weave a large one in two days.”
Appearing to consider my question, he finally said, “A net is all I require.”
Aware of the thin line I tread, unsure why I did so, I nudged him. “Is that all you want?”
“Would you give me more?” His voice took on a rugged quality that gave me chills.
“It depends.” I laughed to loosen the knot in my chest. “What else is in that cache of yours?”
The grin spreading across his face made him dangerously handsome. “Perhaps I’ll show you sometime.” He stepped back and exposed an intricate metal trap set in the stone wall with silvery metal teeth and serrated jaws. I watched him slide five pins into the hinged joints before looking away. His tone was apologetic. “In case you’re tempted to double back and treasure hunt alone.”
“Put your mind at ease.” I wiggled my fingers. “I value my hands too much to risk them.”
He captured my wrist and brought my hand to his mouth, where he kissed my pointer finger.
The gesture was so tender, so unexpected, it shattered me. “Tell me about your wife.”
“We should leave.” He swept past me without a backward glance. “It’s getting late.”
Knowing I should let it go, doubting he would answer me, I caught his arm. “One question.”
His head fell back, and his eyes drank in the sky over our heads. “One.”
“Did you love her?” It was the most important thing I could think to ask.
“Yes.” He shrugged free of me, and I was left alone with the fruits of my curiosity.
Brown River Queen
Frank Tuttle
When the banshee howls, start looking for the lifeboats.
The Markhat Files, Book 7
Take a simple, three-day cruise on a lavish steamboat casino, they said. Just keep an eye out for trouble while the Regent rolls the dice, they said.
Markhat should have known the maiden voyage of Avalante’s vampire-crewed Brown River Queen would be anything but a finder’s dream job. Especially when he charges a ridiculous fee—and gets it without a peep of protest.
Then a pair of identical murderous maidens attack him and his lady love, and it doesn’t take a banshee’s howl to confirm his sinking suspicion he’s about to earn his fee the hard way.
As the heavily guarded steamboat casts off, Markhat is forced to navigate shoals of old enemies, treacherous political undercurrents, and rogue waves of assassins. All to keep the walking dead from turning the Brown River Queen’s decks red with blood.
Warning: This is a work of fiction. Please stop trying to apply it as a cream directly to your forehead. The characters depicted herein are quite real despite this disclaimer and will be deeply hurt if you peek ahead to the ending. This prose is certified gluten-free. Not intended as an emergency substitute Flight Manual, no matter what the nerds at Popular Mechanics claim.
eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a
work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Brown River Queen
Copyright © 2013 by Frank Tuttle
ISBN: 978-1-61921-450-7
Edited by Holly Atkinson
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: March 2013
www.samhainpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
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