I stumbled toward the forest, wanting very much to go back to the day we arrived. At that point, I would even settle for the day I was evicted from Einar’s cabin.
“We’re waiting,” she whispered. Her fingers locked with mine. I felt the warmth and proof of her existence and also felt the touch of a very tiny hand. I opened my eyes, expecting to see her and my child beside me, but all I saw were the rocks and the swirl of The Kettle of Eternity.
“The only way,” I reminded myself, staring down into it. I thought of Cairn’s final splash and the emptiness I had felt afterward. I glanced back and found my bloodied footprints, confirming the fact that I had indeed lost the child, as well as my three loves. I sighed and faced the Kettle once more.
“Goddess!” I gasped. The water had turned into a spiral of blue smoke. Her slender ethereal wrist reached up in wait.
“A doorway,” I reminded myself. My forehead tingled, I distinctly felt the pressure of Alexavier’s lips sprinkling along my hair line. I reached down and felt the flesh to flesh connection of our palms. A playful slap sounded, and the palm was pushed away by a masculine one. When it tangled with mine, I felt our scars line up. Without hesitation, I leaned in until his hand was sliding down my side and I was falling through the slickest of magical slide.
Every happiness I had ever tasted carried me with a smile to a blanket in the most beautiful of meadows. The familiar kiss of the sun’s warmth plucked a sigh from me. A calloused thumb brushed over the swell of my cheek, and I lazily opened my eyes to find Thorne staring down at me. I gasped and sat up, only to be met with three sets of arms.
They were all there, smiling, whole, and happy. Three others stood behind them. My mother, Cairn, and the Goddess. All I could do was gape and stare. Tears of happiness rolled freely. I didn’t know how to thank her.
“You do not have to.” The Goddess smiled, reading my mind before I could speak it.
“However, if you do not know the rules between mortals and makers you should be careful of what it is you offer and oath. Every action has a reaction. Every darkness has a light, and every favor comes at a price,” my real mother quickly added.
I noticed a babe squirm in Alexavier’s arms. Thane beamed at her like we had created a masterpiece.
Thorne spoke up. His large hand spanned my back, spreading warmth and comfort beneath his much-missed touch. “What is the price? You have shown us more favor than anyone could place value upon.”
“The price is your immortality. You three will weave fate, and you, my dear, seem to have a knack for inspiring love.” She tilted her head and stared pointedly at my Heathen harem.
“Our daughter?” I asked, reaching out to take the child. I held her to me and inhaled the scent of the Gods. She still carried that newness about her and instantly took to my breast. I wasn’t sure such things occurred in the afterlife, but it was as if we still existed and nothing at all had changed.
“It hasn’t changed, really. Your daughter will be going back. Your mother has relatives there. I need you all to focus on fixing the larger picture. You will have to work as a team.”
“Send her back…” Thorne gasped, as if it were too much to bear. It was, even the thought of it. I clung all the tighter to her. Almost feeling tricked.
“Yes. Now don’t sulk. Think of it like this… It is like watching a movie while they nap,” she insisted.
“A what?” Alexavier chimed.
“Never mind. Look, time is irrelevant. Mistakes happen. We go back until we fix them, and when certain souls meet… they form a cosmic bond that ties their journeys together regardless of where or when they reincarnate.” She glanced between us before rolling her eyes. “Time is a very flexible thing. Your daughter will be gone for a lifetime, which is an hour or two to us. They only live for a century or less these days, lighten up.”
We each placed a kiss to the hint of curls that crowned her little head and passed her off to my mother. Not before I embraced her tight enough that it made her laugh and squirm.
“We shall be right back,” she promised before looking over her shoulder toward the guys. “Try not to meddle in her affairs. I know it will be hard in the courting years.
They all tried to speak at once, but she disappeared into thin air, and we were, once again, starting out on a new life together.
THE END
TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCLUSIVE SNEAK PEEK.
CHASING THE NIGHT
Sometimes fairytales blossom from the poorest of circumstances. But… more often than not, legends are forged from the blood, sweat, and tears of things they can never speak of.
Chalice was born into exile. She doesn’t know anything about the world within the stone city, and there is no time to figure it out. With the warring and winter growing closer by the day, she is forced to find her way in the corrupt streets of Rochambeau.
A chance meeting leaves her enmeshed with a world of darkness and wealth. It’s the only welcome she finds. Now it is up to Chalice, to become the medieval mafia-like family’s tool…
Or to climb their ladder and taste power and freedom for herself.
An RH Series recommended for readers 18+
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Preview Chapter
I sat numb on the dirt next to the fire, staring in the direction they had dragged her off to. My mother. My hero. The person who had taught me to survive the day-to-day affairs of our brutal, exiled existence. She begged me not to follow. Oh, how she had howled and insisted I stay put.
“Remember me as the center of your world, child, not as a woman dangling from the end of the hangman’s noose,” she had said. The memory of her pleas ran down my face until I could no longer distinguish the trails in the dirt path where she had been dragged arm-in-arm away from the tent we called home.
I wiped my face clean and tore in a ragged breath. I could no longer tell if I shook from the after nerves of the whole affair or the chill that still clung to the morning air.
The mead canteen was still fairly full, but it wouldn’t last. Drinking from the spring was a game of chance, even on a good day. As it were, the men had been clashing steel for the better part of an hour. Without any way of knowing what lay up stream in its aftermath, I would be forced to find drink elsewhere for a few days. They were usually good about getting the bodies rounded up quickly, I could only pray it would go that way today as well.
I’d never been in the city by myself. Mother often concealed herself in the heavily, starched grey robes of the afflicted and accompanied me to the bridge, taking advantage of the humanitarian laws the city had set into place after the great war. It was a crime in the city to impede the path of a blind person, and the robes declared her such. No one dared breech the parameter of her five-foot imaginary bubble, nor had they ever found reason to question her stooped, hooded appearance.
I stopped in my tracks and gaped at the realization that I wasn’t exiled. My only crime had been that I was too young to have survived on my own when mother was sentenced. Thoughts raced faster than I could account for. I would reach the age of majority in a few weeks, the necessary age requirement to sign for my own rental within the great gates of Rochambeau.
The realization unnerved me all over again. How long had it been since I slept between four walls? A decade perhaps? I nodded, deeming it so. I had been ten when mother stood trial with those responsible for the rebellion.
She had stolen away to the woods with me, eager to accept the judgement and escape before the charges of poisoning came tumbling after her. Two days after we fled, whispers surfaced that someone had, indeed, as feared, broke under the torturers’ efforts and named her as the responsible party. My mother had murdered the Excellence of Rochambeau. It had been a matter of living the nomadic life ever since. Camping about the forest for a few weeks at a time, never really settling in one spot or the other. She knew it would catch up to her. We both did, but that didn’t mean it was any less painful to see.
I pushed myself from the ground and dusted my
bottom off. I needed to clear my mind and focus. Just inside our tent, the basket handle stuck out from beneath a mound of folded gowns. They were the only two we owned. One being a heavy leathered gown that was scuffed but still allowed me to pass as being slightly above a peasant. And the other’s only saving grace were the ruffles that hid how thin and aged the garment truly was.
With my eyes closed, I strained for the sounds of battle while I slid into the leather garment. I emptied the basket and took one last look down the path they had taken her. I knew if I didn’t put some distance between me and that trail, I’d soon be chasing after her. The problem was, I didn’t know how to let her go, even if she had begged me to stay. Gripping the basket until it bit into my palm, I turned and started for the herb patch.
She used to send me there to keep me out of her hair. Funny that, after a while, it had become my most treasured place. I craved the solitude and welcomed the chance to sort my thoughts in peace.
Which was exactly what I found myself doing as I knelt before a patch of Nirvana Root. The most sacred of plants, it was sought far and wide by physicians and poison peddlers alike. Laughter trickled from me as I suddenly recalled that it was that very herb Mother had used on the Excellence.
It was the herb that had changed my life. I could only hope it would work a second time.
ALSO BY TYRANNI THOMAS
RH
The Thorns and Thrones Series
Of Princesses and Pawns
Of Sovereigns and Savages
Of Coups and Cauls
The Heathen Harem Tales Collection
Keeper of the Norns
Between Mortals and Makers
The Krypt Series
Chasing the Night
HISTORICAL FICTION
The Scars Series
The Scars of Survival
Wearing the Scars
About Tyranni Thomas
Tyranni Thomas is a former nurse and history major with a passion for social justice. A writer of High Fantasy Reverse Harem, Historical Fiction and LGBT who believes that written words speak louder than most people’s voices ever could. She enjoys giving agency to historical figures and circumstances of injustices or abuse and spending time with her sons.
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