This close to a master bloodfencer, the crude piece of metal in my earlobe burned like hell. I itched to take it out, but it was all that guaranteed my sanity.
Sweat slicked the grip of my hydropistol as I watched Lord Dreadsower, the bloodsucking, self-proclaimed deity of this town, swoop into the alleyway to meet my partner.
My throat is so dry. My tongue so swollen. All I can think of is the great thirst within me. The need to find the one thing which will satisfy my soul—or, what was once my soul before it was stolen from me.
Blood. I need blood. And I need it now.
The seventh time I’m reborn, I have long purple hair and a dragon tattoo wrapped around my left hand. Or maybe it’s a lizard. Personally, I prefer dragons. They spit fire, but at least they’re straightforward about it. Unlike sneaky lizards with that tongue thing. I’m not a squeamish girl, but ech.
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I sidled closer to the battle trophy, my palm itching to finally hold the rune-etched hilt.
The dead warrior’s blade had been there as long as I could remember—stabbed into the center of the cave’s floor. Every day I’d gaze at it, and the warrior’s name would dance in my thoughts to a tune only I seemed to hear.
The world jerks violently, snapping me out of my trance. At first, I’m too stunned to think.
The place I’ve woken in is dark. Enclosed. Unfamiliar.
Panic shoots through me, and I reach toward the walls shutting me in so tight I can barely move. The familiar fabric of my red sequined dress, tough and frilly, presses against my legs. But it’s a small relief.
Borgig strolled along the empty beach, his shaggy curls shading him from the sun, when a bomb exploded under his feet.
Under one of his feet, to be exact.
“Aaaagggh!”
Sand sprayed as he hopped backwards. Although the bomb couldn’t have been larger than a peanut, pain shot through his foot as if it had caught fire. He would have blisters by morning, no doubt.
The doorbell woke Margaret from her nap. She grabbed her cane and tapped to the front door. Gravel crunched as the grocery delivery truck reversed down the drive. She waited until she was sure he was gone. He was a nice man, but he talked too much.
She opened the door and struck the box with her cane.
“You wanted to see me?” I tried not to fidget, but anxiety hit every time I got called into the restaurant’s office.
“Where’s the silverware?” Mr. Jones glared at me, his already small eyes squinted.
“What silverware?” I smoothed the front of my uniform, an ankle-length black dress with a lace-edged white apron.
He was near.
I gripped my sword, sweat dripping from its hilt. I’d been tracking him for days, almost catching a glimpse, but always he eluded me.
No more. He was an enemy from the East; he could not be allowed to invade our territory and live. It was the Sage’s orders.
The captain ran a finger around the edge of the sugar bowl and ventured a covert glance into the face of the young girl sitting before him. He wasn’t used to such young, well-paying passengers, nor to having said tender-aged passengers pay him a call in his cabin.
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Other than the cramped quarters and questionable smell, the carriage ride was a welcome change from the dungeon I’d just spent nine months in. And even though my soldier escort refused to talk, I had plenty of practice making conversation with myself until we arrived at a half-hidden hut beyond the castle walls.
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They were arguing again. He could hear their voices rising, drowning out the sound of Johnny Carson on the TV. He pulled the covers over his head and tried to ignore them.
“Ugh, this stupid cabinet. I can never get this door open,” She said.
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