“Warn’t nearly this hard when yer pa were in charge,” Les Watkins said into the phone, wiping blood off his hands with an old dish towel. He was careful to use the old ones. The missus scolded him nigh to death every time he ruined the fancy towels she’d just got.
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The bale of alfalfa hovered in the air, held together by three strands of twine that pulsed to a rhythm only Farmer Ben could hear. Anxious cattle swarmed beneath it. At a mental command from Ben, the twine snapped. The bale crashed to the ground where a horde of bovine maws devoured it.
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Rank upon rank, we stand ready.
Faces set and stern, wings unfurled, eyes locked forward, swords at our sides—though they will dance like flames in our hands at the first sign of trouble. We have seen battle, terrible and costly, against ruthless enemies. We will leap into combat again, if threatened, if met with resistance.
But that is not our mission.
Crossing my arms, I scowl at his gravestone. It’s a struggle to keep this aria of screams and sobs inside the icy wind of my mind instead of releasing it into the icy wind around me. He’d only seen me cry once; I’m not going to cry now.
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Mirrors never show the truth on our birthdays. They show only fractures, pieces that we can almost hide, but never completely.
And this mirror is no exception.
I steel myself before peering inside its depths. Darksouls—the reflected versions of ourselves living in mirrors—have a persuasive air about them.
The king was broken in pieces.
Ezahtira shouldn’t have been surprised. Ever since the gods punished the kings for their corruption, the nation of Cadmar had suffered the Two-Taloned Curse. The First Talon turned each king into a stone-like substance at death, after which he would crumble.
Genies don’t like to be called monsters. We monster hunters like to disagree.
Sure, they’re beautiful. Sure, they’ll give you three wishes. But you have to catch them first—before they mess with your head, or turn invisible, or shapeshift into a scorpion so that you don’t want to catch them.
I saw through everything in that magical ballroom. Chandeliers cast a warm glow, but I knew which shadows would hide me. The orchestra played a lively reel, but I knew the immense pipe organ in the balcony above could be problematic in an attack. The governor’s palace was lit with elegance as I joined Georgianna, Cynthia, Elizabeth and the other ladies in their chatter.
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The crimson explosion filled the night sky, far enough from the city to avoid any damage.
The Silver Guardian wasted no time. The police could handle the cleanup. He might have saved the day, but there was one more life that needed saving.
In a flash, the hero of Invictus City soared through the air across the metropolis, black hair and cape flapping behind him.
I’d been studying the atmosphere for years now. Years. All in the hopes of establishing the data to corroborate the impossible.
But I should explain, I suppose. Over forty years ago, I was born under a perfect dragon storm. According to the experts, that happens only once every hundred years. But I knew it happened more often than that.
She stood before the back alley wall. Chalk and marker, spray paint and ink splattered the bricks, but all she saw was blood. The entire wall oozed it, out of the alley, down the street, and through the capital city. And she could not do a single thing about it.
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An explosion shook the prison compound. Khalen leapt off his cot and sprinted over to the forcefield that served as a door. The guards at the end of the hall were reaching for weapons and bolting toward the outer courtyard.
A brilliant flash came from behind Khalen.
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