The rebels had promised a quick, painless Revolution: Down with the king, up with the men living in nothing but dust.
Liars, all of them, Sabelle thought, grimacing. The rebels’ notion of freedom excluded anyone connected to the nobility, no matter how far-removed the relation.
“Why do I always get myself dragged into these things?” Skeer picked another cricket out of his hair. “What were you, cable-knit cardigan or itchy turtleneck?”
The cricket didn’t answer, of course. It jumped out of his hand to join the scores of others crawling about in the dandelions.
I grounded my teeth as I laid in bed, trying to nap. “Infernal noise.” I considered searching for my staff to bang on the ceiling, but the bandages over my eyes made that difficult. For three days, my upstairs neighbors at the inn and tavern had been making more noise than a banshee in labor.
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The flower opened silently. Unremarkably. Alone in the forest’s center, right where I’d planted it. Beautiful. Unnoticed. Deadly.
Smiling, I crouched beside it. They’d never suspect this. Those humans were too busy worrying about World War III, global warming, and zombies to stop and smell the flowers.
Their loss.
Kurt fastened the Valor in Combat medal to the lapel of Sebastian’s uniform, its gold reflecting afternoon sunlight from the dorm window. “Good grief. Don’t you look all posh now?”
“Whatever,” Sebastian scoffed. “You should’ve gotten one, too.”
Kurt laughed and pointed out the ebon horns sprouting from his mop of pale hair.
“Where is he?”
“In the well.”
Lark and his wife, Shera, step out of their hovel and into the blistering sun. He places his hand on her shoulder.
“He’ll be safe there,” Lark whispers as they make their way toward the crowd gathering on the outskirts of their village. Just beyond, a massive skyship hovers
By Patrick M. Fitzgerald Merrick rapped the door’s ornate knocker. “Garrett is one of the most honorable knights of the Order of the Trinity. He retired years ago, and his reputation is impeccable.” The initiate, Derrin, showed him the list of names. Every one but Garrett’s was crossed out. “I hope you’re right, sir. He’s
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No more dead corn.
Thank goodness for that. I’d checked every ear, terrified that whatever pestilence had killed my crop last year would return again. The corn was my pride and joy, by far my best crop. I sighed. My work dress already clung with sweat from the day’s heat.
When fleeing the country, was it normal to feel like a rat stuck on a skinny branch above a pack of snarling wolves?
Even though tonight I would leave forever, I swept dust off the floors, checked for cobwebs in the spick-and-span nooks and corners, and comforted myself that I would no longer face this tangle of shelves, gadgets, and shadows every evening.
Tad’s gut knotted. He’s all I have …Images of his brother’s ashen face flooded his mind. If this doesn’t work, he’ll die by the end of the week. “Dust and specter, shadow and …” Blast it if I get killed from reciting this password wrong to the witch. He sidestepped oily puddles along Gidras’s docks. “Shadow and …shifter?” How did Gratia say it again?
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The earth trembled against the pressure of the Abyssal Rift. Writhing arms of darkness spewed from the gaping hole in the pavement, blackening the sky and blending with the smoke billowing up from the burning town. The Voidborne prowled the desecrated streets, ripping apart buildings and choking the air with fear and visceral hatred.
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Gray studied the coarse texture of rubble under his feet. His elven ears twitched at the distant sound of buildings groaning. An acrid stench wafted in the air smelling of ash and decay.
At his side stood Amelia Slyhart, a tall human with red hair and blue eyes.
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