by James Tate
"They're right, little one. One day, we'll get our happily ever after. All of us. Forever." He tugged the collar of his shirt open, showing me his chest. His smooth, tanned chest, totally free of the black lines of death.
Sal, that sneaky fuck, had used his "blessing" to heal Ty of his deadly magic wound, thereby giving me the very best coronation gift a girl could hope for.
A future with the ones she loved.
THE END
A note from the author…
Hey… are you… okay? Should I give you a quick minute? It’s cool, I can wait.
…
…
**whistles an awkward tune**
…
Oh good, you’re back. So, I’m guessing if you’re reading this that you think there should be more to this story. I get it. That probably wasn’t the fairytale happily ever after you’d thought might be coming, but this is all for really good reasons. Or, they certainly seem like really good reasons inside the unusual place that is this authors brain.
The Royal Trials were only played out over three weeks. One week per trial, remember? So to have all of everything that happened and then just wrap the whole lot up with a wedding and babies seemed really disingenuous to the characters and the story. The Trials themselves are over, which concludes Zarina’s trilogy, but I simply can’t see it all as smooth sailing from here on out. She just staged a coup, deposed a false king, exposed an evil goddess in disguise as a queen, discovered her own crazy powerful magic and publicly announced she was banging three dudes who are far from the kingdoms favorite people. Like… she’s got a hella rough road ahead. But that’s life, right? It would be false to offer her a true happily ever after at age eighteen, three weeks after meeting her three lovers. Rest assured, though, Zarina will be just fine. She’s got some rock solid support from her consorts, and the best—albeit most snarky—friend a queen could ask for.
Which leads me onto this. Hands up who wanted to gouge Sagen’s eyes out in book one? Huh? How about now? I know, right? Who would have seen what a cool chick was hiding under all that bitchy exterior? As I was writing Heir, one thing just kept coming up and smacking me in the face. Sage had a freaking story to tell.
I’ve never been a fan of “spin off” series, so that’s not what she’s providing. Instead, it’s a continuation of this timeline, with the same characters and world, but just a new narrator. Because Zarina—for all the challenges she’s yet to face—is all loved up and happy… but Sage has a score to settle with some boys in Asintisch and I for one, wanna see her kick some ass. Be warned, though, I don’t think it’ll be a happily ever after for all of her men.
So back to Heir. This book has been hands down the hardest book I’ve written in my whole authoring career—which hasn’t been long, but this is book number twenty one. It absolutely put me through the wringer and I owe Heather Long a thousand thank you’s for working me through it.
This series is my mum's favorite of my books, and I think in the back of my mind I figured if I never finished it… well then she couldn’t go anywhere. Right? Because she hasn’t read the end of the series so that’s unfinished business. Now, I’m not totally naïve and am fully aware that’s not how cancer works… but try telling that to my stubborn writers block!
Anyway, as you can see, I managed to talk sense into myself and got the book finished. So, I should probably be saying thank you to my mum, for inadvertently reminding me that the time where I wrote for myself has passed. Books—my books—can have a positive impact on someone else’s life. Who knows when someone is just craving a fantasy world to escape in, to ignore the trials of real life?
Now I’ve gone and overshared and probably embarrassed Mum. Sorry! Hopefully no one actually reads authors notes. Hah.
Right, well without further ado, flip the page and see what is looming in Teich's future!
And seriously, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed Zarina's journey and you’ll come back to see what kind of trouble Sage will get into.
xxx
The Royal Wars: Knight
I'm on the run.
From my ex, from my foolish choices, and from my arrogant step-brother.
But they have my scent, and when I can't run any longer I turn to a friend for help.
The Queen of Teich is restructuring her military and it's the opportunity I so desperately needed. Knights are returning to the seven kingdoms and I intend to be one of them.
To hell with broken engagements and shattered hearts.
To hell with traditions and rules.
To hell with my Royal title.
Princess no longer, I'll become a Knight or die trying. I just need to guard my heart along the way.
Also by TATE JAMES
Kit Davenport
#1 The Vixen’s Lead
#2 The Dragon’s Wing
#3 The Tiger’s Ambush
#4 The Viper’s Nest
#5 The Crow’s Murder
#6 The Alpha’s Pack
Novella: The Hellhound’s Legion
The Royal Trials
#1 Imposter
#2 Seeker
#3 Heir
The Royal Wars
#1 Knight (2020)
Forgotten Gods
#1 Feral Magic
#2 Wild Power (2020)
CO-AUTHORED WITH C.M. STUNICH
Hijinks Harem
#1 Elements of Mischief
#2 Elements of Ruin
#3 Elements of Desire
Undercover Sinners
#1 Altered By Fire
#2 Altered By Lead (2019)
Wild Hunt Motorcycle Club
#1 Dark Glitter
#2 Cruel Glamour (TBD)
#3 Torn Gossamer (TBD)
Foxfire Burning
#1 The Nine
#2 The Tail Game (TBD)
CO-AUTHORED WITH JAYMIN EVE
Dark Legacy Series
#1 Broken Wings
#2 Broken Trust
#3 Broken Legacy
Royals of Arbon Academy
#1 Princess Ballot (Jan 2020)
Turn the page for a sample of Feral Magic, Forgotten Gods Book 1 by Tate James…
CHAPTER ONE
“Could this day seriously get any worse?” I screamed, throwing my phone onto the passenger seat in anger before slamming my forehead on the steering wheel and letting the horn sound a long and angry note.
It’d all begun before the sun was even up on the horizon. My cat of eighteen years, Willow, had finally succumbed to old age and passed away in her sleep. After crying for a solid hour, I’d had to box her up and bury her under the rose bushes at my best friend Meg’s house, seeing as my landlords were stuck up bastards who refused to let me plant in the small yard of my rented house.
Next, my boss called to say they would be cutting back my hours because the store wasn’t busy enough to support so many staff. And by cutting back, he apparently meant completely. Fired. I was fired.
Then, in a bid to cheer myself up, I’d gone to the salon to get my pastel purple hair touched up and ended up somehow walking away with a hot pink eyesore. Served me right for accepting an appointment with a trainee.
All things considered, I’d been feeling pretty crappy already when the call came asking for my help. I hadn’t even blinked twice before saying yes to a kitten rescue mission in Texas—a full thirty-four hour drive from my home in Portland.
Now, a full six hours into my journey, I regretted my hasty decision to leave.
Growling obscenities under my breath, I leaned over and fished around for where my phone had landed. My fingers gripped the flat-screened device like it was evil incarnate, and I ground my teeth hard as I hit redial.
Remember those pretentious asshole landlords I’d mentioned? They’d just called to say I was being evicted.
“Mom?” I snapped when she answered the phone in her irritatingly sweet voice. “You can’t just evict me like I’m some sort of squatter behind on rent. That’s my hom
e!”
“No, Margaret, it’s an investment property for your father and I. We only let you live there while it was a good investment.” My mother paused, and I could picture her lips pursed as she fiddled with her pearl necklace. Not the fun sort, either.
I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I almost pulled an eye muscle. “Please stop calling me that,” I groaned. “My name is Cleo. Has been ever since I was five years old.”
Prudence, my straight-laced, blond-haired, blue-eyed, suburban-housewife mother, snorted in disgust. “Because Meg decided all girls from Egypt must be related to Queen Cleopatra? That’s both ridiculous and awfully racially insensitive. Margaret is a beautiful name, darling, it suits you.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, feeling like I was fifteen again. “Point is, you can’t just kick me out while I’m not even in the state. There must be laws against that or something.”
Prudence hummed a noise under her breath, and I knew I was screwed. “Well, I’m sure there would be if you’d ever signed a lease. But given that we never drew up legal papers, we can legally do anything we like.” She paused to let that sink in, and I scrambled for words. “Margaret, darling, we aren’t just throwing you out into the gutter. You can stay here with me and Dad until you find something else, but unfortunately we won’t reconsider on the sale of your house.”
“Hah! You just called it my house!” I crowed and heard my mom tsk.
“Figure of speech. The offer we received for the house was more than generous, and we’d be mad to turn it down. I’ll have all your things packed up and moved over here to your old bedroom so it’s all ready when you get back from this ludicrous road trip you’re on. Won’t that be fun?” The distracted tone of her voice told me I’d already lost this battle; she wasn’t even paying attention to me anymore. “Honey, I have to go; my cookies are burning. You stay safe in Tennessee, okay?”
“Texas, Mom,” I sighed. “I’m going to Texas.”
“Mm-hmm, okay, bye now.” She had hung up the phone before I could respond, and I was left looking at my blank screen.
Well, fuck.
Now I had no cat, shitty, neon-pink hair, and nowhere to live.
That last part wasn’t totally true, though. I threw a glance over my shoulder at the awesome, retro house-bus that I was driving. It was a vintage, hippie thing that I’d fallen totally in love with when I’d seen it at a junkyard and had spent several years doing it up for the exact purpose I was using it for now.
I’d become a volunteer kitten rescuer a while back, and it’d quickly become obvious I needed some mobile accommodation to keep my costs down when on these long drives across the country, so my bus had become the perfect thing.
“I guess I could live in this for a while,” I muttered to myself, my fingers rubbing my necklace pendant over and over in a nervous habit I’d had since childhood. “Not that I have many other choices.”
Sighing heavily, I clicked my seat belt back on and turned my ignition key to start the temperamental old bus.
“Come on, Jack,” I pleaded as the engine spluttered and died, over and over. “Don’t do this to me, not now. Come on, old friend, start!”
Seconds later, it became painfully clear that I’d jinxed myself. Yes, Cleo, yes, today can get worse, and it just had.
“Fuck!” I screamed, smacking my forehead against the horn over and over, beeping in time with my curses as I repeated, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
This routine could have gone on and on—given I had no idea what the hell to do next—if not for a knock on my window halfway scaring some pee out of me. Okay, more than halfway. But it was only a little, and that knock had seriously given me a fright!
“What?” I barked, glaring up at the person who’d intruded on my temper tantrum. The late afternoon sun was directly behind them, so all I could see was a shadowy outline as I squinted up.
The person didn’t respond, and it took me a moment to realize I needed to open my damn window in order to be heard. As quickly as I could—which was not very quick, given the age of my van—I rolled down the manual window a few inches then repeated my less than polite, “What?”
“Did you need some help, ma’am?” the unnaturally handsome man asked in a gentle, polite voice. “Looks like you’ve broken down.”
I frowned, bringing a hand up to shade my eyes and see him better. “What makes you say that? I could just be taking a nap or checking directions or something.”
Okay, yeah. I was broken down, but I didn’t exactly have smoke pouring out of my engine or anything, so this guy was making assumptions that really only a serial killer or rapist might make.
“Of course,” he agreed, giving me a lazy smile with his startlingly attractive mouth. “So you don’t need any help then? It’s still a long way into town, and there’s no public transport out here.” His voice was warm and inviting with an Australian accent. Or was it New Zealand? They sort of sounded the same to me, but apparently they say that about Americans and Canadians.
The instinctual desire to decline his help caught on my tongue as I peered at the empty road ahead of me. It was almost dusk, and staying in my van all night wasn’t going to get it fixed. I needed to get it to a mechanic or call a tow truck or... something.
“That’s okay,” I replied with a tight smile. “I’ll just call a tow truck. Thanks, though.”
He bobbed his head in a short nod and smiled back. “You can try, but Robbie, the mechanic, broke his foot a week or so back and won’t let anyone else drive his truck, so you might be waiting a while.”
I squinted at him a moment, trying to decipher if he was messing with me or not. When I said nothing, he shrugged and jerked a thumb in the direction of his car parked behind mine.
“I’ll just wait in my car a few minutes while you call to check. I’d hate to leave a lady stranded on the side of the road; my mum would never forgive me.” His voice seemed sincere, and it was awfully hard to distrust that damn accent. Which was stupid as all shit; even I had heard of Ted Bundy.
“Sure,” I agreed, waving my phone. “Thanks.”
Rolling my creaking window back up, I waited until he was safely back in his car before Googling the nearest mechanic and hitting dial.
The response I got wasn’t even a real person; instead an automated voicemail told me that Robbie’s Repairs was closed until further notice and to call Burkee Mechanics in the next town over if it was an emergency.
Not yet willing to accept the help of possible-serial-killer yet super-hot Crocodile Dundee, I called the number provided for Burkee Mechanics.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” the wheezy old man told me when I explained my situation. “That’s a solid hour’s drive from here, and I’m already three whiskeys deep. Leave your van there and hitch a ride into town; I’ll pick it up tomorrow and drop it to Robbie’s.”
I ground my teeth together hard, but didn’t argue. No one should support drunk driving, even if they were stranded on the side of the road with Chris Hemsworth’s brunette, tanned cousin who may or may not be a psycho killer who wanted to wear my skin as a coat.
“Okay, thanks,” I sighed. “I guess I’ll speak to you tomorrow?”
“You got it,” the man replied before melting into a series of coughs as he hung up the call.
For a long moment I just sat there drumming my fingertips on the steering wheel and pondering my options. What little options there were. I mean, I could just sleep in my van and wait for the Burkee Mechanic to get me in the morning... but it was predicted to storm overnight and without my engine, the heating wouldn’t work.
Crap dammit. I really hated being cold, too.
Sucking in a deep breath and pulling up my metaphorical big-girl panties, I unbuckled my seat belt and slung my purse over my shoulder. Just to be on the safe side, I double checked that both my pepper spray and switchblade were where I always kept them before opening my door and stepping out.
Shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, I tugged the h
em of my tight tube skirt down from the inappropriate position it had ended up in after five or so hours of driving. The sexy Australian was indeed back in his car and gave me a small nod of acknowledgement before getting out himself.
“Don’t worry, babe; I’m not an axe murderer.” He gave me a cheeky grin that—dear fucking lord—showed a dimple in his cheek. “Scout’s honor.” He held three fingers up in what I guessed was meant to be a Boy Scout’s salute. Not that I had any clue; it could have been the Star Trek hand sign.
“Do you even have Scouts in Australia?” I asked with a suspicious frown as I approached him. As much as I wanted to keep my stranger-danger on high alert, I was being quickly worn down by the combination of his accent, the playful mocking in his words, and that goddamned dimple.
Shit, it had really been too long since I’d gotten laid.
“Sure we do,” he replied with that sexy smirk. To my surprise, he came around the car and gallantly held the door open for me. “See, they taught me how to be a gentleman and shit.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, hesitating just a moment before getting into the car. It was the icy cold breeze hitting my bare legs that ultimately pushed me to trust him not to chop me up into little pieces and bury me in the woods somewhere.
“Thanks,” I murmured as he closed the door for me, then jogged back to the driver’s side to slide in. “I called the mechanic in Burkee, but he said he couldn’t come until tomorrow. If you can just drop me off at a motel or something, I’d be grateful.”
