by Kiki Howell
Thorne smiled. “Good.”
Walker followed her in and closed the door behind him. “What now?”
“Well, I have to go back to the county,” Conrad said. Since he was now the head-honcho and all.
Thorne looked at her sister, who shook her head.
“I don’t think I can go back there,” Betty said.
“I could take her to New Vegas,” Walker offered.
Conrad could have heard a pin drop.
“What?” The Tylwyth Teg turned to Thorne. “You’re friends with that human who runs The Ocelot, right?”
“Yes, how’d you know that?”
“I like to drink there.”
Well, Conrad had always known the guy had questionable taste.
Walker glared at him, as if he knew what he was thinking. “I could take her there. If you give me a note. I’m sure your friend would put her up.”
Thorne shook her head. “I’ll go with you.”
Conrad didn’t like the idea of being separated from her, but he understood. Family came first. And soon, he’d be part of that select circle.
“It’s okay, Thorne,” Betty said. “You should go with Conrad.”
“But—”
“He’ll need your help with the county.”
Conrad had to agree. He was pretty damn badass, but if Thorne had inherited all of her father’s abilities, she’d be almost unstoppable. He wouldn’t say no to the assistance. And then I can finish what we just started.
“How about we go via New Vegas? Drop Bettina off, then head over to the county?”
Walker opened his mouth to protest – it would no doubt drain the Tylwyth Teg to make so many faery roads – then changed his mind. “I’ll go arrange mounts.”
“I’ll go with you,” Bettina said.
The door shut behind them with a click.
Alone again, Conrad turned to Thorne with a smile. “Now, where were we?”
She wove her arms around his neck. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I think I might be falling in love with you.”
“Only falling?” He kissed her nose, her chin, her forehead. “Sweetheart, I’ve already landed hard.”
Epilogue
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
The County of Tears, the Borderlands
Lori looked down at her sleeping babes. One had a tuft of white-blonde hair, the other, dark brown. Happiness exploded within her as she ran a gentle finger down baby Darla’s plump cheek. Who would have thought that she’d ever have her own family?
“She’s as beautiful as her mother.” Conrad’s arms wrapped around her waist, and he nuzzled her neck.
“She has her daddy’s hair.”
“And her mother’s eyes.”
Sensing that he was being ignored, Oscar whimpered. His brown hair was soft, and his pale gray eyes shut tight. What do babies dream of? Lori wondered.
The castle had been completely renovated in the last few months. The room that had once been drafty and barren was now plastered, and painted in a soft yellow. Thick curtains hung over the windows, and one corner was filled with children’s toys. Kids need to play, Conrad had said.
Too bad they’d need to wait about two years before any of those toys would be of use.
“You guys make me sick.” Carol walked into the room, Betty following.
Lori smiled. For someone who didn’t really like babies, Carol had certainly fallen for Lori’s twins. But then, who wouldn’t?
The thought made her look to Bettina. Her sister was quiet as a ghost. She’d been living in New Vegas these past months, but the change of scenery hadn’t helped. She was haunted from inner demons, and no matter how much Lori wanted to, she couldn’t fix the problems their brother had left behind.
“You’re the one interrupting us,” Conrad said.
“Are they awake yet?” Betty asked.
Lori shook her head.
“Why do babies have to sleep so much?” Carol grumbled unconvincingly.
“Well, since you invaded our room, we’ll have to get another one,” Conrad said, and grabbed Lori’s hand. He tugged her into their bedchamber, leaving the two women bickering over which infant was cuter.
LORI UNBUTTONED HER shirt, while Conrad lay on the bed, his cock in hand, watching her impromptu show.
Without warning, a burning pain made her hiss. It was like the inside of her right elbow was being sliced open with a blunt knife. Biting her lip, she ripped off her shirt. Right in front of her eyes, a mark was beginning to form.
“What the—?”
“What is it?” Conrad was up and by her side in a second.
“My arm.” She held out her limb and its quickly forming tattoo.
“What is wrong with it?”
She jerked her arm away. “Can’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“The tattoo.”
He frowned. “Describe it to me.”
“It—It’s—”
“Deep breath.”
She tried to speak, but again, she couldn’t form the words. It was like she’d been enchanted against talking about the mark.
His voice was low, urgent. “Is it a circle, with a bow and arrow in it?”
Forcing herself to nod, she tried to speak, but still nothing. “What does it mean?”
“Fuck,” he said, pacing the room.
“Tell me!”
Their life was perfect. Well, as perfect as it could be, considering her lover was the White Queen’s son, and every now and then he had to ‘clean up’ one of his mother’s messes. Oh, and that she had issues controlling her new magic. Yesterday, she’d accidentally knocked over a tree when pointing at the weeds around it.
“It’s the mark of the Wild Hunt,” he said.
“What?”
Conrad’s pale gray eyes were sad. “The new Hunter has finally risen to power. The Wild Hunt is forming, and you’ve been called to it.”
Shock sizzled through her. “The Hunter?”
After a decade, one had finally been born?
“I’m sorry, this is...” He was shaking his head.
Lori ran a hand over the mark. It was smooth to the touch. She wondered why she’d received her father’s abilities, when she had to fight to control them. But being part of the Wild Hunt? It made sense.
“It’s good,” Lori said, her voice firm.
Conrad paused. “Sorry?”
“The Wild Hunt is the only thing that keeps people like my father and Jayden in line. Without it, the fae have no one to answer to. This is a good thing. I am one of the most powerful fae in the Borderlands.” It wasn’t bragging when it was true. There was a reason why her father had been so feared. “The Hunt needs me.”
Something fierce burned through his expression. “Fuck, I love you.”
Moving closer, she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him close. “I know.”
A deep laugh.
“Fine. I love you, too.”
“I always knew you were smart.”
The End.
Afterword
I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED the first novella in my brand new Tangled Threads series. I loved writing it! Conrad and Lori are two such fun people to get to know. I also hope that you lovely Archer fans enjoyed my little homage.
About the Author
AMANDA PILLAR IS AN award-winning editor and author who lives in Victoria, Australia, with her husband and two cats, Saxon and Lilith.
Amanda adores paranormal romance and urban fantasy fiction, and loves to create new worlds filled with fierce characters. Amanda's first novel in the Graced series, Graced, was released in 2015, and was followed by the sequel, Bitten, and two novellas Captive and Survivor. Amanda has also co-written Winter’s Curse with Felicia Beasley, a novella set in their Moonlit Hills universe.
Rose Tears is the beginning of her new Tangled Threads series.
In her day job, she works as an archaeologist.
Read More from Amanda Pill
ar
www.amandapillar.com
More by Amanda Pillar
The Graced Series
Graced
Captive
Survivor
Bitten
Ashes
Moonlit Hills
Winter’s Curse
Rogue
by Savannah Verte
Copyright Savannah Verte, 2017.
Cover by Suzanna Lynn, Funky Book Designs, 2017.
Dedication
Like the set itself, this story is dedicated to the amazing Kathleen Grieve. I am honored to have known her, privileged to have shared her journey, and saddened to have lost her so soon. She was the best of what the author community has to offer, and her bright light will forever be missed. Rest in peace sweet friend.
Acknowledgements
The list is long and growing daily. If you wonder if you’re included...you are. I am nothing without the amazing circle of professionals around me, the critics who push me to do better, and the readers, without whom none of this would be worth doing. Thank you all.
Rogue by Savannah Verte
Everyday immortal Bree Brigand gets a rude awakening as her family is slaughtered. Not only is the cursed, suicide blade of legend and lore real, but it has chosen her. She must quickly learn to fast-track a course she’s never navigated, in a world she thought only existed in campfire stories. But, only after coming to terms with the facts...her family is not her family.
Truths and lies collide in a world where the hunters and the hunted trade places faster than she can discern who is which, and everyone is an assassin. Can she find and claim her destiny? Or, will being marked by a male who is not her one true mate ruin everything, and clip this dragon’s wings before she can become all she is meant to be?
Una-Mor
IN THE EARLY 12th century, Laudah, the last known warrior to wield the Una-Mor sword as its rightful master, fell in a battle that would become legend. Across the islands known as the Hebrides, and the waterways between them, the bloody skirmish, known now only by the single name, Demspay, concluded the longest known running war between the immortals. It had lasted nearly a thousand years. The number of lives lost can never be conclusively known. As immortals, many fell, only to rise up and fight again. The true death count is easier to summarize, though no loss was a greater surprise than that of Laudah.
At the time, what would now be easily identified as a katana type sword, the Una-Mor was one-of-a-kind. In many ways, today it still is. I would know. For the last five centuries, give or take, it has been mine, though very few are aware of that fact. My name is Brid, but everyone, except for my mother, calls me Bree.
The Una-Mor sword is an assassin’s tool. By default, it is better if most people don’t know the assassin who wields it. I’m sure you can understand, or you will, the lengths that others might employ to get their hands on it. How it came to be mine is a story that very few know, but I’ll get to that in a minute.
Legend tells us that in the hands of the wrong person, the Una-Mor is a suicide blade. It is said that during the Demspay several warriors managed to take the sword from Laudah, only to meet the final death at their own hand when the sword turned against them. Many who tell the tale refer to it as ‘the cursed’ instead of by its name. Actually, the sword is cursed, but that came later.
In one of the final assaults of the Demspay, a shadow-walker named Needah managed to get the drop on Laudah. The great warrior was beheaded and fell before he knew he was compromised. By the time he was located, the stories of the suicide blade were well known, thus, the Una-Mor sword was found still clutched in his hand. Needah’s quest had not been to obtain the weapon, but to eliminate the warrior who could wield it.
Laudah’s body, along with the sword, were carefully transported. No one dared to touch the blade until protections could be put in place to prevent it from sending another soul to the underworld. The mage, Siobhan, was summoned, and is said to have cursed the blade three times over before any attempt was made to remove it from Laudah’s hand.
While two of three curses remain unknown to this day, the third is where I come in. Siobhan, believing that the last line of true dragons were extinct, cursed the sword to never again be sentient but for a pureblood dragon, hoping to end the reign of the suicide blade. If no one could truly be the master of the sword, then no one else would be forced to take their own life for touching it.
For a couple of hundred years, her curses held, and were successful in that multiple people were able to use the sword with no repercussions. In fact, Needah himself had use of it several times as it was stolen back and forth from his possession. But, as we have learned through history in so many other instances, language is a powerful magic. Unfortunately, Siobhan only believed the bloodline was dead, she didn’t actually know.
The revelation of the next true master of the blade, me, happened completely by accident. Lifted from Needah’s possession while he slept, the sword came into the hands of a half-blood named Oman. Oman had a blood grudge. He intended to take out every known family member of his opposed, Bitrum. His biological father had orphaned him and left him for dead when his mother had died in childbirth. Exactly how long it had taken Oman to learn the truth of his lineage, and track Bitrum down, I’m not sure anyone knows, or probably cares now. What became relevant, was that he did.
Bitrum is, or was, the brother of the woman I called mother. Oman’s vendetta actually lifted the lid of Pandora’s Box for a litany of family secrets. Not only were many unaware that Bitrum had been with a mortal, but no one knew that there was a child. For me, in retrospect, that was not the secret that mattered. Learning that those I believed were my parents, were not actually my parents, was difficult. No matter how long I live, I will always be shocked, even in memory, at the events of that day.
My father, or the male I thought was my father, was long dead before I ever found him. The woman I called mother, shared the truth between gurgles as she suffocated on her own blood.
“Find a way to remember, Brid.” She said gasping. “You are the last.”
“The last what? What are you talking about?” I answered trying to hush her. “Never mind, don’t speak now. You can tell me later.”
“Later isn’t coming. You must remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Remember...and find them... Your true family is out there.” She lisped.
“My...”
“...family, yes.”
“No! You are my family.” I shouted at her.
“No, we were only ever your guardians, and we can’t keep you safe anymore now.”
“Safe?! Safe from what?” I demanded.
“You are the last.”
“Last what?”
Her words were barely more than a whisper by this point. The wet, wheezing sound every time she took a breath to speak was making me nauseous. I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. And, even when she said the word, I was in full out denial.
“Dragon.”
I wasn’t in denial for long. I knew the story of the Una-Mor, and Siobhan’s curse. As I knelt down over my mother, I heard the whistle and felt the quick burning sting of the blade against my shoulder. Anger flashed up within me from a knot that started in my belly and grew. I jumped, turning to see who had committed the atrocity against my family, only to stop short in shock. I watched Oman fight against himself, trying unsuccessfully to dodge the blade he held. It struck back against him from a nearly impossible angle. The killing blow connected before the sword presented itself to my hand as he fell. Oman was dead. The Una-Mor vibrated in my hands, an odd tune playing from the shockwaves.
As if I needed further proof, a member of Oman’s company came in before I was able to shake off the stunned disbelief. I didn’t fight them as they wrested the hilt from my hand. They never got the opportunity to do much more. Still dumbfounded, I watched the recently familiar battle between man and blade as they tried to avoid the kill strike that came
from their own hand. Once again, the deed complete, the sword handle was returned to my palm as the newly departed fell.
If any part of me thought that the legend of the Una-Mor was merely a fairytale, my doubts were dashed quickly. Being a solidly logical individual, if the sword was now mine, that could only mean one thing, I’m a dragon.
True Dragon
OMAN HAD BEEN unsuccessful to fulfill the full scope of his vengeance. I suppose I should be grateful for that, if only so there was someone who could fill in the gaps of the story. As it was, learning, and coming to terms with the idea that everything I thought I knew was a lie, left me distrustful of everyone, and everything. The notion that there was truth anywhere was a bitter reality to consider.
Erran, my father’s sister, filled in what information she could. It wasn’t much. I had come into the family in the night, delivered by unseen parties, with little more than a few swaddling blankets, and a purse of gold. All she knew, was that I was to be raised as one of them. Erran claimed to have asked for more information, but was given none. She knew more about Oman than she did about me.
Bitram’s wandering ways were evidently well-known. As near as I could tell, everyone in the family who was still alive knew, although I had never been aware. Only Bitram’s wife, Enid, knew that one of his affairs had produced a child, though she’d believed that the child had died at the same time as the mother. Half-bloods seldom survived. Wrong. Before his intended addition of me to the tally, Oman had managed to take out his father and eight others. Up to that point, he was very much alive.
A million questions came to mind. All of them went unanswered. My mother said I was the last, but how could I be the last? And, if I was the last, why would she tell me to find them? Who was them? How would I find them? Were those who brought me not my real parents? Who would know? If I was the last, how would I ever learn to become my other self? Did I even have an ‘other self’ to become? And, if I wasn’t the last, how would I find those who could teach me? Each unanswered question brought another. They also elevated the intensity of the headache I was sporting one more degree.
