Harvest Tournament (Sexcraft Chronicles Book 2)

by Edmund Hughes

  “The land has been bought and paid for,” said Maxim Cedric. “If anyone has any concerns about who its current owner is, I’m more than willing to put them to rest.”

  “Milord, that’s not even accounting for the valley’s historical allegiance to Great House Morwell,” said Lord Teymus. “And given Fool’s Valley’s proximity to High Lord Proctor and Ostreach…”

  “Get to the point, Reyon,” said Maxim Cedric. “Just what is it you suggest?”

  “Lady Laurel needs protection and guidance,” said Lord Teymus. “If you’d grant me your authority to establish a small outpost in Fool’s Valley to aid her in the stewardship of the region, I’d be able to use my resources to help keep her safe.”

  The smug smile on Teymus’s face was enough to make Cedric’s stomach roil. He let out a sigh, knowing that the young man wouldn’t let the matter drop until he’d taken Laurel for himself. It wasn’t about the valley. It wasn’t even about attraction. It was about power, and getting what he wanted, especially when it was something being denied him.

  “You have these documents with you now?” asked Cedric.

  “Of course, milord,” said Lord Teymus.

  Maxim Cedric gestured for him to step up the stairs to the dais. Lord Teymus produced a single page of parchment and held it out to him. Cedric took it from him, frowning as he examined the words. He stood up from his throne and squinted at the writing.

  “Hmm,” he said. “My vision isn’t as good as it used to be. Can you take a look at this for me?”

  “Ah,” said Teymus. “Of course, milord.”

  He drew in closer, and Cedric passed the document back to him.

  “At my age, it can sometimes be hard to see clearly,” said Cedric. “In fact, I almost mistook Laurel for her mother when she first returned to court.”

  Lord Teymus quirked his head.

  “Lady Ancina?” he asked. “I didn’t know her that well. She passed when I was still just a boy.”

  Maxim Cedric kept smiling. He could tell that it was making Lord Teymus uncomfortable.

  “Do you know why I called off the auction, Lord Teymus?” he asked. “The real reason behind it?”

  “I… assumed it was out of pity,” said Teymus. “The past months have been quite cruel to Lady Laurel. It is why I am as concerned for her as I am, I confess.”

  “So deeply concerned you are, Lord Teymus.” Cedric licked his lips. He gestured for the younger man to come closer, and Teymus obliged him.

  One of the first things Maxim Cedric had discovered, upon realizing he was an old man, was that people were far more liable to underestimate what he was capable of. Lord Teymus never saw the dagger in his hand. The young lord reacted as it stabbed into his stomach, of course, but even then, his expression was one of disbelief as he stared down at the protruding hilt. Red blood pooled over his fine golden clothing. Maxim Cedric gripped the young man firmly by the face and forced him to meet his gaze.

  “I knew Laurel’s mother very well,” said Cedric. “I loved her, in fact. Not Lady Ancina. Her birth mother. I knew her very well, indeed.”

  “You…” Teymus trembled with pain, his mouth moving wordlessly. “How…?”

  “I’ll have a few of my trusted servants clean you up,” said Maxim Cedric. “Stitch the wound close. Set you in a room, with spilled wine about you. It’s why I delayed this audience until such a late time of night.”

  Lord Teymus fell to his knees. Cedric kicked him down the dais, keeping his blood on the stone and off the carpet.

  “You’re so used to threatening people and taking what you want that you forget yourself,” said Cedric. “Such a shame.”

  Maxim Cedric sat back down in his throne. He was tired, but he felt good.

  THE END

  The next book in the series will be out on March 20th. For updates on future releases, special promotions, and beta reading opportunities, sign up for my newsletter. To leave a comment, complaint, or ask a question, shoot me an email edmundhughes@outlook.com.

  Thanks for reading.

  Edmund Hughes

  Wind Runner

  CHAPTER 1

  Malcolm still remembered it like it was yesterday. He’d been in Mr. Brannigan’s ninth grade history class. It had happened during the morning, between nine and ten, and like any fifteen-year-old who’d been up most of the night on their phone, he’d been having trouble staying awake.

  The announcement had come over the intercom. At the time, it had seemed like a joke. The principal had struggled to find the right words to describe the situation, settling on a “series of currently unexplainable anomalies”.

  Mr. Brannigan had rolled out the tiny TV he kept in his back room and turned it on. Malcolm had squinted and watched the first few hours of Day One of the Phenomenon alongside the rest of his class. Mr. Brannigan had told them all that it would be a generation defining event, and he’d been right.

  They’d watched the view from the news chopper, which would occasionally zoom in on a man running far faster than humanly possible, or a woman lifting trash cans and park benches through telekinesis. The footage came from the nearest big population center, Halter City, which left Malcolm and his class feeling insulated and safe in sleepy Vanderbrook.

  Some of the kids in the room made jokes. The news channel kept raising the death toll, tallying each one with an awkward kind of enthusiasm. The reporters made the differentiation between “the gifted”, as the people with superpowers were being called, and “the monsters”.

  Malcolm never saw them get a monster into frame, but even if they had managed to, he wasn’t sure he would have believed it. Watching it on the TV made it feel like watching anything on TV. Incredibly fake, or at least overblown, and part of a separate, carefully curated reality.

  School let out early and Malcolm took the bus home just after lunch. He got off at his stop, turned the corner onto his street, and saw a smoldering crater where his house had once been.

  Smelling the smoke and feeling the heat of the burning wood was finally enough to make it real for him. He was staring at what had very recently been his house. Danny still would have been asleep on the couch, probably hungover from a late night out drinking. His mother would be cleaning, or reading a book, or working on one of her gardening projects in the backyard.

  He’d wondered if maybe she’d been able to make it away safely. He’d hoped, even when it had gone against all logic, that she had. It had taken a couple of days, a couple of calls to the local hospitals, for him to know and accept the truth.

  The surprising thing about the aftermath of the destruction of Malcolm’s family and home was how little attention it received. It was just a footnote when placed into context against the government’s reaction to the “champions”, and the “sprytes” and “demons”, as the gifted and the monsters eventually became known.

  Malcolm stayed with a friend until the insurance company paid out the settlement for the house. He used the money to replace a couple of his possessions and rented a small apartment.

  He went on with his life. That was all he could do. But he never forgot.

  ***

  “Mr. Caldwell? Are you listening?”

  Malcolm blinked, and sat up a little straighter in his chair. He’d been thinking about Day One again, poking his most painful memories with a dirty stick. Ms. Dion was more active in her instruction than most college professors, and would often press them for answers as she lectured.

  “Sorry,” said Malcolm. “What was the question?”

  A few amused chuckles came from the other students around the room. He’d developed a bit of a reputation for zoning out during class.

  “Which governing body has control over the Champion Authority?” asked Ms. Dion.

  A question I know the answer to, for once. Time to spit the facts.

  “Worldwide?” said Malcolm. “The United Nations. But the CA has smaller chapters within many countries, including the USCA here in the United States. And they also
coordinate with most major heads of state.”

  Ms. Dion looked annoyed that he’d gotten the question right. Malcolm leaned back in his chair, feeling more than a little smug. Somebody whispered a joke off to Malcolm’s left, and several people snickered.

  He was not the most popular student with either his classmates or his teachers, though not for lack of personality. Losing his mother and brother on Day One had pushed people away from him, rather than drawing support and kindness. It was unfair, but after five years of living on his own, he’d learned to make do.

  “That’s correct, Malcolm,” said Ms. Dion. “Moving on…”

  Malcolm listened to her for another minute or two, only lowering his head down to his desk once the professor’s attention had moved elsewhere. He carefully worked his earbuds out of the collar of his shirt where he’d hidden them, slipping them into his ears and smiling as he pressed the play button on his phone.

  The playlist he had queued up was filled nineties alt rock. It had been just about all his older brother Danny had listened to, back when he’d been alive. It made Malcolm feel nostalgic, even if he did find some of the melodramatic lyrics to be super cheesy.

  He kept his eyes on Ms. Dion, making a halfhearted attempt at looking like he was still paying attention. She said something, and then gestured to the blackboard. Malcolm’s fellow students were all pulling out sheets of paper, probably the brainstorming exercise they’d been assigned the week before.

  He started to reach into his own folder, the sound of a guitar solo filling his ears, and then stopped. A chill ran up the back of his neck. It was suddenly hard to breathe. His hands were shaking, and fingers cramping. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, and his heart pounded in his chest. It felt like somebody had just flipped the panic switch, and his body was all too happy to oblige.

  What the hell?

  “Malcolm?”

  One of the earbuds had fallen out, and he could hear Ms. Dion walking over to his desk. Malcolm shivered, his body cold and feverish at the same time. He was in pain, but he couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. He clasped his hands over his temples and buried his head against his desk.

  Several silent seconds went by. When Malcolm finally opened his eyes, everyone in the room was staring at him. Papers were strewn across the floor, scattered as though a rough breeze had pushed in through one of the windows and run amuck in the orderly classroom.

  But none of the windows are open…

  On the edge of Malcolm’s awareness, he could feel something new. It was as though his body had a new appendage, a new set of muscles, invisible and outside of what he considered to be his actual body. He stretched his hand out and slowly closed it, focusing on the new sensation at the same time.

  A gust of wind swept over the desk in front of him, completely ruining the carefully straightened hair of the girl sitting there and almost ripping her blouse open.

  “Whoa…” Malcolm blinked, and then let out a small, surprised laugh.

  Ms. Dion was pointing at him, her eyes wide, her jaw dropped as far open as it would go. One student was filming him on their phone, and then suddenly, half a dozen others were doing the same, a few of them standing up to get a better angle.

  Malcolm stood up, too. He tried it again, this time reaching toward one of the motivational posters hanging from the classroom wall. He summoned the wind and casually pulled it loose, spinning it in complicated loops and twirls, and directing back over to his hand, just to see if he could.

  He was still sweating, and focusing on doing whatever it was he was doing felt like exercise. Endorphins pumped through his body, and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning as he swirled gusts of wind around himself.

  “You’re one of them…” said Ms. Dion. “You’re… gifted. You’re one of the champions!”

  “Yeah, apparently.” Malcolm shrugged, unsure of what to say. “Huh.”

  He took a step forward, and then realized that there was absolutely no reason for him to stay in the classroom. Everyone had their phone out. News of a newborn champion always spread like wildfire. Regardless of what he did, from that point forward, his life would never be the same.

  Malcolm took a slow breath and walked out of the room. Several of his fellow classmates followed him, still recording, or possibly live streaming. He glanced at them over his shoulder and briefly considered using the wind to smash the devices against the wall.

  You know what? Let’s see if I can give them something worth filming.

  CHAPTER 2

  Malcolm ran through Vanderbrook Community College’s hallways, taking long, loping steps. He could feel the full extent and flow of the wind, even slight motions in it. It almost reminded him of being underwater.

  On top of that, Malcolm could also feel the extent of his power. The wind was a physical thing, waiting for him to call out to and control. It took more than just a thought to do it, more like concentrated will, but it was easy.

  It felt like controlling a part of his body, and Malcolm took advantage of it. He pushed the wind hard against his back as he ran, propelling himself forward with inhuman speed.

  The students he passed by stared at him in shock. The wind swept across each of them in turn, scattering locks of hair, pushing up dresses and skirts, knocking loose binders from hands. Malcolm felt like some kind of god.

  A champion. Technically not a god, but it’s really a pretty minor distinction.

  He burst through the front door of the college and laughed. More people were following him now, professors and students alike, filming on their phones. Vanderbrook, as small of a town as it was, only had a couple of native champions that Malcolm knew about.

  Most of them had appeared on Day One of the Phenomenon, and the few that had gained their powers in the time since then had been underwhelming in their capabilities. Malcolm remembered one, a mailman who eventually earned the nickname “Sharp Eye”.

  Sharp Eye was gifted with perfect hand to eye coordination, which gave him amazing dexterity and skill when it came to things like throwing balls and catching… balls. The media had still greeted him with enormous fanfare, catapulting Sharp Eye to instant local fame. He’d moved out of Vanderbrook after a while, but was still listed in the town’s Wikipedia article under the “Famous Residents” section.

  A news van was already approaching from down the street. Malcolm wasn’t ready to sit down and give interviews. He flexed his hand, feeling for his new ability, and tried to do the obvious thing.

  Gathering the wind around him in powerful gusts, Malcolm took a step forward, and leapt into the air. He pushed against his legs and feet with all the wind he could summon, hovered for a second or two, and then slowly descended back to the ground.

  “Fly!” shouted one of the students filming him. “Come on! Take off, man! That would be so cool!”

  “Yeah, well, easier said than done,” said Malcolm. He frowned, feeling outward and taking stock of the strength of his wind power. He could sense that he didn’t have quite enough to fly, or at least if he did, he still didn’t know how to focus it in a way that would give him proper lift.

  Let’s try something else, then.

  Malcolm took off at a run, slowly using the wind to lengthen each stride, and push himself forward faster and faster. One of the college’s buildings was right on the edge of campus, and it had a metal fire escape staircase extending up the side.

  He hurtled up, reaching the top of the building and using the wind to stop on a dime. He waved to the news crew, who were still in the process of getting their camera set up. There was another noise, and Malcolm glanced up to see a news chopper there, as well, filming him from above.

  “That’s bold,” he muttered. “Especially given the nature of my power.”

  He imagined what would happen if he sent a strong gust into the helicopter from the side, or hit it with wind from directly above, slamming down into its blades. Part of Malcolm delighted at the idea, even though he knew that it would probabl
y get the people inside killed. Using his power felt amazing, and he wasn’t sure how much it mattered what he used it for.

  Malcolm shook the thoughts away, instead focusing on a less deadly alternative. There was a building nearby, just across the street, and the roof was a story or two lower than the one he was currently on. His body tingled with excitement. He wanted to do it. He had to do it.

  He broke off at a dead sprint, pulling the wind along with him. There was a small concrete lip around the building’s edge, and he set one foot on it before pushing off into open air. The wind hurtled him forward, his clothes flapping against his skin. He moved forward, still descending slightly, but easily crossing the gap and landing on the new building’s roof with several feet to spare.

  “YES!” he shouted. “Hell yeah!”

  There was more to it than just exhilaration. Using his wind powers had an extra euphoric edge to it. Malcolm kept running across the new building’s roof, immediately leaping to another nearby. He soared through the air and landed on target, crossing a distance of fifty feet, at least.

  The news copter kept pace with him. He considered whether he could outrun it. Malcolm jumped to another building, and then another, each time feeling more comfortable with the extent of his abilities.

  He was moving out of Vanderbrook’s modest downtown area and into the residential neighborhoods. Cars were stopped in the street. People stood in clumps on sidewalks, pointing at him, and trying to snap photos. Malcolm waved at them, looking away as he jumped from one house to another.

  He cleared the gap easily, and landed in the center of an open skylight. Malcolm’s surprise manifested in his chest, his heart skipping a beat as he tried to push himself upward with the wind as he fell. It wasn’t enough.