I motioned for Christoff to deal again. The older man smiled and graciously followed through, expertly tossing cards before each of us. He and Othello chattered back and forth in Russian, flicking their eyes between me and the troll. Hemingway seemed to be following the conversation with little difficulty; he even sniggered at one point. I glowered at them all as I checked my cards. The Five of Spades and the Seven of Clubs. I sighed, inwardly, then put in the big blind—a blue chip that was supposed to represent money but, in this case, represented information. Othello, who sat to my right, put in the small blind after a moment’s hesitation.
Turns out she’d played before, but not with chips.
I’ll let you figure out what she’d used instead.
The troll peered at his cards and grinned, his pale purple gums on display. Not much of a poker face, but—as you probably noticed—Paul rarely set himself up to fail. Fortunately for me, the game was rigged so that no matter who won, I got what I wanted. Which is the only kind of game I would play, really. Paul matched my big blind with a blue chip of his own, and the others followed suit.
“Burn and turn,” I told Christoff. Christoff turned the first card face down and set it aside, then turned the next three face-up: the Ace of Hearts, the Five of Clubs, and the Five of Diamonds. I stifled my smug expression and studied my opponents, but—other than Paul, whose broad smile had grown into something leering and grotesque—there was no telling what anyone had; Hemingway might as well have been a still-life, and Othello’s cherubic grin could have meant anything, or nothing.
Ordinarily, we’d have taken turns betting, but Paul didn’t seem inclined to wait. He swatted his pile of chips, spilling them forward into the center of the table, and bellowed, “All in!” Hemingway’s eyebrows rose at the outburst, then he casually slid his cards over to Christoff.
Othello studied her own chips before mimicking her boyfriend’s nonchalant expression. “I’ll call.”
Paul seemed to deflate somewhat, but his grin hadn’t faded.
“Me too,” I said, drawing his unwelcome attention.
The bridge troll grunted. Apparently, he hadn’t expected us both to go in with him—and anything that confused Paul made him mad. I’d met plenty of men like him, but none who could yank trees out of the ground and use them as whiffle bats; the bastard still owed me for what he’d done to my poor car. Not that he had any money to speak of—Bridge Tolls in the modern era were strictly a federal form of extortion.
Paul’s residence notwithstanding, he lived on the goodwill of the Faerie Chancery, a shadowy organization that represented the interests of the various Faelings who had settled in Boston over the last few centuries. I knew very little about them, although I suspected they were behind a great many of the deals I’d made in the past. Paul’s relationship to the Chancery was, in fact, the primary reason I’d invited him to join us for poker night.
All part of the plan.
“Alright, Christoff, turn the rest,” I insisted.
He did, burning the first, turning the second, and then repeating the process. I stared down at the cards as if they mattered, flicking my gaze from the Ace of Hearts to the Five of Clubs, Five of Diamonds, Four of Hearts, and Five of Hearts. But, really, I was biding my time before the big reveal; I’d lucked into a four-of-a-kind—the third-best hand in poker—early on. Paul, growing impatient, tossed his cards down on the table with a self-satisfied chortle.
He’d had pocket Aces.
I grinned and turned my cards for him to see. Christoff adjusted the cards he’d turned so three suits worth of Fives sat higher than the rest. “The Full House is trumped by Four-of-a-Kind,” he declared. I could sense Paul’s confusion; he never had been very good at counting past two. A moment later, I could make out the faint crunch of the wooden table splintering beneath his grubby, waffle-sized hands as he realized he’d lost. Christoff growled in warning, which seemed to register, somehow. Paul shot Christoff an apologetic look, released the table, and begun picking up the splintered wood, popping the slivers into his mouth like M&Ms. He chewed with his mouth open, snorted, and folded his arms over his extraordinarily wide chest.
“No fair,” he grumbled.
“Ye can never be too sure what the cards have in store for ye, Paul, me friend,” I chastised. “Ye should know that by now.”
“She’s right, you know,” Othello quipped, holding a single card up for us to see, her grin wider than I had ever seen it.
“Oh, that’s fuckin’ garbage,” I cursed, glaring at Christoff, who had the good grace to at least pretend he had nothing to do with the turning of the tables.
Othello slid the Two and Three of Hearts across the table.
“The Straight Flush wins,” Christoff declared, coughing into his hand to hide his amusement. I stared down at Othello’s cards in disbelief, knowing that she’d gone all-in with absolutely nothing; she’d had no reason to think she’d win. And yet, she had.
Fucking Russians…
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Full chronology of all books in the Temple Universe shown on the ‘Books by Shayne Silvers’ page.
TRY: OBSIDIAN SON (NATE TEMPLE #1)
There was no room for emotion in a hate crime. I had to be cold. Heartless. This was just another victim. Nothing more. No face, no name.
Frosted blades of grass crunched under my feet, sounding to my ears alone like the symbolic glass that one shattered under a napkin at a Jewish wedding. The noise would have threatened to give away my stealthy advance as I stalked through the moonlit field, but I was no novice and had planned accordingly. Being a wizard, I was able to muffle all sensory evidence with a fine cloud of magic — no sounds, and no smells. Nifty. But if I made the spell much stronger, the anomaly would be too obvious to my prey.
I knew the consequences for my dark deed tonight. If caught, jail time or possibly even a gruesome, painful death. But if I succeeded, the look of fear and surprise in my victim’s eyes before his world collapsed around him, was well worth the risk. I simply couldn’t help myself; I had to take him down.
I knew the cops had been keeping tabs on my car, but I was confident that they hadn’t followed me. I hadn’t seen a tail on my way here, but seeing as how they frowned on this kind of thing I had taken a circuitous route just in case. I was safe. I hoped.
Then my phone chirped at me as I received a text. My body’s fight-or-flight syndrome instantly kicked in, my heart threatening to explode in one final act of pulmonary paroxysm. “Motherf—” I hissed instinctively, practically jumping out of my skin. I had forgotten to silence it. Stupid, stupid, stupid! My body remained tense as I swept my gaze over the field, sure that I had been made. My breathing finally began to slow, my pulse returning to normal as I saw no change in my surroundings. Hopefully my magic had silenced the sound, and my resulting outburst. I finally glanced down at the phone and read the text. I typed back a quick and angry response before I switched the phone to vibrate.
I continued on, the lining of my coat constricting my breathing. Or maybe it was because I was leaning forward in anticipation. Breathe, I chided myself. He doesn’t know you’re here. All this risk for a book. It had better be worth it.
I’m taller than most, and not abnormally handsome, but I knew how to play the genetic cards I had been dealt. I had fashionably shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and my frame was thick with well-earned muscle, yet still lean. I had once been told that my eyes were like twin emeralds pitted against the golden tufts of my hair — a face like a jewelry box. Of course, that was after I had filled the woman with copious amounts of wine. Still, I liked to imagine that was how everyon
e saw me.
But tonight, all that was masked by magic.
I grinned broadly as the outline of the hairy hulk finally came into view. He was blessedly alone — no nearby sentries to give me away. That was always a risk when performing this ancient right-of-passage. I tried to keep the grin on my face from dissolving into a maniacal cackle.
My skin danced with energy, both natural and unnatural, as I manipulated the threads of magic floating all around me. My victim stood just ahead, oblivious of the world of hurt that I was about to unleash. Even with his millennia of experience, he didn’t stand a chance. I had done this so many times that the routine of it was my only enemy. I lost count of how many times I had been told not to do it again; those who knew declared it cruel, evil, and sadistic. But what fun wasn’t? Regardless, that wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it again. And again. Call it an addiction if you will, but it was too much of a rush to ignore.
The pungent smell of manure filled the air, latching onto my nostril hairs. I took another step, trying to calm my racing pulse. A glint of gold reflected in the silver moonlight, but the victim remained motionless, hopefully unaware or all was lost. I wouldn’t make it out alive if he knew I was here. Timing was everything.
I carefully took the last two steps, a lifetime between each, watching the legendary monster’s ears, anxious and terrified that I would catch even so much as a twitch in my direction. Seeing nothing, a fierce grin split my unshaven cheeks. My spell had worked! I raised my palms an inch away from their target, firmly planted my feet, and squared my shoulders. I took one silent, calming breath, and then heaved forward with every ounce of physical strength I could muster. As well as a teensy-weensy boost of magic. Enough to goose him good.
“MOOO!!!” The sound tore through the cool October night like an unstoppable freight train. Thud-splat! The beast collapsed sideways into the frosty grass; straight into a steaming patty of cow shit, cow dung, or, if you really want to church it up, a Meadow Muffin. But to me, shit is, and always will be, shit.
Cow tipping. It doesn’t get any better than that in Missouri.
Especially when you’re tipping the Minotaur. Capital M.
Razor-blade hooves tore at the frozen earth as the beast struggled to stand, grunts of rage vibrating the air. I raised my arms triumphantly. “Boo-yah! Temple 1, Minotaur 0!” I crowed. Then I very bravely prepared to protect myself. Some people just can’t take a joke. Cruel, evil, and sadistic cow tipping may be, but by hell, it was a rush. The legendary beast turned his gaze on me after gaining his feet, eyes ablaze as he unfolded to his full height on two tree-trunk-thick legs, hooves magically transforming into heavily-booted feet. The heavy gold ring quivered in his snout as the Minotaur panted, corded muscle contracting over his human-like chest. As I stared up into those eyes, I actually felt sorry… for, well, myself.
“I have killed greater men than you for less offense,” I swear to God his voice sounded like an angry James Earl Jones.
“You have shit on your shoulder, Asterion.” I ignited a roiling ball of fire in my palm in order to see his eyes more clearly. By no means was it a defensive gesture on my part. It was just dark. But under the weight of his glare, even I couldn’t buy my reassuring lie. I hoped using a form of his ancient name would give me brownie points. Or maybe just not-worthy-of-killing points.
The beast grunted, eyes tightening, and I sensed the barest hesitation. “Nate Temple… your name would look splendid on my already long list of slain idiots.” Asterion took a threatening step forward, and I thrust out my palm in warning, my roiling flame blue now.
“You lost fair and square, Asterion. Yield or perish.” The beast’s shoulders sagged slightly. Then he finally nodded to himself, appraising me with the scrutiny of a worthy adversary. “Your time comes, Temple, but I will grant you this. You’ve got a pair of stones on you to rival Hercules.”
I pointedly risked a glance down at the myth’s own crown jewels. “Well, I sure won’t need a wheelbarrow any time soon, but I’m sure I’ll manage.” The Minotaur blinked once, and then bellowed out a deep, contagious, snorting laughter. Realizing I wasn’t about to become a murder statistic, I couldn’t help but join in. It felt good. It had been a while since I had experienced genuine laughter. In the harsh moonlight, his bulk was even more intimidating as he towered head and shoulders above me. This was the beast that had fed upon human sacrifices for countless years while imprisoned in Daedalus’ Labyrinth in Greece. And all of that protein had not gone to waste, forming a heavily woven musculature over the beast’s body that made even Mr. Olympia look puny.
From the neck up he was entirely bull, but the rest of his body more resembled a thickly-furred man. But, as shown moments ago, he could adapt his form to his environment, never appearing fully human, but able to make his entire form appear as a bull when necessary. For instance, how he had looked just before I tipped him. Maybe he had been scouting the field for heifers before I had so efficiently killed the mood.
His bull face was also covered in thick, coarse hair — even sporting a long, wavy beard of sorts — and his eyes were the deepest brown I had ever seen. Cow shit brown. His snout jutted out, emphasizing the gold ring dangling from his glistening nostrils, catching a glint in the luminous glow of the moon. The metal was at least an inch thick, and etched with runes of a language long forgotten. Thick, aged ivory horns sprouted from each temple, long enough to skewer a wizard with little effort. He was nude except for a beaded necklace and a pair of distressed leather boots that were big enough to stomp a size twenty-five in my face if he felt so inclined.
I hoped our blossoming friendship wouldn’t end that way. I really did.
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(Note: Callie appears in the Temple-verse after Nate’s book 6, TINY GODS… Full chronology of all books in the Temple Universe shown on the ‘Books in the Temple Verse’ page.)
TRY: UNCHAINED (FEATHERS AND FIRE #1)
The rain pelted my hair, plastering loose strands of it to my forehead as I panted, eyes darting from tree to tree, terrified of each shifting branch, splash of water, and whistle of wind slipping through the nightscape around us. But… I was somewhat excited, too.
Somewhat.
“Easy, girl. All will be well,” the big man creeping just ahead of me, murmured.
“You said we were going to get ice cream!” I hissed at him, failing to compose myself, but careful to keep my voice low and my eyes alert. “I’m not ready for this!” I had been trained to fight, with my hands, with weapons, and with my magic. But I had never taken an active role in a hunt before. I’d always been the getaway driver for my mentor.
The man grunted, grey eyes scanning the trees as he slipped through the tall grass. “And did we not get ice cream before coming here? Because I think I see some in your hair.”
“You know what I mean, Roland. You tricked me.” I checked the tips of my loose hair, saw nothing, and scowled at his back.
“The Lord does not give us a greater burden than we can shoulder.”
I muttered dark things under my breath, wiping the water from my eyes. Again. My new shirt was going to be ruined. Silk never fared well in the rain. My choice of shoes wasn’t much better. Boots, yes, but distressed, fashionable boots. Not work boots designed for the rain and mud. Definitely not monster hunting boots for our evening excursion through one of Kansas City’s wooded parks. I realized I was forcibly distracting myself, keeping my mind busy with mundane thoughts to avoid my very real anxiety. Because whenever I grew nervous, an imagined nightmare always—
A church looming before me. Rain pouring down. Night sky and a glowing moon overhead. I was all alone. Crying on the cold, stone steps, and infant in a cardboard box—
I forced the nightmare away, breathin
g heavily. “You know I hate it when you talk like that,” I whispered to him, trying to regain my composure. I wasn’t angry with him, but was growing increasingly uncomfortable with our situation after my brief flashback of fear.
“Doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be said,” he said kindly. “I think we’re close. Be alert. Remember your training. Banish your fears. I am here. And the Lord is here. He always is.”
So, he had noticed my sudden anxiety. “Maybe I should just go back to the car. I know I’ve trained, but I really don’t think—”
A shape of fur, fangs, and claws launched from the shadows towards me, cutting off my words as it snarled, thirsty for my blood.
And my nightmare slipped back into my thoughts like a veiled assassin, a wraith hoping to hold me still for the monster to eat. I froze, unable to move. Twin sticks of power abruptly erupted into being in my clenched fists, but my fear swamped me with that stupid nightmare, the sticks held at my side, useless to save me.
Right before the beast’s claws reached me, it grunted as something batted it from the air, sending it flying sideways. It struck a tree with another grunt and an angry whine of pain.
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