I shook my head. “You’re not responsible for the fortitude of his character. Or rather, the feebleness of it. We’ll just make sure he never gets the scoop on us again.”
“He doesn’t deserve the credit. That was your story. You were the one who risked your life.” Quinn’s tail lashed back and forth, knocking the chair behind him over and drawing the attention of the few other writers in the bullpen.
I rested a soothing hand on his wings, quieting him. “We saved the dryads. And the spriggan. That’s what matters.”
“Of course, but he stole your story.”
“He’s shortsighted. He got one big article, but I got fodder for dozens today.”
I plopped into a chair, stifling a groan at the simultaneous pangs of pain and relief throughout my body. Grumbling, Quinn lay down beside me. I flipped the newspaper over so I couldn’t see the front page, then did the same to all the papers near me before melting against the back of the chair. My brain zinged with the story I’d been mentally crafting over the last couple hours, and I wouldn’t be able to fully relax until I got it out.
I open my battered notebook and set it beside the typewriter, then pulled out a string of basic-level communication spells, where I’d captured some of my verbal notes and stored them in tight weaves of air. With my pen poised above my journal, I listened to my recordings, jotting down an outline and making notations in the margins. Then I straightened and started typing.
When I looked up, I was shocked to see the clock hands had swept past midnight. Quinn lay asleep beside me, his massive paws twitching in a dream. The bullpen had emptied, though I hadn’t noticed anyone leaving. The only other light in the office came from a crack in the editor’s doorway. Sluggish relief pulsed through my weary body. I wouldn’t have to wait until morning to submit my article.
I yawned and stretched, cutting the movement short when it elicited a chorus of pain. Bending, I woke Quinn with a soft hand on his back, leaving it there until he oriented on his unfamiliar surroundings. Shouldering my bag, I walked to the editor’s office, Quinn padding softly behind me. Sitting cramped over the typewriter for hours hadn’t done my body any favors, and I staggered like a newly woken statue, every joint stiff, my coordination clumsy.
Laughter trickled from the editor’s office, but it cut off when I knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Dahlia said.
I pushed open the door, startled to see the other voice I’d heard belonged to Raquel. I hadn’t expected the gryphon rider to be here this late.
Raquel stood, striding from the chair in front of Dahlia’s desk to the editor’s side to present a united front. “We’ve been waiting to see what’s got you looking like a gryphon cub’s chew toy.”
I glanced down, once again nonplussed to see the day’s events manifested in my dirty, bloody clothes. I must have been more exhausted than I realized if I couldn’t keep track of my own body’s condition. Flustered, I waved a dismissive hand at my torn outfit. “Oh, this doesn’t have anything to do with my story. Not really. This happened earlier today.”
“Explain.” Dahlia’s commanding tone would have done Grant proud.
“You know most of the story. Well, I mean, the stench is from Beldame Zipporah, but the clothing is sort of . . . spriggan tailored.” I giggled at my own joke. The bright lights of the office hurt my eyes, and my body radiated too much heat, signaling my eminent crash. I just had to keep it together long enough to submit my story.
Raquel tapped her nose. “Aha! That’s definitely the odor of the harpy.”
“Nathan mention you tagged along,” Dahlia said, “but not the extent to which you . . . participated? . . . in today’s events.”
“Did someone say my name?” Nathan strode into the office behind me. He’d changed his clothes and showered since the last time I’d seen him, and he looked fresh and competent, everything I wasn’t at the moment.
“I thought you’d gone home,” Dahlia said.
“I tried, but I was too concerned about Kylie.” Nathan stopped halfway between the editor’s desk and me, waving a magnanimous hand in my direction. “I enjoy the opportunity to mentor the younger journalists. Kylie was with me today, but . . . I was afraid this might happen. Ky, tell me you didn’t also write about today’s events. As you saw, I already covered that. Taking you along was just meant to be part of your training.”
I longed to punch him and was too tired to keep the unfriendliness from my expression. Aiming for a sweet tone, I said, “Your lesson today will be invaluable in my career.” It came out venomous.
Quinn’s golden eyes caught the light, and Nathan found an excuse to hurry across the room and take a seat at a small table out of the way. When I turn my attention back to Dahlia, she and Raquel were sharing a glance I couldn’t interpret. I swallowed my frustration. If I hadn’t been so tired, I never would have allowed Nathan to make me look bad in front of my boss.
“You said you had a story that happened after the spriggan battle?” Dahlia asked.
I stepped forward and thrust my typewritten pages into her hand. She didn’t turn her attention to them right away, continuing to study me.
“Take a seat before you collapse, Kylie.”
I sat in Raquel’s vacated chair. Quinn approached the editor’s desk and peered over the top. A twinkle of amusement lit Dahlia’s eyes as she took in the gargoyle’s keen interest; then she started reading. Raquel shifted around to read over Dahlia’s shoulder. Nathan twitched, as if he considered taking the same liberty, then thought better of it.
Following my hunch, Grant, Quinn, and I had trekked after the dryads to Colden Creek, then past it to a large beacon of magic stirring in the valley beyond it. We crossed Wicker Road, still free of traffic since Grant hadn’t yet removed the warning beacons. We found the dryads ringing a sun-drenched meadow, the normally secretive creatures gathered in the open.
Though we made no attempt to mask our approach, the dryads ignored us. Either our assistance against the spriggan had proved we were trusted allies or Grant’s herbal theriaca had earned us more goodwill than I’d understood. Nevertheless, we stopped short of the meadow, in the shade of a bonded oak.
The dryads had abandoned their weapons, their peaceful demeanors restored. Tranquility suffused their features, and I struggled to recall the creatures who had terrified me less than twelve hours earlier. None stood as tall as my hip, and all looked as if a strong breeze would break them, yet this morning when they’d boxed us in, wooden spears clutched in twiglike fingers, teeth bared, I’d been sure they would kill us.
At first, I noticed only the dryads standing in the meadow, but gradually I spotted more clinging to the limbs and trunks of the nearest trees. Their barklike skin provided impeccable camouflage, and in normal circumstances, people saw a dryad only when a dryad chose to be seen. When I’d learned of two people spotting dryads near Colden Creek a few weeks earlier, my curiosity had been piqued. I’d deployed my rumor scouts and headed to the library to research the reclusive creatures. The conclusion I’d drawn had been exciting, hopeful—and nothing like the violent attack of the spriggan.
I’d crossed my fingers, hope resurging that my original guess had been right.
Intricate wood magic swirled from dryad to dryad, linking those on the ground to those in the trees in a complex elemental net. The magic built, folded in on itself, and expanded in hypnotic waves unlike anything a human congregation could have created. Entranced, I didn’t notice Potentate Heartwood until she was several steps into the circle. Trailing filaments of elemental wood, she glided through the short grasses, stopping at the center of the meadow.
When she knelt, the dryads began to chant in their own foreign language. The soft soughing of their voices skimmed the landscape, reshaping it with the gentleness of a breeze, and the grasses parted around the potentate, revealing rich, dark soil.
A tiny green sprout pushed through the soil in front of her, growing a few inches before unfurling a trio of emerald-gree
n oak leaves. Increasingly intricate magic cycled through the dryads, almost all of it wood, but so many variations and textures that it resembled a tapestry of elements. Quinn sighed with happiness, and I figured he must have been boosting all the dryads, reveling in their extraordinary elemental manipulations even as they benefited from the gargoyle’s enhancement.
The potentate hooked the center of the magical tapestry, drawing it to her, and I forgot about Quinn. I forgot to breathe. She spun strands of wood element more delicate than spiders’ threads and infinitely stronger, creating a lacework of magic around the tiny shoot. When she plucked a small shape no bigger than an acorn from her abdomen, a surge of righteous joy filled me; my instincts had been right—the potentate had been pregnant.
Setting her infant on the ground beside the tiny oak, she continued to spin the dryads’ daedal magic into a binding spell that would forever connect her child with its tree. Around us, the chanting swelled, then silenced. The magic collapsed inward on the joined infant and seedling, drawing them together until I couldn’t see where one stopped and the other began.
Quinn and I leaned forward, mimicking the dryads in the circle, craning to get a look at the newborns. I had primed my camera when we’d first arrived, and I snapped several discreet pictures, silencing the camera’s mechanical noises with a buffer of air. Then, at some signal I missed, the dryads surged forward, blocking the babies from sight. Smiling and laughing, they embraced the new mother, and the trees shook their leaves in celebration.
Grant, Quinn, and I had slipped away as quietly as possible. I hadn’t been the only one dabbing tears from my eyes, either. Now, standing in the editor’s office, I could still conjure the enchantment of that perfect moment of joining, and I’d done my best to project the charm and wonder of it into my story. The joining of a dryad infant and its tree had never been recorded before—not in any records I’d found. Being privy to this rare and beautiful event had been an honor, and I wanted readers of the Chronicle to feel the same reverence I’d experienced.
Dahlia set down my pages and didn’t protest when Nathan snatched them up. She studied me thoughtfully, then rifled through pictures on her desk. I hadn’t seen Stella deliver them, but I recognized my photos. Crossing my fingers beside my legs, I strained to check them out upside down. . . . They were good! I hadn’t been sure on the lighting or if my camera had even been functioning correctly, but the baby was clear, and the earlier shots of Potentate Heartwood shrouded in shadows were all the more compelling for the dim lighting, especially those of Grant kneeling in front of the regal dryad.
Raquel picked up a shot of the spriggan, his mouth agape and his leg wrapped in brambles. He filled the left side of the image, and a blur of coiled vines whipped toward fingernail-tall dryads on the edge of the picture. She glanced at my torn outfit again and shook her head, mouthing, “Spriggan tailored.”
I tried to smile, but my face had gone stiff while I waited for Dahlia’s judgment of my article.
Raquel reached past Dahlia and lifted another photo from the stack—one of Grant cradling the tiny, sleeping spriggan against his bare chest. It was one of the pictures I’d taken when we’d retrieved my camera, and I’d caught the captain unaware, his attention on the horizon, sunlight glinting in his eyes. The picture could have been a recruitment poster for the FPD: Grant all muscles, his rugged features gritty and abraded from the fight, holding the creature he’d just defeated as tenderly as he might hold his own child.
“Next time female subscription rates drop, here’s your front-page picture, Dahlia.” Raquel tossed me a wink.
The editor’s expression remained unreadable. I took a deep breath and launched into my pitch.
“I was thinking I could do a couple of follow-up pieces on the dryads. The FPD captain would be a great source. He seemed to have a rapport with them. Especially Potentate Heartwood. The articles could be included alongside stories about the cleanup in the grove and maybe I could coordinate with contacts on the coast and the British Isles to report on the spriggan’s progress home, and—”
“No,” Dahlia cut me off. “You’re going to be too busy with the everlasting tree to do all that.”
“What?!” Nathan burst from his chair, tossing the pages of my story onto Dahlia’s desk. “But that’s just a story of a kid being born. How can you say that’s better than the spriggan battle?”
Dahlia tapped my pages. “You’ve done something unique here, Kylie; you’ve given us a glimpse of an event no one has seen before. Your story captured the style of reporting I want at the everlasting tree—personal and immersive and riveting.”
“But there’s still time. The contest isn’t over,” Nathan sputtered.
“Look at this.” Dahlia held up the picture of the baby dryad clinging to the fragile stalk of the new oak. The camera hadn’t been able to capture the glow of magic around them, but it had caught the wonder and other-earthliness of the moment. “Readers are going to eat this up. Nothing is going to top a baby dryad.”
“I’m going?” I asked, not quite believing.
Dahlia nodded.
“I’m going!” I launched from my chair with a shout and shimmied in place. “Thank you! You won’t regret this!” I’d done it! I’d won!
“Can I come, too?” Quinn asked me.
“Are you kidding? You earned this as much as I did. Of course you can come!”
The gargoyle danced in place, his antics shaking the floor and rattling the shelves. He immediately stilled, expression contrite, but when he saw Dahlia’s and Raquel’s amusement, he relaxed.
Nathan stormed from the office, his face red, his fists clenched in anger. I barely noticed his departure.
I couldn’t stop grinning. I was going to see an everlasting tree bloom!
“So,” Raquel said, cocking a hip against Dahlia’s desk, “any idea what you’re going to ask the tree?”
The End
Kylie didn’t always have Quinn by her side. In fact, Quinn wouldn’t even be alive if not for Kylie’s best friend, Mika. Discover how the gargoyle’s adventures began—grab your copy of Magic of the Gargoyles today!
Author Gift
Thank you for purchasing Deadlines & Dryads. If you enjoyed my novel, or even if you didn’t, please leave a review at the retailer site where you found my novel. Reviews, good and bad, are crucial for any author’s career, and even a one- or two-line review is an enormous help.
Thank you!
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Gargoyle Guardian Chronicles
If this was your first introduction to Terra Haven and the world of elemental magic and gargoyles, you won’t want to miss the Gargoyle Guardian Chronicles. Start with Magic of the Gargoyles, and discover how far Mika will go to help a baby gargoyle…
* * *
Mika Stillwater is a mid-level earth elemental with ambitions of becoming a quartz artisan, and her hard work is starting to get noticed. But when a panicked baby gargoyle bursts into her studio, insisting Mika is the only person she'll trust with her desperate mission, Mika's carefully constructed five-year plan is shattered.
* * *
"I freaking love this book! ...All I can say is I think you should read this." (Happy Tails and Tales ★★★★★)
Madison Fox Urban Fantasy Adventures
If humor urban fantasies are also your type of book, tab ahead for a sneak peek of A Fistful of Evil, the first book in my international bestselling series.
Also by Rebecca Chastain
NOVELS OF TERRA HAVEN
Gargoyle Guardian Chronicles
Magic of the Gargoyles
Curse of the Gargoyles
Secret of the Gargoyles
Lured (a novelette)
* * *
Terra Haven Chronicles
Deadlines & Dryads
Leads & Lyn
xes (forthcoming)
* * *
THE MADISON FOX ADVENTURES
A Fistful of Evil
A Fistful of Fire
A Fistful of Frost (forthcoming)
* * *
STAND ALONE
Tiny Glitches
* * *
Join Rebecca’s VIP List to receive free stories, bonus scenes, and extras, plus information about new releases, giveaways, and more. rebeccachastain.com/newsletter
A Fistful of Evil Excerpt
Chapter 1
Don’t Follow Me: I’m Lost, Too
The interview was a catastrophe. It started out fine—better than fine. Kyle, the sales manager for the bumper sticker company Illumination Studios, met me in the warm confines of a nearby Starbucks, purchased me a grande green tea, and selected a table in the corner, away from the door and the cold blast of November air every customer brought in with them. Soft music, cappuccino-machine clacks and whirs, and the murmur of conversation created a cocoon of privacy.
I handed Kyle a copy of my résumé, determined to prove myself to be the mandatory employee for the boring junior sales associate position. I wasn’t particularly qualified and I would normally have rather ripped off hangnails than perform cold calls—which is what I strongly suspected the position entailed—but four weeks of unemployment, seven failed interviews, and escalating credit card bills proved very strong motivators.
Strong enough for me to ignore the desperate reason I’d applied for the job in the first place. Never trust your soul-sight, I told myself for the thousandth time. But my imminent eviction trumped mistrust of my bizarre, mutant vision.
Kyle dropped my résumé to the table without glancing at it. He scrutinized me over the top of his dry cappuccino. Kyle exuded salesman, from his maroon button-up shirt and khaki trousers to his thinning brown hair with its frosted tips. His face was pinched, as if someone had pressed his baby flesh between their hands and pulled, extending his nose and pulling his lips and eyes in tight. He couldn’t have been much older than me, despite the sullen brackets around his mouth and deep grooves between his eyebrows. Maybe his expression fell into disapproving lines naturally.
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