Cain narrowed his eyes. “Ha.” Cain was a huge Nickelback fan and didn’t understand my fascination with lyrical rap artists. “Chopsticks is not very Dracula chic,” he grumbled.
I shrugged anxiously, staring at the two of them. Waiting.
Xylo let out a breath and averted his gaze. “I’ve made my decision.”
My heart thundered in my chest, but I kept my voice steady. “Oh?”
And without warning, Xylo turned and stabbed Cain in the chest.
I jumped to my feet, shouting as Cain fell to the floor, grunting and rolling back and forth, not dead, but wounded.
“What the living hell?” Claire demanded before exploding into her polar bear form. The skeleton army instantly crouched, ready to defend me from Xylo.
I held up my hands for everyone to calm down, my heart lurching in my chest. Maybe I could still save him. Maybe it wasn’t fatal. Maybe Xylo had chosen some middle ground—to stab his brother but not kill him.
Cain continued to roll back and forth, moaning excessively, and I suddenly narrowed my eyes. No. They wouldn’t dare…
“You…”
Xylo looked up at me sheepishly. “Prank?” he said weakly. “Cain told me you like pranks…” he explained, looking decidedly uncertain all of a sudden. Maybe it was the unbridled fury on my face. He must be learning cues that most men took decades to decipher.
Cain made a strange, choking noise, and I turned to fix Xylo to the wall with my glare. “Give me your dagger. I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to kill him for you.”
Cain roared with laughter, jumping back to his feet hurriedly. “Not if you can’t catch me!” he roared, jumping on top of the table.
Claire made a strange chuffing sound and I turned to find her seated on her haunches, looking like she was laughing.
I rounded back on Cain. “This is not funny, guys.”
Cain hooted. “I’m trying to teach him how to laugh. To have fun. To be happy! You grumpy old woman!”
“That’s it. You’re both dead.” And I began storming towards them.
Cain cackled like a madman.
“Run that way, Cain!” Xylo shouted, laughing himself. And then he ran the opposite direction forcing me to make a choice as my two brothers split up, racing for opposite escapes. I turned to Claire, realizing I was smiling. “Which one do you want?” I asked.
She glanced at both doors as they slammed shut, the sounds of hysterical laughter echoing from the walls on the other side. Then she began running after Xylo.
Sanguina lifted her head to look at me with her eyeless stare.
“DO YOU WANT ME TO KILL THEM FOR YOU?” she asked tiredly.
I shook my head, making sure the skeleton death squad also got the message. “No. We’re just playing a game. It’s probably safest if you don’t join in on this one.”
“OKAY. I’LL BE HERE WHEN YOUR’E FINISHED. WE CAN CONTINUE OUR STUDIES.”
I nodded, suppressing a shudder. Studying the Omegabet had been…enlightening. And horrifying. “Sounds great.”
Then I grinned, turning to run after Cain. “Ready or not, here I come!” I shouted at him, following the sounds of his laughter as he ran through the halls of the Castle Keep.
And a single tear rolled down my cheeks to hear laughter in this place.
To hear Xylo laughing in the place that had birthed his life of torment.
Although a terrible prank…
We were all kind of terrible people. Had all survived terrible things.
I still decided that I was going to dunk Cain in the Lake of Everlasting Woe.
Even if he had saved Xylo’s life.
My brothers and sister laughed as we played for the first time in too long, and I knew that—for this singular moment, at least—all would be well.
Storms were coming soon. The seasons were changing. But not right now.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
Right now, it was a time for laughter.
A time for living.
A time for loving like only brothers and sisters could.
And that was good enough for me.
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Turn the page to read a sample of OBSIDIAN SON - Nate Temple Book 1 - or BUY ONLINE. Nate Temple is a billionaire wizard from St. Louis. He rides a bloodthirsty unicorn and drinks with the Four Horsemen. He even cow-tipped the Minotaur. Once…
(Note: Nate’s books 1-6 happen prior to UNCHAINED, but crossover from then on, the two series taking place in the same universe but also able to standalone if you prefer)
Full chronology of all books in the Temple Verse shown on the ‘Books in the Temple Verse’ 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 noticed no changes in my surroundings. Hopefully, my magic had silenced the sound and my resulting outburst. I glanced down at the phone to scan the text and then typed back a quick and angry response before I switched the cursed phone to vibrate.
Now, where were we…
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 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-brown tufts of my hair—a face like a jewelry box. Of c
ourse, that was two bottles of wine into a date, so I could have been a little foggy on her quote. Still, I liked to imagine that was how everyone 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 couldn’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 thick, gold ring dangling from his snotty snout quivered as the Minotaur panted, and his dense, corded muscle contracted over his human-like chest. As I stared up into those brown eyes, I actually felt sorry…for, well, myself.
“I have killed greater men than you for less offense,” he growled.
I swear to God his voice sounded like an angry James Earl Jones. Like Mufasa talking to Scar.
“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 in resignation, 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 towards 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 allowed myself to experience 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 imprint in my face if he felt so inclined.
I hoped our blossoming friendship wouldn’t end that way. I really did.
Get your copy of OBSIDIAN SON online today!
Turn the page to read a sample of WHISKEY GINGER - Phantom Queen Diaries Book 1, or BUY ONLINE. Quinn MacKenna is a black magic arms dealer from the mean streets of Boston. Everything was going fine until she accidentally robbed Nate Temple…
(Full chronology of all books in the Temple Verse shown on the ‘BOOKS IN THE TEMPLE VERSE’ page.)
TRY: WHISKEY GINGER (PHANTOM QUEEN DIARIES BOOK 1)
The pasty guitarist hunched forward, thrust a rolled-up wad of paper deep into one nostril, and snorted a line of blood crystals—frozen hemoglobin that I’d smuggled over in a refrigerated canister—with the uncanny grace of a drug addict. He sat back, fangs gleaming, and pawed at his nose. “That’s some bodacious shit. Hey, bros,” he said, glancing at his fellow band members, “come hit this shit before it melts.”
He fetched one of the backstage passes hanging nearby, pried the plastic badge from its lanyard, and used it to split up the crystals, murmuring something in an accent that reminded me of California. Not the California, but you know, Cali-foh-nia—the land of beaches, babes, and bros. I retrieved a toothpick from my pocket and punched it through its thin wrapper. “So,” I asked no one in particular, “now that ye have the product, who’s payin’?”
Another band member stepped out of the shadows to my left, and I don’t mean that figuratively, either—the fucker literally stepped out of the shadows. I scowled at him, but hid my surprise, nonchalantly rolling the toothpick from one side of my mouth to the other.
The rest of the band gathered around the dressing room table, following the guitarist’s lead by preparing their own snorting utensils—tattered magazine covers, mostly. Typically, you’d do this sort of thing with a dollar-bill, maybe even a Benjamin if you were flush. But fangers like this lot couldn’t touch cash directly—in God We Trust and all that. Of course, I didn’t really understand why sucking blood the old-fashioned way had suddenly gone out of style. More of a rush, maybe?
“It lasts longer,”
the vampire next to me explained, catching my mildly curious expression. “It’s especially good for shows and stuff. Makes us look, like, less—”
“Creepy?” I offered, my Irish brogue lilting just enough to make it a question.
“Pale,” he finished, frowning.
I shrugged. “Listen, I’ve got places to be,” I said, holding out my hand.
“I’m sure you do,” he replied, smiling. “Tell you what, why don’t you, like, hang around for a bit? Once that wears off,” he dipped his head toward the bloody powder smeared across the table’s surface, “we may need a pick-me-up.” He rested his hand on my arm and our gazes locked.
I blinked, realized what he was trying to pull, and rolled my eyes. His widened in surprise, then shock as I yanked out my toothpick and shoved it through his hand.
“Motherfuck—”
“I want what we agreed on,” I declared. “Now. No tricks.”
The rest of the band saw what happened and rose faster than I could blink. They circled me, their grins feral…they might have even seemed intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that they each had a case of the sniffles—I had to work extra hard not to think about what it felt like to have someone else’s blood dripping down my nasal cavity.
I held up a hand.
“Can I ask ye gentlemen a question before we get started?” I asked. “Do ye even have what I asked for?”
Two of the band members exchanged looks and shrugged. The guitarist, however, glanced back towards the dressing room, where a brown paper bag sat next to a case full of makeup. He caught me looking and bared his teeth, his fangs stretching until it looked like it would be uncomfortable for him to close his mouth without piercing his own lip.
“Follow-up question,” I said, eyeing the vampire I’d stabbed as he gingerly withdrew the toothpick from his hand and flung it across the room with a snarl. “Do ye do each other’s make-up? Since, ye know, ye can’t use mirrors?”
Godless: Feathers and Fire Book 7 Page 24
