Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“I need a beer.”
We will be back before sunrise, my queen, and will go up to my tower together to empty all the cans you wish until dawn.
“I regret each and every one of your errands.”
And I thank you for joining me nonetheless. By the way, do keep your hands visible at all times. He is not very trusting, either.
“Does he have a single redeemable quality?”
Yes. He is immeasurably lecherous with terrible taste in fashion.
“You are insufferable, Tristan.”
Also, I heard he killed his parents in cold blood, then resurrected them to do his bidding, all at the ripe age of sixteen. Of course, these are mere rumors, and I don’t know how much weight they hold …
“Everyone knows true resurrection doesn’t exist,” groans Raya with a loathsome sigh. “Like time travel and anti-aging cream, it’s fiction. Are you sure this Mance is not a fraud?”
One cannot be too sure of anything in these trying times.
“And remind me why we cannot tell Lord Markadian about this? Shouldn’t he know what we’re doing?”
Before Tristan can answer, his foot taps into something.
A wineglass. It tips over, spills red.
Tristan stops, flings his arm to the side at once, holding back Raya. She frowns at him. “What’re you—?”
I suspect I just … activated something.
The spilled wine creeps slowly down the hall like one long finger, then two, then one again, a thin red stream. Tristan and Raya remain absolutely still, watching. The stream of wine ends at the base of a white unlit candle neither of them noticed was there, sitting in the hall with no seeming purpose in the world.
The candle lights up at once.
Tristan and Raya lift their eyes.
Behind the candle now stands a man Tristan can’t be sure was there a second ago. Long legs, imprisoned in unforgivably tight black leather pants that outline his dick, balls included, with just a low-hanging, lopsided, metal-studded belt hanging loose—what function it serves, Tristan can only guess. Leather jacket with ribbing along the shoulders, tight-fitting, opened to reveal the sweaty, tawny skin of his chest, a tuft of hair at the top, and a thick happy trail drawing a line partway down his abs toward his crotch. Atop his head sits a frayed cowboy hat with a hole in the brim, strands of greasy black hair poking out from under, wavy tangles spilling down the back of his neck. Cowboy boots to finish his look, soles caked in mud.
“Don’t go shittin’ yourself,” says the man in his deep drawl, words echoey and strange in the dank, long tunnel. “It’s just a simple trust spell. One of the few innocent tricks I’m capable of, unless you care to see my version of a New Years’ sparkler.”
Mance, returns Tristan rather lightly for a greeting, his arm still outstretched, holding back Raya. You need such tricks? I had believed us to be friends.
“Don’t got none of those, never did me no good. And you got nothin’ to worry ‘bout unless you’re untrustworthy.” Mance tilts his head. “Are you?”
This is exactly how Tristan remembers Mance, perpetually moody, tightly buzzed beard framing his permanently smirking lopsided lips, forehead creased, eyebrows twisted up, a constant air of suspicion and arrogance.
About as trustworthy as a jock cup in the direct path of a wayward curveball, answers Tristan. I am ever so happy you agreed to meet me.
“Better get on it, then. We got until the candle’s burned to the wine before the spell runs out and my ass is gone.”
It’s a tall candle, notes Tristan.
“And magic fire burns awful quick-like.” He slants his head downward, eyes gleaming with malice. “But I suspect you know all about that, now don’t you, Tristan?”
Raya glances at Tristan, questions in her eyes.
Tristan dismisses the taunt with a lift of his chin. My request is simple. I have a deceased human who was not meant to die …
“Anyone who’s dead was meant to die.”
Be that as it may, his being dead is … inconvenient, Tristan elaborates. We need him to be … well … not dead.
Raya crosses her arms impatiently.
It’s that simple movement that steals Mance’s attention. He glances her way, takes in the sight of her the way a wolf stares down his prey in all ways but licking his lips. He removes his hat, revealing his greasy bangs, gives her the slightest of nods. “Didn’t see you there, sweetheart. My apologies.”
Raya’s eyes go to the man’s fingertips—which are entirely grey, as if all trace of blood and life has been sucked from them up to the knuckle. Sickly, off-putting spots of greenish black run across the backs of his hands with no discernable pattern.
“What happened there?” asks Raya, nose wrinkled up.
He doesn’t look at them. He just continues staring at her, unblinking, as he slowly returns his hat to his head. “Call it an itty-bitty consequence of my particular line of work, sweet—”