Demon of the Dead - The Fault Lands At Last

 In this week's writing, I finally arrived at the Fault Lands. Very excited to bring this locale to life in Demon of the Dead. 

Náli knew the moment he woke that he was home.

Ah, home. That hellish place.

For a while, he hadn’t dreamed; it had been only the peaceful black of true, undisturbed sleep. But then he became aware – that lucid state that meant he had fallen into the crack between dreams and the constant, tugging magic of the well. He’d been made to drink that water, when he was only a little lad; he couldn’t remember much of the first time, save its oily, mineral tang, and spitting it all down his front, so that his mother exclaimed in dismay. He remembered Mattias cupping his chin gently, and bringing the cup back to his lips for a second try. That water, it’s magic, had gotten into his bloodstream. It lived within him still, in the center of each bone, in the coils of his brain, in the roadways of his heart, beating now sluggish and unhappy, as he clawed up through the layers of magic and dream and blinked his eyes open.

Between its natural cloud cover, and the constant curls of dark smoke that trickled up from the peak of the fire mountain, the light was always a dim silver, the same color as his hair. A light that filled his familiar bedchamber, as he turned his head to find that nothing about it had changed in his absence. He lay on the same four-poster, canopied bed, its gray drapes drawn back with silver cord, the feather-tick mattresses, a stack of two, soft and downy beneath him. The same granite floors, walls, and ceiling greeted his blurred gaze, gray flecked with black and white, large, reddish veins running in streaks like claw marks. He saw his trunks, and his writing desk; his table, and chairs, his armoire, and his dressing table and silver-framed looking glass. Lying down, his view through the three, leaded-glass windows was of a bleak sky smudged with smoke.

He'd spent the whole trip back here unconscious. Been washed, and dressed in a soft shirt, and tucked beneath warm blankets and furs all without waking. His stomach rumbled, and his tongue was dry when he flicked it across his lips. The drag of the well was much more concentrated here; it felt as though someone was sitting on his chest; his bones felt weighted down to the mattress.

Perhaps, he thought, if he closed his eyes, he could fall back asleep. But that would only delay the inevitable.

With a groan, and no small amount of effort, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. He wasn’t just sore, but actively in pain, bolts of it shooting up his arms and legs. He gritted his teeth, threw back the covers, and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. His slippers, gray suede lined with lambswool, awaited him on the rug below. He bit his tongue as he stepped down into them, when the pain crackled through his feet and ankles. His body was punishing him for being away so long, and using so much magic.

Each step he took toward the window winnowed what little strength remained, shaved it off slice by slice, until, when he finally reached the glass, he had to catch himself on the granite window ledge and grip, white-knuckled, to keep from toppling over. His head swam, and the floor tilted, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from being sick.

When he felt steadier, he opened them again, and then felt sick all over again when he beheld the view.

Through the fog of his breath on the glass, he could see the sloping plains that led down from the Keep toward the Nár River, edged with ice-slick boulders and half-frozen, too dangerous to cross save for at the black granite bridge that joined Náli’s lands with the Capital Road. The snow was streaked with heavy deposits of dried lava, layers of black coils like a vast snake basking beneath the hidden sun. Náli’s rooms had once been his parents’: the Corpse Lord’s suite. After his father’s death, his mother had moved to the dowager’s suite, leaving him here, alone, in this cold stone space, with its perfect, dreaded view of the fire mountain, in all its jagged, snow-dusted glory. It belched smoke at an alarming rate now, angered by his long absence. The lava rock that marred the hillsides now was evidence of small, regular trickles; a true eruption, had Náli stayed away indefinitely, would sweep the land, fill the river, and melt the shepherd’s crofts on the opposite bank. It was that – the threat of innocent lives and homes lost – that drew him back here, time and again, when all he wanted to do was climb on his horse, ride for the coast and never look back.

He rested his forehead against the cold glass, and let it ground him a moment, willing himself to stop shaking – to move to his bureau, don proper clothes, his diamonds, and go down the many staircases that would take him to the well. He dreaded the thought – nearly as much as he dreaded the thought of encountering his mother. All things in perspective, he supposed.

The door whispered open behind him, and he recognized Mattias’s soft tread across the floor.

“You’re awake.”

“Unfortunately.”

#TheProcess - Narrative

 Posting anything right now feels about like Blogging While Rome burns, but I think everyone here is here for a good dose of distraction and entertainment, so I'll try to keep active anyway. 

Today is part two of "The Process..."

Narrative

I’ve decided to break the meat-and-potatoes “writing” portion of the process into smaller segments, because while I’m doing a number of things simultaneously, it’ll be easier to talk about it all in more discrete posts. So today I’ll be talking about the storytelling aspect of the process, and will focus on the prose (word choice and sentence structure) in a later post.

*Also, I think it’s important to note that as an indie author, I’ve been able to tailor my approach accordingly Hopefully, blogging about my process will offer insight as to creative decisions and personal priorities, but I am in no way suggesting that my approach is suitable for anyone attempted to become traditionally published.

Okay, onward.

As I mentioned last time, every story begins with character for me. Once I know who I’m writing about, and what he or she wants, I can plot the novel from there. At the outset of any book, or series, I know what the final outcome will be, I know the emotional beats that need to happen with each character, and have a few scenes that are bright, crystalline, and necessary in my mind. I don’t ever work off an outline, though. For me, when I say that I’m “plotting” or “story-mapping,” that means I’m going for a walk, listening to music, and planning scenes mentally. Sometimes I take notes when I get back to a notebook, but, generally, once I’ve choreographed a scene in my head, I’m ready to move forward with it once I’m in front of the computer again. Cleaning stalls, cleaning house, going for a drive, taking a shower – all perfect times for creative breakthroughs. The scene plays out like a movie trailer, complete with background music and close-ups, in my head, and then it’s a matter of trying to capture that perfectly.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Story. George R.R. Martin has described his process in a way that resonates with me: he said his approach to plot is a bit like tending a garden. He plants the seeds and lets them grow as they will, rather than adhering to a strict outline. That’s how I do it, too; I’ve always described it as a very organic approach, one that grows and shifts and allows for the unexpected, with an emphasis always placed on character integrity and continuity. Instead of playing God and throwing things at characters to see how they react, the characters’ decisions, and their consequences, drive the story forward.

This is why it’s so important to really get to know each character. Once I understand the way they think and behave, once the various conflicts have been established, the story unfolds in a way that, even while writing it, feels very natural and appropriate, and I don’t feel like a puppet master pulling on strings. If I don’t feel the strings, the audience won’t see them. My main rule is this: always treat the characters like real people with minds of their own. It doesn’t matter what I would do in a given situation, or what the reader would do; doesn’t matter what the smartest, safest approach would be. All that matters is what that character would say or do, and the rest is irrelevant.

(I’ve never understood that line of book criticism from readers. “Well, I would have…” Are you in this book? No, you’re not. “Walsh is too short for me.” It’s a good thing you aren’t the one sleeping with him, then. “They had unsafe sex, and this sets a bad example for young people.” It’s a good thing I’m not writing a sex safety manual, isn’t it? I’ve learned you can be true to your characters, or you can try to make your characters appealing and “safe” for a broad audience. I’ve chosen the former.)

Take the Drake Chronicles, for example. I knew that Erik and Oliver would get together, but I didn’t have each scene planned out ahead of time. Instead, knowing each of them well enough, their conversations unfolded as I penned them, often taking turns I hadn’t expected, but which felt right in the moment. I knew from the first that Tessa would choose Rune over Leif, and that Leif’s main, personal conflict that would carry throughout the series is the inner turmoil that comes with knowing you’re an heir to a kingdom. It’s a conflict that, in the early stages, is mild and a little bit boring because he’s essentially a good and loyal guy without vices. It wasn’t until partway through writing book two that I finalized the idea of having him become a skinwalker. Now, with a genuine “inner demon,” or wolf, rather, and a complicated relationship to Ragnar, his self-doubt has been elevated to much higher, more dramatic levels, and it’s something he’ll wrestle with for the rest of the series. It would have been, in a general sense, the “smart thing” to execute Ragnar and be done with it – but there’s no conflict in that. Dealing with Ragnar is far more interesting then occasionally regretting having sentenced him to death. It also goes against Leif’s personality: it’s not that he can’t make a hard decision, but, like him or not, Ragnar is family. That complicates the decision, and Leif is nothing if not thoughtful. Rune’s the rash one, of the two.

I think it’s essential that, if asked, I’m able to fully explain a character’s thought process. When I think about the movies and TV shows produced in the past decade, the ones that have hotly divided fandoms and spawned petitions, the writers/directors/producers often explained their thought processes…but not the characters’. “We wanted to surprise the audience.” “We wanted to shock everyone.” Cool, but can you explain why that surprising, shocking twist is supported by the characters’ thoughts and actions? You have to be thinking about the character and not the audience when you’re writing. If you want to draw a genuine reaction from the audience, you have to put the work into the characterization. Remember how Benioff and Weiss kept chickening out of interviews post-GOT? Throughout the show, in post-episode interviews, they continued to talk about what they wanted the audience to think/feel, but could never back this up with any sort of meaningful discussion about the characters and their motivations. Instead, character’s personalities, morals, and motivations shifted suddenly in order to make certain plot poinst possible. Game of Thrones comes to mind. Sons of Anarchy. The Marvel Cinematic Universe. It’s an endless list.

If someone asks about the motivation of a character, about his or her growth and progression throughout a story, and a writer says the character’s actions “allowed” for a shocking scene, it means they were putting plot before character, with no regard for logic or continuity.

Grievances with mega media corporations aside, I think maintaining a character’s integrity is the most important aspect of my job as a writer. I always ask myself what a certain character would do and say in a given situation, and there are hard “no”s to contend with. Sometimes a concept is interesting, but impossible given what we already know about a character. Mercy would never cheat on Ava. Michael would never sing karaoke. Erik would never send his men into battle without being at the front of the charge. “Maybe”s do exist, but in those instances, I ask myself how that “maybe” will affect every member of the ensemble cast. Some ideas have merit, but wind up getting scrapped because it throws a wrench in the works down the line somewhere.

Storytelling is, at its core, the act of introducing characters and detailing their adventures and relationships as they work through various conflicts. I take a character-driven approach; for me, it’s more important that a character’s personal struggles and relationships follow a logical, satisfying course than it is for the plot to move quickly or in “shocking” directions. It means that my books tend to run long, and that they are populated with quiet, domestic scenes and conversations. Commercial fiction often moves along at a faster clip, but I’m not writing commercial fiction; for me, it’s most important to deliver those satisfying, slow-burn character narratives, some of which take the entire span of a series to play out.

The way to keep that interesting is through the prose itself, which I’ll discuss in my next post.

#MusicMonday - The Wild Charge

 I don't talk about music that much, despite the fact that music is such an integral part of my writing process. I don't listen while I write - I prefer to have low-stress cooking or home reno shows on in the background while I work - but I listen to music while I work out and while I brainstorm. I have very eclectic taste and listen to every genre - save bro country. Ugh. When will singer/songwriter country return? Anyway...

I prefer pop and rock. I used to always say my favorite band was AC/DC, and it IS. My gosh, I love them, and always will. But...they have some competition, which is why I have to say that I have two favorite bands. 

I graduated college in 2011, and things weren't great. I had applied everywhere, couldn't get an interview, and despite querying a multitude of agencies, couldn't get a whole manuscript request. Basically, I was talented, but not marketable. I didn't know what to do...and that was when I found Marianas Trench.

Over the years, thanks to some ugly behind the scenes nonsense, I've hesitated to share much of my inspiration, despite music's role in my creative process. But I realized it's more important to share than it is to protect my process. MT's "Ever After" touched me so much that it made me brave enough to self-publish, and their work has continued to inspire me ever since. Josh Ramsay is my favorite vocalist; he's so talented, can do a falsetto and a deeper, growlier voice; he also orchestrates all the amazing string and French horn parts of their songs which elevate the band from simple pop to movie soundtrack worthy. (And as a former French horn player, I'm so weak for good brass)

"The Killing Kind" is on my The Wild Charge playlist. 

"Masterpiece Theater III" was on my Loverboy playlist. 

Hope you'll give them a listen, because they're so, so good. 

Friday Recap (2/18)

 We made it to Friday! I don't know why I used that exclamation point; I work every day, there's no such thing as weekends. I just need a good exclamation point now and then, lest I complete my final transformation into human Eeyore. 

Anyway, in my 2022 quest to be more active around these parts, I thought I would start doing Friday recaps. That way, if you missed anything, you can find it all in one place. 

It was a good writing and posting week. 

• I updated The Wild Charge twice, with chapters Thirty-One and Thirty-Two. I'm working on Thirty-Three today, and hope to have it up either this afternoon or tomorrow. I always post updates on Twitter and FB, or you can follow the story on Wattpad. 

• I shared two extended teaser snippets from Demon of the Dead: Failsafe, a glimpse at Nali leading the cousins through a binding spell, and a short Amelia snippet for Teaser Tuesday. 

• Anne Rice's The Wolf Gift was my third completed book of 2022's #ReadingLife post series. 

• As far as current reads go, I'm still chipping away at the inimitable Dorothy Dunnett's Gemini; I reached the 75% mark in The Raven King, and that shocker of an OMG/holy shit moment (Drake); received book mail in the form of Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melnibone; and am still in the middle of Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone. (and still traumatized by the scene with the bear. Holy crap. I never know which scene from a book will be the one that grabs, but now I'm wondering what else is in store for the rest of the story)

• I started a new blog post series in which I'm going to outline my whole writing "Process," and it kicked off with conceptualization this week.  

• Lastly, I shared some errant future Dartmoor thoughts about the second generation on my author FB page, which you can find here. 

Have a lovely weekend, everyone! 

The Process: Conceptualization

 

The Process

 

*Coach Saban voice*: It’s about the process.

No, but, really, it is. Writing a book is a lengthy process that comes with a whole host of organizational and mental challenges. They take months to conceptualize, complete, edit, proof, and then publish; there’s no such thing as instant gratification and it can become discouraging along the way – it often does for me. It’s hard to spend six, seven, eight months, sometimes a year on a manuscript wondering the whole time if, businesswise, it will have been worth all the early mornings and sleepless nights. Everyone has their own process, and that’s what sustains you, 50k words in and afflicted with hopelessness.

I thought I’d talk about my process, in a series of connected posts, from conceptualization to editing.

 

Conceptualization

Everything starts with character for me. My motto is “Character first.” All my past attempts to begin mapping a story based on a concept have failed – I think probably because concept is the least important part of any book I read. A trope is only so good as the author wielding the keyboard, in my opinion. It’s all about characters who feel real and knowable.

Historically, I’ve always been someone who latches onto a secondary character in any story. I usually like the main character well enough, but it’s the sidekick who fascinates and inspires me most. Plenty of stories have been told about “main character” types, with their good looks, and strong convictions, and clearly-outlined quests. Literally everyone writes about “alpha males.” I have no interest in that. I have a few kings and leaders thrown into the mix, sure, but even then, I’m not approaching it from the “alpha” stereotype – unless you count all the werewolves: that’s really the only time I use that word. I prefer the damaged and the weird, and those just trying to get by. Those with demons. Those who aren’t trying to change the world, but perhaps manage to do so anyway. When I write a king – Erik, Richard, Vlad – I have to know one thing, first, and it’s something I have to know about all my characters: where are their vulnerable spots?

With any character, I have to know what they want, what they’re willing to do to get it, and what makes them vulnerable. What do they fear? Where are their limits? How far will they go? How cruel are they? What wakes them at night in a cold sweat, heart pounding? What sight makes them smile? When do they feel quietest, most at peace? I find it’s the things people don’t advertise about themselves that are the most important traits when crafting a character.

In the case of a historical figure, it’s even more of a psychological exercise. Tell me a guy killed his own nobles and impaled his POWs, and it’s my job to try and crawl inside his head and figure out the lines of thought that led him to these actions. When reading historical texts, the authors often say they “cannot speculate motives,” or they simply don’t want to, and I respect that. I don’t like when an author couches an opinion as fact, when there’s no way any of us can truly know what went on inside someone’s head centuries ago. But I’m a fiction author, so I get to play, and that has been both nerve-wracking and a heck of a lot of fun.

When it comes to characterization, my goal is always to paint a complete portrait of the central protagonists. My characters don’t merely exist in the moment of the story; I don’t just drop them in and “get on with it.” Each character’s personality and actions are informed by their childhood, by their family, by their experiences and traumas. I incorporate this by weaving in little nuggets of the past; I employ large-scale flashbacks, yes, but also love to layer little anecdotes from the past as a character is experiencing an event in the present. Here’s an example from The Wild Charge:

 

Five years ago, a man named Benjamin Ruse had approached a woman in a pub in London. Younger than her, too young, really, barely out of school, but tall, and blue-eyed, and gorgeous. The lights had gleamed off the product in his hair, and off his smooth, high cheekbones, his fine, poreless skin. He’d leaned up against the bar beside her, and given her a look, one wiser and more experienced than his age would have indicated.

He’d bought her next round, and then the next.

She’d twisted her ring off and slipped it into her purse in the cab ride. Poured them more wine when they got to the flat…and never saw the granules he slipped into her glass when she wasn’t looking.

Her husband, an important member of parliament, arrived home after eleven to a dark flat. When he clicked on the lamp, he saw his wife laid out on the sofa, asleep – and a strange man in the chair. His favorite chair.

And a young man, at that. He’d grinned, a fast slice of white teeth in the dim lamplight. “Hi, honey, welcome home.”

Benjamin Ruse had made two other appearances: once on a horseback riding outing with a Saudi prince, one he then wound up in bed with, and took some extremely compromising photos of. And the last time in an elevator in Hong Kong, where two British officials had arrived on their designated floor sprawled atop one another on the floor of the cab, strangled to death.

Tenny had always considered it his favorite alias. Benjamin Ruse was suave, and sophisticated; charming to men and women. And Ruse was especially fun to say, knowing the word play at hand. It was the name he’d given to Ratchet when he first arrived in Knoxville, and found himself in need of a believably fake driver’s license, in case he ever got pulled over in a routine traffic stop, or wanted to buy beer, or get into a club.

But he hadn’t had a name, then.

Ratchet spun away from his laptop, a small, shiny plastic card in one hand. He scanned it, frowning to himself.

Tenny resisted the urge to fidget; he’d never been a fidgeter before, in his pre-name, only-a-number life. Lots of things were changing; the chaos of that infuriated him…even though, when he allowed himself to admit it, he didn’t want to go back.

 

 

I could have told you Tenny had a favorite alias, but I was after the imagery, the understanding that this longer scene imparts.

I’m keenly aware that this is a writing style that doesn’t resonate universally – some readers want to trim the story down to the base essentials of what is happening in the present day – but I love that intricate dovetailing-in of context. Mercy recalling his “daddy’s” strength as he hauled a thrashing bull gator up into their little boat tells you so much more than just saying “Mercy was very strong.” It gives you an image. It tells you “this is a man who was once a boy who slayed literal dragons, and he’s not afraid of any man.”

I plan to expand on this in my post about my actual writing process, but for me, writing the plot of a narrative is inextricably linked with characterization. It’s a personal preference, when reading and writing, and I attribute this to my love of the Romantic period in English literature, and to my Southern roots. Southerners tell sprawling stories that give you an abundance of sidenotes and background. The late great Pat Conroy, for instance: while I have my quibbles with his work, there’s no denying the magic of his prose, and the weaving of past and present in each of his books. Or Anne Rivers Siddons. They weren’t showing a slice of life, but a whole life, and that’s what I love most about fiction-writing. I want to show you glimpses of the whole person, childhood to old age.

I certainly have favorite character archetypes – I love gremlins and showmen; cold, hard girls and girls who know when it’s smart to lay low and listen; deeply-flawed leaders and their much more practical seconds. But I can’t control who pops into my mind and demands to have his or her story told. If I could, I’d probably be much more successful at this whole publishing thing 😉

Next time, it’s all about narrative and prose.

#TeaserTuesday - Lady Amelia

 

Inglewood

 

Amelia was in the process of arranging chairs around the long dining table when she heard the drakes start up a glad cry in the yard. A quick test of the bond left her smiling: the other girls were arriving, which meant the humans they’d been left in charge of were as well.

By the time she made her way down the staircase into the dug-up back garden, Alpha’s other three girls were swooping down to land on the grass beside him. There was much nuzzling, and purring, and happy warbling as they all greeted one another. Then Amelia reached them, and sleek, horned heads shoved into her face; warm snouts pressed at her shoulders, and arms, until she’d given everyone a proper hello.

“Hullo, girls. How are your charges faring? No one got snapped up by lions, did they?”

The snort of a horse drew her attention to the mouth of the road, and the tunnel of interlaced branches that led out of the wood and onto the manor lands. Connor, Reginald, and Edward rode abreast, gray-cloaked Strangers walking ahead, spears on shoulders, soldiers from four duchies walking behind, morning sunlight dappling bright armor.

“They don’t look like the finest army,” she mused aloud to Alpha, who’d moved to stand at her shoulder, “but they’re ours, I suppose.”

#ReadingLife - No. 3

Over time, you'll probably begin to see a pattern in most of my reading, and that pattern is Distinct Voices. Whatever the genre, whatever the tropes used, I prefer books written with a style and flair all the author's own. That's certainly the case with book three of the year. One page, one paragraph into any Anne Rice book, you know exactly whose work you're reading. 

I bought The Wolf Gift shortly after it was released, but, given the size of my TBR, writing commitments, and general ADD when it comes to reading, I put it up on my shelf to look pretty and collect dust for the last few years. When I heard the news of her passing, I picked it up. 

The Wolf Gift is immediately, unequivocally Anne's particular brand of Gothic, creature-feature horror. It opens on our protagonist, Reuben Golding, a young journalist, interviewing the owner of a grand and gorgeous home on California's redwood coast. Reuben is taken right away with the house, and its owner. After a night together, both are attacked in the wee hours...by men, and by an avenging monster. Reuben survives, and quickly begins undergoing a series of miraculous physical changes, ending up as, you guessed it, a werewolf. 

One of my favorite things about Anne Rice has always been her ability to take a very Classic story, tell it with classical panache and a passion from a bygone era of art, but she always twists the mythos into something uniquely her own. Like with the Vampire Chronicles, she creates a werewolf lore not seen in other werewolf literature, reaching all the way back to the conception of the creatures, touching on their philosophy, their religion - or lack thereof. Rice's monster tales are not wild romps, but introspective tales reminiscent of the Romantic Period, which ask big, theological questions about what it means to be a man versus a monster; questions about morality, and duality, and existence at large. 

In typical Rice fashion, the prose is lush and descriptive, highly visual when it comes to setting and staging. As one would expect it has a certain historic quality to it - and I don't mean this as an insult at all, it's one of the things I've always found most charming about her work. The prose reads as if penned by hand and by candlelight, by someone living in Renaissance times, marveling always at small wonders, simple beauties, and the vastness of the world. This means that the dialogue doesn't feel very modern, even in the mouths of modern characters; it also, in the way of sweeping English Romantic Period fiction, allows characters to feel things deeply and viscerally, loving quickly and powerfully, unbreakable bonds forming almost instantly. Again, this feels very "Classic" to me, and is part of her charm, but don't go into it looking for a gritty, hyper-realistic story. 

Small warning for gore: the wolves tear a lot of people and animals up, and it gets bloody. That's another thing about Anne Rice: she goes there, in whatever story she writes. Her work has always made me a braver writer. At times, I've had ideas, and then told myself they were probably Too Much...but then I asked myself, "What would Anne do?" She would go for it, and if it made people uncomfortable, oh well. 

She was such a powerhouse, and will be missed dearly. While it lacks Lestat - he really does make every book better - The Wolf Gift reads like the early days of the Vampire Chronicles, full of thoughtful monsters and gorgeous settings. I'm glad I finally got to it. 

Failsafe

 I tend to get in the writing zone, and suddenly it's been two weeks since I've posted anything of substance. So have a look-see at DOTD and the magicked torq "failsafe."

Happy Saturday!

Náli bit back a sigh and produced the torq from beneath his cloak. Gleaming silver, a broken circle with knobbed prongs that would sit against Ragnar’s throat, the latch in front was designed to resemble two wolf heads, one biting the other’s throat. If the spell worked, once the latch was clicked into place, it wouldn’t be able to be opened again by the wearer or any outsider; no blacksmith’s hammer could strike off a magicked torq such as this would be. There was to be a failsafe, however; a weaving of magic that Náli himself had researched at length all of yesterday, and which he felt confident he’d be able to achieve. He’d never performed anything quite like it, but if he could raise entire skeletal armies, he didn’t think this would be all that difficult. 

“Oh,” Tessa said, when she saw it. “It seems to wrong to say that it’s lovely, but it is, really.”

“Somehow, I doubt Ragnar would agree with you,” Oliver said, tone dry. “But the detail is incredible, I’ll give the smith that.”

“Yes, yes, it’s very nice. Here.” With his other hand, Náli fished the two small, diamond pendants he’d promised from his pocket and handed them over. His much larger diamond hung against his chest, outside his leather doublet. Its weight tugged at the back of his neck, rested heavy over his heart.

His mother had picked it up, once, from his dressing table – the sight of it in her hand had left his stomach rolling – and she’d said, “It doesn’t feel as heavy as you say.”

Oh, Mother. If only you knew.

“Put them on,” he told the cousins, and they complied. “Now. Do you remember the failsafe?”

Oliver and Tessa traded a look that he couldn’t interpret: something secret and familiar, the sort of look they’d likely been trading since they were much younger, which could have been reassurance, confirmation, or a shared doubt in Náli and his plan.

“Do you remember?” he pressed, and knew by Oliver’s raised-brow look that he’d been snippy. Oh well.

“We remember,” Oliver said.

Tessa said, a little awed and breathless, “This torq can only be removed for love.” Then she frowned. “Does that mean only by someone who loves him? Or for any reason driven by love?”

“The spell’s not that specific,” Náli said, with a faint inward twinge of doubt, because the spell wasn’t that specific. Love was the release, according to very old, very dead magic scholars. Other emotions could have been used, but given Ragnar’s lack of popularity among his relatives, he’d thought love the best bet. Who could love Ragnar? No chance of an escape from his servitude that way. “Safe to say,” he continued, “no one loves him. It doesn’t matter what type of love the spell requires when you’re a lying, two-faced, sheep-headed wolf-fucker.”

Tessa blushed.

Oliver said, “Eloquent.”

Náli tugged at his cloak. “I like to think so, yes.”

That made both of them laugh.

A door creaked and shut forcefully a few yards away at the palace’s rear façade. A glance proved that the king himself, followed by Bjorn, was stalking their way.

Náli wiped the haughtiness from his face and spoke in a hushed, urgent voice. “Listen to me, both of you. Do not share this with your men. Not with Erik, not with Rune.” Both looked scandalized. “I’m quite serious. Don’t tell them the trigger. Tell no one. If you want to keep Leif safe, then you’ll guard this secret with all you have.” He wouldn’t say with your lives. As someone with one foot in the grave, he couldn’t ask for a friend’s life.

Their eyes widened, and the next look they exchanged was unmistakeable: one of united worry and resolve.

“We promise,” Tessa said.

Oliver added, “We won’t breathe a word.”

Something about his expression gave Náli misgivings – something like I’ll tell someone if it’s necessary. But, well, that was neither Náli’s worry, nor the most pressing issue of the moment.