#TeaserTuesday: You Coward

 

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“Pull him out,” he instructed, and Valgrind burrowed his head down into the snow. He withdrew a moment later, hauling Rune out by the back of his tunic.

Rune sputtered, and kicked, and swung his arms, and showered snow everywhere.

Valgrind craned his neck around so Náli was face-to-face with Rune’s spitting, cursing, red-cheeked visage. Close enough that Náli could slap him—which he did.

His hand left a gratifying red mark behind, each finger distinct, and snapped Rune’s head to the side. When he turned back, he no longer looked panicked, but, thankfully, furious. Good: an angry man was a man who could take action. Fear and panic were nothing but wasted effort.

“Shut up and listen to me,” Náli said, not as himself, but as the Corpse Lord. His was a laughable sort of authority, but by some miracle, Rune shut his gob and went still in Valgrind’s grasp. “We can’t go after Tessa because Tessa’s not here.”

Rune blinked at him, uncomprehending, and then scowled. He pointed toward the capital, somewhere beyond the peaks. “Of course she’s not here. That Sel took her! Which is why we need to give chase! Our drakes are faster than the big one, and…what?” He broke off, frowning, when Náli shook his head. “You turn back if you want to, coward, but that’s my wife! I’m going after her!”

Náli almost slapped him again. He said, “That Sel opened a portal and took her through it. We can’t go after her, because it’s not a matter of flying faster. She’s gone, Rune. And we can’t follow.”

Fearless Read-Along: Chapter Thirty-One Part One

Monday. Funeral day. Ava sat up before her alarm went off at six with a strange weightless feeling in her stomach. She’d been to almost a dozen such funerals, but never because of murder, and never after such a strange few days as these last few. MC funerals were bedecked in pomp, steeped in nostalgia, works of art, really, and for the first time since coming home, she woke up and felt almost like her old self. Like the club daughter, instead of the country club girlfriend. 

Welcome back to the Fearless read-along! Picking up where we left off, Chapter Thirty-One is a long one, so I'm going to split it into two posts. 

It's funeral day for the Lean Dogs: time to lay Andre to rest, and to make statements to the public, and to their enemies. 

In a fictional sense, funerals make for great tipping points. The reminder of our brief time on earth, the harsh reality of our own mortality, brings characters to decision points. This happens in real life, messily, imperfectly; in a novel, it can be cold and clean and a necessary catalyst for change. 

 

             The second her feet touched the floor, in the chilly dark of her room, the energy began fizzling in her veins, that strange, morbid excitement. A member was dead. Bring out the bikes, say all your prayers, give thanks for your once-percent blood. And so it always went. 

Ava wakes the morning of the funeral nervous and (guiltily) excited. The club daughter in her will always love the chance to show up for her family; to be counted amongst the Dogs. She's her mama's right hand, and there's a certain importance that makes her relish the role, even as a pall of sadness lies over them all. 

She begins the day comparing Ronnie to her family, and not merely finding fault with him, but actively asking herself why she's with him. Oh boy, Ronnie. It was never going to work, but then he drives the point home by being an ass at the funeral home. He's tried the Understanding Good Guy route, and now goes for scorn and shame; he's really so stupid he thinks that she'll chase after him, and put some distance between herself and her family. 

Ava cast a glance into the next room, at Ronnie massaging his scalp from his slump on the sofa. Why? she wondered. Why am I not allowed to have what my parents have? Why do I have – Ronnie dug his phone from under his pillow and checked it – this?

On Mercy's side of things, president-to-president contact is made with the Carpathians. Ghost lays down the law, Jasper bristles, and the stage is set for active combat. 

“Alright, Jasper,” Ghost said. The conversational tone, the assumed familiarity was grating on the younger man’s nerves, Mercy could see; Jasper’s jaw worked. “As much fun as this is, I didn’t come here for a social call. This” – Ghost circled a finger in the air, indicating the trip they’d all made to this side of town – “is your warning. Your polite warning. I am not having some all-out war with your crew. I don’t have time to play Cowboys and Indians with you. If you make one more move toward that end, I will kill you. I will destroy you, in every way possible.”

It's surreal to revisit this war with the Carpathians after Lord Have Mercy. The club started out fighting local enemies, and as the Dogs gained power and influence, so too did their enemies. It makes me want to shed a proud little mother tear over the ways they've grown since this first book; the challenges they were able to tackle and overcome as the years went by. 

The back half of the chapter contains all the ~revelations~, and the steamy bits, and I'll post about that next Monday. 

Avarice of the Empire: The Debriefing

Book six in the Drake Chronicles, Avarice of the Empire, dropped one week ago today. It's one of the shorter books in the series, but packs a big punch. Let's dive into it. 

This book picks up where Fortunes of War left off, and like Fortunes, the majority of the action takes place on the long march toward the capital of Aquitainia. That's due in part because it's a long way from Drakewell and an even longer way from Aeres. This is a fantasy realm, but these are also Olden Days: travel takes time; it's laborious, and dusty, and sweaty, and terribly unfun. But that's the beauty of writing this sort of travel: it provides automatic tension. I can then use that tension to further all the character relationships, be they romantic, friendly, or hostile. 

I can't tell you how many times I've read books in which the author writes in a flight, or a road trip, or even a long walk, and simply says "we flew to Nashville," or "we walked ten miles," so on, etc. That trip can certainly be a point A to B move, without incident, but if you have characters trapped together for hours, or days, or weeks, you have a ready-made environment for interpersonal development, and that's what Avarice highlights. 

Beware of spoilers ahead! 

AOTE: "How was dinner?"

 

We get a glimpse of the capital of Aquitainia in Avarice of the Empire...but likely not in the way anyone expected! 

My full author debriefing is coming on Sunday, a full week since the book's drop, and there will be spoilers. Until then, enjoy Cassius's pretty ankles. 

With a sigh, she let herself inside the chamber, and when the door was shut, heard the lock turn from the outside.

The fire crackled merrily, bright and pulsing warmth into the chamber. Candles flickered on the bedside table, and in the sconces, and on the low table in front of the sofa.

She thought it was the work of a slave—and it was, but not the lady’s maid she’d envisioned.

Cassius straightened from the table and blew out the fireplace spill he’d used to light the candles. He’d lost his stiff coat since she’d left for dinner, dressed now in a spring weight thigh-length tunic and breeches. The ensemble made his shoulders look broad—broader than she’d thought they were.

“My lady,” he greeted. “How was dinner?”

She turned, crossed to the sideboard, and poured herself a large measure of wine.

“Ah.”

She took a long, fortifying swallow and turned to lean back against the sideboard. Cassius, she saw, had perched on the arm of a chair, legs stretched out long in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He’d traded his usual boots for a soft-looking pair of slippers; they were dark purple lined with some sort of dyed fur, a sharp contrast to his pale, trim ankles. She stared at them a moment, the distinct lines of bone and tendon, the faint blue tracing of veins.

Pretty, she thought, and then gave herself a mental shake and took another slug of wine.

“Did you see your sister and cousin?” he asked, and she looked up at his face.

If he’d looked informal earlier, he was downright casual now. Clearly tired, no longer trying to hold his expression in check. He sat with arms folded, brows drawn together, chewing at his lower lip in an absent way. His sleek white hair was ruffled on top, like he’d been raking it back with his hands, and she realized he’d taken out the leather tie that kept it pulled back at the crown. It framed his face in a whole new way, now; lent a little color to his cheeks by contrast.

Again, against her will, she was reminded of Mal. Of him unbuttoning his collar and slouching against her bedpost, relaxed but attentive, caring but ready to tell her a hard truth should she need to hear it.