Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
She shot him a look, as if he’d just missed an obvious lesson even a child could follow. He’d never had that look turned on him before. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of thinking like that. Gold is survival—”
The air blurred. A male materialized out of a cloud of noxious smoke: black hood, corpse-pale skin, eyes rimmed red. His gaze cut from the fire bowl to Nadje, then to Ink. “Who’s he?”
“My…associate,” she said.
Ink met the stranger’s stare. “And you are?”
“Baelor the Unraveler.”
Ink had heard the name. Archwarlock. Malevolent. “Why do you want this lava, Baelor?”
Nadje stiffened at the question; the warlock’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s new,” Baelor said to her.
“I am,” Ink replied. “I’m also curious.”
“Then you won’t last long as a hired concierge.” Baelor laced the word with contempt. “You’re paid to turn off your memory. And your questions.”
The warlock’s barb couldn’t penetrate Ink’s own arrogance. “Then perhaps you want a different concierge.” He adjusted the staff over his shoulder.
Nadje’s smile was tight, practical. “He’ll hire the competition. Our competition, Inkletter.”
Baelor stilled. “Inkletter?” Something like interest sparked. “The studious incubus. Whisperer at kings’ ears. Reduced to fetching.” He clicked his tongue. “How embarrassing.”
Ink ignored him, telling Nadje, “You know this feels wrong.”
“Know nothing of the sort.” She turned to Baelor. “Do you have the gold?”
“Of course.” A chest thumped into being at his feet. He lifted his hand and smoke swirled thicker. “I have bound your teleportation, incubus, so you have two choices. Leave with your gold or remain here without it. The lava goes with me.”
Ink attempted to half trace, felt an invisible snare. Frustration tensed his muscles. This warlock had just placed himself in Ink’s sights.
Nadje quickly said, “The name of the sorceress. Where do we find her?”
With another look at Ink, Baelor answered her. “Pemphre, the Queen of Questions. Highest peak in the Helter.”
The Helter? Even Nadje blanched.
“Whoever you sell this information to must tell her I sent them. That is our covenant once you take your pay. She demands lone supplicants and an offering of the oldest gold coin one can find.”
“Fine,” Nadje said, dragging the chest out of the fumes. Over her shoulder to Ink: “You heard him.”
Ink considered fighting free with the bowl. But the calculation ended with too many ways to fail and not enough to win. Especially since his fighting style utilized tracing. When more magic began to swirl, Ink unstrapped the staff and passed the sloshing vessel to Baelor.
Hellfire glowed in the warlock’s eyes as he peered into the bowl. “Our business is concluded.” He lifted his chin toward Ink. “Formerly great Inkletter, I’ll see you soon.” He opened his portal, stepped through. The smoke imploded as if a black hole had sucked every trace of it, and he was gone.
Ink felt the binding on his teleportation snap loose. He exhaled a breath. “Are you ready to be done with this place?”
“Yes,” Nadje said, but her gaze had returned to the hanging sorceress. Sword already in hand, she marched to the tree.
Ink watched, bemused, as she hacked at the tree limb. Once, twice, thrice. The crows scattered, at least from this victim. They alighted on the rage demon, who roused even more.
“Why help her? I thought you’d exhausted your altruism.”
“Because I”—hack—“feel like it.” Hack.
“You’re frustrated,” Ink intoned. “Because you know what we did was wrong.”
“I’m not frustrated!” she snapped and hit harder. “I like my job. Even when it’s wrong, it’s mine!” Hack!
The limb gave; the sorceress dropped onto her face, a limp sack of ruined flesh.
“In for a penny…” Nadje muttered and swung again, grimly severing the sorceress’s hands with her dulled blade. She stripped the bermetal chain free and tucked the bleeding stumps beneath the female’s torso, out of beak reach.
Those hands would regenerate and now the sorceress had no restraints to bind her magic. For better or worse, Nadje had given the female a chance to become empowered once more.
In theory.
Ink said, “The crows may outpace her healing.”
Pressing her lips together, Nadje eyed the growing black tide on the next branch.
Ink glanced up at the demon. He thrashed, jerking and straining. Whether to drive the birds away or reach the fallen sorceress, Ink couldn’t tell. Either way, the crossroads felt more…aware.
“If you’re committed to your rescued criminal,” Ink said dryly, “I could trace her to your lodgings.”
Reality flashed across Nadje’s face, reminding Ink that she was still a very young immortal. “The sorceress could be as evil as Prince Coștin. I’ll keep my distance.”
Ink noted Nadje’s improvised mercy—its rashness, its risks—his mind already calculating consequences far down the line.
He didn’t act on impulse. He avoided the unpredictable.
Yet when Nadje hefted the gold and said, “Let’s leave, partner,” the word landed like a spark in his chest, and that earlier kernel of protectiveness flared.
He crossed to her with his shoulders squared. “Very well, little flame.” He traced them away, the crossroads dimming behind them.