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)
“But this is a verra big problem.” Thane turned to his side and lost his fight with the whiskey.
Chapter 5
Shieldchief Arctos
Ravinelun, the Queendom of Berserkers
“What news, incubus?” Arctos’s voice rumbled low in the cave.
“What coin, bear?” Inkletter lounged against the stone, cleaning his claws with a blade.
“Depends on the information. And before you say that depends on the pay, remember I’ve only so much time and a bear’s impatience.”
The abandoned cave, one of thousands within the twisty Berserker lands, stank of iron and secrets. Perfect for espionage.
“Very well.” Inkletter lowered his voice. “I’ve developed a contact in Crypt Castle…” He was notorious for his contacts across the Lore. Besotted females believed this male loved them and told him all their secrets. Yet Ink loved only his library. Spying for gold enabled him to acquire rare editions. “Word is the vampires are planning a power move this Accession, setting you up for extinction in the next.”
“Excellent,” Arctos growled. “Then I’ve got much coin for such news.”
Inkletter smiled, flashing his demonic fangs. “King Neculain is sealing his daughter Emilia in the Blood Crypt for a century with a stable of males. To breed her.”
Arctos didn’t blink. Typical, accursed leeches. “She must possess some unusual gift. Did a witch foremother taint her line?”
“Unknown. But Neculain wants ‘enhanced’ offspring—vampires fit to end every other species in the Skein.”
“Can she trace?” Arctos had heard that Neculain could, but none of his offspring had mastered teleportation. Few in the kingdom could. Thank Wóden.
“My source says not an inch. Emilia Vlădescu must possess some other talent.” Maybe she could turn to mist like the royal vampires of old.
Arctos’s Berserkerage simmered just beneath the surface. Memories lived there too. He saw his family again—his mother shoving him into a bear den, her screams echoing, vampires laughing as they fed.
They’d decapitated his drained father and brother with a sword, but they’d beheaded her through bites alone.
In his nightmares…always that laughter.
He rubbed the scar that cut from his forehead to his jaw. His first fight, his first loss. Yet the pain of his injuries and lost eye was nothing compared to his grief and guilt.
Inkletter followed the movement of Arctos’s hand, then said, “Such news could stir the queendom to war with Bloodreach. Perhaps you’ll get the battles you need, Shieldchief.”
Arctos needed them desperately.
Just eight kills stood between him and ohalla—immortality forged from two hundred valiant kills. Ten years ago, he’d stalled because of Queen Yrsa’s edict: no offense, only defense.
And no one dared to attack them when the clan hungered for ohalla.
Only one future was certain for Arctos. Aging. Forty winters pressed on his bones. Every night when he looked in the mirror at his scarred face, he was reminded that he would soon be a burden to his people. No longer a warrior but a liability.
I’ll die first.
Arctos tossed him a bag of gold berkoin. “Dig deeper. I want a timeline.”
Inkletter’s brown eyes flashed Ubus green, a sign of sharp emotion. “Bedding this source is a punishment. I’d rather fuck a basilisk.”
Arctos could imagine little worse than intercourse with a vampire.
Inkletter added, “And if I take her three times, she’ll become bonded to me for eternity.”
“Then once more only. I’ll double your pay.”
Gaze gone distant, he muttered, “She…she cried at the end.”
Though Arctos and the incubus were more than acquaintances and had even downed a vodka together on occasion, this confession surprised him. “Hazard of the trade?” Arctos asked. “Cries of ecstasy and all that.”
“No. Real tears. Ecstasy and sobs.” Inkletter must be bewildered; he wasn’t exactly a sharer. He straightened, sheathed his blade at his side, and pocketed his pay. “No matter.” He vanished.
Puzzling over the incubus’s behavior, Arctos headed out of the cave into the howling wind. This territory had the highest continued altitude of all those in the Skein, and ice had already begun to stick as autumn brought its chills. Snow crept from Ravinelun Peak, whipping through the canyons like a sandblast.
Thousands of years ago, Berserkers—with their undiscovered potential for immortality—had been swept up in the Exile, then thrust into the lethal All-Battle. Led by Yrsa, they’d fled to these canyons no one else had desired.
Their barren refuge had turned into sacred ground. He would not lose it.
At the entrance to the court, a pair of guards he’d trained flanked the cave opening. Bear-skull helms dipped in respect to their shieldchief—second only to Yrsa herself. He nodded back.
Inside, firelight licked totems until they seemed to dance. The scent of cool rock swept him up as the cavern ceiling soared above. Roots dangled, reminding him of his own arms as he’d reached for his mother that last time. She’d tearfully smiled, then placed a finger over her lips.
Her last whispered words: Hide. Survive. It’s a simple calculus, son. If you live on, we live on. Then she’d charged away to save him.