#Hosting With Silver Dagger Tours

[thecatsreaderslibrary]

"Breaking The Silence: Confronting Guilt and Shame" ~New Book and Sale Blitz ~Cat Hosting Debra Morgan Best-Selling Author ~By Silver Dagger Tours. . .

Breaking The SilenceConfronting Guilt and Shame…by Debra MorganGenre: Wellness, Chronic Pain, Self-HelpMarch 14th and 15th  “Breaking The Silence Receives A 5-Star Editorial Book Review Awarded By Reader’s Favorite 2024!”Deb Morgan, the author of the Amazon best-selling memoir “Graceful Agony: An Intimate Memoir of Living with Fibro & Chronic Fatigue,” has published a new book titled “Breaking…

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Cowboy Like Me - Part 2

Azriel x Reader

Part two of my fic inspired by the queens of my heart, Taylor Swift and Sarah J. Maas.

Part 1 Part 3

Warnings: Language and suggestive language

I shrugged. “Alright, when do we start?”

The Spymaster raised an eyebrow. “Do you not have questions about the prospect?”

I examined my nails. “I assume you’ll divulge the details when you’re prepared.”

“Huh.” Azriel mused. Leaning back and crossing his arms, half a smirk turning up one side of his full lips. “I had hoped to have an opportunity to use this.” He unsheathed a dagger from his side, mirroring me as he examined his own nails - picking them with the tip of it.

Smug bastard.

Beautiful smug bastard.

Questions began forming on my tongue but I held them in, refusing to allow him victory in this unspoken battle of wills.

Fortunately for Azriel’s ego, a knock broke the silence, sparing him the embarrassment of losing as the High Lord entered the room.

He nodded his head in greeting. “Ahh, Y/N. Azriel tells me that you have agreed to work with him.”

I may be one to test patience but in the name of self-preservation, I knew better than to test the High Lord’s power. Besides, as a spy with no allegiances - perhaps he could become a lucrative client.

“I don’t suppose I have a choice.” I replied sweetly.

“There’s always a choice, Y/N.” The High Lord stated his tone implying enough about what was left unsaid.

Work for me.

Or

Torture. Dungeon. Execution. Worse.

Some choices I had.

I shook off the thought. “I assume you’ll notify me once you’re ready for the assignment to begin.”

The High Lord smirked, “Consider this your notice. Your work begins now.”

I puzzled, brows furrowing. “and where will I be staying?”

There was a pause. Azriel and Rhys looked to eachother, expressions unreadable. The silence went on for some time, Rhyand’s face shifting to something like amusement as Azriel’s twisted into annoyance.

Letting out a dramatic sigh, I impatiently waved my hands. “Hello?? I’m right here??”

Finally Azriel’s face returned to its mask of cool indifference as he flatly stated, “You’ll stay with me.”

My jaw dropped. “Interesting.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“This place is….” My words cut off, the awed expression on my face speaking the rest. The Moonstone Palace was absolutely stunning.

I looked around marveling at the palace as Azriel walked me through it giving a very detailed tour consisting of “Bedroom. Bedroom. Kitchen. Dining Room. Formal Dining Room.” And the list of rooms went on, and on, and on until he stopped in front of a door where he motioned his hand, said “your room”, and stalked off.

Very well, then.

I stepped a foot into the room before turning,

“Azriel?” I asked.

He halted his steps without turning back to face me, “Yes?”

“How is it so warm in here when there are no windows?”

He turned his head to me and I could have sworn a slight hint of amusement crossed his face. “Magic.”

I rolled my eyes, stepping the rest of the way into the room. Pure wonder filled my eyes as my temporary sleeping arrangement was unveiled to me. The room was grand - far more so than the accommodation I expected from my ominous hosts of the Night Court.

Stripping out of my dress, I padded over to the enormous bath tub overlooking the surrounding mountains. This place, it was exquisite. The intricate details and numerous amenities were incomparable to anything I’d ever experienced - and the view, it felt unreal, otherworldly. I sighed as I submerged myself into the bath - its water greeting me like a lovers heated embrace. My body reveled in the warmth of the water as it seeped deeply into my bones. I soaked in fragrant oils and lathered myself in expensive soaps for an hour, nearly falling asleep before my stomach rumbled in protest. When was the last time I’d eaten?

~~~~~~~~~~

I sauntered into the kitchen wearing a cobalt blue cropped top and matching pants, cuffing at the ankles - both pieces embellished with silver thread.

I had to admit, this fashion suited me.

The palace was empty with just Azriel and I currently occupying it - which was strange enough in itself. Had someone told me this morning that I’d be falling asleep in a castle with only the Night Court’s spymaster for company, well, I would have hoped it would be for more… salacious reasons, preferably in the same bed.

Tired of my fantasizing, my stomach rumbled again.

“Fine.” I muttered under my breath. “So impatient.”

I searched through the cabinets, pantries, and ice box. I had no desire to actually cook anything and settled for a platter of meats and cheeses.

Considering I was to be a guest in this house and the day I’d had… wine. Surely there was a wine cabinet in here somewhere. Pulling out a chair, I stepped up to search the higher cabinets - to which I found a wine rack hidden within one.

A deep voice rumbled behind me. “What are-“

“AHH!” I let out an embarrassing squeal. Stumbling backward on the chair, I planted a foot behind me as my other leg knocked into it, throwing me back off the chair.

Right into a shirtless Shadowsinger’s arms.

“What the hell, Az!? You scared the sh-“ my breath hitched. Gods, he was so beautiful. His sharp hazel gaze bore into me, looking up and down my torso and lingering momentarily on the deep cut of my cobalt blue top before scanning back up to my eyes.

Interesting.

Was he as affected by me as I was by him?

Ugh, get yourself together, girl.

I returned his stare. “Um, can you set me down?”

Azriel did as I asked and I almost regretted having him do so, missing the warmth of his strong grip.

“You know.” He said, ruffling scarred fingers through his hair. “For a spy, you’re not particularly aware of your surroundings.”

“Excuse me? I’m perfectly capable of monitoring who and what lay around me. It’s not every day a Shadowsinger sneaks up on you. Twice.”

Before he could reply, I snatched a baguette from behind my back and hit him over the head with it.

For a second fury crossed his face before realizing what I’d hit him with. I busted out laughing and could have sworn amusement lit those hazel eyes.

He shook his head before stating, “No wine. We begin training early in the morning. Get some rest.”

As the mature lady I was, I waited until *after* he’d turned to walk away before throwing a vulgar gesture in his direction.

“Saw that.” He stated without so much as turning back toward me.

Damn. He was good.

~~~~~~~~~~

The following morning Azriel trained me on various spy and combat techniques. Some of which I knew already. The ones that I had already mastered he had added additional maneuvers in with.

He didn’t look down upon me or become too handsy. If he did put his hands on me, he’d ask me beforehand. A courtesy I’d not often been granted by males who trained me.

I wondered if he had a sister or a female partner that he had trained with.

“Do you have a partner?” I asked during our cool down.

He lifted an eyebrow teasingly. “Why do you ask?”

I rolled my eyes. “Not like that. A sister even? You’re just, not like most males, I… You’ve made me feel like an equal today, like I’m more than just tits and an ass that you can grope under the guise of training.”

His eyes softened. “I like to think of myself as professional, Y/N. While I don’t have a sister or a partner, I do have basic decency. Any male who touches a woman against her will deserves to have their hands cut off.”

I opened my mouth to reply but was interrupted by the High Lord winnowing in unexpectedly.

“Azriel, Y/N, I hope training is going well.”

“It is.” I stated. “Azriel has been respectful and informative. We were just finishing up.”

The High Lord looked to Azriel and then back to me. “I may need you to work overtime today. Rest assured, you will be compensated accordingly. How familiar are you with ballroom dancing?”

Azriel and I both puzzled, replying “What?” in unison.

Rhysand smirked. “Nesta will come instruct you both over the next few days.” He paused, smirk becoming more fiendish.

“We have a ball to attend.”

———————————-

Thank you so much for reading! Stay tuned for part 3.

Tags: @fxckmiup

[indiegoblin]

Fall is here, and it feels like a great time to dive into my first review post: some gorgeous and spooky Fantome samples!🍂

I'm at the start of my indie journey, and as a result, I pick scents to explore, learn, and grow my tastes. i.e....I get it wrong, a lot! I'm still figuring out what I love. Here's how I rate:

6- gasping wheezing noises as i huff my arm (will FS) 5- ohohohoh. yeah baby turn up this jam (might FS) 4- wearable, not just bearable (will finish sample) 3- this is fine. yeah. i am making a neutral expression 2- i could see how someone could like this. that person is not me. 1- Fellas we got a scrubber :(

A quick note on my experience beyond the smells: Fantome's site is reliable and easy to use on mobile. I placed my order on July 11th, and my samples shipped out on August 9th, standard for their 20-30 day TAT. My samples came with a care card, as well as an insert highlighting their bestsellers. No issues- as expected with such a well-reviewed and respected house! Now let's get INTO IT MAIN EVENT

🍅🍑 Lycanthrope- Spicy tomato leaf, dark honey, and oakmoss, with hints of peach, lychee, ivy, vanilla, and tomatoes fresh from the vine.

Starting off strong with my second favorite of the bunch! This scent is bright, juicy, and green. The peach and tomato play well together when wet: perfectly balanced between tart and sweet. The green, bitter tomato leaf and oakmoss come forward on the drydown, tempered by the vanilla. Sweet and unisex, this scent is for summer (or yearning for summer...)

I love this scent the more I wear it. It's like walking through a freshly-watered neighborhood garden full of things ripe for the picking, glowing in golden late-afternoon sunlight. 5/6

🍷🗡️Vassago- A silver dagger, red wine mulled with blackberries, cloves, & orange peels, a goblet of blood & a black mirror.

My partner picked this one. I'm in love with him, and also this. It smells like mulled wine in October. Opening full-bodied, fruity, and orange/blackberry forward, the cloves tickle the back of the throat. I didn't get any metallic blood or dagger out of this scent, but I don't mind. The fruits aren't synthetic or overly sweet. An autumn and winter scent, it makes me want to throw a very witchy dinner party.

For a gracious host who loves simmer pots, wine and conversation with friends 4/6

🌼💦Lymphae- Fresh musk, cool vanilla, a swift-running stream, Italian lilac, orange blossom, damp earth, and the ozone of spring thunderstorms. 

This is where I learned that Fantome's aquatic note does *not* work for me. Most people describe a vividly realistic stream experience. I get...sharp soap. This changes slightly on the drydown, I think I pick up a little more of the florals and nice earth note separate from that sharp smell that I think must be the aquatic note of the stream. This is well reviewed and could be really lovely on someone who is not me.

I want to love this one very badly. Sample bed rest and further testing are prescribed! 2/6

🍂🏕️Kupala- Morning dew, davana, fern flower, bonfire smoke, birch leaves, warm summer air

Accursed aquatic: pt. 2. My first scrubber ever. That sharp scent from Lympae is also present here (in the form of dew), and in combination with the bonfire smoke, this is a death combo. I've tried smoke scents I love, but this didn't work for me. Lots of people have high praise for the Fantome aquatics, though - worth the chance!

This scent took me back to a tour I took when I was 16 of a castle basement where they had an exhibit on medieval torture. It smelled bad down there. 1/6

🥀🔮Madame D'Esperance- Sage laced with creamy jasmine, sensual red patchouli, frankincense, dusty cedar, a hint of rose, and intoxicating ambrette.

Have you ever been in a small town gift shop, incense in one corner, local soaps in the other, all sorts of eclectic items everywhere? This smells JUST like that. It's not a negative experience at all, personally. The sage and patchouli are strong on my skin chemistry, and the dusty cedar and "hint of rose" combine into what I must be perceiving as "old building". Not even a hint of jasmine to my nose. Fascinating!

The Madame is spooky, but comforting. She offers you sage advice and a discount at the register. 3/6

🌲🦌Faun- Opens with a deceptive hint of sweetness from neroli, grapefruit, and iris—then deepens into dark vetiver, oakmoss swirled in amber, and hints of animalistic musk.

Faun. Oh boy. So. I enjoy that deceptive opening, as a big grapefruit fan. You can sense the beast beneath, but when wet, it's just a dark, playful force under the bright grapefruit and neroli. I thought, cool. I love a little dark wood, I ADORE vetiver, I'm down for the bitter, woodsy drydown. Unfortunately, on my skin, it becomes straight up sweaty forest mammal. Consider this a watershed moment: I am not the person who loves animalistics. A valuable lesson. I will never wear this again.

Sweet faun grows fangs and hunts you down in the forest, if you're into that. Maybe you are ;) 1.5/6

🦋🌳Duende- Evokes the smell of being lost in a forest—with oakmoss, cedar, fir, resinous labdanum, benzoin, tree sap, wild violets, and lilac.

When I first smelled this, my first and only note was "wet log". After resting two weeks, I could talk about this smell forever. It's green, fresh, floral, and woody. It opens with green, dewy florals. At no point could I call the lilac or violet "powdery". This is no baby powder or soapy purple floral. The flowers wake up the dark, resinous forest notes of the drydown- this is a scent that lives and breathes. So much brighter than I was expecting!

Like walking through an old-growth forest with an armful of freshly-picked lilac. The #1 winner for this batch for me and for the summer! **6/6**

🌻🐝Vasalisa- Clover honey, neroli, rich tonka, chamomile, dry hay, a flower crown of marigolds & sunflowers.

Free sample! This is a heavy, deep honey scent. If you've ever had the pleasure of keeping bees and smelled that glorious, end-of-summer warm honey smell that lingers around them this time of year, this is it in a bottle. The hay note is very forward on my skin, especially on the drydown, which I don't personally love for wearing, but delights me from a blending standpoint for how it holds down the florals and completes the atmosphere. This is a rich, golden smell for end of summer and early fall.

For beekeepers, aspiring beekeepers, or people who love to stand in fields pretending to be bees. 4/6

Jasmine Sambac

This was a freebee, single-note of the jasmine sambac they use in some of their blends. I'm a jasmine fiend, so this feels like fate! It's not a fresh jasmine flower and doesn't lean dewy at all. It shares some of that golden energy with Vasalisa- deep, floral, and mature. I bet someone who didn't typically love jasmine notes might change their mind for this one.

Perfect for layering or wearing alone, which I WILL do OFTEN 5/6

TLDR: This sample set was a wonderful send-off to summer. This set was also a great learning experience for my likes (smelling like a forest!), dislikes (smelling like a forest animal!), and I would definitely look to order more from Fantome in the future.

[needtherapy]

A Time And Place For Us (pt 2)

(Since Tumblr is being a jerk about outside links, I’m going to try it this way. It’s also on AO3 if you want to read it there.)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 (Explicit) / Part 4

It’s Xichen’s birthday, and what a coincidence, the Qinghe Nie sect leader is taking a tour that just happens to take him to Cloud Recesses.

Unsurprisingly, it’s an exciting few days.

In this story you will find: Mingjue breaking things; Sword fighting; Xichen’s issues; Mingjue’s birth name; Embarrassed younger brothers; Monsters; Birthday presents; Kissing...and more

A follow-up to Mingjue Falls and Xichen Remembers. 

Chapter 5: Xichen

Xichen thought he had given up being angry at his father years ago, but by the time lunch was over, he was seething.

First, Qingheng-Jun had made them wait, even shufu, standing outside like unwanted penitents. When he had finally admitted his family to Hanshi, he had silently surveyed Mingjue like a man considering purchasing a horse and finding it wanting. Xichen had half expected him to pry open Mingjue’s mouth to count his teeth.

And then he had insulted the entire Qinghe Nie sect. 

“Do the Qinghe Nie still refuse to cultivate music? I always have thought that was a wasted opportunity,” Qingheng-Jun had said with a long-suffering sigh. “But perhaps it is too much to expect the noble arts as well,” he finished, with a glance at Baxia’s hilt.

Xichen would have sworn that Baxia glowed red at this comment, but Mingjue did not seem offended, affably agreeing that indeed, his sect did not have a tradition of music like Gusu Lan.

Of course, there were the usual comments. Qingheng-Jun was concerned that the younger disciples were growing unruly without a firm enough hand to guide them. He admonished Xichen for being too gentle with them and exhorted him to take care disciplining the next generation of students before they ran wild all over Gusu. A part of Xichen wanted to tell him to do it himself. He didn’t bother. There was no point.

But the worst part, in Xichen’s mind, was that his father had entirely ignored Wangji beyond a nod of acknowledgement. Granted, Wangji may not have had much to say, but it would not have hurt to ask. What are you reading, what have you learned to play, where have you traveled this month. Such simple questions, never voiced.

Even Mingjue had been more subdued than usual, eyes flicking between Xichen’s blank face and Wangji’s stony one every time he had carefully answered one of Qingheng-Jun’s questions.

The ordeal finally ended. The moment they were out of Hanshi, Xichen put his hand on Wangji’s shoulder until his brother looked him in the eyes. He wanted to say, I’m sorry, there’s no excuse, he’s always been this way, you are perfect as you are, it doesn’t matter what he thinks, but Xichen knew it would embarrass Wangji. So he just smiled, and Wangji’s tight, angry jaw softened slightly before he walked away. And that was the best they could do.

Mingjue was still beside him. It was an overwhelming relief. When Xichen looked at him, he was looking at Xichen, worry clouding his handsome features.

Xichen smiled wanly.

“Your parents loved you.” 

He tried not to let the words sound like an accusation. But in the few times they had met, Xichen had been mesmerized by the obviously glowing pride of the former Nie zongzhu and the casual affection both of his sons seemed to take for granted. 

“I am not sure either of mine did. They certainly did not love each other. But at least I am the oldest, so my father acknowledges my presence, my...accomplishments.” Xichen laughed bitterly. “I do not know how to change his disregard of Wangji.”

The jagged edges of his anger were fading into sadness, and he nearly stepped forward, wanting to be held and comforted. He knew Mingjue would, heedless of consequence, so Xichen stopped himself to protect them both. Shaking off the last echoes of the hurt his father always seemed to know how to find, Xichen managed a smile. 

“Come with me, Chifeng-Zun. We can visit the library.” 

He didn’t miss the furrow in Mingjue’s brow, but thankfully, he did not press Xichen further.

Xichen loved the Cloud Recesses library, with its smell of paper, ink, and leather. He loved the forbidden library even more, but he was not going to go back to his father to ask permission to show it to an outsider. He contented himself with giving Mingjue a tour of their visible collection. Touching the elegant scrolls and books of poetry did much to soothe his spirit.

Xichen pulled a dusty scroll tube from the shelf and took it to a table.

“I do not think you will be interested in our rare musical texts, Chifeng-Zun, but this is an illustrated history of the dao,” Xichen said as he carefully unrolled the paper, anchoring it on either end. 

He was pleased to see Mingjue’s face light up, so he went to find other works on sword cultivation and fighting techniques.

They spent several hours looking at books. Xichen laughed when Mingjue used a long calligraphy brush to practice some of the unfamiliar dao movements, rather than risk Baxia in the library. 

And if Mingjue occasionally brushed Xichen’s hand or tucked a stray piece of hair behind Xichen’s ear, there was no one around to notice.

Even so, Xichen was surprised when Mingjue cupped his cheek with a furtive look. 

“There are gifts from Qinghe Nie to present at dinner this evening. I regret that I need to leave you to gather them.”

Xichen was growing tired of maintaining decorum. He leaned into Mingjue’s hand and turned his face to kiss the palm.

The sound that came from Mingjue was somewhere between a whimper and a moan, and emboldened, Xichen gently nibbled the tip of Mingjue’s thumb. 

“Gods, Xichen.” Mingjue’s voice was hoarse, and he leaned forward. “If you wanted me to ravish you on the library floor, you only had to ask.”

At that moment, Xichen could not remember any of the 3012 rules that governed the Gusu Lan sect disciples, much less a single one of the 346 rules that dealt with virtue. He just wanted to be kissed.

Xichen didn’t hear the library door open, but he heard the sound of a throat being cleared meaningfully. Both Xichen and Mingjue whirled around to look into the wide, amused eyes of one of the Gusu Lan doctors. Unfortunately, as Mingjue turned, Baxia somehow caught the edge of a low bookcase behind him and flipped it on its side, books and scrolls crashing to the ground. They all froze for a moment, and Xichen thought he heard Mingjue mutter his sword’s name as though he was scolding a naughty child.

The woman rushed forward to help them right the table and books.

“My apologies for disturbing you, Zewu-Jun,” she said as they finished, and Xichen wanted to flee her twinkling eyes.

“Thank you shijie,” he said instead. “We were just leaving.”

“At least I didn't break the bookcase,” Mingjue remarked ruefully when they got outside. “I am afraid the Lan zongzhu is going to eventually bar me from Cloud Recesses.”

“If he does,” Xichen said with a lopsided grin, “The next one will let you back in.”

Chapter 6: Mingjue

Mingjue had set his fifteen-year-old brother on the task of helping him pick host and birthday gifts for this visit. Huaisang did many exasperating things, but he was unfailingly good at gifts.

For the host gift, Huaisang found a craftsman who created wooden plants carved with talismans. When activated with the smallest touch of power, the plants would flower. Huaisang said that everyone knew Lan-xiansheng cultivated orchids, so he had the craftsman create a cluster of stems and wide flat leaves carved with talismans that would make pale blue orchids appear. Mingjue was doubtful, but Huaisang said the fact that it was not a natural color was what made it special.

Huaisang had been right. It was not obvious approval, but when Mingjue demonstrated the slow bloom of petals, the side of Lan-xiansheng’s mouth twitched. He examined the sculpture for several moments while stroking his beard before eventually sending it away with a servant.

The birthday gift had taken more effort. Huaisang had suggested daggers, instruments, books, art, and nothing had seemed right. Finally, Huaisang had stormed into Mingjue’s office and set a wood and silver frog on his desk.

Mingjue had picked it up curiously. “What is it?”

In answer, Huaisang had hummed the first few notes of a popular tavern song. To Mingjue’s amusement, the frog hummed them back. Or at least, the tune from the frog’s open mouth had been very similar to the sounds Huaisang had made.

“It’s an Echo talisman,” Huaisang had explained. “It’s carved into the metal here, see?” 

He’d pointed into the frog’s silver mouth.

 “Each one can only hold a few notes, but I think three would make an interesting and somewhat useful gift for a musician. And you leave in two days, da-ge.”

It was a good point, and Mingjue had told Huaisang to make sure it was beautiful and elegant. Huaisang had just rolled his eyes.

The finished gift Mingjue presented to Xichen was a sculpted wood and metal lotus, with the three frogs seated on the single leaf. Mingjue whistled at the frogs to show off their trick. The shining light in Xichen’s eyes was worth the embarrassment of butchering music in public. 

Xichen played the start of a song on his xiao, and the frogs sang back to him, far more beautifully than either Mingjue or Huaisang had managed. He immediately understood how many notes each frog could manage and adjusted the music so the frogs were a complementary chorus to the xiao’s tune.

Mingjue reminded himself to generously reward Huaisang for his help. Maybe he’d like another fan. Or, considering Xichen’s smile, two fans.

Gusu Lan had made the night hunt an open competition. They would start in the town of Caiyi and there would be no formal boundaries. Unlike the larger-sect night hunts, there would only be a few teams from Gusu Lan and Qinghe Nie. Teams from other sects, clans, and rogue cultivators would be able to compete for the prize. Mingjue suspected this generosity had been Xichen’s idea. 

Mingjue had chosen to partner with Nie Huiji, a distant cousin and the captain of the group he had brought. Huiji was a short man, but utterly fearless and a skilled archer. Mingjue would, of course, have preferred to be paired with Xichen, but the Twin Jades of Gusu would be a team. After the bout with Lan-er-gongzi the day before, Mingjue had serious doubts about his chance of winning, but if he had to lose to anyone, he wouldn’t mind if it was the Twin Jades.

Still. He had no intention of losing.

It started well. Huiji was an excellent tracker. The two of them quickly killed a possessed boar that was an odd shade of green. He grinned at his cousin over the top of the beast’s body, and Huiji rolled his eyes in amusement.

They found a few restless spirits wandering freely and one resentful ghost buried deep in a man’s body. Mingjue preferred the straightforward business of eliminating evil things with his dao, but he wasn’t incapable of shifting the power of his golden core to quell restless souls. The possessed man proved harder to suppress, but they managed to force the spirit out and destroy it.

And then it started to rain. It was never as much fun to night hunt in the rain.

They slogged through eradicating a flock of zhu owls, disturbing with their human-like hands and features. Mingjue especially hated monsters with human faces and was sorry so many of them had gotten away.

Only a few miles from Caiyi, Huiji caught wind of a nest of jueyuan. Literally. Even Mingjue could smell the stink of them long before they found their nest hidden in a cave on the side of a hill. They surprised the group, and Mingjue killed most of them before they could even react, but some of the abhorrent ape creatures tried to flee through the thick trees.

Mingjue had no doubt Huiji would shoot down any escapers, so he checked their lair to make sure there were no human victims. He found evidence of women they had taken in the past. Ribbons. Bits of pastel fabric. A hair comb. He closed his eyes against the horror he knew the women must have suffered, channeling his rage away, through his core and into Baxia, who welcomed it with open arms.

They wanted to kill something.

When he came out of the cave, Huiji gave him a sidelong look, eyebrows raised, but Mingjue ignored the implied question.

“Keep hunting,” he growled, and Huiji nodded.

They found a fuchong by the water. Mingjue cleaved the head of the giant snake from its body in a single strike before it could shoot any of its poisonous needles at them. It was not enough.

There were ghosts to dissipate at the foot of a huge tree. Mingjue and Huiji were able to release their spirits, and that, at least, was satisfying in a different way. But it did not calm the blood pounding in his ears.

Time passed with no targets in sight, and Mingjue’s impatience was growing wings. Huiji suddenly stopped him with a raised hand. He pointed north, further up the mountain, and made the signs for “large” and “two.” The wind and rain were howling in gusts around him, but Mingjue sharpened his senses and smiled grimly when he heard the distant sound of two sets of feet breaking through the underbrush. They might get a decent fight after all.

Mingjue marked Huiji with a location talisman, just to be safe, and they split up, Mingjue circling east and Huiji cutting west. Keeping the sound to his left, Mingjue climbed to the top of an outcropping of rocks near where he expected the monsters to pass. He was not disappointed.

The demons were sickly shades of yellow and grey that offended his eyes. They moved with a lurching gait that was swifter than their tall, bulky bodies should have been. Mingjue made note of their visible strengths: plated skin, sharp teeth in huge mouths, spiked tails, clawed back feet, and hands that curved like a pair of sickles. He did not like the look of the fat yellow spines that covered the creatures’ arms and wondered if they were venomous.

Below him, the demons turned to sniff the air and look around. Mingjue froze. He was downwind of them, but he had no idea what other senses they might have. The larger of the two demons opened its mouth and roared, and Mingjue realized that the sound he had thought was the howling wind was actually the call of this demon. The smaller, darker demon responded in a different tone that made the hair on the back of Mingjue’s neck stand up.

It was a risk, but he reached out with his golden core to find Huiji on the other side of the location talisman, the beat of his heart only a few meters away. Baxia trembled on his back as soon as he touched her hilt. He silently drew the dao and waited for the demons to move past him. They would know he was there as soon as he was upwind of them, and he wanted to be ready.

He dropped from the rock, swinging his saber at the dark grey demon’s spine, but the beast turned just in time and Baxia cut into the evil thing’s shoulder, severing its arm. It screamed in fury and turned on Mingjue, tail lashing through the air. An arrow erupted from its eye followed by a second in its neck, but the demon was not deterred. It slashed at Mingjue with its sharp hands, and Mingjue felt the air part next to his cheek as the creature shot one of its spines at him. He smelled a hint of brimstone and grimaced. Definitely venom.

He bellowed at Huiji, “Don’t let them shoot you,” before Baxia was moving again, this time defending Mingjue against the other, larger demon, who had leaped in front of him. Mingjue was aware that Huiji had moved behind him, sword in hand, because the dark grey demon was no longer attacking him.

Not only were the demons’ hands shaped like blades, they were as hard as his dao, and the demon he was fighting was strong enough to block every strike. But the beast was slower than he was, and Mingjue had no doubt he could evade its attacks until it faltered. Baxia sang as they fought together, and her joy in the fight filled him with elation.

Mingjue had not killed every demon and monster he had ever gone to fight, but he had so rarely made mistakes in battle that he didn’t react quickly enough when his foot slipped on a wet rock and he fell. He should have kept his eyes on the danger. He should have lifted Baxia to protect his chest. He should have rolled to the side. Instead, he was stunned for the infinitely long fraction of a second the demon took to scream in triumph and bring its bladed hand down toward Mingjue’s chest. He didn’t even have time to brace for the pain.

A flash of blue light struck the demon squarely in the chest, knocking it backward with a heavy grunt, and only then did Mingjue react, rolling to the side and lifting Baxia. Before he could leap forward with a killing blow, Xichen was there, Shuoyue extending to pierce the beast through its mouth and up into its head. It sagged and fell, dead before it hit the ground.

Their eyes met, and Mingjue grinned at the savage look on Xichen’s face. He turned to help Huiji when he heard a sound that turned his blood to ice.

A soft grunt and the impact of a body against a tree.

He could not turn fast enough.

He could not run fast enough.

He whirled, falling on his hands as he scrambled up the hill to where Xichen was laying by the trunk of the pine tree he had hit when the demon Huiji was fighting had shot one of its strange spines at him. Xichen’s eyes were closed and Mingjue could see the long shaft protruding from Xichen’s shoulder. 

“Xichen,” he screamed, skidding to his knees next to his love. “Xichen, gods, no, no, no.”

Mingjue touched Xichen’s face fearfully, afraid to hurt him, more afraid he was beyond pain. He choked back a sob when Xichen opened his eyes.

“That hurt,” Xichen murmured, lips curving into a wry smile, and Mingjue sat heavily on the ground, all the air leaving his lungs at once.

Xichen turned his head to peer at the spine sticking out of the tree trunk, but the smile faded when he looked more closely at the tears streaming down Mingjue’s face. 

“Shi-ge, I’m fine. It didn’t hit me. It’s just stuck in my robes.”

Using the edge of his sleeve, Xichen pulled the spine out of the tree and tossed it to the side. “See?” 

He showed Mingjue the hole in his robe.

It took Mingjue’s heart a moment to resume beating, and when it did, he grabbed Xichen’s face and kissed him hard. Xichen hesitated for a moment before he reached his arms around Mingjue and leaned into the kiss, not stopping Mingjue’s hands from moving across his shoulders and arms, still checking to ensure he truly was safe.

“Zongzhu,” a soft voice interrupted. “The demons are both dead.” “I don’t care,” Mingjue retorted, and the feel of Xichen’s laugh made his hands shake.

“Zongzhu.” Huiji’s tone was more insistent. “Lan-er-gongzi was instrumental in assisting me with the kill.”

Oh.

Mingjue reluctantly released Xichen and stood, extending a hand to help Xichen up. He brushed wet pine needles and dirt off his clothes to avoid turning around as long as possible. When he did, Lan-er-gongzi was staring at him, head tipped slightly to the side with what Mingjue hoped was more of a thoughtful expression than a censorious one.

“Time is nearly up, xiongzhang,” he said to Xichen, his deep voice more neutral than Mingjue had expected. “We should return to Caiyi.” 

With that, Lan-er-gongzi turned and walked away, not looking back to see if Xichen followed him. Huiji winked at Mingjue and trailed off after the boy.

“I think they may have noticed,” Xichen whispered, the laughter still in his voice.

Mingjue still felt like there were needles under his skin. He ran his hands over his wet hair dejectedly. 

“Xichen, I’m sorry. I wanted him to like me, but I know how your family feels about…” he waved vaguely, not sure of the right word. “Virtue.”

Xichen patted his arm consolingly. “Shi-ge, he is my brother. Believe me, if he disliked you, he would not have left.”

That made sense, actually, and it cheered Mingjue.

“Besides,” Xichen said, pulling Mingjue’s arms around him and snuggling closer when Mingjue tightened the embrace. “I like you. And we have at least five minutes before we have to catch up.”

Chapter 7: Xichen

Xichen made the most of those few minutes in the rain, tipping his head back to be kissed and reveling in the feeling of being loved.

He hadn’t been afraid he was going to die, but Mingjue’s reaction had shaken him nonetheless. Besides his brother, he realized, who would be heartbroken if the demon’s shot had been a little more accurate? Not his father. His uncle was fond of him, but he suspected shufu would immediately turn his attention to shaping Wangji into the next sect leader. The future of Gusu Lan was what mattered most to him, and Xichen really couldn’t fault him for that. 

But he never had to question what Mingjue felt, good or bad, and the certainty of being cared for was more precious than anything he could have asked for.

The boom of fireworks announcing the end of the night hunt was unwelcome, but Xichen drew away from Mingjue anyway. They would be missed soon and the last thing he wanted was a search party.

He took Mingjue’s hand and pulled, leading him down the path. 

“When I let go, it will only be because I do not want anyone to think I had to help you win,” he teased as they walked together, and Mingjue burst into laughter.

“I’m sure I didn’t win. Your team stole my last two kills, Zewu-Jun. What kind of example are the Twin Jades of Gusu setting for the country?”

As it turned out when they got back to Caiyi, neither of them was correct. They had tied. Xichen shot Mingjue an apologetic look, but Mingjue just shook his head.

“You saved me from the consequences of a mistake, Zewu-Jun. I happily cede the kill. And,” he added with a flash of dimples. “Since it is your birthday, you may have the reward, as well.”

A chorus of best wishes and birthday salutations went up from around the crowd, and Xichen gave Mingjue a dirty look. He hated being the center of attention like this, and he knew he was blushing. To his horror, many of the cultivators pulled bottles of alcohol from their sleeves and packs and raised them to toast him. He sneaked a glance at his family. Shufu looked mildly annoyed, but did not stop them, and Wangji had an unusually unreadable expression on his face. Mingjue was just trying not to laugh.

“Thank you,” Xichen finally thought to say, when it became clear they would not stop until he said something. “It would be my pleasure to distribute the reward among all the teams. For my birthday,” he added. 

When they cheered, he flushed, wanting desperately to be allowed to get back to Cloud Recesses.

There was only one thing he wanted to do on his birthday.

Go to Chapter 8 (explicit)

Note: The last monsters are dao lao gui (刀劳鬼)

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

I see your fancy banquet tropes (which are delightful) and raise you one Masquerade. The flirting, the mystery, the longing "what if I never find them again?"

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Jaskier x ReaderWord Count: 1,622Rating: GTaglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mynamesoundslikesherlock a/n: Oh helloooo catnip time!

Jaskier had taken great care with his attire. He always did, but this time he’d put extra thought. The masquerade ball hosted by Marquis Delacroix was the premiere social event of the season. It was also the first event Geralt had agreed to go to as a friend, a part of what Jaskier was calling his Apology Tour, started when they reunited after the mountain and the witcher had been appropriately apologetic. Jaskier had helped Geralt pick out an outfit, shades of deep burgundy and gold which suited him well though he’d never admit it. The mask he would wear (though those yellow eyes would stand out anywhere) was a matching burgundy shade and Jaskier relented and agreed he could bring a dagger but only the prettiest one and it had to stay sheathed.

“I thought this was a masquerade, not a funeral,” Geralt said when Jaskier entered the room.

“It’s an artistic choice,” Jaskier replied, voice haughty but unsurprised by his friend’s remark, “I wear a wide array of colors in my wardrobe. It only stood to reason that for a masquerade I wear all black.”

Though monochromatic as he described, Jaskier’s outfit was not without its ornamentation. There was still attention to detailing and the cut of the suit was expertly tailored to emphasize his slight yet muscular frame. His mask was also black though gilded with an intricate filigree detailing around the edges. The contrast of the mask made his pale blue eyes nearly glow, as otherworldly as his companion’s. Once both had their masks secured they set off for the masquerade.

You had been eager to attend the masquerade but as you entered the grand hall you felt a thrill of apprehension course through you. Your gown was nowhere near as grand as some of the ones you saw around you. You’d opted for a simpler choice, a white ballgown with sheer gold rose detailing that accented the dress from the neckline which swept from the top of your right shoulder down under your left arm at an angle, wrapping around together about halfway down your back. The mask you wore was the same gold shade and helped obscure your identity. You’d arrived alone which had raised some murmurs but otherwise you were able to drift through the party without much interruption. You had no goals for the night beyond witnessing the beauty of the spectacle you’d heard stories about for years and to enjoy yourself.

The ballroom was illuminated with hundreds of candles glowing from chandeliers and sconces and the long banquet table that ran nearly the entire length of the dancefloor. Masked couples twirled and danced to the music that played. Everyone wore brilliant shades of all colors of the rainbow from soft pastels to deep jewel tones to bright, bold patterns. Everyone but one other, a man you spotted through a crush of brilliant hues, dressed all in black. He caught your eyes on him from the other side of the dancefloor and gave you a little bow. You laughed and curtseyed, nearly obscured by a flounce of skirts as the dancing ladies were lifted in tandem and twirled through the air. When they were set back on the ground, the man was gone. Before your heart could sink too low you felt a tap on your shoulder and spun to find the man in black standing before you.

Was he wearing black? You suddenly couldn’t tell, your focus falling on the softest, prettiest blue eyes you’d ever seen. You knew you would think of this stranger for the rest of your life whenever you saw a perfect summer’s sky or the wide expanse of the ocean.

“My lady,” he said in greeting, taking your hand and resting a delicate kiss on its back, eyes following yours as he did.

“My lord,” you said, curtseying, your hand still held in his after he had pulled back from the kiss.

“Is this your first masque?” he asked.

“I must confess it. Is it so obvious?” you asked, a little embarrassed.

“Oh no, I just feel certain I would have remembered seeing you,” he said. You laughed as he shot you a charming smile and you caught yourself biting your lip, a nervous habit you had tried to quit but never fully banished. You saw his eyes slip to your mouth as you let the lip slide past your teeth, praying you hadn’t mussed the red lipstick you can carefully applied for the evening.

“It seems we are the only two who did not quite meet the expected attire,” you said, gesturing to the vivid colors surrounding you.

“Or are we simply the only ones who showed imagination,” he replied.

“It’s not often you hear black and white being touted as greatly imaginative,” you laughed.

“And yet here we are,” he said, eyes twinkling as they met yours.

“Is this your first time attending?” you asked, trying to think of what to say to keep this stranger by your side instead of losing him to the chaos of the party.

“I’ve gone in the past but it’s been some time since then. I see I chose the right year to come,” he said.

“If you keep flirting like that you’ll make me regret not choosing red to better hide my blushing,” you laughed.

“That would be a travesty as you look perfect the way you are. Would you care to dance?” he asked. You nodded and he took your hand, leading you onto the dancefloor where you wound through the couples with ease, spotting each other and finding your way back through the intricate steps. You usually tried to make eye contact with the partners you were passed by as you wove through the line, but you only had eyes for the mysterious man in black who also kept his eyes on you. You were a shimmer of white and gold and he followed you around like a moth to the flame. The next dance was slower, and he pulled you into his arms, your skirt billowing around you as he twirled you out and then brought you back in close. You caught his eyes traveling to your mouth and when he pulled you in for the final spin as the music wound down, your face a breath away from his, you thought you felt his grip on your back tighten, gently pulling you those mere inches it would take to bring your lips together.

“May I cut in?” a voice asks and you both startle, turning to the intruder. Your dance partner’s beautiful features curl into a disgusted snarl.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks. The man, decked out in a cacophony of shades as though he’d been unable to choose one or two, smirked from beneath his equally ornate mask. His goatee and mustache were visible and the green eyes shone with a wickedness that was less charming than predatory.

“Dancing, can’t speak for what you were doing though. But I was speaking to the lady, may I have this dance?” he asked, turning his attention back to you. You nodded, unsure what else to say, and before you could turn back to your dance partner he slunk back through the crowd. You moved to go after him but your new partner pulled you back into form for the next dance.

“Valdo Marx,” the man said by way of introduction.

“Y/N,” you answered absently, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of black.

“You dance divinely, I’m glad I could provide a more suitable partner for you,” Valdo said.

“Ah yes pleasure to meet you,” you said, hardly listening to him. He followed your searching eyes but misread their intent.

“Worry not, Y/N, that oaf will stay away now that I’m here,” he boasted, thrusting you out in a spin that was so forceful you worried he may dislocate your arm, a stark contrast to the graceful movements of the man before.

“Do you know that man?” you asked, realizing there was still hope to learn of his identity.

“Unfortunately yes. He has an odd obsession with me. He imagines a sort of rivalry between us, as though we are equals in the bardic tradition,” Valdo sniffed derisively.

“So he’s a bard,” you said, snatching at any scrap of information you could glean.

“Yes, and he goes by a ridiculous name instead of his own which just shows you how much he relies on theatrics instead of pure talent,” the man continued to grouse. You began to wonder if he even realized you were still there.

“Oh indeed?” you asked, “What ridiculous name does he go by?”

“Jaskier,” Valdo spat, “Jaskier de Lettenhove.”

You tucked the name away like a morsel to be savored later and focused on slipping away from Valdo as soon as possible. It wasn’t as hard as you’d feared, he was easily distractible and soon you were hurrying around the crowd, asking people here and there if they’d seen a man in black.

“The one with the yellow eyed man?” someone had asked. You nodded though you didn’t know who that would be, “He just left.”

You sprinted through the hall, hair falling out of its updo and pouring down your shoulders as you ran. The attendants threw the door open just in time for you to run out and watch as a horse with a large man with shoulder-length silver hair and a man clad all in black rode away. You watched him fade in the distance, chest heaving from the exertion of trying to chase him down, but you did not despair.

“Jaskier de Lettenhove,” you repeated, the name sweet on your lips, “We will meet again.”

[breannahayse]

TAKEN BY THE NIGHT

TAKEN BY THE NIGHT

  Welcome to the Silver Daggers Blog Tour! BHR is hosting tons of absolutely amazing authors whose books will blow you away. Please feel free to check them out and spread the word- and don’t forget to leave reviews. Those are the warm fuzzies we get when we know our readers have embraced our hearts!         Taken By The Nightby Breanna Hayse Genre: Paranormal…

[thecatsreaderslibrary]

Happy To Host - The John Callahan Series - Sale and Book Blitz With Silver Dagger Tours For Author Elizabeth Upton. . .

Father Callahan is forced back into dangerous filth, corruption, and crime. Can he remain a celibate priest, or will he abandon the life of faith for more sensual pleasures? Will he stay a good man or return to the dark criminal life he once knew so well?”  At Home Among SinnersThe John Callahan Series Book 1by Elizabeth UptonGenre: Romantic Mystery Thriller  ​John Callahan is a good man with a…

[reallylonglies]

Taylor Swift - Demon Hunter : Part 4

Blake was exhausted. She had work. She had kids to chase around. She had a husband. She didn’t have time to pass messages between a demon and a lightning rod like they were in a really messed up fifth grade class. 

She stomped down the stairs to Taylor’s gym. It was quiet there when Taylor was touring and she needed some time to get a little work done. She found a semi-comfortable seat and began to leaf through a script she’d been sent. It was quiet and cool in the gym, and the script was actually good enough that she found herself engrossed. An hour passed before she realised she wasn’t alone. 

There was a faint hum in the air and a warm, spiced scent. She slipped the script into her bag, took off her earrings and readied herself for a fight. Only two people had the combination code for the door, but all that meant was that whatever was in here definitely wasn’t a person. Tucking her hair into a neat ponytail, she called into the darkness.

“You can come out now, she’s not here. Just little old me,” her voice echoed, the comfortable cool of the gym had become spine-tingling chill. She felt the air moving around her. 

“A breeze in a basement,” she muttered to herself, “Happy Tuesday to me.” 

Suddenly, it was in front of her. She sensed it before she saw it. Every inch of her body told her to run and never look back. From experience, she knew that this was the most important time to stay completely still and focussed. The discomfort she was feeling began to take shape in front of her. Despite her thudding heart, she found herself rolling her eyes at the over-dramatic process of manifestation. She really didn’t have time for this shit, even if it was scaring the living daylights out of her. She needed those living daylights to get through the rest of her busy life. 

After a minute or so of overdramatic swirling, the spirit manifested in front of her. She’d never seen anything like it. Except she had, she’d seen something exactly like it, but she’d never seen that thing manifest in front of her. Taylor usually just entered the room through a door, not as a swirling cloud of vapour.

“If you’re trying to convince me you’re my friend, you’ve already made several mistakes,” she said, sounding nonchalant is second nature when you’ve spent as many years in teen dramas as Blake had. 

“I’m not trying to trick you,” it said, it’s voice was not right either. Taylor had a human voice, this was a low growl with a rasping quality that made Blake want to dive for a packet of vocal zones. 

“What do you want?” Blake asked, slowly moving her hand up her back, between her shoulder blades. She grasped the handle of the small dagger she kept there, and silently thanked Gal Gadot for inspiring this little trick. 

With unseeing eyes, the spirit tilted its head at her. The eyes roamed up and down Blake’s whole body as if they had never been set on a human being before. 

“She took my friend, put her in a song,” the figure circled Blake, Blake concealed the dagger behind her wrist. 

“What are you doing?” she asked it as it passed behind her, when it stood in front of her, she took a sharp breath. 

“Learning,” the word escaped from Blake’s lips in Blake’s voice. Staring in horror at the uncanny figure before her, the real Blake stifled a scream. She slashed with the dagger at the demon, who dodged, then looked down at her own right hand. It revealed its identical dagger. The stifled scream became a roar of frustration. Blake threw herself into battle for the first time in over a decade. 

*****

I don’t attend awards ceremonies as a rule. There’s enough awful people there, I don’t need to add any more malice to the mix. I once had to find one of my old apprentices at the Oscars, the stench in that room… it was like garbage, emotional garbage. Everyone in there has so much hanging on a little golden statue. And people mock me for my crucifix intolerance. 

I sensed almost instantly that something bad had happened to Blake. I don’t know what gave it away. Was it something she said? Something she did? The fact that she had obviously been replaced by a powerful fallen angel out for vengeance? 

One of those things definitely set my alarm bells ringing when I went to her with a message for Taylor. Fallen angels are honestly the worst because if you bump into one unprepared they can do a lot of damage. They can stop you manifesting, give you a headache or in this case they can force you to possess the husband of a good friend against your will. 

She gestured to him, cowering gently in a corner. 

“Get in,” she said, she’d really nailed the voice. 

I have to tell you inhabiting a human host is gross enough but this guy had only recently been exorcised and whatever slovenly spirit he’d been possessed by did not clean up after itself. Anxieties everywhere. Nightmares left unfinished. The guy even left an existential crisis just lying around for me to trip up on. What a hack.  

We so rarely talk about what it feels like to possess someone, allow me to describe it. It’s a little like tapping into a phone line except the phone line is the person’s physical presence in the mortal dimension. Unfortunately, the host is still using the phone line so you get a live feed of all their thoughts, and this guy was a big thinker. A lot going on in his mind. Gave me a migraine almost instantly. 

Walking the red carpet, I saw Taylor at a distance. Unfortunately there was no way for me to signal to her in front of that many photographers. I didn’t want to risk the exposure of the entire demon realm over something so small as a potential apocalypse. Also, any time that a person is working hard to perform the act of “being myself” it is actually surprisingly difficult for an incumbent Demon to take over. They’re too conscious of everything, all their boundaries are up. It’s sticky and gross and I hate it. 

Fallen angels love, love having their pictures taken. Ever seen those old-timey exorcism pictures? All that ectoplasm shit? Fallen angels, they love to showboat. As soon as they get in front of a camera they have to show off. If you look at any pictures of Blake from this awards ceremony, you might be able to see the image warping a little at the edges, or get a chill when you look at her eyes. 

So anyway, the red carpet probably was simultaneously the best and worst place to attract Taylor’s attention. Demon Blake was distracted having her picture taken. Great. Stupid human host Ryan was on his best “being myself” behaviour. Not great. 

As luck would have it, my host needed the bathroom. Admittedly, I had spent the entire afternoon making him thirsty in the hope that this would give me the out I needed. Slipping through the crowd, he passed Taylor and I pushed myself to the top of his psyche so that she couldn’t fail to hear my tune blaring out over the shouts of journalists and photographers. 

Her eye met Ryan’s and she filled with fiery rage. I fist bumped, there was no way she could ignore this. 

She stormed into the bathroom while my host was washing his hands. Another insignificant human squealed at her, she swore at him and he left in a panic. It wasn’t classy. I loved it. 

“You,” she fixed me with her hardest stare, “get out.” 

“You’re blocking the door. I’m also really not sure you’re meant to be in here. This is the men’s room and you’re not a men,” Ryan’s babbling continued until he looked in the mirror above the sink and saw my face beaming back at him, “Oh God, not again, how does this keep happening to me? Do I have a possess me sign on my back?” 

He was still chattering as I drifted gently away from his feeble human body and manifested next to him.

“Wait why is he wearing a tux, do demons wear tuxes?” he asked. 

“No,” I said, “It’s a special occasion I wanted to look nice. Do you always wear a tux, dumbass?” 

“No,” he asked, “Why do you look like John Mulaney?”

“It’s a passing resemblance, why do you look like Picasso’s biggest mistake?” 

Taylor interrupted our vocal sparring by aggressively grabbing me by my bowtie. I had manifested too solidly for that not to hurt. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked, twisting the bowtie tighter. 

I made some garbled gasping sounds, she relented and loosened her grip. 

“Blake… fallen angel… very bad… big event… tonnes of demons…” partly I was getting my breath back, partly I preferred talking in bullet points. 

“How many?” she asked, taking a series of silver rings out of her garter and slipping them onto her fingers. 

“Sevent…” I deliberately mumbled the second half of the word. 

“Seventeen? That’s not so many,” she shrugged, I made a guilty face “Oh, seventy, that’s many, a lot of many. Is there anyone we can call?” 

Zendaya was out on a film shoot somewhere. Aniston was retired. Dunst had a lifetime ban because of the Bettany fiasco. I racked my brains. 

The door opened. Two figures in black suits appeared. 

“Miss Swift, pleased to meet you, we’ve heard a lot about you,” the one that spoke had a gentle accent and dreamy eyes, the other one was Keanu Reeves. 

“It seems you have a bit of a situation on your hands,” Reeves answered, “How can we be of service?” 

Taylor looked taken aback. I looked taken aback. Ryan looked deeply confused. 

“What the hell is going on? Why is Neo here with this tennis player? Are we giving Golden Globes to tennis players now?” these were all logical questions. 

“This must be confusing for you,” with perfectly applied pressure from his palm, Reeves gently put Ryan to sleep. The other guy caught the body and slid it under the sink, where they kept the hand towels and soap refills. Watching these two work together, stirred a memory in me, something from an impossibly long time ago. 

“Holy shit,” I said, “You’re Reeves and Federer.”

“Who else would we be?” Federer asked as he arranged some hand towels under Ryan’s head to make him more comfortable. 

“Wait, the Reeves and Federer?” Taylor chimed in, “I thought they were from like, the 18th century.”

“We are,” they answered in unison. 

Reeves and Federer: immortal vampires. I couldn’t believe they were still around, which in hindsight felt particularly foolish. They were immortal vampires, of course they were still around. 

“Alright,” Taylor and I didn’t have time to fangirl the way I wanted to over these two absolute heroes of the dark world, “I have a plan for this but it’s going to take a lot of work. What weapons are we working with?” 

Reeves and Federer opened their jackets. I gasped audibly. 

“What do you need?”

******

Blake woke in the gym, her hands were tied to a leg press machine. She rolled her eyes, and without even flinching, dislocated her thumb to break out of her bonds. She sighed, popped her thumb back in and straightened her dress. 

“Fallen angels,” she muttered, collecting her handbag, “Amateurs.” 

*****

Demon Blake waited for the ceremony to begin before starting her big show. The sound system began to crackle and pop like a nervous bowl of rice krispies. The host apologised for technical difficulties. The technical team shook their heads in confusion. 

The lights went out. A room full of expensive people gasped expensively in shock. 

“Silence,” a voice throbbed from the center of the room. Blake had risen to her feat and was glowing blue in the darkness, “Stand.” 

A bunch of bozos in suits stood up. Taylor sighed, we were concealed behind a thick velvet curtain. 

“There are so many,” she whispered, “Reeves and Federer had better remember the plan. Are you ready for it?” 

“I was hewn ready,” I replied. It was a lie, if I was physically capable of wetting myself I would have done. 

“Ew, that’s gross,” she answered as we watched Demon Blake rise into the centre of the room. I get telepathic when I get nervous. 

There was a shuffling sound behind us, Taylor turned, instantly ready for a fight. Blake, the real one, not the floating ball of demonic rage, appeared from the shadows. 

“Hey,” she smiled, “What did I miss?” 

“Oh, nothing, just that your demon twin is trying to take over the world,” Taylor answered as Blake rummaged in her handbag and changed her heels for comfortable pumps. 

“So, just another Tuesday then,” she answered, “Where do you want me?” 

“The tech desk, I need you to raise the curtain when Reeves and Federer give the signal,” Taylor kept her eyes pinned on demon Blake, who was now floating through the audience monologuing about mortals heeding her will or something. Typical fallen angel garbage, these guys are 80% propaganda.

“Wait,” Blake paused on her way to the tech desk which was hidden at the back of the room, “The Reeves and Federer? I thought they were a myth.” 

“Yeah, me too. Now it makes sense that John Wick looks so fighting fit at fifty,” Taylor gestured that Blake should hurry, the possessed hordes were beginning to bar the doors. 

Just as the tension in the room mounted to a peak, there was a loud shout from a balcony above the stage. 

“Hey, crazy demon!” the words were less than poetry, but they sounded so good in a swiss accent, “Possess this!”

He threw what looked like, but certainly wasn’t a tennis ball into the air, jumped and served. The point blank blow knocked demon Blake out of the air, she crashed dramatically into a table surrounded by influential aged filmmakers.

It occurred to me suddenly that I had no idea where he’d been hiding that tennis racket.

Taylor was still biding her time, she made her way towards the center of the stage, behind the curtain. 

Reeves had made his way to the middle of the room, gently bringing protective posessees to their knees on the way. It was good that he was used to hurting people without actually hurting people, that was working in our favour. 

Demon Blake saw him coming and aimed a bolt of lightning squarely at his chest. He dodged it, letting Quentin Tarantino take the hit. Boy howdy he was going to have a headache when he woke up. 

Federer had climbed athletically down from the balcony and was approaching Demon Blake from behind, apologising courteously as he elbowed his way through the crowd. 

Reeves cricked his neck as Demon Blake moved towards him, real fire blazing in her eyes. 

I’ve rarely engaged in hand to hand combat with a fallen angel. In fact, I would go so far as to say I have never in fact engaged in hand to hand combat with a fallen angel. It’s risky, and hard, plus in high stress situations I have a habit of turning into a cloud of greasy smoke so it’s difficult to keep up with the “hand to hand” thing. With that for context, let me tell you that I was impressed with how long Reeves held out. 

First she came for him with a left hook. 

He caught her fist in his and forced her backwards. 

She burst into flames and he was almost incinerated. 

Stumbling backwards, he pulled a chair out from under a possessed Jude Law and shattered it. 

He struck out with a chair leg and clocked her across the face. 

At this point she lost control and contorted briefly into her true shape, horns, wings and all. 

Taylor motioned to me to move to the orchestra pit. My part of the plan was, though I say myself, a big challenge. I was being very brave. Landing in the pit I centred myself and extended a telepathic field across all of the musicians. 

Just as I got the last flautist under control, I heard Reeves and Federer give the signal. It was meant to be “now” but it came as a slightly garbled scream somewhere in the vicinity of now. 

Luckily Blake got the message and the curtain on the stage rose. I connected myself with Taylor, a conduit for her to control the orchestra. She let out a single, incredible note. Demon Blake turned, dropping both Reeves and Federer to the floor. 

“You,” the Demon floated towards Taylor at an alarming pace. 

Taylor replied with a low hum, the orchestra started up, perfectly in tune under her control. 

“You hid my friend in that stupid song,” the demon had dropped its Blake disguise in its fury. Fallen angels, not pretty. Would not recommend this as a Halloween costume. 

Taylor started the song, the orchestra was building with her. I’d never heard this one before, it was incredible. 

The angel was uncomfortable, its tune was hiding under the verses, woven tightly into the chorus, but it fought back. Blue lightning flew out of its hands towards Taylor. She dodged, rolled and didn’t miss a line of her song. 

The Angel looked upwards as it began to weaken under the intensity of the music. Taylor nodded at me, as we had planned, I extended the telepathic field to include everyone in the room. Hundreds of voices raised in unison and the fallen angel writhed and glowed with pale fire. 

Reeves and Federer gazed up at the demon, Blake’s eyes were fixed on Taylor as she fought her greatest battle. In an explosion of fire and fury the fallen angel dissolved. The song came to an end, Taylor fell to her knees on the stage. Silence fell across the room, followed by a low whooshing sound as if a gale was blowing through the building. Seventy demons evacuated their influential hosts, eager to escape the wrath of the most powerful lightning rod they had ever seen. 

More silence, then Reeves clapping, Federer joining him, Blake whooping - the whole room erupted with applause. 

She stood, shakily. Smiled the same smile she had on her face the first time she vanquished a level five fire demon, and bowed.

As the applause died down, and I began gently wiping the memories of everyone in attendance. Taylor had a sudden flash of memory, she turned to Federer, who was folding napkins and straightening cutlery. 

“Did you leave Ryan locked in an under-sink cupboard?” 

“Oh, shit, yes,” he looked at Blake with panic in his eye. She was tucking into a tray of canapes. 

“Leave him there, it’ll be good for him,” she said, through a mouthful of salmon puffs, “I’ll get him out in an hour.” 

[kellyatx]

Dominion First Blood by Richard Mann ~ Book Tour and Giveaway https://bit.ly/3QxpPbO

Humans and Vampires unite in a holy war against an ancient alien menace.

Independence Day meets Underworld.

Hero (Dominion First Blood Book 1)

by Richard Mann

Genre: SciFi, Apocalyptic Fantasy

Lost in the desert our modern day hero SAS Captain "Bullet Proof Pete" has strange visions of a priest and an ancient book of prophecy, and a sword of unspeakable power. The Archangel Michael appears when all seems lost and tells him his destiny and his ancient name.

His visions continue, a dark cave, something diabolical within, a blackened sky and an ancient race of aliens invade earth in a monstrous ship. A woman of strange beauty appears in his dreams trying to contact him.

A brilliant archaeologist makes a shocking discovery in modern Iraq.

The magnetic Lucia and Count Cassian - vampires since the dawn of civilisation meet with the US President to persuade him of the impending threat. They also seek the ancient Hero contained in the book of prophecy.

In a frantic race against time our hero goes to New York to find out aboutthe alien agenda, but surrounded by alien forces he is saved at the last minute by two mysterious vampires.

Former enemies, both human and vampire, must become friends. But can humankind learn to set aside their petty conflicts and unite in a common cause?

Issues of race, religion and class are now irrelevant in a fight against a common and vicious enemy - determined to conquer earth and enslave its people. And one human holds the key - Caius.

“I wanted to write something that plays out in the imaginations of readers like a movie,” explains the author. “At its core it’s fiction, but the novel also asks some much deeper questions about race, religion and the basic survival of humankind. I believe readers will turn the last page with plenty to think about. There’s lots for everyone – including hardboiled hallmarks of sci-fi and fantasy for those who like a solid read, as well as lots of technical descriptions and some rather advanced weaponry, for readers who have a taste for the unconventional!”

**Only .99cents!**

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/HERO-Dominion-Apocalyptic-Superhero-BulletProof-ebook/dp/B07H7M5FCK

#SciFi #ScienceFiction #Apocalyptic #Fantasy #Adventure #Paranormal #Supernatural #Aliens #Vampires #Hero #Vendetta #Caius #DominionFirstBlood #RichardMannAuthor #books #readers #reading #booklovers #BookBlogger #Bookstagram #bookish #ebook #bookclub #AmReading #OnTour #BookTour #SilverDaggerBookTours #SDBookTours

~~📚~~📚~~

Follow the tour HERE for special content about the rest of the series and a giveaway!

#Giveaway https://bit.ly/3OJqoO9

#Hosted by Silver Dagger Book Tours ~ FB: @SilverDaggerBookTours & @MaiaGomez / IG: @silverdaggertours / Twitter: @SDBookTours https://www.silverdaggertours.com/

[ljambrosio]

So impressed with the amount of hosts that joined this blast for today.

June 27 Silver Dagger Book Tour Participants

Kickoff at Silver Dagger Book Tours FUONLYKNEW Lady Hawkeye Book Review Virginia Lee Blog J.M. Northrup All The Write Stuff Literary Gold Midnight Book Reader Scrupulous Dreams Naughty Nightie Book Blog Book Reviews by the Reluctant Retiree 4covert2overt ☼ A Place In The Spotlight ☼ ❧Defining Ways❧ ⒾⓃⓉⓇⓄⓈⓅⒺⒸⓉⒾⓋⒺ ⓅⓇⒺⓈⓈ I'm Into Books eBook Addicts Painting With Words Bedazzled By Books Sylv.net C.A.Milson Kenyan Poet Beautiful Books Books all things paranormal and romance Celticlady's Reviews The Bookshelf Fairy Girl with Pen My beauty my books Book Bites....with a side of coffee All Things Dark & Dirty Country Mamas With Kids Royally Insane Books Stormy Nights Reviewing & Bloggin' The Book Dragon Craving Lovely Books Inside the Insanity Insane Books Tracie's World of Books Twisted Book Ramblings Trixie Reports Books

[skywardboundzelda]

Ineffable, Chapter Three

Hosted on Archive of Our Own by divinince.

Three times when Link couldn’t speak and the one time he did.

Chapter Three

Despite being the Hero That Time Forgot, Link hates fighting. He hates war, hates the cold of the battlefield and the nostalgia for home, hates the moon that beats down on the Desert Colossus as he seeks asylum for the night.

He’s sixteen years old and already trusted to perform solo excursions. Of course he is, because, given his history, he is clearly gifted in every facet of physical prowess, but that doesn’t mean Link’s stomach doesn’t turn whenever the old general tells him that he trains like he wants to be the Hero of Legend.

The Goddess of the Sand towers over her desert, offering strength and love to the Gerudo women. Her loving hands, once extended to all who possessed the courage to survive her trials, are crumbled at the entrance, blown off by Hyrulean cannons. Still the Gerudo worship in the depths of her temple, coming and going despite the bombs that resound in the distance. Their Goddess, though disrespected by outsiders, reigns tall and supreme.

Such disrespect causes Link’s vision to go red. How would the Hyrulean soldiers feel if the Gerudo dared deface the image of Hylia? If Link was a religious man, he knows that he would be seething, but the generals? They don’t care. They want their paycheck; they want to please the king and queen.

(The generals use Link’s femininity to their advantage and have some of their wives make him up to be a lovely young woman. The ladies comment on the scars that line his bare back and midriff but also say that his wife -- he doesn’t know how old they think he is -- must be a lucky woman. He makes a note to tell Malon as soon as he returns home.)

Link’s excursion consists entirely of watching the Goddess of the Sand and her temple, for the military has supposedly caught wind that they’re using the temple to plot an ambush. Though Link believes such a thought is horse manure, he says nothing. He never says anything.

He gives the Gerudo chieftess a note forged by his superiors; he is a young Castle Town woman wishing to research Gerudo customs for a university class. The chieftess seems a bit suspicious, but tells Link that it’s not his fault. Rather, she doesn’t know who to trust anymore.

“You, of course, seem to be a perfectly honest young woman,” she explains. “Will you need assistance traversing the desert?”

And of course Link says no, because he never has and never will. The chieftess calls him a good girl, a strong girl, the beginnings of what she would call the ideal Gerudo warrior.

Once out of her sight, Link vomits up his morning meal, sickened by his true intentions, by his betrayal of the woman’s trust.

After a day of touring the temple and asking the other visitors completely unassuming questions, he sets up camp beside the desert oasis and downs two canteens of water. He’s nauseous with guilt as he considers the mission: he hasn’t necessarily failed it, because he hasn’t heard any incriminating information, but he could be doing better. Looking harder.

But he can’t and he knows that. He wants the war to be over soon, just as many of the Gerudo in the temple said they did, and he can’t imagine betraying an entire race due to the wrongdoings of one evil man. He has been doing that, though, for nearly a year, and all the water he swallowed so quickly threatens to make its reappearance.

Link lulls himself to sleep against the pangs of guilt in his chest and wakes under a starless blanket, the sound of slow footsteps crunching the desert sand.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and sits up. The figure is no Gerudo, for they are dressed too conservatively and don’t appear to present in a feminine manner, and he reaches for the dagger tucked away in his satchel.

Before Link can even get close enough to swing at the figure, they turn around and stare at Link with a single wide eye before retreating. Link recognizes the form of the runner almost immediately and his heart jumps; he chases after the person with one word yearning to roll from his tongue.

Sheik.

Sheik may be fast, but, unlike seven years ago, is clearly out of practice. Link catches up to him rather quickly and tackles him to the ground, eliciting a scream from the young man. Link hurries to quiet him, the still night of the desert anything but trustworthy.

“What are you doing here, Link?” he hisses, shoving Link off of his form and rising from the sand. Link wants to ask the same question and then some: how did you get here, why are you doing this, and is this allowed?

Dusting the sand from his clothing, Sheik glares at Link and motions to his haphazardly-build campsite.

“What do they have you doing?” he asks in voice too kind to be accompanying such a glare. Link stands to full height, shifts uncomfortably as sand falls into his clothing, and remains silent. He and Sheik both know what he’s doing.

But neither of them can bring themselves to say the words, and instead, Sheik sighs, staring off towards the colossal Goddess of the Sand. Link thinks she’s beautiful, powerful, and wishes that the Hyruleans didn’t want to destroy her.

Sheik steals the thoughts from Link’s mind. “She really is beautiful. Strong, too. My nursemaid had me learning about Gerudo culture until…” Until the pair foiled Ganondorf’s plans, until the war started, until Impa was fired. “But Father said no more, so there was no more.”

“It’s a shame that my men have done this to her,” Sheik laments, crack in his voice. Link can only nod in agreement. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish I could’ve ended it all.”

Silence fills the air. Link shifts his weight from his left foot to his right and switches the hand that holds his dagger.

“I could have. Instead -- Hylia, curse me -- I started it all.”

Before Link can extend a comforting hand, Sheik stares up at the moon. He appears more mature now than he did in the previous timeline, more hardened by the weight of the monarchy than Link’s fate.

Guilt has a tendency to age people, and Link knows that. He has seen it in himself.

(He still cannot force himself to stare up at the moon, even after all these years.)

“Link,” Sheik states, forcing Link away from his thoughts, “do you remember the song I taught you here? I believe it was the Requiem of--”

“Halt, voe!”

There is no time to process the chieftess’ booming voice before Link turns around and sees the woman approaching Sheik with a raised sword. Link does the only thing he knows how to do, the only thing he’s good for, the thing he spent seven years sleeping for.

He jumps in front of Sheik and screams as the silver blade slices through his right eye. He sees red once again, both literally and figuratively, and tightly fists his dagger before reaching up and plunging it into the chieftess’ throat. She shrieks, too, the sound agonizing and horrific and wretched, before blood begins to flow from her mouth.

She loses consciousness and falls to her knees, and the fight is over before it has even started.

“Link!” Sheik forgets his distant and mature demeanor as Link covers his eye -- or, rather, where his eye once was. He wants to remain strong, pretend as though nothing is the matter, but he’s crying, crying much harder than he has in many years, and the world around him is blurring. His eye hurts something awful, and the metallic smell and taste of his blood floods his senses. He grabs onto Sheik with both hands as shock overwhelms him, and the man’s sleeve is covered in blood.

Link has been injured before, and he knows this. He wants to say that he has sustained much worse, that he will survive this like every other wound.

But it isn’t the wound that bothers him. It’s the twitching body of the Gerudo chieftess that he and Sheik are leaving behind, gurgling as blood fills her throat, gasping for air that will never fill her lungs.

He has faced a million villains in his lifetime, but never one so sentient, never as kind, respectful, or welcoming as her. All these years, he’s never killed someone so human.

Link breaks free of Sheik’s grasp and collapses over the chieftess’ corpse, attempting to shake her back to life. He screams at her yells for her to awaken, apologizing a thousand times over.

She remains limp, a ragdoll in his arms. Sheik forces Link away from her body as his vision blackens.

He wakes back at the palace, Malon by his side. He promptly retches when he sees her, her red hair reminiscent of the locks of the Gerudo chieftess, and doesn’t close his eye again for two nights.

When he finally manages to fall asleep, head in Malon’s lap as she sings familiar lullabies, he dreams of a fallen member of the Royal Guard slumped against the walls of a Castle Town building as Ganondorf’s clutches take the last of his life. The guard was innocent, the guard was young, with a whole life ahead of him, and in an instant, Ganondorf had taken it all away.

He awakes as a scream passes through his throat, haunted by the realization that he and Ganondorf are one and the same.

[jmeelee]

If I try to bribe you with chocolate, will you come back and write something for BS? Just this once? 😆

Dear nonny,  I hope this is sweet enough for you!

______

Friday is John Silver’s favorite day to work at Max’s.  Chances are he won’t get off until after midnight, when the posh patrons have consumed their fill of cappuccinos and the ocean view, and stumble out of the fancy restaurant to continue their paradise vacations.  Normally, he’s deathly allergic to this brand of hard labor: fourteen hours on his feet, fake smiles, balancing a dozen glasses of wine on a flimsy serving tray.  The money is good, but that’s not what’s kept him waiting tables here for six months.

That would be James Flint, the pastry chef.

And tonight?  John Silver has a good feeling about tonight.  

***

“Don’t even think about stealing food off the plates,” Billy, the head waiter, tells him as he’s training on his first day.  “You only eat what’s served at four o’clock family meal.  See that old dude over there?”  He gestures toward a Sous Chef with greasy grey hair and a stained apron.  “That’s Randall.  If you even pilfer a potato, he’ll know.  He has a sixth sense or something.”

Silver takes in the bloodshot eyes of the man swaying on his feet like he’s standing on the deck of a rocking ship, instead of unmoving hard cement.  “More likely he’s just stoned and paranoid.”

Billy shrugs.  “Either way, no sticky fingers, or you’ll be fired.”  And Silver thinks he’ll have no trouble following this rule, until they pass the pantry and end up at the dessert station.

Silver’s mouth starts to water, but it’s not because of the sweets.

In front of him stands the sexiest mother fucker he’s ever laid eyes on.  Soft looking auburn locks are swept back from his forehead by a black bandana.  The sleeves of his double-breasted jacket are rolled up above his elbows, showcasing sun-kissed forearms that bear so many freckles they look like they’ve been dusted with cinnamon.  The man is bustling around his station, snatching flour and sugar, bending down to grab stainless steel bowls and a wooden rolling pin, his houndstooth pants stretching over thick thighs.  

“Who’s he?” Silver asks, voice several octaves deeper than it was when they toured the grill.  

But Billy doesn’t notice; he’s too busy shooting daggers at the pastry chef with his eyes while the man studiously ignores both of them.  “That’s James Flint.  Don’t bother getting to know him.  He’s a dickhead.”

John thinks he sees the corner of Flint’s mouth raise a fraction of an inch, but Billy is hustling him onto the dining floor too quick to be sure.  “What makes him a dick?” John asks as the kitchen doors swing shut behind them.  

“He’s worked here ten years, back before this place was even called Max’s.  But he doesn’t know any of our names.  The maitre d’ once told him I’d personally handle all the dessert runs at a wedding we were hosting, and the asshole looks Hal Gates straight in the face and says ‘Who the fuck is Billy?’  I was standing right there!  We’d worked together for six years!”  

Silver bites his lip to keep from laughing at Billy’s outrage.  “Seriously, ignore him like he ignores the rest of us. He doesn’t like anyone, and he can go fuck himself.”  Now that’s an image John’s going to store away for solo time tonight.

“He’s going to like me,” John vows with a sharp smile.

Billy’s blonde eyebrows jump to his hairline.  “And how the fuck do you think you’ll manage to make that happen?”

John shrugs.  “I’m a hard man not to like.”

***

It takes four full weeks of John’s killer smiles and cheery ‘good mornings’ for Flint to even look up from the bread dough he’s kneading.  Silver is so surprised he trips over his own feet and nearly face plants into the soup station.  Flint grunts out a small laugh, and goes back to punching the dough like he wishes it were John’s face connecting with his knuckles.

Progress.

***

By the second month Flint is grumping out a greeting in answer to John’s daily salutations, and by month three the entire waitstaff has nicknamed him the pastry whisperer.

“What’s that you’re making?”

“You can’t eat it,” James commands, never looking up from the tan sauce he’s methodically stirring.  “It’s peanut butter glacé.”  

“Not even a little lick?  For me?”  John seductively leans across the counter, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

“Fuck off you little shit.”  

***

Month four finds Flint explaining some of his recipes to Silver, who listens attentively because the shape of James’ mouth when it moves does things to him.  In month five Flint allows Silver to help him brown the sugar on his signature coffee creme brûlée.

John flicks on the mini blow torch.  “Wish I was blowing something else.”  He winks at James, whose ears turn as red as his hair.  

Progress.

***

John starts coming to work earlier and earlier during month six. Flint gets to work before the sun rises to start the bread and desserts and get them into the cooler, and he’s out at three o’clock, so if Silver wants to monopolize his time it needs to be early.  

“Are you trying to usurp Billy’s position as head waiter?” James jokes on the third morning Silver rolls in early.  John heads straight to the industrial sized coffee maker and brews an extra strong pot.  It’s a Friday, and weekend shifts always creep into the wee morning hours, but on Friday’s Flint usually strips off his apron and stays for family meal, sharing a dessert with the staff.  

Silver brings them both cups of steaming black coffee and sets up a stand, stacking trays lined with linen napkins so they’re ready for lunch service.  “No one could outshine the golden boy,” he replies.  

Flint laughs, the sound making Silver’s stomach flip.  “Maybe for Gates,” he allows.  “He loves Billy like a son.”

Silver turns on the charm.  “And who do you love?”

“I love peace and quiet, neither of which I’ve had since you started working here.”

John makes a rude sound with his mouth.

“Fuck me,” Flint curses, and for a moment Silver thinks it’s a request, but then he notices James scowling at the chocolate sauce he’s heating over a double broiler.  

“What’s the matter?” He asks, stepping behind the counter and checking the contents of the glass bowl.

“It’s dull,” James hisses, scraping the sides of the bowl with a spatula. “I was going to use it as a glaze for raspberry truffles, but the quality is too low.  They’ll look like lumps of shit.”  He dips his index finger into the bowl and holds it up, testing the glossiness under the bright fluorescent lights.  

John leans forward and wraps his lips around Flint’s finger to the second knuckle, swirling his tongue around the digit, sucking up all the chocolate and pulling off with an audible pop.

Flint is staring at him, pupils blown and slack jawed, as Silver lets out a pornographic moan.  “Tastes amazing,” he supplies, then grabs his stack of trays and saunters out into the dining room to refill the salt shakers.  

“That little shit,” he hears Flint’s awed curse as he exits the kitchen, wet hand dropping to grope the erection tenting his checkered pants.  

John smiles to himself as rich dark chocolate melts in his mouth.  Yeah.  Tonight is going to be a good night.  

[bloodforvlad]

This isn’t the first time someone’s come to see him. Sometimes they stand at the entry to his locked estate, mooning and pining (either going away and coming back until Vlad relents and allows the servants to open the gates, or taking the initiative to seek out the hemomancer directly). But it’s rare that they look for him outside of Noxus.

Even rarer that they find him.

Vlad lifts his head from his book, alerted by the heartbeat. He’s used to wolves, and deer, and the passage of birds overhead. Even the bandits and poachers that call these wild woods home sometimes pass close to the monastery. Rarely, though. Very rarely. None of them are foolish enough to climb the steep stone stairs. And yet, there is a heartbeat, pounding hard from the effort and exercise. Growing stronger and louder to his senses.

He glances over to his footman. “Jacques. We have company.”

His servant gives a grim look in return, but bows and departs. He has been in service long enough to anticipate his master’s will. He has seen what has happened before.

Vladimir puts his book down, and moves to the balcony. Watching the figure struggling their way up the steps. 

The stranger is panting as he reaches the monastery’s courtyard, but he’s not exhausted. He’s young, with sandy-brown hair and muscles that speak of an apprenticeship of hard work. Perhaps at sea, or carpentry, or some other trade. The clothes he wears are rough, homespun, sturdy, practical. He carries a club at his waist, and a small dagger strapped to his thigh. Weapons that have not seen recent use - a lucky happenstance, given the wildness of these lands and the creatures within it. His pulse is rich, and Vladimir can read good family lines in the scent of it. No inbreeding, which means he’s not descended from nobility or from some isolated village. And there’s something else, too. Something more. The spark of magic, a colour that has taste, a sound that is tangible. 

Vladimir watches, impassive, then steps towards the edge of the balcony, close enough that he can be seen in return. 

The young man looks up, his smooth skin marred by the sun and patched in places by the growth of scraggly chin hair. His eyes widen in shock as he sees Vladimir, before he breaks into a wide grin, and lifts one hand to wave.

“Vladimir! Master Sanguinus, sir!”

Vladimir leans on the stone, and studies the stranger. “You’re a long way from Noxus. Are you lost?”

“No, sir!” The young man sets down a heavy pack, standing straight, gazing up at Vladimir. “I came to look for you!” He wipes the sweat from his brow and straightens his clothing.

“For me? Well. Here I am.” He straightens, raising a single silver claw in a gesture to wait and be silent. The young man does so, entranced, staying in the courtyard as Vladimir turns to go inside. He still waits, as Vladimir takes his slow and casual way down to ground level, in no hurry to meet this fellow face to face. Yet it seems no matter how much time he takes, the enthusiasm of the long-travelled young man doesn’t wane.

“You came looking for me,” Vlad says, as the wind picks at his hair and robes, as the sun gleams off silver and rubies, as the imposing dark stone of the monastery rise around and behind him, framing his porcelain-and-scarlet self as he moves out of the doorway. “Why is that?”

The young man kneels, almost shaking with excitement, then he cranes his head back to gaze up at him. “I want to learn from you,” he says, wide-eyed in delight and something approaching fanaticism. “I want to learn hemomancy.”

Vladimir lets his lips curve in a faint, knowing smile. The smile does not meet his eyes.

It’s a poor host who does not invite a guest inside. The young man is shown into the monastery. He is given a meal, water to wash with, a room to sleep in, is promised a tour when the morning comes. The boy’s giddiness seeps through the stone, balanced only by the calm and steady pulses of the servants who attend to their master.

Vladimir slowly drains a bottle of wine, and watches the afternoon turn to evening.

It’s not quite a full moon, but it will do. Jacques ties the cow to a stake, Lance rouses the stranger, the maids quietly retreat into the kitchens and storerooms to begin preparing a meal for their master. They have their routines. They know their places.

Vladimir himself waits on the cliff edge, standing in the same place Dmitri did all those years ago, looking out across the vast, black forests. Far, far in the distance, he can see the dim lights of Noxus, the skull-shaped mountain by the sea that, from here, seems little more than the humped back of a rabbit. Or a rat.

He starts speaking before the stranger can, as Vlad feels the pulse enter the courtyard. “The art of hemomancy is not a forgiving one. It demands quite a sacrifice. Are you prepared to do what is necessary?”

There is a lover’s breathlessness in the stranger’s voice. “Anything,” he says. “Anything, Master Sanguinus.”

The blood mage flexes his claws, then steps away from the parapet’s edge. Under the moonlight, his scarlet robes seem darker. Almost black, like heartblood. His eyes, likewise, though with an unearthly gleam to them. He is a god, given form, and the stranger gazes in wonder and worship. It is a shame, really, what must come of this. It has been so long since he was worshipped.

Vladimir gestures to the cow. “Show me what you can do. Cripple the beast.”

The young man licks his lips, turning his attention to the tethered cow. It’s a shaggy beast, dense of fur and heavy of horn, the kind that thrives in this mountainous climate. It’s a strong beast, in the prime of life, and it is smart enough to sense impending danger. It lows, and tugs at the tether, trying to free itself from the stake.

The stranger acts quickly. The magic in his veins rises, finding a focus. Vladimir watches, impassive, as the air ripples around the stranger’s hands, as shadows coalesce. To his sight, familiar with magic, he sees blacks, dark greens, thorned pikes. And he sees the glee on the stranger’s face, the same kind of glee on the faces of those who pull the wings off flies, tear the feathers from birds, throw coals at cats, take to dogs with cudgels.

The cow screams, almost human, as it buckles, as the magic coils around it and claws at it. Bruises form and blood spills from savage wounds across its legs and throat and belly. Each wound has almost clinical placement. The young man knows how to hurt. The young man very much enjoys making living things hurt.

“Enough,” Vladimir says, sounding bored. “I said to cripple it, not kill it.”

It chastens the stranger more than a ‘my gods, what are you doing, stop’. The feathery darkness of the magic withdraws, and he drops his hands to his sides, panting. Flushed. Excited, but now nervous. Desperate to impress.

Vladimir looks over the wounded animal, at how it lays on its side, on how its legs have locked, tense and unmoving, at the quickened rise and fall of the flanks and the eyes rolled back until they show the whites. 

“Very well done,” Vladimir says, eventually. Careful not to sound disgusted, or grudging in his praise.

The young man grins, elated.

“Now heal it.”

The young man stares in confusion. “... Master?”

“Heal it.” Vladimir’s voice is as flat as before. His expression expectant, his eyes hard.

The young man shifts, now, uncomfortable, looking down at the injured beast. He raises his hands, hesitates, lowers them again. His pulse is racing. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t understand. He can’t: can’t do, and can’t understand, in equal measures.

“Hemomancy,” Vladimir says calmly, “Is the mastery of life and death. Anyone can kill. Cretins can kill, cowards can kill, children can kill.” He steps forward, hands idly waving over the cow. “Killing is easy. But keeping things alive? That’s the greatest challenge.”

His eyes gleam, rising red and ferocious like twin stars in the darkness. The open wounds close. The bruises fade and vanish. Those tight-locked limbs uncurl. Slowly, the cow gets back to its feet, fearfully shifting away from the stranger. But it stands, unmarred, giving one distressed low before settling into silence.

Vladimir flicks his claws, and the spilled droplets of blood gather and spin around his hand like miniature comets. “There is no art to death,” he says, bored, flat, stony. Watching the blood.

“That’s not true!” The stranger steps forward, desperate in pleading. “I’ve heard about what you can do! With the ropes of blood! And the Danse Macabre! I want to be able to do what you do, Master Sanguinus!”

“No,” Vlad flicks his hand, sending the blood to scatter on the stones around them, allowing his anger to show for the first time as he locks eyes with the stranger. “What you came here to learn was more ways to cause pain and suffering. You don’t want art. You want dominion.” He sneers, then moves back towards the cliff’s edge, turning his back with a flick of his coat. “If that is what you came here to learn, boy, then I have nothing to teach you. In fact... I don’t want to teach you.”

“... but... why?”

“I don’t have to give you a reason,” he says, coolly. “Go to bed. In the morning, you return to Noxus. I have no need of you. Hemomancy has no need of you.”

A student willing to learn might have lowered his head and turned aside. Or maybe stood to fight, to plead, to weep. But a boy who likes to cause pain and suffering, one who has deluded himself into believing he is head and shoulders above the rest of the world, who would hunt down a teacher, a kindred spirit? A denial like this is unthinkable. Unacceptable. 

Vladimir hears the knife being drawn. He allows the young man to charge. He makes no move to dodge. 

But before his chest, his claws flick. He delicately caresses the blood vessels with a gentle waft of his consciousness. He knows how to cause pain, too. But he doesn’t find glee in it, like this stranger does. He also doesn’t need to focus, doesn’t need time to bring his magic to bear.  Vladimir barely moves, tilting his head and sighing, and the effect is instantaneous.

Muscles contract. Blood reroutes. The black thorned magic shrinks back. 

The young man gives a strangled yelp. 

Vladimir turns his head, then, and meets his eyes. A brief gaze, held long enough for Vladimir’s disinterest and disdain to burn themselves into the stranger’s memory, and for the wide-eyed, opened-mouthed panic to be registered in Vlad’s awareness.

And then the young man is gone. Toppling over the parapet, limbs flailing. Vlad doesn’t watch. His eyes are lifted to the distant shape of Noxus on the horizon, and he ignores the figure pinwheeling downwards into the dark.

Not that he needs to see. He can sense the magic, and the pulse, cease.

Jacques emerges from the doorway, rubbing his hand over the cow’s broad head before he moves to stand beside his master. He looks down. He squints through the blackness. He looks up, and almost shrugs.

“We never got his name,” Vlad murmurs. “Did we?”

“No.” Jacques is almost as detached from the scene as his master. “... should I fetch the body?”

Vladimir sighs, feeling the tension bleed out of him. He shakes his head, then turns and heads inside. 

There is a dinner waiting for him, and then he needs to get back to his book.

[bookblogarama]

#OnTour with @SilverDaggerBookTours | #SilverDaggerBookTours ~~🕮🕮~~ #BookTour & #Giveaway ~~🕮🕮~~ •¨) ★💕¸.•*´¨📚) ★.💕•* ★(¸.•💕´📚 •*¨💕.📚•*´ ★(📚¸. ADRENALINE (Laure; Glen Series Book 1) by B.L. Scott #RomanticSuspense #Romance #Suspense #Adrenaline #LaurelGlenSeries @BLScottAuthor A successful woman wary of charming men. A man full of regret for a massive error in judgement. Their fiery relationship that almost wasn’t. A novel of international intrigue, last chances, and trust. Lindsey Kelly loves two things—fast cars and her counter-terrorism business. She’s a self-made Beltway Bandit who rewards herself for her successes by racing her “baby,” a Ferrari F430 Spider, at Laurel Glen. When the car malfunctions during a practice lap, she meets a new track mechanic, Gavin Blake. Lindsey initially finds his looks compelling, but his judgmental and know-it-all attitude remind her of everything life with her ex-husband taught her to avoid. For his part, Gavin isn’t interested in rich women who think they own the world. Or so he tells himself. In his previous life as a high-powered attorney, someone like Lindsey could have been his, but now, simplicity is what he craves. He hopes an uncomplicated life as an auto mechanic with little responsibility will help him avoid another colossal error in judgment. The lives of these two self-avowed loners keep colliding, however, and a steamy on-again/off-again connection develops. They are eventually pulled into a vortex of danger when a terrorist organization attempts a takeover of Lindsey’s company. Working with the CIA, Lindsey becomes bait to draw out the leader of this radical group. Faced with personal jeopardy, Gavin and Lindsey discover a love and trust that is necessary for their very existence. Goodreads: https://ift.tt/3d9LkL6 Amazon: https://ift.tt/3ddwfbu ~~🕮~~~~🕮~~~~🕮~~~~🕮~~ ABOUT THE AUTHOR B. L. Scott is new to the literary scene. For the last thirty years she has been involved with a security training facility and weekend road racing venue located near Washington, DC. The company conducts counter-terrorist schools Monday through Friday and hosts sportscar and motorcycle racing on the weekends. Her work with both racers and government clients like the CIA, SEALs, and FBI was exciting, and she hopes to express this excitement in her series based at a similar facility, fictionally christened Laurel Glen. Adrenaline is the first of this series. Though she misses the exhilaration of facing the challenges of a multifaceted business, she's delighted to have the time to follow her passion--writing stories that excite and touch the heart. She lives in the Virginia countryside with her aged yellow lab, Abby. Author Links Website: https://ift.tt/2T3nr0Q Facebook: https://ift.tt/3h6zIcR Twitter: https://twitter.com/Barbara19347646 Instagram: https://ift.tt/3gWtUUM Amazon: https://ift.tt/3jePg0P ~~🕮~~~~🕮~~ GIVEAWAY $10 Amazon Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway! https://ift.tt/3xNrP2I ~~🕮🕮~~ HOSTED BY:~~🕮🕮~~ Silver Dagger Book Tours: https://ift.tt/2xKkiVs https://ift.tt/3qnUd9o

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The John Callahan Series - Sales Book Blitz and Giveaway For Author Elizabeth Upton. . .

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