The Balance of Silence (16 page)

Turning toward Dragon, Bear curled his body enough to rest his head on Dragon’s shoulder. He yawned as a familiar languor crept into his limbs. “How much valerian did you put in that tea?”

“Only a little more than usual. You’ve had a rough hike today. Between that and the fever, you’re worn out.” Dragon stroked Bear’s sweat-damp hair away from his face. “Lie down. Sleep. We’ll start whenever you’re ready tomorrow, but we’re going to go easy, okay?”

“Agreed.” Bear yawned again. His eyelids slid closed. When he forced them open, he was surprised to find himself stretched out on the blanket, with Dragon’s shirt beneath his head and the thick wool blanket he’d been using earlier tucked around him from toes to chin. Dragon crouched beside the fire, rinsing the cooking pot with what clean water remained in the other pot. Bear frowned. “Dragon?”

Dragon’s head whipped up. When he saw Bear watching him, he set both pots down and hurried back to Bear’s side. “What is it? What do you need?”

“Nothing. I just…” Bear shook his head. It bothered him that he could fall asleep in the middle of a conversation and not even realize it was about to happen. “You should sleep too. I know you must be tired.”

Dragon smiled, though the worry line between his eyes remained. “I will. Just let me finish cleaning up.”

“All right.” Freeing one arm from the blanket, Bear reached up to touch Dragon’s cheek.

Dragon grabbed Bear’s hand in both of his and pressed a kiss to the palm before letting go. Bear shut his eyes and let himself drift.

He half-surfaced when the blanket lifted and Dragon’s warm body pressed close to his. Rolling onto his good side, he curled into Dragon’s welcome embrace with a contented sigh. He sank back into sleep to the sound of Dragon’s heartbeat in his ear.

Two very different men. One magical world. An adventure that could cost everything.

Strange Fortune

© 2010 Josh Lanyon

Dashing soldier of fortune Valentine Strange needs a fortune—he owes just about everybody, including his betrothed. Happily, the wealthy Holy Orders of Harappu are desperate to retrieve the diadem of the Goddess Purya from an ancient temple deep in the White Mountains.

It’s to be a dangerous journey, but the pay is too good to refuse. Though the addition of a reputedly mad—and strangely attractive—witch makes Val suspect there’s more at stake than the retrieval of a mere religious relic.

Aleister Grimshaw is a reluctant companion on Val’s quest. The same evil that surrounds the diadem once hunted him—and still threatens his sanity in terrible dreams. Cruel experience has taught him to keep to himself, but Val fearlessly defends him against all manner of curses, bandits and unnatural creatures.

Grimshaw dares to hope that here is someone worthy of his deepest secrets…if the brash, beautiful Val will only listen to his warnings.

But he doesn’t, and both men find themselves imprisoned by the masked priests of an unholy order.

Grimshaw succumbs to a demonic power that will force both men to face the destruction of the only lives they have ever known.

Warning: This book contains one dashing cad, one half-mad witch, two vengeful ghosts, various
assorted demons and enchanted creatures, a pinch of revolution—and the illicit use of pith helmets.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Strange Fortune: When the old woman finished speaking, Grimshaw answered her in the same rapid, clicking tongue.

Apparently whatever he said did not go down well. Murmurs of dismay rippled through the assembly.

“What does she want?” Strange demanded.

“They’ve asked me to perform a feat of magic.”

“So? Perform one.”

Grimshaw looked pained. “It’s not that simple.”

Why shouldn’t it be? Witches were so much more temperamental about these things. A good magician simply did as he was asked. Say the word and they’d have a mechanical man or a winged dog or a fire lizard standing in the courtyard with them. Witches always had some complicated rule about why they couldn’t do something that needed doing.

The old woman began to speak again. When she finished, she gestured impatiently to the dwarf figure who stepped forward with the diadem.

Grimshaw shook his head.

“What are you doing?” Strange demanded, moving forward.

He was grabbed roughly by the masked monks and dragged back. He could have broken free—it would be like snapping a handful of twigs—but Grimshaw called out angrily and Strange was released, though with obvious reluctance. Trying to move forward, he found his way barred again. Grimshaw spoke harshly, but although heads were ducked in presumed obedience, no one moved out of Strange’s path.

Slowly but steadily the courtyard was filling with people. Villagers? But from what hamlet? And what manner of folk were these? Strange thought he knew all the tribes of the Benhali Mountains, but the crowd joining the pool of black masks surrounding himself and Grimshaw, widening the gulf between them, were unlike any he had seen before. They were very tall, striking looking, with hazel eyes and bronze hair and skin that was just…unless it was a trick of light? No. Their skin was the palest, most delicate shade of…green.

Green.

Something in their diet, no doubt.

But…indisputably green.

Much like the stories told about the ancient ones of Nagara. He’d never believed those stories although he’d seen a few green-looking citizens on ancient murals and serving platters. Always figured it for artistic license.

Grimshaw’s horse moved restively and kicked out at the bodies beginning to hem him in. Monks and peasants hastily moved clear, and Strange was able to reach Grimshaw’s side, putting his hand on Caspar’s bridle, quieting him.

“Why are they so interested in you?”

“She’s suggested I might be the incarnation of her god.”

“You
what
?”

Grimshaw didn’t answer, and following his gaze Strange saw that a small cadre of burly men dressed in the black livery of monastery guards had appeared at the top of the stairs. Arms folded, they seemed prepared to resist any onslaught against the monastery. What kind of monastery kept a house guard?

“Does this god of hers answer to the name of Dakshi when he’s at home?”

There were exclamations from those standing near at the mention of Nanak’s magician.

Grimshaw sounded distracted. “I don’t know. Dakshi’s not a god. Not technically. But maybe they think…”

“What?”

In subdued tones, Grimshaw said, “I don’t believe she’s telling the truth. She knows I’m no god. But for some reason she seems to want me to think that’s what she believes. She suggests that I enter the monastery so we can converse in privacy.”

“No.” Strange spoke automatically, but then questioned his own reaction. He didn’t like it—it felt unlucky, unsafe—but there was no practical reason not to comply, was there? Beyond the fact that there was something going on here that he didn’t follow.

Grimshaw said quietly, “It might be the only way. She wants me to put on the diadem, but only inside.”

Strange shook his head, his eyes holding the gaze of the tall monk he’d dubbed Stork. “I don’t trust Stork over there. Make them bring it to you.”

In fact, he didn’t trust any of them. He looked around but did not see the elderly Crux anywhere.

Grimshaw tossed his helmet to Strange and thrust an imperious hand toward the monks. “Bring me the diadem.”

But now the monks seemed unsure. There was a hasty withdrawal and conference which lasted several minutes before at last the diminutive figure came forward again, proffering a small silken pillow faded with age. Strange stared at the intertwined metals of workmanship from a bygone age. One of the largest stones was missing, but it was still a strange and twisted amazement of gold and red gems.

The tall monk clicked and chattered at Grimshaw.

Grimshaw did not speak, did not move.

Never taking his eyes from the winking, blinking jewels, Strange asked, “Have they mentioned how the thing came to be here?”

“It’s a bit vague.”

“Or why they pretended they didn’t know what we were talking about?”

The crowd had fallen silent, waiting. The dwarfish figure nearly overbalanced in an effort to raise the pillow to Grimshaw’s outstretched hand. Fingers closing around the diadem, Grimshaw placed it gingerly on his forehead.

There were a great many gasps and ducking heads as light caught the glitter of jewels. The crowd fell back. The monks began clicking furiously to each other. The elegant green folk, too, were talking in weird trills that reminded Strange of birds. He heard the whisper start and blaze through the crowd like fire through dry grass.

“What are they saying?”

“Apparently only Dakshi can wear his own diadem and live.” Grimshaw added, “
Now
they tell me.”

Strange bit back a fierce grin. Hand on his revolver, he was waiting for something—anything. Matters had already moved far beyond their control. They were badly outnumbered, surrounded. They might still triumph—the fact that Grimshaw was still sitting there alive and unharmed wearing the diadem of a god was greatly in their favor. The crowd, still reeling with shock and awe, were beginning to drop down on their knees, touching foreheads to stone.

Grimshaw jerked his head, and following his nod, Strange saw that the monks were in conference again—the Crux had reappeared at the top of the monastery stairs, apart from the others, watching them with her odd gold-brown eyes. He turned sharply back to Grimshaw as the younger man caught his breath as though in pain.

“Alright?”

“
Oddsblood…
” Grimshaw swore faintly as though he had just made an astonishing discovery, eyes closed, hand at his forehead, his fingers pressed against the diadem.

“Grimshaw?”

Grimshaw didn’t reply.

Strange wasted no more time, stepping over the bodies and going to his horse, grabbing the bag of gold he’d brought. He pushed his way back to the monastery steps and tossed the bag down. It spilled open, gold coins flashing in the sun. The monks drew back as though it were poison. More clicking and clacking of tongues.

“Time to go,” he told Grimshaw.

Grimshaw opened his eyes. He looked dazed.

In three steps Strange reached Balestra and mounted. He threw a look back to see Grimshaw wheeling his mount, a hand going to the diadem to steady it.

A shout of protest went up from the monks, and the temple guards rushed forward even as the previously prone worshippers were on their feet, hands grabbing at Grimshaw’s stirrups and bridle. The mob closed in about him dragging horse and rider back in a relentless surge toward the great carved doors standing wide and waiting. Not trained to be a warhorse, Caspar allowed this, balking only slightly.

Strange spurred Balestra forward, trying in vain to intercept Grimshaw. The younger man was kicking at those hanging to the chestnut’s bridle. He planted a boot in one chest, knocking the man down, but another was there to take his place. Ahead of them, Strange glimpsed painted, swinging lanterns, and walls carved with the faces of demons and monstrous beasts.

The clamor was deafening as his own bridle was caught and he was dragged in the opposite direction.

Balestra landed a hard bite on the monk leading him and shook his head free. Strange reached for his pistol but hesitated. So far they were unharmed. If he tipped the balance toward violence, Grimshaw might be the first to pay the price. He spurred Balestra forward again, trying to ride through the crush of bodies, but there was no room to maneuver as the screaming, chanting crowd swept Grimshaw along, hauling witch and horse up the steps and into the great hall.

The heavy doors swung shut behind.

Sensual overload can be a tactical disadvantage.

Somatesthesia

© 2010 Ann Somerville

Devlin Grace’s experience with child exploitation cases lands him a new assignment with the Special Crimes Investigators unit of the Federal Justice Agency, plus a new partner who could make the job tougher than expected. Connor Hutchens possesses incredible, scientifically enhanced senses…and zero social skills. Word on the street is that his last partner left under a cloud—and it was Connor’s fault.

Connor blames himself for losing his previous partner, and wants to do right by his new one. But Devlin confuses and frustrates him, and he struggles to cope with Devlin’s swift intelligence, quirky humor and teasing sexuality.

With the dangerous, perplexing case facing them, there’s no one Devlin would rather have at his back than Connor. But the longer they work together, the higher the sexual tension rises—until attraction boils over and puts everything at risk. Their careers, the children they’re trying to save—and any chance of lasting love.

This book has been previously published.

Warning: Violence and non-graphic reference to mutilations. But also snarking, teasing, why-won’t-
they-get-a-clue syndrome, and kittens in barns.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Somatesthesia:

“I’m taking the weekend off,” Devlin said after their order had been taken. The little vegetarian café

had become a regular haunt for them because the food was excellent and the dining area private. The owners now saw them as favored customers and enjoyed trying new dishes out on them, to Devlin’s delight. Connor had no strong preferences in food other than it be healthy, so he was happy to let Devlin choose where they ate. “I’m going squirrelly.”

“The case isn’t solved.”

“And it’s not going to be solved over the weekend without a breakthrough, and hey, we get one of them, I’ll be back like a shot. I just want to do some sight-seeing, go dancing, get laid. You know, normal stuff.”

Connor ignored the provocative parts of that sentence. “But we’re still on duty.”

“Yeah, and I can be reached by phone or message any time. Chicago’s not that big. I can be in any part of the city in an hour, and seriously, if I don’t see more than the hotel, this joint and the station, I’m going to go nuts.”

“You’ve been to Raj’s house and his workshop.”