Razori stroked both thumbs down the snout of the red dragon whelp, recumbent across his thighs, with a surety that had me jealous. He’d always had a way with animals, including the human kind, and his touch had translated easily to the creature we’d found in the ruins.
“What should we do with it?” My heart skipped, as its gold eyes slid to mine.
“Train it. We can finally do something, Clar.” His eyes burned hot as any dragon’s fire.
Rebellion. I could smell it, rising from his skin, becoming ashes on my tongue.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: recumbent, thumb, whelp)
The shoelace saved her.
Cursing, Lovelace ducked down to retie her shoe, then fell forward onto her palms with a cry, as something whizzed through the air overhead and showered her with chipped stone from the wall in front of her. She scuttled sideways, eyes wide, chest heaving, mind whirring frantically to identify the threat. Someone was shooting at her?
It had all seemed so trivial. Take the bag. Drop it off. Make some cash. But then Roberta had suggested drinks and dancing, and she’d forgotten all about it. All about the man with the contemptuous eyes, and his warning.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: contempt, shoelace, trivial)
An expression of contentment tugged on the corners of Callon’s mouth, as he stared at the TV over Jaen’s shoulder.
Growling, Jaen gave him a none-too-subtle jab in the ribs. “Here we are discussing Sirius’ skill with rib bones and ribboned muscle, and a damn hockey game turns out to be your lullaby. Wipe that flaccid look off your face, and focus.”
Callon tapped his temple with a bottle of beer. “Multitasking, Jaen dear. So, perhaps we let Sirius complete the summoning. Give the Keldoor Brothers something to play with.”
“And put our heads in a sack? No thank you.”
Read the on-going story here
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: flaccid, lullaby, sack)
Mustard yellow flowers covered the hill, slowly devouring the few remnants of needle-straight grass that had survived the corrosive rain. Jahvor liked to chew the spiky blossoms, claiming some use as an aphrodisiac, but Eliedor, watching pulp drip from his teeth, seriously doubted its effectiveness.
“What we doing here, boss,” he said, voice about as pleasant as an insect’s drone, deep in your ear.
Eliedor raised one gauze-wrapped hand skyward. “Investigating a body dump.”
“I don’t see any—“
There was a whine high above, then Jahvor’s surprised scream, as a corpse slammed into the ground, misting everything in red.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: aphrodisiac, chew, gauze)
Plucking languidly at the fine, blue strands of her uncombed hair, Royal stared hard at the center of Callon’s forehead. Avoiding his gaze was nothing new. With measured slowness, Callon placed the grisly photos on the table, then leaned back in his chair. Jaen began to tap her foot impatiently, until Callon put a stilling hand on her knee.
“Sirius,” Royal said, without looking down.
“Sadly no longer beleaguered by the pecuniary difficulties gifted by Lennox.”
“Seems not. You see the words? Indecipherable jargon to Jaen and me.”
“It’s ritualistic Keldoorian.” Royal met Callon’s eyes. “It’s a summoning.”
Read the on-going story here
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: fine, jargon, pecuniary)
He binds my wrists with jute rope, his fingers leaving streaks of red, as he unknowingly paints with blood that is not my own.
Pitch-dark eyes stare at my face, like a merchant appraising fruit soon to spoil. I bare my filed teeth, watch him flinch.
He sees the wolf now, not a girl to pity, even as he puts the collar ‘round my throat. He pushes me into the flux of collared women, hastily grabs his coin, but he can’t escape my eyes. Can’t escape the promise that leaves my lips and splatters in the dirt.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: flux, jute, spoil)
Shoulder to thigh in a shadowed doorway, Jaen and Callon watched a huddle of uniformed police officers walk down the brownstone’s stairs with faces more gray than the storm-dampened sky overhead. A lone woman stepped out onto the landing, presumably a plainclothes detective, and stared with hard eyes at the small crowd splayed along the fringe of caution tape.
Callon flared his nostrils, eyes grim, as he stared at the open door beyond the detective. “I smell blood,” he said. He could imagine the sanguine mess that Sirius had left inside.
“He’s getting careless.”
“No. He’s making a point.”
Previously… (1) Hunting in the Park, (2) Hounded, (3) Rotten Fruit, (4) Bait, (5) Regrets
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: lone, sanguine, splay)