We hope you enjoyed the coloring page we sent last week. Our friend Athena was kind enough to point out that I can’t trace myself because I’m three-dimensional. 0_o I’d have to be two-dimensional for the tracing thing to work as planned. Bummer.
I wonder why a certain uncle who brought the tracing paper didn’t mention that. And why my beloved Papa let his magic kick those papers around the room. Though, I did enjoy running after them. I am a fictional little kid after all.
Our cave isn’t that big, so they couldn’t go far. I cornered them, and Papa’s magic put the papers down. After I collected them, I thought about what Athena had said. Maybe I can’t trace myself, but there was something I could trace.
I spread the tracing papers on the floor. It was pitted in places, which might make this whole tracing thing a bit tricky, but it was the only surface large enough for my experiment.
“Papa?” I said when I’d laid several sheets end-to-end.
“Would you help me with something?”
Papa joined me by the blank papers. “What am I helping you with?”
“You’ll see.” 🙂
And maybe you will too next week, but for now, we must return you to our adventure-in-progress.
Before we do, hit reply and let us know if you like reading a story a week from us. Our scribe likes writing them, and we like starring in them. Just let us know if you enjoy reading them. Pretty please?
And that brings up a very important question.
What’s our scribe writing?
Last weekend, our intrepid scribe might have seen an advert for another anthology. She might have pulled out a lyric novella she wrote several years ago at the publisher’s insistence. She might also have spent the weekend polishing it up.
While her pc was unattended, I might have added a few extra words just to spice things up, and I might have *accidentally* undid a few edits she’d made.
(Sorry, scribe, I had a case of story-envy. You’ll forgive me, right?)
I can neither confirm nor deny these claims until the publisher replies back about whether that experimental story is in or out. Worry not, I’m scanning her inbox daily for that message so I can spill the beans—I mean words.
We’ll publish an expanded edition later this year. Our scribe is writing a part a week for you as our special gift. ❤ But I reserve the right to demand more magical mayhem later. 😉
Stealing Christmas: A Curse Breaker Story
Three years ago…
“Go. That’s an order.”
Hopefully those won’t be the last words Nolo says to me. Sarn glanced over his shoulder and saw only an endless parade of silent trees towering over him as he ran like his life depended on it.
Perhaps it did, but Sarn had trouble believing that. He closed his eyes just in case because their emerald glow would give anyone searching for him an advantage in the dark. If there really was someone chasing him.
Until I know what’s going on, I need to be invisible. But invisibility was impossible when he had no control over his trajectory. I’m sure Nolo’s overreacting. Those horns are probably nothing.
But such thoughts didn’t slow his mad dash because Sarn had no control over his body. That damned order echoed through his bones, and it was moving him even though he wanted to turn around and go back.
They can’t be alive. Sarn couldn’t believe it. Scenes from last winter’s collapse kept playing out in his mind. (That story’s coming to eBook this fall as part of an ultra-secret project. Shh!) So many tons of rock and ice had fallen in a great avalanche directly onto the Wild Hunt. They must be dead. Someone must be imitating them. After all, the Rangers were fond of their pranks. Especially when they’re playing them on me.
But that logic failed to change the situation. The order was piloting his body now, and Sarn couldn’t disobey it no matter how much he wanted to. That was one of his magic’s more annoying habits. Good thing his magic knew the way back to Mount Eredren, and it didn’t require any input from his eyes else he’d have tripped ten times over by now.
Snow crunched and roots creaked underfoot. Nolo’s last words pushed for speed not caution, and Sarn couldn’t modify them either no matter how loudly his sixth sense clamored for stealth. Nor could he hear anything over the noise of his passage.
All he had was his head map, which Sarn hadn’t even thought to engage until now. Unfortunately, his magic had been waiting for him to flip that mental switch. Because the instant he did, information streamed in—too much for Sarn to take in all at once. But there was one glaring detail that demanded his full attention: the two icons speeding toward him. Who are you?
According to his magic, one of the icons belonged to Nolo, but the other was unidentifiable. Something grazed his arm. Because he was wearing two sweaters and a cloak over his tunic, whatever had glanced off the meaty part of his arm hadn’t penetrated all that cloth.
Sarn threw out a hand, but tongues of green flames didn’t race around his fingers. Come on, do something. Sarn shook his hand while he ran, but all his magic did was gather under his skin and wait. Now’s a really bad time for you to go all contrary on me.
That had been happening more and more often since the avalanche last winter. I didn’t want to hurt them even thought they’d kidnapped my son. I just wanted to stop them. And he had. Sarn tried to push those thoughts out of mind so he could concentrate on the more immediate danger, but they wouldn’t go, and he might be running headlong into more trouble than he could handle.
Find out if the Wild Hunt captures Papa next week. Until then, the cast and our scribe wish you an amazing week. Be safe.
Deals, Giveaways & Other Cool Stuff
Until next time, dear reader
This is Ran, “the 3D” son of Sarn, wishing you a great week! 😉
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