Preview: CampNano Project

Since I’m still working on my anthology entry, and don’t want to get sidetracked on another project, I’m sharing the first portion of my Swan Lake retelling! Current placeholder title is “Forget Me...”

Premise:

A demanding assassin must broker a treaty with a crazed Prince if she wants to save her family. However, the only thing he wants is bread baked in the oven of the Fae. Which would be fine, if she knew how to bake. For that, she needs her brother—and he’s a swan.

Excerpt:

Safely navigating a shifting world of savage trees and curious fiends depended on strength of mind. That was the only thing The Forest seemed to respect. Some days, though, it didn’t even respect that. Or it pretended not to; it was always a guessing game.

Unable to see the Path ahead of her, Pearl traced the pommel of one of her sheathed knives. A tree, branches curled and trunk opened in a twisted maw, appeared in front of her. She narrowed her eyes and kept walking. She stepped into the darkness of its maw. For several long moments, all was black. Heart threatening to stutter, she grit her teeth and kept walking. Abruptly, thick red curtains trimmed in gold surrounded her. Her leather boots scuffed against polished tile.

Forcing herself to breathe evenly, she drifted through the curtains. A light chorus of chimes gave her pause.

“I do hope you’re, at the very least, agitated by that.” The chiming turned to clanging as her target yanked back the curtains. In the torchlight, the metal hanging about the curtain flashed.

Pearl tilted her chin up and stepped forward. With any luck, the enchanted cloak she wore would prevent the prince from identifying her. She wondered what title he currently claimed for himself. “I am here as an emissary, not an assassin.”

“Ah, but I need proof of that.” The prince smiled. At the moment, that was the only part of his face visible in the shuddering light. He held out a hand.

With a nudge, she turned her cloak aside. The stones set in the pommel of her visible daggers glowed with their own light. She flicked a dagger from her belt and handed it to him hilt first. “As arranged.”

“Ooh, two sentences. You’re a chatty one.” He threw the curtain back into place. The chimes clanged, the cadence matching his pace as he descended the empty dais to the floor. “Normally you Wraiths just grunt and glare.” Fairly skipping across the bare tile to the door across the hall, he hummed.

Pearl rubbed her knuckles. None of this was right. Where was the throne? The trappings? The light? “I’m here for the treaty, not to play games.” The Whirlwind knows I go through enough of those on a regular basis.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Straining, he dragged open the solid wood door. “Come, come.”

The stone hallway was much more well lit than the throne room. Sulfur torches lined the walls—and sometimes the floors, where the sconces had fallen—every five feet. The garishness of the prince’s clothing was now evident; a bright purple tunic, a blue cloth belt, trousers with each leg a different color, and slippers.

She clenched her hands into fists. He’s even madder than when he banished my family.

Save for the prince’s occasional burst of song lyric, there was no noise. Pearl glanced into the open doors they passed. Empty dining hall, empty passages, empty bed chambers. She glared at the prince’s back. “Are you king of nothing, then?”

The prince whirled around. He sucked in a breath. His green eyes gleaming in the torchlight, he shouted, “YES!”

Pearl leaped back, daggers drawn on instinct. The prince didn’t seem to mind; he gyrated up the hall, singing, “She guessed, she guessed, my title she did guess!”

After easing her daggers into their sheaths, she continued following him. He seemed to be doing his best to lose her now; ducking into servant’s passages and coming out when she passed, running ahead to hide in a room.

Seething now, Pearl stalked past his hiding place in a storage room. As she passed, she snapped, “Let me know when you’re ready to talk about the treaty.”

The prince scurried in front of her. He hopped onto the pedestal of a marble statue and leaned forward, hanging off its outstretched arm. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” He let go with one hand and examined his fingernails. “If none of the terms I’ve presented appeal to your Queen…”

He needs to remain alive, she told herself. His blood is the only thing—

“OH!” The prince clambered up to the statue’s shoulders and leaped off, falling rather clumsily over Pearl’s head. He landed splayed, face-first. Swiping at his nose, he scrambled up and ran out shouting, “I’ve got it!”

Pearl knelt. She hovered her hand over the spatter of blood. A moment of tingling pain shot down to her elbow. The blood evaporated into a hissing wisp of smoke.

The words of the Fae who had so casually cursed her family—leaning in through the open window, head resting in his hand—flitted through her mind. “Willing blood must be obtained, to prevent eventual…” The Fae eyed the bubbling stew pot, the feathers of the recently killed bird arranged in neat bundles for fletching. He grinned. “…fricassee.”