Thief of Olympus (Greek Myth Series Book 3) (24 page)

Excerpt from
The Duke and the Dryad –
Book 2 - Earth

Book trailer video

(Elemental Series)

Rae-Nyst hadn’t killed the bull, Humphrey had. She’d grabbed the blade from the druid’s hand when she’d heard the forest crying out to her for help, warning her that
Duke the Destroyer
had come. His name as well as his hardened reputation was known throughout the lands of Manterra and even neighboring lands such as Thorndale and Lornoon – the villages by the sea. He had on more than one occasion burned towns to the ground in the rage of battle, for reasons no one could quite understand. He had the means to destroy all right, and no morals or qualms about doing it either. He’d take a life without blinking and think naught of it. But now, one bull was sacrificed and he acted like ’twas a catalyst of an all-out war.

She had to be careful not to anger him further. She knew that with one spark of his torch her whole forest could go up in flame. Fire was her weakness and drained the life essence from her quickly. Her feet on the earth, and just touching the trees and plants gave her strength. She was the elemental guardian of the forest, and she would do anything – anything at all to protect it from the likes of people like him.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she said. “But the animal knew ’twas a sacrifice to the gods and gave its life willingly. It did not suffer.”

“Now you are really making me angry with your addlepated words. And mayhap the bull didn’t suffer, but when I am through, every last one of you druids will suffer immensely. Believe me on that one.”

“There is no need for that. I am sure we can think of something to give you in exchange for the bull. Mayhap food from the earth, or even wood if need be.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That was a prized, rare, white bull, and worth more than any berries or roots you could possibly offer. I need a life for a life. That’s the only fair exchange. Now tell me, do you have any other bulls stashed away for future sacrifices? ’Twould not match my bull’s worth, but being the fair man that I am, I may consider it.”

“Nay,” she answered. “As it was, the sacrifice called for two white bulls, but we only had the one. We live simply. The only animals here are the ones that live off the land in the forest.”

“That will never do, and unless you want a war, you’d better come up with another alternative quickly. I am losing my patience, and I am not known for being a compromising man.”

“Take one of us in exchange,” came the desperate voice of the chief druid.

“What?” Wolfe asked, and noticed the girl’s eyes open wide by the man’s comment, as she seemed just as surprised as he.

“What are you saying, Humphrey?” asked the girl. “That one of you would be willing to go with
The Destroyer
as a sacrifice?”

“Not a sacrifice,” said Wolfe, “as that won’t replace my loss. I would take one of you back to the castle as my servant instead. ’Twill be someone to tend to my every need and do backbreaking work in my fields each day. Now that I am short an animal, I need someone to pull the plow. That was my breeder you killed as well. Not sure how you’ll remedy that!”

“Take whichever of us you think would best serve your needs, my lord.” Humphrey extended his hand, offering the other druids. They said nothing, just sat there in silence, letting their leader trade them off like cattle being brought to the market.

Wolfe took a look at the druids, and realized he didn’t want any of these heathens within his castle walls. They were weak, praying men, not strong warriors like him. They had no skills with any weapon. Nor did they have knowledge of what happened before or after a battle, should he decide to have them help his squire polish his sword or take the rust off his armor in the process. He sincerely doubted they knew anything about the hard life at a castle, as they’d lived in the forest their entire lives and probably had never done a decent day’s work - ever. They couldn’t plow a field let alone bring him his weapons or even a meal for that matter. All they could do was teach him how to chant or call upon their pagan gods, and that was something he would never do – not even if his own life depended on it. They were worthless! This would never do.

Then his eyes fell on the odd girl again. She looked at him through intense but hooded big green eyes, drinking him in, reminding him of a cat. She was mysterious and alluring, and he couldn’t help feeling she was watching his every move, like a predator stalking its prey. Aye, she stirred his loins in an unusual way. And though he’d ignored it for many years, he did like an oddity. Anything unusual excited him, taking his interest and making him feel alive.

Plus, he was tired of the castle lightskirts. He hadn’t had a decent bedding with a wench worth mentioning in so long that he’d started avoiding his knights when they bragged about the women they’d had and asked him about his own endeavors in exchange. What he needed was someone unusual and exciting. And while she was as worthless as the druids when it came to manual labor, at least this girl could fill one of his other manly needs.

“I’ll take her!” He pointed at her with the tip of his sword. A gasp went up from the druids and he could hear the muffled discussion of voices behind their hands in the dark.

“Nay,” the girl answered, shaking her head. “I am the guardian of my forest, I cannot leave here or who knows what would happen.”

Wolfe had never heard such a pack of lies in his life. Who was this girl that she thought so highly of herself that she believed she commanded the forest? Didn’t she know who he was? She should fear him like the rest of the townsfolk. She obviously didn’t know whom she was denying. Mayhap he needed to remind her.

“These are my forests,” he told her, “not yours. And the only protection they need is from people like the Druids. And since I have been offered one of you in exchange for the life of my bull – I’ll take it. For now. Until I can think of something better.”

“Choose any of us, my lord,” begged the chief druid. “Just leave Rae-Nyst, as she belongs to the forest.”

“I don’t want any of you,” growled Wolfe. “Now I chose the girl and she’ll come with me. She doesn’t belong to the forest. For as of this night, she belongs to me – and would warm my bed.”

Excerpt from
Just a Kiss
(Frog Prince)

Book 2, Tangled Tales Series

The frogs in Freya’s swamp were singing, warning her trouble was on its way.

Quickly and carefully Freya collected the swamp water into a small glass jar and held it up in the air, letting the rays of the full moon light up the contents within. She took a deep breath and touched the crystal orb hanging around her neck from a cord made of braided horse-tail combined with her own jet black hair. Closing her eyes, she silently recited her spell that would let her see the trouble on the horizon before it happened.

She usually recited her spells aloud to keep from being distracted by her own thoughts. Even then, Freya’s forte was transporting – not dabbling in this kind of magick. Marni had told her she needed to be more discreet and learn to do it silently, and that her progression with spells would come in time. Marni was the most powerful witch of the swamps, so Freya listened to her advice. Sometimes.

“Show me what comes my way,” she whispered, trying her best, but still not able to say it all in her head. Didn’t Marni as well as the rest of the swamp witches know that she didn’t like the silence? Freya was an only child and liked to talk to people and have others around her. Even at her young age of twenty summers she often felt lonely. She talked to herself or the trees or even the frogs just to pretend that someone was listening to what she had to say.

She was the youngest witch of the coven. Her mother, Lady Almeta of Slapton in Devon, was also a witch, but very ill and on her deathbed. Her late father, on the other hand, was naught more than a simple knight. Or so she’d been told. Her mother had beckoned to him when the moon was full one night. She’d mated with him in order to conceive, since her own husband was old and unable to father a child. Freya’s real father had died in battle before she was born, so Freya never even knew him.

Her mother’s husband, the old baron, Lord George Fane, could not father children since he was so old when he married Almeta. He’d been desperately marrying one lady after another trying to have an heir – but never did. He blamed it on the women of course, but silent gossip suspected the fault fell upon him alone, but no one would say it aloud.

Lord George didn’t know that Freya was not from his seed, but then again, he didn’t need to know. Freya’s mother had done the deed with purpose. To give hope to an old, barren man, as well as bring him respect from his people. If he had known what she’d done, Almeta would have been banished from Slapton, and Freya along with her. He could never find out that she and her mother were witches, or she was sure he’d tie them to stakes and burn them himself as he hated witches.

A loud croaking sound from the ground by her feet gained her attention. She looked down to see Boregard – her Familiar who was a frog. She could understand him for some reason and he was telling her that she needed to go back to the woods and join the rest of her coven.

“Hush, Gar,” she told him, using the shortened version of his name. “I need to learn to do this on my own without your help.” Instantly she felt a surge go through her and she almost dropped the jar as she bent over in pain from the feeling of pressure crushing her chest.

“Show me the trouble that comes to the swamp,” she commanded. Then in the beams of moonlight, the water in the jar turned blood red and she saw flames burning higher and higher.

“Warriors,” she said aloud, figuring this must mean a village was about to be pillaged and burned, or perhaps there’d be an attack on the castle. She made a quick sweep with her eyes at the trees around her, and she strained her ears to listen for movement. Then she heard it. The sound of thundering hoofbeafs shook the earth beneath her feet as the enemy approached the swamp. She tasted the irony tang of blood on her tongue, and realized she’d actually managed to have a premonition of some sort. Whatever it was, it meant that someone was about to die.