Traitors to the Timeline
Duke Remming Welsh of the British Empire. Circa 1800.
Darren eyed his assistant before glancing at the intricate portraiture once more. Despite collaborating with a failed monarchy, the depicted man was far from a quisling. If anything, his crime was not feeding his offspring as much as himself.
“Well?” Iris hovered over his desk, ignoring the loose curls that tickled her nose. Why she thought her relentless golden stare would provoke a faster response was beyond him.
Learning from Your Peers
Smoke billowed off the coffee mug on his desk, a half-eaten donut sitting on a napkin. Yet no Darren. Iris rubbed her aching brow, wondering where this day of tutelage would begin.
The elevator behind her dinged, announcing the entrance of a perky clerk. His gray robe flowed around his pencil-thin limbs, black shoes polished like his smile. “Good morning, Apprentice Iris,” he chirped while practically skipping into the glass-walled room. He carried a stack of books, primarily thick volumes with inlaid covers and crisp paper edges.
Lineages, 4th level down.
After the Death of a World
“What is this?”
“Cow, posthumous.”
If the girl paled, he couldn’t tell. “Could I have something not dead?”
Iris glared at Darren while grabbing the ordering quill. “Why’d you say it like that?”
He shrugged. “That’s what it is. Dead cow slathered in processed chemicals, curdled milk, and week-old vegetables.” He slid the girl’s cheeseburger toward him, ketchup and mustard oozing between his fingers when he took a bite.
The Parish of Mages
The massive oaken doors shuddered open. The parochial main floor of the Council Spire made Darren wonder if the great mages thought themselves gods. Grandeur dripped from the vaulted ceiling and cascading glass chandeliers. Marble trunks divided the room into walkways, carved stone fencing in the second-story balcony around the room. The graceful blues and fanciful greens accented the holiness of white light.
But the vision of peace was tainted by a red mark. Dark curls and skin glistening in the ambient light, Thomas Braggard’s caramel gaze fell on Darren’s hot pursuit. His smirk gave away his sadistic nature. “Master archivist, what a pleasant surprise.”
Separating from the Norm
“We’re not kidnappers.”
“We deracinated a young woman. I believe that makes us kidnappers.”
“What are you saying?”
Darren and Iris looked into the backseat of the battered truck. Iris had given her an extra set of sweatpants and a shirt to wear, but even such baggy clothes couldn’t mask the innocence and frailty of their stowaway. Large dark eyes set in a narrow face, body adorned in nearly snow white skin. White blond bangs framed her large forehead while waves of the thin strands cascaded down her shoulders.
The Complex Nature of Magic
The sinuous stag stood motionless. Sensing a presence in the trees, he sought confirmation. Soft grass, moist mountain air, spindly trees with snow-flecked leaves. Nothing seemed amiss. Yet he knew.
Darren snorted in disgust as the perfect white deer bounded deeper into the forests of the Amor Mountains. What gave him away? His hunting partner had suggested dressing like the forest rather than using a masking spell. Some superstition about animals sensing mage magic or whatever. Didn’t matter the method, he just had to bring something back. Even a snow rabbit would prove him right.