This one is for those of you who love fairy tales! Check out an excerpt from Potion by Dorlana Vann. Leave questions and comments as you follow the tour. Best of luck entering the giveaway.
This one is for those of you who love fairy tales! Check out an excerpt from Potion by Dorlana Vann. Leave questions and comments as you follow the tour. Best of luck entering the giveaway.
“Will I see you again, Dresden?”
My throat goes dry and raw and aching. “Do you want to?”
However she answers will be excruciating. There will be no recovering from this encounter. From the memory of her touch and her wide, trusting eyes. Good gods, from her embrace.
She nods.
I am doomed. “I’ll find you later. I’ll…” What? Knock on her door and ask her aunt if I can invite her to the movies? Not in this universe. “I will see you again, Essie. I’m not sure when.”
“I’ll look for you,” she says, finally releasing her hold on my T-shirt. “Be careful.” And she’s gone, disappearing into the woods, back toward the trail.
I’m getting a very weird feeling. I consider turning around and leaving, but getting a cab on a cold rainy night before 2AM is going to be tough as they don’t begin frequenting the area until the bars start to close, and the nearest Uber appears to be 25 minutes away. Plus, I did go to all of this trouble to get my lazy self dressed and over here.
There is a crest engraved in brass metal on the front of the red door, an intricately designed crown and some lettering. I tilt my head to read it all the way around. ‘Alea iacta est memores acti prudentes uturi modus operandi’ I read aloud, and below, ‘Posteriori’. I recognize the language as Latin from the three weeks we spent on it during Intro to Languages, which was designed to help us choose one to focus on during our tenure at the university.
…
Against my better judgment, I push on the heavy door, which creaks open. I enter into a cold stone-walled hall with a stone slab floor, lit by what appears to be a row of fire lanterns on each side. I guess this place is a bit behind the times in converting, or maybe they think it’s super ironic and hipster to not jump on the modernization bandwagon. Or maybe it’s me. I’m not exactly the authority on architectural trends. Maybe converted vintage is over and re-vintaged vintage is back in. Ugh, I can’t wait until I’m old and have an excuse not to be hip.
I walk down a windy stone hallway that seems straight out of a period film. Wow, they are really taking this theme seriously. How cool would it be if this stuff was authentic? I take a few pictures with my phone just in case. I mean as Cultures Editor, it’s always nice to be the one to discover the next big thing, like Connor said.
As I round the corner I hear, before I see, a British male mumbling to himself, apparently in debate.
“It’s so bizarre. But it couldn’t be. Could it? Stranger things have happened.”
I find myself face to face with a short-ish man, though taller than me, with glasses, wearing a sports coat with suede elbow patches. I scream in surprise and jump about five feet in the air. He seems slightly taken aback as well but less jumpy than me, or at least less vocal about it. He’s good looking in an intellectual sort of way and his dark floppy hair is conservatively combed back. I’m not sure if he’s startled by our unexpected encounter or my scream, but he does a bit of a double back.
“Sorry,” he recovers charmingly, “I didn’t see you there.”
“No, me either.” I try to breathe. I feel like I know him from somewhere.”
“Stuart Stephens.” He proffers his hand in greeting.
“Olivia Grace Thorpland.” I shake his in return. “But you can call me Gigi.”
“Hello, Gigi. Nice to meet you.” He is impeccably mannered even after our near death collision. Must be the British thing.
“So are you here for the party too?” I inquire. “Do you know where it is?”
“Party?” he asks, confused. “No, I just had a meeting here.”
“Ah, I see,” I say, although I don’t, given the hour. I definitely know him from somewhere. Got it, he’s a comedian.
“Well, care to join me anyway?” I offer politely. After all, he’s British, I’m being a good ambassador. He appears a bit bewildered.
“No, thanks. I best be going.”
“Are you sure? My friends are in there.”
“Really? Your friends are in there?” He seems surprised to see where I’m gesturing.
“Yup,” I tell him confidently.
“Oh, well, thanks for the invite, but I’m completely sure. Thanks anyway,” comes his nervous reply. “But, can I ask you a question?” I nod. “Is this all, um, kosher?”
“I, I, don’t know.” I hesitate. Is he Jewish and British? Is that a thing?
“Well, I’ll let you get on “he says. “Have a good night.”
“You too. Bye,” I reply. And with that, we walk off in opposite directions.
Finally, I reach a semi-circled entryway that has the option of five doors, one straight ahead and two on either side. These are not your ordinary doors either. They are heavy, arched, rustic, dark brown, slated wooden doors. I’m not really in the mood to crash a wedding reception, murder, or worse, a live band performance; and, given that anything could be behind these doorways, I’m about to give up on this expedition completely, when one of the doors, the entryway smack dab in the center, starts to creak open, apparently of its own accord. A feeling of unexpected dread overtakes me. I brace myself, unsure of what to expect to find behind it.”
Award-winning author Casey L. Bond resides in Milton, West Virginia with her husband and their two beautiful daughters. When she’s not busy being a domestic goddess and chasing her baby girls, she loves to write young adult and new adult fiction.
You can find more information about Bond’s books via the following links: This is the scene where Jade and Prince Asher meet for the first time! It's a little different than the Disney version :)
There are no sounds outside of the fire, no moans of pain, and instantly I am on edge. The commander would say it was nothing—that part of a building slipped free and happened to fall on our mine. Nothing more.
But the back of my neck tingles.
Then it is cold.
Metal presses against my skin, the shape of a circle. I recognize the barrel of a gun when I feel one.
"Don't move," a voice whispers, close to my ear. A voice meant to menace, but the ugly tone sounds unnatural, unconvincing.
I should be afraid. I should feel my insides tighten. But they are cool, calm. So hard that I wonder if a bullet would even break my skin.
A second passes and he does nothing. No hand grabs for my shirt. The gun does not press deeper into my skin. I wait for pain, but his touch is gentle. Too gentle for this world.
I react swiftly, throwing my head to the side and reaching my arm back to catch his. I twist my elbow, bending his arm unnaturally until his fingers open and the gun clangs uselessly against the floor. Blindly, I reach down, feeling the tile as I flip myself over. My grip tightens on the handle.
One swing of my arm and we have changed places.
"Don't move," I say, unable to stop my smirk. The gun is aimed at his chest, but I doubt I will use it. Bullets are too precious to waste.
My eyes travel higher, up his neck, past his square jaw, until I meet his eyes. His face holds shock, a little awe. I've seen that look before, during training rounds with the guard. I'm much tougher than I look.
But there is something else.
Something familiar.
The fire behind me floods through the window, illuminating his features and I swear that I've seen them before.
"Are you going to shoot me?" His voice holds a musical quality. It captures me, makes me lose myself for a moment. And suddenly I remember. In a burst, recognition shocks my brain.
The ice-blond hair. The perfect pale skin. The only difference is his eyes, which seem dark as midnight in this light.
It's Queen Deirdre's son. Prince Asher.
"No," I say quickly.
Just go, Henry. Save yourself. I tried to shout, but my mouth wouldn’t give way to sound. I was paralyzed. Was it with fear, or something else? The cackling witch at the tree line convinced me it was her doing.
I heard Henry continue to shout for me to flee, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t move. I didn’t run. I was frozen like a lifeless statue in a cold museum.
With only the movement of my eyes, I pleaded with him to help me. A tear escaped one of my eyes then rolled down my cheek. That single tear managed to do what my heart and body could not. Escape.
Fear, like unseen hands, gripped my lungs and tried to crush them slowly. My stomach churned and threatened to empty. Would we die here?
The gentle chill of night had turned into a mid-winter’s frost. Tiny bumps rose on my arms and the small hairs prickled to attention. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words remained trapped in my throat.