Archivist 2: fated … enemies?

A little snippet of Archivist 2 (title TBA) to get all of us through the weekend.

“There is comfort in believing that there is one person who is perfect for you,” Prince murmured in that oddly intimate tone. “… a fated mate.”

“Is there? What if you never find them?”

“But fate is destined to bring you together. As the tales go …”

“What about fated enemies?” I asked blithely, forcing myself to look back at the historian instead of watching Kellan as he watched me. “Is that a thing?”

“Well …” Prince snorted, amused. “Logically, magic demands a balance, doesn’t it? Energy can be harnessed but only transformed, not destroyed.”

I met his violet gaze, raising an eyebrow. “So that’s a yes.”

– Archivist 1, first draft, chapter one

Archivist 2: “I’m not prey. I’m not to be hunted.”

“This … ah, is this a waltz?” I asked awkwardly.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “I’m just trying to follow the tempo.”

I laughed, oddly relieved that I wasn’t the only ignorant one.

Kellan pulled me a touch closer.

I didn’t resist. If I turned my head slightly, I’d be able to brush a kiss just under his jaw.

Oh gods, this was a bad idea.

“What do you transform into?” he murmured against my temple, moving me to the music.

“Nothing.”

“You might be witch-blooded, Dusk Godfrey,” he purred. “But that’s not all you are … you try to hide your golden glow but I see it between the cracks. It’s the same as the trail Sisu left through the city.”

“That was a spell.”

He hummed doubtfully. “Then why was the trail for Neve and Lile the same color as their magic?”

“I’m an archivist,” I said stiffly, clinging to the truth of that title.

“I never said you weren’t.” He sounded amused.

Hunting me, I realized.

I tilted my head back, deliberately catching his gaze and holding it. “I’m not prey. I’m not to be hunted.”

“Oh …” He flashed me a smile full of all sort of promises. “I’m not hunting.”

– title TBA (Archivist 2), chapter one, first draft

Dowser 5: Baxia aka the Rain Bringer

I pulled this excerpt while putting together Baxia’s bio for the Adept Universe bible, love the tension between Pulou and Baxia. With Jade and Warner caught in the middle, of course.

The door to Southern Africa blew open with a blast of heat and rain that hit us like a hurricane.

I stumbled to keep my footing. Warner just leaned into the onslaught. Had I been questioned about it two seconds before, I would have sworn that weather couldn’t travel through the portals or enter into the nexus.

Baxia stepped through the open portal onto the white marble floor. Her otherwise bare feet were adorned with exceedingly cute golden toe rings and ankle bracelets inlaid with various gems. The storm that had pummeled Warner and me whipped back and around the guardian of Southern Africa. This left us exceeding damp and windblown, whereas Baxia’s bright African-inspired print maxi dress appeared to be bone-dry. Her ebony skin reminded me of the finest dark chocolate from Madagascar. I tamped down on the pure envy that rose as I stood before the powerful and beautiful guardian.

The rain bringer had come to the nexus.

Pulou stepped through the portal after Baxia, his fur coat showing no evidence of him having just walked through a hurricane. The remaining vortex of water and heat snapped back with the magic of the portal as the door closed behind the guardians.

Warner dropped to one knee and I curtsied deeply. I’d never actually spoken directly to the rain bringer. I understood her guardian gifts had something to do with water, or the control of water. Either way, a guardian who was preceded by a hurricane was definitely someone to bow before.

“Alchemist,” Baxia said. Though her accented English was lyrical, my title was spoken with a sharp edge, as if the guardian was unhappy to find me standing before her. “You do not have permission to enter my territory. If something lies between my borders that is deadly to guardians, you will let it sleep.”

Pulou shifted his feet uncomfortably. I peeked up through my curls to see Baxia glaring at the treasure keeper.

“Is that understood?” she asked him. Her guardian magic — an intoxicating blend of too-dark-to-ever-be-sweet chocolate, well-ripened papaya, and a hint of tobacco that lingered long on my palate — momentarily rose to cloak her in a golden aura.

Wind stirred, lifting the unruly curls off my face. The storm threatened to return as the question — or, rather, the declaration of war — hung between the two guardians.

Pulou turned his stoic gaze on my still partially bowed head. Then I figured out the question had actually been directed to me … or at least through Pulou to me, but for me to answer.

“I understand, guardian,” I said. “I would never walk where I wasn’t welcomed.”

“The map doesn’t lead you to Africa?” Pulou asked, sounding as if maybe he was hoping it did. He was cruising for a bruising, as Gran would say.

Yeah, and guardians were supposed to be peacekeepers. “Not that I know of, treasure keeper,” I answered. “We’re here to request passage to San Francisco.”

“The map leads you to North America?” Pulou asked. “A second time? That is surprising.”

“Not the map —”

“No one enters my territory,” Baxia repeated. Then she padded away. Magic glinted off her toe rings in a way that made me itch to add them to my necklace. Yeah, my magical magpie tendency was verging on obsessive-hoarder-disorder territory these days. I deliberately looked away from the guardian’s flashy feet. I really wasn’t interested in turning into Blackwell. The sorcerer was so obsessed with collecting powerful objects and powerful people that he’d allied himself with my blood-frenzied sister and risked the wrath of the West Coast North American Pack — twice. I knew which lines were not to be crossed. At least, I hoped I knew.

Pulou grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Stroppy biddy.”

Maps, Artifacts, and Other Arcane Magic (Dowser 5)

Dowser Series: avoiding destiny

Putting together Chi Wen’s bio this afternoon, I found this great scene with Chi Wen (and Warner) from Dowser 4. Note: the first use of the title, dragon slayer. And, of course, Jade assumes the far seer is referring to the newly awoken Warner. Poor, poor Jade, little does she know …

Warner stepped out of the portal behind me just as Chi Wen the far seer wandered into the room.

Ah, damn. I’d been trying to avoid destiny today.

Chi Wen, the eldest of the guardians, appeared to be an ancient Chinese gentleman. He loved to smile. As in, constantly. I wasn’t sure he was capable of any other expression. All gray hair and wrinkles, he came up to my collarbone, though he wasn’t particularly wizened. 

As best as I’d guessed, he wielded oracle and telepathic powers. The oracle magic was like calling 911, except he was the only operator sifting through visions of disasters and pending worldwide destruction. He then tasked these imminent catastrophes to various guardians depending on their particular power sets. I wasn’t completely sure about the telepathic part, but I was fairly certain he could at least communicate with the other guardians without vocalizing his thoughts. Which was probably a good thing, because I rarely understood a word that came out of his mouth. And that had nothing to do with his heavy accent.

Chi Wen grinned at me like I was his own child safely home from the demonic wars … and in his mind, maybe I was. I curtsied with much more reverence and grace than I had for Suanmi.

I always tried to clear my mind in the far seer’s presence, but today I found myself repeating Please don’t touch me, please don’t read me in my head. The far seer scared me way more than any of the other guardians. Sure, they could all end my very existence with a single glance. But Chi Wen could show me my future, and that was utterly terrifying. Completely soul shaking.

Warner stepped up beside me. He wasn’t a stand-just-behind-my-shoulder-person like Kett, or even Kandy. With him being a mighty dragon — with obvious prejudices against my heritage — I was surprised he didn’t stride completely past me.

“Hello, dragon slayer,” Chi Wen called cheerfully as he shuffled toward us.

Warner cranked his head to look at me, actually taking a step away as he did so.

“Don’t look at me,” I said. “The far seer was obviously addressing you.”

“Yes,” Chi Wen said agreeably. “Every blade needs a solid hilt.”

Err … yeah, I had no idea what that meant. But I kept my mouth shut and tried to not flinch when Chi Wen patted my shoulder as he passed.

As he touched me, I suddenly realized I was drowning — and had been drowning for some time — surrounded by crushing water. I started to panic, to thrash, to die — but then I broke the surface, my mouth full of salty water and the warm sun on my face.

I gasped for air, realizing I was in the nexus — that I’d never left — as I filled my lungs with as much oxygen as they could hold.

Chi Wen was gone. 

Warner was looking at me like I was a ticking time bomb.

“What?” I asked, as snarky as I could be to cover my near drowning in the middle of a waterless chamber.

“What did the far seer show you?” Warner asked.

Well, that was a rude question.

Shadows, Maps and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser 4)

***

Are you new to the Adept Universe? The first book Cupcakes, Trinkets, and Other Deadly Magic (Dowser 1) is currently free! Click here for the full reading order.

Dowser Series: like daughter, like father

While putting together Yazi’s character bio this afternoon, I stumbled upon this scene from Artifacts, Dragons, and Other Lethal Magic (Dowser 6) where newly-discovered father/daughter finally get to exchange more than a few words, only to discover that they fight – frustratingly – exactly alike.

We strolled out of Notte’s Bon Ton, laughing and laden with bakery boxes filled with more pastries, along with a seven-inch Diplomat cake for Gran. The betrothal rings were tucked safely in my moss-green Peg and Awl satchel, though I swore I could still taste their magic despite the containment spell that sealed the bag. Granted, that spell was mostly to stop things from falling out of the satchel and not necessarily to dampen magic.

Warner went abruptly still.

My father Yazi — the warrior of the guardian nine — was sauntering toward us from the corner of Trutch and West Broadway.

My laughter died on my lips. I simply stared at my demigod father as he closed the space between us.

Other shoppers brushed past us. West Broadway was a busy street even on a Thursday afternoon, but the pedestrians skirted my father as they passed. The overly intense gaze of his light-brown eyes didn’t break from me. Except for that eye color, he was my exact twin … well, a brawny, better-tanned, masculine twin.

I hadn’t seen my father since he’d saved the rabid koala from a killing blow from my knife, at the site in Peru that I’d come to think of as the temple of the centipede. He’d stopped me from becoming a murderer that day. Yet I’d responded by shoving his Christmas present, unopened, underneath my bed. I was holding onto my grudge, hard and tight. It was unlike me.

My father smiled as he stopped beside us. I fought the instinct to smile back. He wore a hand-knit scarf of blue and green looped around his neck, a sky-blue T-shirt, and a pair of well-worn jeans. The scarf looked suspiciously like my Gran’s knitting.

“A jacket might have been a good idea,” I said.

Yazi cast his gaze over my somewhat-cold-weather-appropriate attire, then shrugged. So much for being careful to not stand out.

“Sentinel,” he said, addressing Warner without looking at him.

“Warrior.”

“You are dismissed.”

Wait, what? No freaking way.

Warner immediately stepped to the side, but then he seemed to fight off the impulse to leave with a jerk of his shoulders.

Yazi glowered at him.

“We’re on a date.” I ground the words out between clenched teeth. “How dare you —”

“I dare,” my father said. “We have things to discuss.”

It was certainly obvious — even to me — where my penchant for childish retorts had been inherited from.

“I’m not remotely interested —”

“I have some errands to run.” Warner interrupted the rant I’d been gearing up on. “I’ll meet you back at the bakery.”

“Your courtesy is noted, Jiaotuson,” Yazi said.

In response to the formality of his last name, Warner bowed — though stiffly and shallowly — in my father’s direction. Then he tugged the boxes of pastries out of my hands. He squeezed my wrist lightly while doing so, and the comforting taste of his black-forest-cake magic tickled my taste buds.

I just nodded, worried about making things worse if I opened my mouth.

Warner turned away, and I quickly lost sight of him on the busy sidewalk. His disappearance was due to his chameleonlike magic more than anything else. Physically, he towered over everyone, even my father.

“The boy dares too much for you,” Yazi said.

It was an observation, not a critique, but I still bristled at it. “His name is Warner. Calling him Jiaotuson is just a cheap way to remind him —”

“Of his lineage? His duty? His bow was at least five inches shy of acceptable, yet I let him walk away without reprimand —”

I pivoted on my heel, turning my back on my father and following Warner’s path back to the bakery.

Yazi effortlessly fell into step beside me.

Catching a break between the slow-moving cars circling the block for parking, I jaywalked across West Broadway. Then I cut north along Balaclava until I hit the sidewalks of West Sixth Avenue, where the traffic was almost nonexistent. The street was lined with refurbished Craftsman-style and Cape Cod-inspired family homes, as was the norm for the area. Most of the houses in Kitsilano had been renovated and redesigned into duplexes and triplexes in an attempt to combat the ever-rising price of real estate in Vancouver. The bid for density wasn’t really working, though. Gran’s house on the water in Point Grey was considered a mansion these days and was worth an ungodly amount of money.

Turning east, I wrapped my cashmere hoodie tightly around me, stuffed my chilled hands in the pockets, and tucked my chin into my scarf against the cold.

The warrior didn’t leave my side, and neither did his muted but still potent spicy dark-chocolate magic. No matter how much dim sum I ate, I still couldn’t place the spice that imbued my father’s power. My own magic must be similarly flavored, since all the shapeshifters I knew insisted that I smelled of Chinese food.

“It’s not raining,” Yazi mused. “Doesn’t it always rain in Vancouver?”

I stopped in my tracks, rounding on him. “I will not discuss the weather with you!”

“I understand that you are mad —”

“I’m freaking livid. I see Warner maybe once a week, because all the other times, you have him off doing hell knows what —”

“There are territories to walk,” Yazi said mildly. “If you —”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I will not unlock your sweet little girl’s magic for her.”

Yazi frowned as if he had no idea what I was talking about.

“And yeah, I get why you don’t want Warner and me together.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you think I’m not … enough.”

“Enough? Enough what?”

I clamped my mouth shut. The conversation was veering off in unexpected directions. I was actually managing to confuse myself in the process of venting.

I began walking toward the bakery again. Sections of the sidewalks were becoming slick as the afternoon cooled, and I wasn’t wearing great shoes for long-distance urban walking.

We’d crossed Trafalgar, then Larch, before my father spoke again.

“I would have thought …” he said, then corrected himself. “It was my understanding that the sentinel intended to propose … with my blessing.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Because you wouldn’t accept him?”

“Listen, just because you slept with my mother once and accidentally made me, that doesn’t make you my father.”

“It most certainly does.”

“Biologically, maybe.”

“In every way.”

“You can’t be my dad if I won’t let you.”

“Watch me.”

Jesus, it was like arguing with myself. Except with an Australian accent.

– excerpt from Artifacts, Dragons, and Other Lethal Magic (Dowser 6)

Dowser 4: Bixi, aka ‘doom crosses our footsteps.’

I came upon this scene while putting together Bixi’s biography and it made me laugh. Flashback to Shadows, Maps, and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser 4)!! Click here for the reading order of the Adept Universe. Bixi most recently appears in Awakening Infinity (Archivist 0).

“Earthly delights.”

*side eyes Warner*

LOL!!!

Book cover by Elizabeth Mackey Graphic Design

A jet-black cat sauntered through the far archway. Its casual gait was insufficient cover for the cunning betrayed by its yellow eyes. Its sleek fur shone among all the gold of the decor, not a hair out of place. 

Warner, still frowning at me, followed my gaze. Then he went utterly still and pale.

“A black cat in the heart of the guardian temple,” he murmured. He reached for a weapon that he didn’t actually have, then held his hands before himself, wary. “Doom crosses our footsteps.”

I snorted out a laugh. “What century are you living in?”

Spicy dragon magic — all apricots and smoky syrup — gathered around the cat along with a haze of golden light. The creature transformed amid a wash of intense magic, as the shapeshifters did. Then Bixi — doing her best Cleopatra impersonation — stood before us. White dress, gold armbands, heavily kohled eyes and all. She obviously didn’t have to stash extra clothing everywhere like Kandy did when she changed back from her wolf form.

Logically, I knew Bixi wasn’t actually Cleopatra, since she was supposedly only around seven hundred years old. But still, I wondered if there wasn’t some deep ancestral connection going on with the guardian of North Africa. And again, when did ‘seven hundred’ become an ‘only’? It was also interesting that the guardians seemed to decide what physical age suited them best. Suanmi was technically younger than Bixi but appeared to be a youthful forty-five. Bixi looked to be about my age at the most. My father Yazi, the third-youngest of the guardians, appeared to be thirty-five.

Warner dropped into a deep bow beside me.

“Hello, warrior’s daughter,” Bixi said, completely ignoring Warner.

“Hello, guardian.”

“What earthly delight have you brought with you this time?”

Warner started coughing — no, choking — beside me.

I reached into my satchel, fished around, and pulled out a simple yet modern, yellow-papered Sirene chocolate bar. As far as I knew, this was the only bar that the newly established company produced out of Victoria, on Vancouver Island. It consisted of a tasting pair made from 72 percent Ecuador and 67 percent Madagascar cocoa. It was a new purchase I’d acquired downtown last weekend at Xoxolat — a mecca of earthly delights that carried a vast selection of single-origin chocolate bars from around the world. I hadn’t even tried a single square of the Sirene yet, and I’d really been looking forward to it. Normally, I tried to distract chocolate-questing dragons with cupcakes or cookies, but in my haste to get Warner sorted out I’d forgotten to pack a box.

Bixi came just short of snatching it out of my hand. “I enjoy your visits, alchemist,” she said. Then, pressing the bar to her nose and smelling it through its wrapper, she sauntered off in the direction she’d come. Her thin, gold-strapped sandals made no sound on the stone floor.

Dragons had a strong sense of smell and great taste in chocolate. Though regrettably, they never seemed to have any around.

– Excerpt from Shadows, Maps, and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser 4)

Archivist 1: Chapter One, Part One

Balancing the four lattes I’d bought from the coffee shop around the corner on a Tupperware container filled with freshly baked blueberry cinnamon buns, I crossed through the darkened offices of the magical antiquities section of the National Museum of Ireland.

The nonmagical museum collections were actually distributed throughout Dublin, but the two main buildings — natural history and archaeology — were housed next to each other in the heart of the city, only blocks away from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Trinity College, and the large park of St. Stephen’s Green.

Caught up in moving and prepping for my new job, I hadn’t had a chance to really explore the city yet. So I’d walked the twenty minutes to work, finding the early-November morning warm enough that I’d taken off my brown leather jacket and slung it over one arm, keeping my backpack secured over both shoulders, as always. I’d purloined the coat from my mother’s closet, so technically it was vintage. A favorite dark-brown sweater, plaid skirt, tights, and laced brown boots completed my outfit.

The exterior door to the magical archive was tucked away at the side of the archaeology museum, which was built in the Victorian Palladian style — complete with an impressively grand colonnaded entrance that fronted a twenty-meter high domed rotunda. The unremarkable steel door that led to the archive was unmarked and locked, but it had yielded to my touch with only a slight push of magic. No automated lights had flickered on when I entered, so I left it that way.

I’d gotten up at 4:00 a.m. to bake the cinnamon buns, which were still warm and sticky. The lattes were for my new employees, though having never met them, I had no idea if they even drank coffee. Making the buns in the temporary kitchen currently set up in the basement of my newly inherited house had been challenging, but I wanted to meet my co-workers and start the first Monday of my first official job on the best of terms.

‘House’ still wasn’t the right word. My new estate. Palace? Manor? 

A name would really be helpful. Something that encompassed the scope of the estate. But I’d been a little too busy upending my life and overseeing the revitalization of the main house to come up with anything suitable. And my five-year-old brother’s suggestions were a little over the top. Sisu, who had a habit of changing his own name on a whim, was the son of a demigod and had to be continually reminded that he was neither invincible nor the defender of all.

The so-called inheritance of the estate was part of my cover for being in Dublin in the first place. As was the job I was starting today. All subparts of a larger task given to me by the guardian dragons — to live and work among the Adept as a dragon archivist, posing as a Godfrey witch.

I was well qualified for the head curator position I was to undertake — though I had crammed about two years of studying into the last month in order to feel that way. But the spy mission was another thing altogether.

Hence, opening with the offering of coffee and cinnamon buns. My research had informed me that bringing occasional treats to the office was a customary bonding ritual among colleagues.

I crossed through the open office area, my eyes easily adjusting to the low light. Four desks occupied the corners of the large room, some neat and tidy, others piled with books, papers, and supplies. Shelving units and filing cabinets filled the walls behind the desks.

An enclosed office took up about two-thirds of the far wall. A name I couldn’t read from this distance was stenciled into the obscured glass of the top half of the door. A clear path cut from the main entrance through the other four desks toward that door, with a corridor stretching farther into the building on the left, presumably leading to the bathroom and some sort of kitchen or eating area.

Energy radiated through the floor from heavy-duty wards, informing me that the main magical collection was archived below ground. As witches typically did when securing objects of power, sourcing their magic most often from the earth.

As I crossed through the main room, I wondered if there was also a more public collection. Something that the Adepts who called Dublin home could access without requesting specific items through one of the archivists or the librarian. If there wasn’t, I’d need to look into the logistics of opening a small viewing space or even a library.

As I approached the office door, the name emblazoned across its glass came into focus — Celeste Cameron. It wasn’t my own name, but the title printed underneath was mine — head curator. 

So I’d found my office. Celeste Cameron had been murdered in an incident with a soul sucker entity over six years ago. An entity so powerful that it had also severely hurt my Great-Uncle Jamal when he’d been called in to deal with it, though he had managed to contain it.

I knew that the other employees — two archivists, a librarian, and a historian — had been maintaining the archive, but I’d been surprised to learn that neither the Byrne coven nor the witches Convocation had yet found anyone suitable to fill Celeste’s position. Before the guardian dragons had arranged to appoint me. Not that anyone knew the guardian part of my assignment, excepting the head of the witches Convocation, Pearl Godfrey. The witch who oversaw all other witches was now Auntie Pearl to me and my brother Sisu. On paper at least.

With the lattes and cinnamon buns balanced in my left hand, I reached for the doorknob of the office, feeling the energy radiating around the door. Possibly a ward — but the office might also have been sealed after Celeste Cameron died. The fact that her name was still printed across the glass made the second option seem likely.

Power hummed under my hand, but the door didn’t yield to my touch. I waited, feeling my way through the tenor of the energy, trying to assess its strength and purpose.

I could have waited until my employees arrived. But I’d come to work thirty minutes early to get a sense of the offices before meeting the people who were going to look at me as if I were simply a twenty-five-year-old witch who’d just come into her magical inheritance. A name and expectations came with that inheritance, but I’d have to prove I was qualified for the position I’d landed in.

Also, I had no doubt that the Byrne witches I’d already met, plus the members of the Conall pack helping renovate the estate, had already whispered bits of information about me to their friends and family.

So, since I couldn’t actually control what other people said about me, or Sisu, I wouldn’t worry about it.

Well, I wouldn’t worry about it much.

I had still gotten up way too early to bake. To make a friendly first impression.

I twisted my hand gently, forcing the magic locking the door to yield to me. It resisted. 

I applied slightly more pressure, but carefully. A broken door and shredded wards would result in questions — specifically, the question of why I hadn’t waited to be given permission to enter.

But I didn’t want to start out asking for permission to do my job, which was why I’d also given the boundary wards that had sealed the exterior entrance a slight nudge when I’d entered. Manipulating wards, or even breaking through them, wasn’t beyond the abilities of any archivist talented enough to be a head curator, even a witch or sorcerer. And though I might have been still feeling my way through all the other aspects of the new life that had been thrust upon me, I was a good archivist. 

I would eventually be a great one.

And all of that started today.

Magic stirred within my backpack. A press of warmth between my shoulder blades from Infinity, my personal archive. Not a warning. That always felt like more of a buzz. Encouragement, maybe?

Smiling, I pressed a touch of my own power to the door handle — and it yielded. The door popped open, swinging inward to reveal a large, dark office. The windows on the far side of the room were heavily shuttered. Which made sense, because now that the door was open, I could feel a humming energy emanating from the dozens upon dozens of magical items that occupied bookshelves running floor to ceiling along both adjacent walls.

I could feel the magic contained within Celeste Cameron’s office even before I’d stepped through the secondary ward that stretched invisibly across the open doorway.

No.

It was my office now.

And either the wards were weak, or they hadn’t been made to block the level of sensitivity I brought to the job. A higher sensitivity even than most other archivists — whether witches, werewolves, sorcerers, necromancers, or dragons — all of whom typically ranked as highly sensitive to magical items and creatures. It was practically the first line of the job description, right before a natural resistance to such magic. Otherwise that archivist’s career would be cut dreadfully short.

I stepped through the doorway. Energy clung to me, trying to taste my magic, then slid off when it couldn’t gain purchase. Because it was difficult to ward against a dragon. We were magic, descended from demigods. Not that it couldn’t be done. But the witch who’d built the wards would have needed to know that dragons existed in the first place, outside of morality tales and mythology.

The boundary wards yielded completely. My front foot landed on a worn rug set just inside the door to protect the oak hardwood. And the buzzing of all the magic objects on the shelves increased.

A wide grin swamped my face.

This place already felt like home. Literally. The library at my mother’s estate was filled with tiny touches of energy, just like —

Something slammed into the side of my head, getting instantly tangled in my already wild hair and obscuring my eyesight. Tiny claws tried to hook into my skin, failing at first, but then finding a hold on my bottom lip. The creature latched onto my right upper canine and started nibbling and suckling.

Yes. On my tooth.

I laughed.

Still somehow balancing the coffee and cinnamon buns in my left hand, I gently attempted to pull the creature off me. It clung with a tenacious strength that was usually only reserved for the starving. And since going for my teeth was a bit of a clue as to what I was dealing with, I understood that this creature did have a rather specialized diet.

I managed to transfer its front claws from my lip to my forefinger, tugging it away from me so I could peer at it. It assessed me with wide, dark-orbed eyes.

An imp. Known as a tooth fairy among various cultures. ‘Imp’ was a wide classification for magical creatures — some with wings, some without — that ranged in size from smaller than brownies to larger than pixies. This imp was the length of my forearm. Its eyes dominated its light-gray-skinned face, except for the overly large mismatched teeth of its lipless mouth.

“That wasn’t nice,” I said teasingly, holding it loosely so I didn’t accidentally crush it. “You could have said hello.”

The imp narrowed its eyes at me, then chittered discontentedly. It was unlikely it understood English, or spoke any language I could understand, but my tone should have — 

The imp sprang free from my grasp, attempting to launch off the coffees and the Tupperware balanced in my other hand as it made its escape.

Four lattes in large paper cups with plastic lids didn’t make for a terribly stable surface.

Scrambling for footing, the imp leaped for the nearest shelf.

The lattes slammed into my chest and shoulder, lids flying off to dump hot coffee all over me.

Shrieking — even a dragon wasn’t completely impervious to heat — I lost hold of the cinnamon buns as well.

Hot liquid soaked into my hair and sweater, scalding the skin of my neck and collarbone, then dripping down my plaid skirt, all over my favorite brown boots and the rug.

The imp watched me warily from the shelf at eye level to my left. It chittered again, disconcerted.

“Yeah, that also wasn’t nice,” I said, sighing.

Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1)

RELEASING MAY 25, 2021

PREORDER NOW

– AMAZON – APPLE BOOKS – KOBO – BARNES & NOBLE – SMASHWORDS –

Archivist Series: Kellan

The second of the illustrations I’ve commissioned from Nicole Deal for the Archivist series is a bit of a spoiler, so I thought I might as well include an excerpt from the first time Dusk lays eyes on Kellan as well (see below). Working with Nicole has been amazing. I love, love her take on characters that currently only live in my head. You can find Dusk and Sisu’s illustration here.

Kellan Conall from the Archivist Series by Meghan Ciana Doidge. Illustration by Nicole Deal.

You will find Nicole’s ridiculously gorgeous rendering of Kellan (and the twin wolves) tucked between two scenes in chapter 2 of Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1). It will be in full colour in the eBook version (unless your eReader doesn’t do colour) and grayscale in the paperback. The book releases on May 25, 2021 (SO SOON NOW!!)

*** MILD SPOILER ALERT ***

Though he was some sort of shapeshifter, the stranger looming over a temporary workbench in the middle of what was going to be the main kitchen was definitely not Bethany. He was working with some sort of tool — sanding, maybe?

He looked up as I entered, instantly and steadily meeting my gaze. The plastic sealing the doorway fell back into place behind me.

The air was slightly dusty. Bright pockets of light from work lamps set around the large space gave the room a bright white glow. The sounds of Sisu, Neve, and Lile chattering away in the dining room filtered through more thick layers of plastic encasing a doorway on the wall to my left.

I recognized the stranger, though I’d never met him. In his late twenties, he was the spitting image of his sister, Gitta — and yet somehow looked nothing like her at all. 

Kellan Conall.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and so well muscled that his T-shirt had to be cutting off his circulation at the upper biceps, he was one of the largest men I’d ever seen. And I knew plenty of warrior dragons, as well as the treasure keeper of the guardian dragons — Pulou. Though not as tall, Pulou had a body like a grizzly bear’s from the neck down — and looked the part as well, thanks to the enormous mink fur coat he always wore.

Kellan’s hair was dark brown, his skin a lighter brown. And his eyes were the same strange golden-green as the twins. Magic flared in those eyes as he took me in, staring at me as forthrightly as I was staring at him. His nostrils flared as he turned off and set down the tool he’d been wielding.

The sound in the room faded, including the chatter from the dining room. The moment seemed to physically stretch before us, as if some sort of spell had been triggered. Yet the warm but completely disconnected sensation I was feeling wasn’t magic. At least nothing remotely conventional.

“Dusk Godfrey,” I finally said. Was it possible to feel heavy, as if I was rooted to the plywood-covered floor, and yet lightheaded at the same time?

Apparently, yes.

He grinned, revealing white teeth. But the expression did nothing to soften all the hard planes of his face. He looked as though he could run through a brick wall, through multiple brick walls, without getting a scratch, let alone faltering.

That probably wasn’t a particularly attractive quality to anyone except for myself … my hormones? My magic?

And yes, I was still staring at him. And he at me.

“My employer,” he said. His accent was lilting yet still deep, as if his voice or the words themselves were pulled from the depths of his being.

There was something seriously wrong with me.

“Kellan Conall,” he said, pulling off his gloves.

Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1), Chapter Two

***

Are you new to the Adept Universe? Click here for the reading order. Or click here for the Welcome! sequence.

Archivist 1: A collector of rarities

“Doran isn’t going to attempt to harm me,” I said calmly. “I’m a valuable asset. And he isn’t stupid.” My blood was also poison to him, if he could even sink his teeth through my dragon hide. He’d only claimed two hundred years though, so I didn’t think he was powerful enough to do so. Yet.

I, however, could skewer him through the heart with an exceedingly powerful bone blade before he even saw me lunge forward.

Not that I went around stabbing magical beings in the heart.

I was a collector of rarities after all.

– excerpt from Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1), Chapter Five, fourth draft

Archivist 1: update and excerpt

I just finished my first full pass on the story editor’s notes for Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1). Next, I’ll do another complete pass, smoothing the prose and making certain I haven’t inserted anything strange (i.e. continuity errors, etc) while working through the editor’s suggested changes/additions.

The book is now 104k. That’s long. I prefer to stay under 95k myself. But, the editor hasn’t recommended any cuts. Yet.

To celebrate getting through the last two weeks (which have been seriously, seriously rough for me headache-wise) I thought I’d share an excerpt from Chapter One and Dusk’s first day of work. I hope you enjoy it!

Leather-covered sketchbook (aka Infinity) created by Mille Cuirs. Ink: Caroube de Chypre by Jacques Herbin. Fountain pen: Parker Sonnet Ciselé Silver

I stepped through the door. Energy clung to me, trying to taste my magic, then slid off when it couldn’t gain purchase.

Like I’d said, it was difficult to ward against a dragon. We were magic, descended from demi-gods. Not that it couldn’t be done, but the witch who’d built the wards would have needed to have known that dragons existed in the first place. Outside of morality tales and mythology, of course.

The boundary wards yielded completely. My front foot landed on a worn rug set just inside the door to protect the oak hardwood. And the buzzing of all the magic objects on the shelves increased.

A wide grin swamped my face.

This already felt like home.

Literally. The library at my mother’s estate was filled with tiny touches of energy just like —

Something slammed into the side of my head, getting instantly tangled in my already wild hair and obscuring my eyesight. Tiny claws tried to hook into my skin, failing but then finding hold on my bottom lip. The creature latched onto my right upper canine and started nibbling and suckling.

Yes. On my tooth.

I laughed.

Still balancing the coffee and cinnamon buns in my left hand, I gently attempted to pull the creature off me. It clung with a tenacious strength that was usually only reserved for the starving.

And since going for my teeth was a bit of a clue as to what I was dealing with, this creature did have a rather specialized diet.

I managed to transfer its front claws from my lip to my forefinger, tugging it away from my teeth so I could peer at it. It assessed me with wide, dark-orbed eyes.

An imp of some sort. A wide classification for magical creatures — with or without wings — that ranged in size. Smaller than brownies but larger than pixies. This imp was the length of my forearm. Its eyes dominated its light-gray skinned face, except for the overly large mismatched teeth of its lipless mouth.

“That wasn’t nice,” I said teasingly, holding it loosely so I didn’t accidentally crush it. “You could have said hello.”

The imp narrowed its eyes at me, then it chittered discontentedly. It was unlikely it understood English, or spoke any language I could understand, but my tone should — 

The imp sprung free from my grasp, attempting to launch off the coffees and Tupperware balanced in my other hand as it made its escape.

Four lattes in large paper cups and plastic lids didn’t make for a terribly stable surface.

Scrambling for footing, the imp leaped for the nearest shelf.

The lattes slammed into my chest and shoulder, lids flying off, and dumping hot coffee all over me.

Shrieking — even a dragon wasn’t completely impervious to heat — I lost hold of the cinnamon buns as well.

Hot liquid soaked into my hair and sweater, scalding the skin of my neck and collarbone, then dripping down my plaid skirt, all over my favorite brown boots, and the rug.

The imp watched me warily from the shelf at eye level to my left. It chittered quietly, disconcerted.

“Yeah, that also wasn’t nice,” I said sighing.

– from Invoking Infinity (Archivist 1), Chapter One, fourth draft

RELEASING MAY 25, 2021

PREORDER NOW AVAILABLE

– AMAZON – APPLE BOOKS – KOBO – BARNES & NOBLE – SMASHWORDS –

***

In other news, guess who didn’t actually hit publish on the paperback for Awakening Infinity (Archivist 0)? Ugh, me! I’m sorry. It should be available very soon.