Lauren's Tales

Wishbone will be released by Torquere on January 13.  I’m deleting this excerpt because it is out of date, and I will be placing new exceprts at various places around the net.  Why look, here’s one now!

The coach halted opposite the barrel Wishbone used for a seat. The bays pricked their ears and glanced about in disapproval. The door opened, and out stepped a swirl of black: a cloak like folded wings, a wide-brimmed hat, gloves, boots, and layers of fine cloth that reflected or absorbed the faint light, whispering of money.

He was tall. That much could be seen through his enveloping clothes. He moved with easy balance over the slick cobblestone way. The cold made his breath into a jet of vapor. His hair was thick, curled, and dark with tiny gleaming flecks of gray. What could be seen of his complexion was darker than usual, like a heavily-tanned sailor’s, only silk-smooth. His eyes had irises the color of violets and no visible whites; the pupils were slit up and down, like an animal’s.

Wishbone shivered. Did the gloves conceal fingers with extra joints, as rumor said? A fragrance emanated from Wishbone’s guest. Musky and spicy, as if a predator beast had slept in a bed of rare herbs, it was detectable even over the foul air of the alley. Unlike every other customer who had come to Wishbone, this one appeared neither ashamed nor furtive.

“You’re a shih-aan,” said Wishbone.

“And you are a human,” said the shih-aan. He smiled, revealing the point of a fang. “I offer you my hospitality tonight.”

Wishbone cocked his head. “Is that all you offer?” he asked.

The shih-aan’s smile did not waver. “Twenty-five crescents.”

It was a respectable sum for a night’s work, though not as much as Wishbone might expect from a client who wore such clothes and commanded such a coach. But whores who left the relative safety of the docks for the wealthier parts of town did not always return. What could his friends do then, tell the city guard?

He’d heard stories about what shih-aan did to humans. Plenty of men would swear they knew of someone who’d been gutted and cut into steaks by one of the demon creatures. If you pressed them about it, though, it always happened back during the war, and there were soldiers who had collections of shih-aan ears taken on the battlefields of Feras-aan. Since the treaty a few shih-aan had always lived in Bronlyn Harbor, trading in fine cloth, building ships and not, generally, eating anyone. Still, there were stories.

Wishbone knew he should decline. Kestrel, who had lived so long through an abundance of caution, would never have considered the offer.

On the other hand, storms had kept the fishing boats to harbor for the past three days, and the sailors and fishermen were saving their coins for hot stew and beer. Wishbone’s purse was flat. What the inhuman customer might do to him was theoretical, whereas his fate at the hands of the dock patrol if he didn’t have bribe money tomorrow was more certain.

“Forty crescents,” said Wishbone.

Gloved in black velvet, the shih-aan’s fingers touched Wishbone’s cheek. “I am intrigued,” he said. “Why do you think that you merit such a sum?”

Keeping his eyes on the shih-aan’s, Wishbone kissed the gloved fingertips. “Find out,” he said, “or get out of my alley.”

That earned him another smile. “What is your name?” asked the shih-aan.

“Wishbone.”

“Forty crescents,” the client agreed. “You may call me Sir.” For so much silver, the shih-aan could call himself King Rendel the Third if he wanted.

Wishbone left at the heels of the shih-aan, equally hooked by money and fascination. The cloaked driver held the coach door for him as if he were someone important. Sir followed him inside and latched the door with those impossibly graceful hands.