Tulip gaped as Surzl’s charred holy symbol struck the ground, bounced once, and came to rest next to the swirling cloud of ash where the flame acolyte had stood. At the foot of the dais, Mags let out an anguished keen that seemed to go on and on.
Duma held the spoon as close to his lips as his stomach would allow, on the spoon the slightest string of crab meat glistening with broth. His lower abdomen heaved upwards, resulting in a tightly closed-mouthed grunt. Pushing the chowder away, he cleared his throat, then chased the bile down with the remaining bottle of beer. He belched, followed by asking Quillton, “What do you mean by defeated?”
Reacting on instinct, Surzl’s hand flew to her holy symbol, the words of her incantation whispered in such a rush that the syllables ran together like one long word: “aquiestravaobscura.”
Duma crept into the circular nave, brandishing an oil lamp like a flail. The lamps in the chapel were trimmed, and burned with a clean but low light. It must have been the sexton’s final task before his head was caved in.
Everything happened in a blur, all at once. That horrid click sounded under Isabog’s foot. Mags’ face twisted into a grimace of dread, the puny rogue instinctively flipping back and away.
Gaspard lay on the ground, letting the pain and shame pulse through him. Outside the tent, shouting, uncertainty. People ran this way and that. The noise beat in time with his body.
Duma of St. Ashleigh of The Henge ultimately confronted the banshee in a grove of storm blasted willows that shadowed an otherwise idyllic bend of creek.
The wind was picking up. It wasn’t a constant blowing, but sudden gusts that shoved one aside or threw the dry soil about. Gaspard shielded his eyes. Already his ears and the bottom of his pockets carried a fine layer of dirt.
The air whuffed from her lungs as she hit the ground, and Mags rolled to her feet just as the door of the wooden cage slammed shut behind her. The human scout who’d captured her hastily replaced the heavy lock, testing it to make sure it held firm.
In a world of vagabonds, loners, and freaks, Ringmaster Folley was followed for a reason. America’s interest in freak shows and carnivals had gradually decreased
As an acolyte of Burning Ruznabiyug, Surzl had long since learned to master fire.
Francine dragged her bags into the door of Daniel’s trailer. One on each shoulder, she got stuck in the jamb, struggled.
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