Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78886 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78886 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
He jerked, glaring to the left as if startled by a sound. “Her whispers. I no longer hear them. Do you?”
“Her?” I listened but detected only the rustle of leaves and the call of birds.
“The Valkara.” Those incredible, fathomless eyes glazed over. “Find, destroy, happy,” he muttered. “Find, destroy, happy.”
While he lost his marbles, I resurrected Malachi’s words. He’s feral. He teeters at the precarious edge of turning. You will give him a little push.
If anyone could pass for a legendary rage-fighter, well, it was this guy. But no. No! Absolutely not. Berserkers weren’t real. A genuine king didn’t expect me to nudge another king into an abyss of evil, thereby becoming a shifter. A turul shifter at that. A mythological bird of prey reminiscent of a giant falcon my mother had described in her stories, said to represent sheer power.
I should go. In no world was staying put wise. But if I ran, this maniac would only catch me again. Guess I’d have to do the supersmart/foolish thing and deal with him head on. Actually, the best path forward might be teaming up. Us against Malachi. Not to mention the predator on the loose! At least the roaring had stopped.
“Look. There’s a wild animal nearby,” I told him, using my best team player voice while speaking a foreign language. “How about we find a place to shelter?” Hoping to lighten the mood, I added, “You’ll be in charge of provisions, of course, because the only fishing I do is for compliments.” Eyebrow wiggle. “You can tell me about this Valkara person along the way.”
Low growls rumbled in his chest, and I gulped.
“Whoa there, big fella.” I held up my hands, palms out. “Let’s ease the throttle down a notch or twenty. Okay? Breathe with me. In. Out.”
His only response? Growling louder while taking a step closer.
Years of working with aggressive animals kicked in, and I snapped my fingers while making a quick, piercing “spt” noise. Prevention instead of intervention, that’s what I always said.
He double blinked, the glaze in his irises fading. His huffing breaths decelerated. “Did you…hiss at me?” Incredulity drenched his gravelly voice.
“No, sir, I spt’ed at you. There’s a difference.” The pooches and kitties I groomed never complained about my methods.
His eyelids slitted. “You have five seconds to explain how an unknown human entered my land, bypassing my securities, or I’ll rip out your heart.”
The threat lit a fire inside my gut. Suddenly, I had no desire to bottle my emotions and play nice. But old habits kicked in, per usual. I displayed no outward reaction as a lie, the truth and a stinging retort raced across my tongue, a photo finish expected…
“I hope rip out your heart is just a colloquialism I’m unfamiliar with, because I don’t know how I got here.” Well, well. Truth won. “A strange man broke into my home and knocked me out. I woke up with no idea where I am or how much time has passed.” Hint, hint. Share the location and date, stranger.
But he didn’t. “Is that so?” he all but purred.
Shudders rolled over my spine. Somehow, that purr was a thousand times worse than his growls. “It is.” Time to get blunt. “Where are we? What day is this?”
He stalked a languid circle around me, and I’d never felt more like caged prey. “Why would this strange man bring a mouse to a starved falcon, hmm?”
I gulped. Going to ignore my queries and call me a mouse? Okay. I didn’t miss the fact that he’d referred to himself as a falcon, befitting the turul legends. “He told me…” Nope. Mentioning the berserker thing might get me into trouble, giving this madman permission to rage. “He wasn’t in his right mind. He mentioned a prophecy.” I didn’t know why that detail kept gnawing at me, but it did.
When Mr. Growly Pants faced me again, utter stillness came over him. The kind of stillness a predator usually displayed right before devouring a living meal. I licked my lips, doubting another “spt” would help. But he didn’t attack. He pinched and lifted my braid, rubbing the ends between two fingers.
“I’ve added five seconds to your clock,” he commanded. “Finish your explanation.”
Enough with the timer. “Look, snarls.” Careful. Only a fine line divided an attempt to take charge of the situation and incensing the unstable menace before me. As gently as possible, I tugged my hair from his grip. “I want only to return home. Will you help me? Pretty please with cherries on top.”
He performed another of those double blinks before narrowing his eyes. “Who are you?”
Now we were getting somewhere. “My name is Clover. And you are?”
“Clover,” he echoed and grimaced. “A herbaceous plant with dense, globular flower heads and three-lobed leaves.”
So annoying! “Or a strong, independent American woman with pluck and grit.” A pet groomer able to afford zero pets of her own, who enjoyed playing the violin to soothe the discomfort of never fully expressing herself. Not exactly someone a legitimate berserker king would choose to complete kingdom business. Not that Malachi was a legitimate berserker. Or a king. “If you’re not going to help–”