The Journal of Onet Bynalor
Something on the air disturbed Caine. He sniffed like a hound after game, and then snarled about something being familiar. He readied his weapon and bounded off. I took after him, close on his heels. Feeling his rage, I told him to keep his wits, stay aware of himself.
“I didn’t come here for fucking games,” he told me. “I came for answers. And I will get my fucking answers!”
How could I not commit myself utterly to his cause? Answers. Explanations for what we have faced, and what we are still facing. I want them more than anything. He does, too. In that, we have common cause above and beyond the obstacles and distractions we tackle along the way. Then the truth of his curse was made clear. We were ambushed by wolves
Blink of a Chance
Nestled among several other bars and restaurants, Congress Street Up was a couple of blocks from the riverfront. Like its neighbors, it was a vibrant splash of light and life in the historical district, brightening Morgan’s mood as she and Olivia walked down the block. Winter weather could be unpredictable in Savanah, and every street was lit up with Christmas decorations as if to remind everyone that, despite the mild temperatures and the lack of snow, it really was mid-December. No one was expecting a white Christmas, but it meant that the night life never really slowed down, either, and there were couples and groups wandering up and down the sidewalks that sounded like they had holiday cheer to spare.
This was good, because as she stood looking at the brightly painted sign reading “Christmas Speed Dating!!!” Morgan thought she might need whatever extra bits of holiday cheer she could get her hands on. The sign was loud, full of bright reds and greens and bespeckled with snowflakes, candy canes, gingerbread men, and Christmas trees, and the three exclamation points made her think of an overly excited cheerleader jumping up and down. One dressed up as a Santa’s elf with shiny, silver tensile for pom-poms. From Morgan’s side, her sister’s equally excited fidgeting made her good mood give way to wary anxiety.
“Is this a trap?” Morgan asked, backing away from the sign.
“Oh, it definitely is,” Olivia said, tugging her forward and sounding much too happy about it.
A Midnight Visitor
The intruder stopped a mere foot from his bedside, but Kayne did not move, nor stir. The girl watched him breathe, deep and steady, as he watched her through his lashes.
A small intake of breath was the only thing he heard before she leaned over him. Kayne felt his body tense against his will, but the girl didn’t seem to notice. She brushed his face with hair that smelled of hyssop and lily of the valley. One of those slender hands settled soft against his chest, the other touched his cheek, eyes, and lips so gently that her touch couldn’t have been any more profound than the flutter of a hummingbird’s wing.
For Love of a Beast
You know me as Beauty, Belle, or perhaps La Belle Enfant. My name is not so sweet as all that. My mother branded me through her last breath with the moniker of a deadly poison – the poison that killed her as she gave me life. I am Belladonna Lestrange, and I was born knowing the Beast’s Forest as if its story was carved into my very bones.
The Journal of Onet Bynalor
Mother,
Where do I even begin? Reason would say I begin at the beginning, but finding a vampire spawn hidden beneath a church suddenly feels like the least important part of the things that have happened. Which is telling in and of itself. I should have set ink to paper to put it all down last night, but I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. Wallach sat with me for a time, asked about how I was managing. I didn’t really know what to tell him, or what I shouldn’t. I was thankful for the comfort he offered, truly. But it’s difficult enough to write the things I think and feel to you.
Vampires are real.
A Baroness for the Devil
As a man well known for his ill temper, I find you remarkably eloquent with a pen. Who would believe that the Devil Duke of Dynevor could be such a master of cunning negotiations. Allow me to express my deepest thanks for your lack of interest in my person, and my industry. The last thing I want is a pillar of the Ton's finest gentleman trying to set his collar round my neck.
Brix, Flick, Pox, Blunder, and Tic
Beneath the broken mushroom cap of a great toadstool on the opposite hill, a snarling face watched as well. The brigand goblin hunter stood clad in decrepit armor slung with savagely crude weapons. Small as her frame was, she cut a terrifying figure, even when measured against the grotesqueries of her companions. Brix whistled, and for a creature so cruel in countenance, the sound was unexpectedly lovely, like a nightingale’s call.
The Kit Queen
Yara did not rouse a paw to stop the vengeful kit in her flight. It was true, the Steel Fang Clan only had use and need of the strong and the deadly. And if Mirmir lacked the wisdom to see the strength of her opposition, or the cunning to know when to withhold her claws, then the kit would be a future rival her mother need not fear.
The Journal of Onet Bynalor
Never has so much happened in a single day. I’m exhausted and weary. We all are. The neverending twilight-like gloom does little to help. I am going to note as much as I can before I stagger off to find where I shall fall for the night.
Undeath is a plague on this place. It is everywhere. Leaving that house of death, we took to the road and chanced upon a rider, von Holt. Wallach seems the most apt to speak to people without blundering it, leading him to naturally take the lead. It is amusing, though, to watch Caine whisper directions in the unblinking man’s ear. The arrangement works just fine for me.
Dydko
Teresa’s focus shifted back to her own reflection to confirm her thoughts, but in the mirror her lips were not smiling. A smirk twisted up the left corner of her mouth and something cold glittered in her eyes. As she looked, that smirk widened, and then distorted into a grotesque grin.
Her Words, Not Mine
The sky felt wrong. It was the same deep blue it usually was in early autumn. The low, fluffy white clouds looked both as comfortable and ominous as usual. But it all felt wrong. Dale wondered how the world had kept turning. It felt like it should have stopped moving days ago. When he’d gotten that voicemail of a call he’d ignored because he’d been annoyed. It hadn’t stopped, though. Why hadn’t it?
Against the Odds
The thunder of hooves on the ground drowned out the wind and thunder that battered horse and rider. The heavy beast ate up the wet earth and muck as if the cold and rain could not touch it. Its every breath was as ragged and labored as its rider. Streaks of lightening illuminated the pair in bursts, and then left horse and rider both blind and lost in the wet and the dark before another flash of violet light split the sky.
The Journal of Onet Bynalor
It is the same day as the previous entry. We have some two and a half hours before midnight.
Gustav and Elisabeth Durst were disturbed and lost people. It’s difficult to say who is to blame for what, or just exactly what happened in this house, but I have some guesses. I think Elizabeth is responsible for the course here. In her bid for immortality, she sacrificed her unwanted child. Whatever the ritual, I can only assume it was either botched, or her offering simply wasn’t enough.
What I Didn’t Know
In all the psychology courses I took to get my minor, and all the training and experience I’ve had as a grief counselor, no one had ever mentioned “Passive Suicidal Ideation.” Given just how prevalent and potentially dangerous it is, I am shocked this was never brought to my attention.
The Death Stage
He was falling and it startled him awake. For a moment he could not remember where it was he had fallen asleep or who he was. He must have been sleeping deeply indeed. For of course, he was the Gambler – how could he forget that? – and he was in a very cramped stagecoach that was rocking along a little too fast. Although, he couldn’t recall how he had gotten there or just where it was he had decided to travel next.
The Journal of Onet Bynalor
Mother,
I did something I did not mean to do, and now I don’t know where I am. I think I met it. Him, I believe. Your patron. I spoke to Him. And to something else. Or, more correctly, something argued with Him. I don’t know if I summoned them to me, or if they brought me to them. I’m sorry I cannot write more, but I feel it would be unwise to commit all that was said to the page. I will have to press myself to repeat the words every so often. Hopefully that will help me to remember them. Why now, after all this time, has something finally answered me, and why did it have to be Him? Did I bring myself to this place, or did He? As the now, I have no answers, only maddening questions. Questions made worse by the mutterings of this most irritating person.
Perspective in Partnership
New partners are always difficult in the beginning, which is less than the best way to take on dangerous undead and enemy mages. But what is a pixie to do when she’s teamed up with a wizard with a deathwish, other than gain a new perspective?
Checkmate
Many of the demons we face aren’t even of our own making. They are generational, handed down to us to battle without ever knowing why they were created in the first place. Every now and then, we are handed the chance to be free of them. Tava has a chance to shake off one of her mother’s making, but one should never think for a second that they are smarter than a devil and fight him alone.
Swarm
The shipwreck had shown up weeks ago, but doing anything on the beach was dangerous. The grey-skins spent most of their time in the water, but they still came on land often enough for it to be a problem. Particularly for anyone that strayed close to the shore. Manila Bay had been the first to be swarmed by raiding packs when it had all started, and his unlucky ass had been right in the middle of it.
Brush Me Again
There is a peculiar smell about an artist. Something dusty, dry and mineral-like. But also sweet and earthy, like citrus or a geranium’s leaf. I think I hated it at first, but over time, it felt like home.
The Blog is a collection of works by Leah Sage that is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.