Entangled (Cursed Magic Series, Book 2.5)

  Table of Contents

  Entangled

  A Cursed Magic Series Short Story

  Casey Odell Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Connect with Me Online:

  Entangled

  A Cursed Magic Series Short Story

  Casey Odell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Casey Odell

  Editing by Caitlin Carpenter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  To my fans, thank you.

  The hour was late and the tavern was bustling. A fire burned in the hearth across the room to help keep the cool of the night at bay. Simple candle chandeliers filled the rest of the room with a warm flickering light. Men sat scattered around the tables and chairs, talking and laughing about the day’s events, while two tavern maids hurried between them. Off-duty members of the town’s defense squadron sat at a table in the corner, singing a joyful tune, celebrating a young man’s last days of freedom before he, according to their lively song, jumped into the turbulent waters of marriage.

  Claire stood behind the bar with a slight smile, drying wooden mugs, and just shook her head. She’d just turned sixteen the previous week, already an old maid by many people’s standards. And yet the only marriage proposals she’d ever received were from drunken old men three times her age, most of which could never seem to get her name right. Or from men so shifty that she wasn’t certain she would survive the wedding night.

  No, all the quality men— if she could even call them that— tended to gravitate towards the star of The Blazing Stallion: her mother, Marion Tanith. Barely a week went by that she didn’t receive some sort of offer, sincere or not.

  Claire glanced across the room at her mother. She stood, leaning forward on the bar talking to an older male patron with graying hair. Her red locks were pulled back from her face, revealing high cheekbones, full lips, and bright green eyes. A strikingly mature face, but one that hardly spoke her true age. Neither a line nor a gray hair had sprung up to mar her beauty—a beauty Claire would never inherit, no matter how much she wished.

  “Why the long face, little one?”

  Claire jerked her attention to the old man sitting at the bar in front of her. A gray beard covered most of his face, neatly trimmed, the rest of the brown hair on his head fighting a losing battle against the silver hue. A modest tan jacket hung on his shoulders, belying his true status. He was one of the wealthier patrons that came into their establishment, though how wealthy she could never really tell. His name was Mr. Farthis, and he came into the tavern every month or so while he was on his trade route. He had always sat on the end seat near Claire for as long as she could remember, and although they would talk, he never revealed too much about himself. He was secretive, and it drove Claire crazy.

  “It’s nothing,” she told him. She liked to try and keep her own secrets from him, but it never lasted long. He was able to pry them out of her some way or another.

  He smiled, wrinkles forming at the corners of his chocolate eyes. “You’re as easy to see through as a pane of glass.” He raised his mug up and took a sip of the dark ale, a bandage on his right wrist showing from underneath his sleeve. He was always getting injured, it seemed. For as long as she could remember seeing him, he had always had some sort of injury.

  “It’s just,” she started and looked at him. “Is there something wrong with me?”

  He gave her a quick once over. “You look fine to me.”

  Claire sighed and glanced past him to the so-called “doomed” future groom, so happy and… drunk. She wondered briefly who the lucky lady was.

  Mr. Farthis gave a short laugh. “Still waiting for your storybook prince to come and sweep you off your feet, eh?”

  She shot him a sharp look. “A girl can dream, right?” she asked, picking up another mug to clean.

  “A dream is all it may be if you don’t give anyone a chance.”

  “Is it too much to ask for a little gallantry?” she asked, squaring her shoulders. She glanced around the room and shuddered. There certainly weren’t any princes in their tavern tonight.

  “Are you sure your standards just aren’t too high?” He raised an eyebrow as he leaned in closer over the bar and looked her up and down.

  Unlike their tavern maids in low-cut flattering dresses, her outfit consisted of simple boots, slacks, and shirt, like her mother usually wore. Her hair hung in a single braid over her shoulder instead of free and flowing. Though comfortable for the long hours in the tavern, she certainly wasn’t going to attract the opposite sex’s attention, that was for sure.

  “I don’t mean to offend, my little chickadee, but you’re not exactly in the city here, and last I checked your status is a bit on the lacking side, I’m afraid. If you are waiting for a man of princely proportions, you’ll be in for a long wait indeed. A man like that is rare in the first place. One in your class, in this town, well… you’d have better luck finding gold in your backyard, I’d say. There’s a reason those sorts of men only exist in storybooks.”

  “You sure do know how to make a girl feel better,” she said, frowning.

  “I could fill your head with sweet little lies, but I’m feeling rather generous this evening. It’s better to see the truth than live your life in delusion, no?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’d offer to marry you myself but I think I’m a little too old for your tastes.” He smiled at her. “Besides, I think you’ve already turned me down more than once if I recall correctly. And I don’t think my current wife would very much appreciate it either.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at that. He had offered on more than one occasion, but it had always been in jest. “How is Sandera?”

  “Lively as usual,” he said, settling back on his stool. He ran a hand down his face. “She told me not to return home unless I brought some pearls from Alexos. They’re all the rage in Lendon these days, I hear.”

  “And as a good husband you should!” she teased. “And you should bring some for me as well for always having to put up with you!”

  He chuckled. “I feel for the poor soul whose heart you capture.”

  “Now aren’t you glad I have never taken you up on your offer?”

  “Indeed,” he said, smiling. “Two wives would surely be the death of me.”

  “Four more of the brown ale,” came a female voice from across the counter.

  “Which one?” Claire asked, turning to Laura, one of the barmaids. She’d worked at their tavern for the past five years. The longest any had stayed before moving on to something else, usually marriage to an amorous patron, or running off with a merchant or musician. With a full bosom, long curling blonde hair, and bright bl
ue eyes, it was a wonder that she hadn’t found a husband yet. Claire liked to think that the woman cherished her freedom and all the attention she got. Or perhaps she was waiting for the right person like she was, though she’d have a much easier time capturing a prince’s attention than Claire ever would.

  “The more expensive one, of course, my dear.” Laura’s plump red lips curled into a smile. She turned to Mr. Farthis and kissed him on the cheek. “Womankind would surely weep at your demise.”

  “It’s nice to know someone would weep for me after I’m gone,” he said with a wry smile. He appeared to be the only one immune to Laura’s charms, though at times that didn’t seem entirely true. “I think my wife would hold a celebration.”

  Claire just shook her head, smiling. There was a reason her mother kept the woman around— she could sell water from the town well to most of these men if she wanted to. And she made it look so easy. Effortless, really— something Claire was still trying to learn, but feminine wiles didn’t come naturally to her. Besides, it didn’t really matter anyway; Mother would never let her serve out from behind the bar, no matter how much she asked. Claire grabbed four mugs, filled them quickly, and set them on the counter. “Are these for our resident chorus?”

  Laura grinned and looked over her shoulder. “They always are more vulnerable when they are like this.”

  “You should tell them about the special wine we got in the other day,” Claire suggested. It wasn’t special in any way, really, just marked up and served on rare occasions to make it seem so.

  “Oh, right.” Laura winked at her. “I believe I shall,” she said before twirling away from the bar and sauntering up to the table full of celebrating men.

  “There should be a law against that,” Mr. Farthis said.

  “Against doing business?” She gave him an innocent look.

  “Against taking advantage of gullible men.”

  Claire shrugged her shoulders. “It’s called surviving, Mr. Farthis. We don’t hold a dagger to their throats, last time I checked.”

  “You’re starting to sound more like your mother, you know that?”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” She gave him a coy look. “I think you like it. Isn’t that why you keep returning?”

  He just laughed.

  “Besides, we need a new stove.”

  “If that’s the case,” he said, digging into his pocket. He set two silver coins on the bar— much more than what he owed, but Claire knew better than to argue. “Then I suppose I should pay my dues as well.”

  “Leaving already?”

  “Got an early morning tomorrow, unfortunately. It was good seeing you.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see you next time then. Have a good trip,” she said, sad to see him go.

  “Chin up, little one,” he said, getting up from his stool. “He’s out there somewhere, your prince. Just don’t be too saddened if he’s not all the storybooks made him out to be.”

  Farron was slammed up against the brick wall. “Well now,” he said, grinning. “There’s no need to be so rough…”

  The dark skinned woman just smiled before kissing him, her hands pinning him in place.

  The night air was cool and the faint notes of music floated on the breeze. The party was the usual upscale fare: boring people wearing fake smiles like masks, spreading malicious gossip, ready to stab one another in the back if it meant more money or status. The food was good and the alcohol even better, as was usually the case with those types of events. They might have been vapid, but they sure knew how to drink.

  He pulled back from the woman, Lisenna— if he remembered correctly— but he wasn’t too positive. His head felt light from too much wine. “Unless that’s how you like it.”

  The woman curled her hands in his shirt and pulled him down, her mouth devouring his. A serving girl from the party, she’d been eyeing him all night until she had finally gathered the courage to ask him if he wanted to go out back for some fresh air. He knew he shouldn’t— he was on a job after all. But he had a certain weakness for delicate little maidens, especially ones as pretty and bold as this one. Her skin was soft as silk and light copper, a mix of one of the southern islanders and someone of fairer birth most likely, probably a bastard like him. Dark curls framed an innocent face with brown doe eyes, a dangerous combination in his book.

  She kissed him, long and deep until they were both left breathless as if her life depended on it— though in her case it may actually be the truth. If she were found missing, she could risk a lashing or two, or worse depending on who her master was. He should feel guiltier, but he was used to it by now. Women risking themselves, their positions, their marriages, just to see how the elf was in bed. But he wasn’t complaining. They were usually the ones to approach him— unless a job required it or one caught his eye— so they knew the risks. Although he was a killer, a thief, and a liar, he was not a predator of women. He refused to be one of those hizeáns.

  “Where to, my lady?” he asked, pulling back slightly. He really had no desire to take her in a dirty back alley. He hadn’t sunk that low yet.

  “This way.” She grinned, took his hand, and led him down the dank corridor to a back door. She slipped back into the building they had just escaped from, pulling him along into a dark storeroom. Though not exactly to his liking, it was still an improvement over the alley.

  But she didn’t stop there. The girl threw a look over her shoulder and raised a finger to her lips to indicate he should be quiet. Then she led him into a narrow hallway, the sounds of the party and busy kitchens not far off. Her feet were light and quick as she hurried down the hall to an open doorway on the left where a set of flimsy stairs rose to the second and third floors. Servants’ stairs. He gave her a questioning look, a thrill running through him. Just where was this little minx taking him?

  A few short minutes later he had his answer. And it was even more brazen than he had anticipated. Lavishly decorated, the room was certainly not her own. No, this one looked to be reserved for the lord of the manor himself. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who harbored ill feelings towards the party guests down below. Grinning, he locked the door behind him and followed the girl towards the massive bed.

  “Your lord’s?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Perhaps,” she said as she ran her hands up his chest, a mischievous smile playing across her lips. She slid his gray jacket off and let it fall to the floor.

  Another thrill shot through him. The party was bound to go on until late into the night and their risk of exposure was low, but there was still an element of danger to all this. He felt more alive than he had in days. And he couldn’t think of a better way to share it than with a woman. “And here I thought you looked so innocent,” he teased.

  “My innocence was stolen from me long ago.”

  He was about to express his condolences when she put a finger across his mouth.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “There is no use for innocence in my world. It’s the cunning who survive. And the wicked who have fun.” She drew him down again, her lips about to touch his, when she whispered: “Now, why don’t you show me how wicked you can be?”

  The tavern was quiet as Claire swept the wooden floorboards. It was well past midnight, the last customer having left almost an hour ago, but there would be no sleep for her. Not until the closing chores were done. Mother was in the back in their small kitchen, counting their earnings for the night before cooking up a light dinner. Just like yesterday, and the day before, and most likely the coming days as well.

  Claire sighed. There were times she grew tired of the monotony. This being one of them. Cleaning up after a bunch of drunken fools night after night was not on her preferred list of things to do. The bath that usually followed, however, was. It was there she was able to escape, letting the warm water ease her aches and pains and her mind wandering, getting lost in the stories of adventures and princes her mother had told her when she was a young girl. The kinds of adventures her mother h
ad experienced herself, but was unwilling to let her daughter do the same. Marion had stopped sharing her tales of excitement with Claire as she got older, perhaps fearing she would want to follow in her footsteps. Not that Claire had the courage to do so on her own. But still, she dreamed of seeing the sea someday.

  The fire burned low in the hearth. The room was dark, only a few lanterns lit here and there, just enough to be able to do her chores by. Claire flipped chairs up onto the tables as she went so she could sweep under them with ease.

  A loud bang at the door caused her to jump. Claire grasped the broom handle tight, her heart pounding heavily in her chest. She whirled around and looked at the door to make sure the lock was engaged, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that it was. Shutters blocked the windows, closing off the room from the outside world. A necessity, she realized more and more every year.

  She had just started to relax when another bang sounded on the door, more of a bodily thud than the last. Claire froze. Should she get Mother? She didn’t like dealing with the drunken men who occasionally came back after hours to harass them. Her mother, on the other hand, dealt with them easily. Claire cursed at herself. She would never have the sort of bravery that came so naturally to her mother.

  “Oh, Mary, Mary,” sang a deep slurred voice on the other side of the door. “With hair as red as… as… oh, what’s the word again…”

  Claire relaxed a bit, rolling her eyes. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so afraid of a man who couldn’t even remember the words to his own serenade.

  The door to the kitchen slammed open then and her mother came barreling into the room, fuming. “These blasted men! Will they ever learn?” She stormed up to Claire, grabbed the broom from her hands, and swung the door open.

  “M’lady Marion!” the bloke exclaimed. A thick dark beard covered the middle-aged man’s face, more than what was on his head.

  Claire took a step back, peering cautiously at the man. He had been in the tavern earlier. One of the men that had commandeered her mother’s attention for most of the evening, if she recalled correctly. Her hands circled the legs of one of the upturned chairs in case she needed to help her mother. She usually didn’t have to, but she couldn’t be too careful.