I flushed. ‘His name is Roman, and we’re just friends.’
One side of Cloete’s mouth twitched up. ‘How very teen drama.’
‘Shut up.’
She began to stalk off, then paused, glancing back at me. ‘Just make sure you come to Growlers tonight, yeah? I want to talk to you about something important.’
‘Fine, fine.’ I gave her a surly look. ‘I'll make sure my teen drama doesn’t follow me.’
Cloete chuckled as she left, striding towards the city with a smattering of other burly-looking Blackgoat Runners. I'd heard she’d flat-out refused the protection detail for Nicola Grogan. I wish I could have done the same. Spoilt actresses were bad for my health. There was another flash from the woods, and I got the impression someone wanted me to hurry up.
The hairs on my neck prickled and I turned to see Dowler’s wife. Her lips peeled back and she hissed at me, sounding like a kettle on the boil. I opened my mouth a couple of times before managing to mutter condolences about her loss.
‘This was your fault.’ Her eyes were slits of fury, face dry of tears. ‘My husband’s blood is on your hands.’
‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ I protested weakly.
But the widow was already leaving, an elderly man escorting her away. She let herself be led, back stiff with anger. I watched her go, feeling miserable. How was Dowler’s death my fault? A small voice told me I was a jinx, so that kind of made it my fault. I balked as the widow pulled away from her escort and stabbed a finger at me, spit flying from thinned lips. ‘You’re the angel of death, Lora Blackgoat. You bring nothing but misery into people’s lives.’
Her escort tightened his grip, threw me a scowl, and hurried her from the cemetery. I was the only one by Dowler’s graveside now. Even the graveyard attendants had retreated for a break, leaning against headstones and smoking tobacco pipes.
I unbuttoned my coat and adjusted my work-belt with its heavy pockets, loaded with knick-knacks most useful in a fight. This included pouches of salt, the one medium guaranteed to act as a conduit to the ley-lines that ran under the earth and fuelled all magic. It wasn’t hard to cast; took a few years of training to get the concentration right, then chuck a bit of salt, shout a few words of power in the language of your choice, and hey presto, you could set your own hair on fire. My belt was well stocked with salt, including one pouch of my own special mixture: powdered consecrated silver, salt, and half a teaspoon of gunpowder. I called it my Sucker Punch Special: guaranteed to rock your socks when you needed it. Feeling prepared, I braced my cane against my bad leg and strode towards the line of pine trees.
* * * *
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About the author
Rebekah lives in sunny Brisbane with her husband, two kids and a misunderstood Boston Terrier. Working as a graphic designer, she loves writing urban fantasy with lashings of romance, humour and a sprinkling of horror. Her vices include watching trashy 80s action movies and pretending she can cook.
ISBN: 9780857990013
Title: Chaos Born
Copyright © 2012 by Rebekah Turner
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Contents
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 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Excerpt from Chaos Bound
About the Author
Copyright Page