Witches Steeped in Gold by Ciannon Smart

The slowing click of Joshial’s claws on stone is the sole sound as we bear down upon the destination dictated in the missive. This late, no magi congregate to gossip, their musical patwah mingling with peppery jerk spice and opiate smoke. In the day, it’s a bustling street market. We enter Ol’ Town at a breathless gallop. Always the loyal companion, he half sprints, half leaps, taking us away from the palace via the unguarded temple drive, and into a tangle of bush that conceals our descent into the sleeping parish streets at the base of the estate’s mount. Who knows which eyes watch from the windows.Īdjusting my hood, I bend low against Joshial’s wide neck. Cooing, I scratch the underside of his chin before mounting.

Straining against his leash, he’s more of a hound than a monster-size lizard. In pursuit of blood eaters, Joshial bows a tree trunk with his weight as he flicks his whip of a tongue out.Īt the sight of me, he jumps back to the grass on four thick scaled legs. Not me, the doyenne’s emissary.Įver watchful, the palace’s hulking shadow looms across the Parade Court, dogging my nervous tread to the sweet-scented fruit grove where, as promised in the missive that drew me out of bed, my sand-prowler is tethered.

It’s a fate that could be mine, should anyone see me sneaking from my home at this hour-a fate reserved for criminals and traitors, rebels and liars.

Though the night is flush with stars, the sky still seems like a lid of earth closing atop a grave.

Witches Steeped in Gold by Ciannon Smart