[ Fantasy / Romance / Book 1 ] In Pyxis, a city of fairies at the icy border of civilization, Queen Andromeda intends to reach into the modern world of humans and kill everyone associated with her ex-husband, Scott MacRae, the King of the Unworthy...
Chris cracked his eyes open enough to see the early morning light through the curtains. The wind was still rattling the loose windowpanes and puffing up the curtains, but when the gusts subsided, he thought he heard faint whispers.
He was on his stomach facing his wife's side of the bed, hands tucked under his pillow. He made his best effort to seem asleep while he listened, alternately thinking of how he could ready himself for a confrontation and then convincing himself that the voices were in his head.
Soon he heard footsteps, more than one set. He lowered his left arm around the side of the bed and grasped for a plastic toy or a hardcover book, something useful, but then his fingers closed on something even better. Just as they did, there was a quick, painful tug on his leg and then Chris was falling.
He had just enough time to twist and get his right shoulder underneath him. It was his back that hit the wooden floor first, knocking the wind out of him. Meanwhile, a gray blur of intruders—too many to count—were closing in on him in his vulnerable position.
When Chris heard his wife's scream, both of his hands clutched his lucky baseball bat. He sat up and swung at the figure closest to him with home-run intensity.
The bat struck his attacker's thigh. The man's leg buckled and his knee hit the floor. Chris exploited the momentary victory by pushing to his feet. He swung again and hit the incapacitated one on the neck just below his spiked helmet. The man toppled over. His sword clattered to the floor and spun out of reach.
As another figure moved in, Chris dropped the bat and dived for the sword. On his stomach and elbows, he fumbled for control of it. Then there was a sharp stomp between his shoulder blades and a debilitating weight driving Chris into the floor. Chris whipped to his back nonetheless and grabbed the man's leg. While his attacker was off balance, Chris jolted upright and drove the sword into his abdomen.
He yanked the sword away with one swift motion. The second enemy collapsed to the ground. Chris stumbled away and, with the bloody sword in one hand, picked up the baseball bat with the other.
The remaining intruders backed Chris into the corner of the room. His eyes darted to Alana and then to the enemies still standing. One, two, three, four. Five left! And one of them had a sword propped against Alana's neck.
Chris attempted to clear the terror-induced lump from his throat. He needed to sound scary, not scared. "Who are you? What do you want? I'll do whatever you ask. Just let her go!"
"Put your weapons down!"
The closest intruder lunged for the sword Chris had acquired. Chris lunged back and the intruder retreated.
"Kill her!"
"Wait!" Chris crouched down, one vertebra at a time. "Look . . . I'm putting both weapons down—"
"Don't do it, Chris!" Alana wailed.
Chris's eyes darted over to her again. She was usually the levelheaded one, always calm in any crisis. He then thought of their children, asleep in their rooms down the hall, and hoped they wouldn't awaken and stumble into danger. He didn't know what his next move should be, but if Alana said hold on to the weapons, that seemed as good a plan as any. He stood back up and resumed his defensive position.
"We were going to leave her alone because she is meaningless to us, but. . ." The apparent leader of the intruding gang took a few moments to turn over the maimed bodies of his accomplices with his foot. "You did kill two of my Gray Coats. That makes her expendable."
The arms of Alana's captor seemed to swallow her whole as he drew her closer. When the leader nodded, the brute pressed his sword deeper into her neck. He adjusted his grip with a set of fat, tattooed knuckles. Each tattoo was an asymmetrical black star with a white ring in the center.
Even in the low light of dawn, and with shock and dread flooding his mind, Chris committed the strange symbol to memory. Since the intruders had helmets covering half of their faces, the star, which he'd also noticed on the necks of two others, might be their only defining feature.
Then Chris saw blood trickling down Alana's throat. "Don't!" he pleaded. "Kill me instead!"
Chris dropped the bat and the sword and lowered to his knees. He put his hands behind his head, pinched his eyes shut, and hoped the deathblow would be clean and quick.
His eyes eased back open when the leader emitted a cruel chuckle.
"You are in no position to give orders. Besides, the queen wants you alive. Now drink this so we can be on our way."
Chris suddenly had hands all over him—hitting, clutching, scratching, binding, pulling. He also had a vial of liquid pressed to his lips. When he didn't open his mouth, the intruders pried it open and splashed the liquid inside.
He spat and thrashed around until a hard metallic blow to the side of his head forced him into submission. More of the foul-tasting liquid was poured into his mouth and there were hands making sure he couldn't breathe unless he swallowed it.
Through the chaos, Chris heard the slash of a sword and a distant whimper. Drowsy and devastated, he felt the rumble of someone else's collapse throughout his entire body.
His fate was entirely in the hands of these faceless monsters, whoever they were.
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