“S’pose I should’ve expected that…,” she muttered.
A chill stole over her, dark and hollow. Goosebumps rippling on her bloodied skin. The suns burned high overhead, but here in the necropolis, the shadows were dark, almost black. A shape rose up behind the Blades, hooded and cloaked, swords of what could only have been gravebone in its hands. It lashed out at the closest killer, hacked his head almost off his shoulders. The other Blades turned quick as flies, raised their steel, but the figure moved like lightning, striking with its gravebone once, twice, three times. And almost faster than Ashlinn could blink, all four Blades were left dead and bleeding on the flagstones.
“Maw’s teeth,” she whispered.
It wasn’t human. That much was clear. O, it was shaped like a man beneath that cloak—tall and broad shouldered. But its hands…’byss and blood, the hands wrapped about its sword hilts were black. Tenebrous and semitranslucent, fingers coiled about the hilts like serpents. Ashlinn couldn’t see its face, but small, black tentacles writhed and wriggled from within the hollows of its hood, pulling the cowl lower over its features. And though it was truelight, three suns burning high in the sky, its breath hung in white clouds before its lips, Ash’s whole body shivering at the chill.
“… Who are you?”
The thing peeled back its hood. Pallid skin. Saltlocks writhing like living things. Pitch-black and hollow eyes. But even with the poison swimming in her veins, all the world around her fading to black, Ashlinn would recognize his face anywhere.
“HELLO, ASHLINN,” he said.
“’Byss and blood,” she breathed.
The darkness closing in.
“… Tric?”
DICTA ULTIMA
No.
I hear you say the word, as if I sat in the room beside you. I see you, bent over the tome in your hand with a frown on your face and a curse on your lips, as if I were puddled in the shadow at your feet. The realization that there are no more pages is sinking in now. I hear it. I see it.
No, you say again.
What of Mia and Jonnen? Of Scaeva? Mercurio and Ashlinn and Tric? The secrets of the darkin? The Crown of the Moon? I promised ruins in her wake. Pale light glittering on waters that drank a city of bridges and bones. All these questions unanswered, and yet the book is at its end?
No, you say. It cannot end like that.
Fear not, little mortal. The song is not yet sung. This is but the calm before the crescendo. This tale is only two of three.
Birth. And life. And death.
So patience, gentlefriends.
Patience.
Close your eyes.
Take my hand.
And walk with me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks as deep as the Dark to the following: Amanda, Pete, Jennifer, Paul, Joseph, Hector, Young, Steven, Justin, Rafal, Cheryl, Martin, and all at St. Martin’s Press; Natasha, Katie, Emma, Jaime, Dom, and all at Harper Voyager UK; Rochelle, Alice, Sarah, Andrea, and all at Harper Australia; Mia, Matt, LT, Josh, Tracey, Samantha, Stefanie, Steven, Steve, Jason, Kerby, Megasaurus, Virginia, Vilma, Kat, Stef, Wendy, Marc, Molly, Tovo, Orrsome, Tsana, Lewis, Shaheen, Soraya, Amie, Jessie, Caitie, Nic, Ursula, Louise, Tori, Sian, Caz, Marie, Marc, Tina, Maxim, Zara, Ben, Clare, Jim, Rowie, Weez, Sam, Eli, Rafe, AmberLouise, Caro, Melanie, Barbara, Judith, Rose, Tracy, Aline, Louise, Adele, Jordi, Kylie, Iryna, Joe, Andrea, Piéra, Julius, Antony, Antonio, Emily, Robin, Drew, William, China, David, Aaron, Terry (RIP), Douglas (RIP), George, Margaret, Tracy, Ian, Steve, Gary, Mark, Tim, Matt, George, Ludovico, Philip, Randy, Oli, Corey, Maynard, Zack, Pete (RIP), Robb, Ian, Marcus, Tom (RIP), Trent, Winston, Andy (RIP), Tony, Kath, Kylie, Nicole, Kurt, Jack, Max, Poppy, and every reader, blogger, vlogger, bookstagrammer, and other breed of bookpimp who has helped spread the word about this series.
The people and city of Rome.
The people and city of Venice.
And you.
Bonus Content
Hello, and welcome to the bonus bits.
When the wonderful folks at Barnes & Noble decided to do an exclusive edition of Godsgrave, they asked if I had any deleted scenes they could include to make their edition extra shiny. Now the good news is, every writer has a bottom drawer full of deleted scenes. The bad news is, there’s a reason those scenes get deleted, and that’s because they’re usually bloody awful.
But it just so happened I had a deleted scene I rather liked.
Confession time: I know you’re never supposed to show people how the sausage gets made, but the awful truth is, I usually start writing my books in the wrong place. Once I wrote eighty thousand words before I realized I’d done it. True story.
I wrote a first chapter for Godsgrave back in 2014, with a clear vision of how the book would flow. The idea was that Mia would begin the novel undercover, lying in wait for Ashlinn J?rnheim or her father to contact an old ally, but a well-meaning buccaneer would throw her plan into disarray. But by the time I sat down to work on the book in earnest, the plan for the novel had totally changed, and that first chapter didn’t fit anymore.
But still, I liked it. I worked hard on it. And now you get to read it. It has pirates and sword fighting and witty banter, and a few of my other favorite things. The more observant among you might notice I even recycled a few of the jokes for the final book. And though it was consigned to the bottom drawer, I still hope you find it extra shiny.
Enjoy.
Jay K
CHAPTER 1
DAMSEL
It wasn’t the name his mother gifted him, but to friend and foe alike, he was known as the Storm of Galante. And he was having a bastard of a nevernight.
His rapier of Liisian steel, having sent more than a dozen men to the Hearth, now weighed heavy in his grip. The gilded stiletto in his off-hand gleamed in the light of two swollen suns, yellow and shimmering red. It’d be truelight in a few months, and the Storm of Galante couldn’t help but wish Earl Gunnar’s daughter could’ve got herself kidnapped in a cooler time of year.
He was at serious risk of breaking a sweat.
The three hüsguards sizing him up across the windblown battlements probably knew the Storm by reputation if not by sight. In the seven years his ship, the Bloody Maid, had sailed the Sea of Stars, the Storm had amassed notoriety like a dockside sweetboy amasses crotch lice. He was known as a peerless swordsman, unabashed rake and all-around buckler of swashes. And though he made his living as a privateer, he was still the sort of scoundrel who liked to ensure a fellow knew his name before he murdered the shit out of him.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked the guards, eyebrow raised.
“Aye,” a short one replied.
“You’re the Storm of Galante,” said a brutish second.
“Bravo, gentlefriend. And do you know why they name me so?”
The hüsguards glanced among each other, shrugging.