Traps, Tricks, and Beasts [Book 2 Complete][Fantasy, Adventure, Underdog]

Mother dearest?

Having only just fallen asleep, sandwiched between Kenna and Tobias’s fluffy wolf forms, Squirt blinked back awake surprisingly quickly. Yes?

Remember when I said that nothing would happen?

Based on his tone, whatever it was had the context of being a concern, but not emergency. … yes?

It seems that a young Glow hasn’t made his way back from the seamstresses.

Shifting to rub her eyes, she responded, Was he already dressed like me last he was seen?

I would ask, but that’s a rather difficult question to mime, mother.

Fair enough.

With a groan Squirt sat up. The two wolves perked their heads up as she untangled herself, wiggling and crawling out from between them. Her tired eyes landed on the lord’s wolf, who for once had positioned himself separately from his packmates. Rather than laying in the pile, he was sitting up, awake, and staring at her with the eerie shifter intelligence animals normally lacked.

She stood, and his wolf let out a soft whine.

Muttering to herself, she waved the wolves off, navigating around the furs in the dark to reach her day clothes and armor. All three wolves stared at her, awake and alert and clearly ready to jump up with her.

She finished by strapping her belt around her waist, only to have sharp teeth gently grip her elbow. Glancing back, she expected it to be Tobias’s wolf.

But nope.

It was the giant form of the lord’s wolf. His ears were down, and he let out a faint whine, the grip of his massive teeth gentler than a fey’s hand.

Literal puppy dog eyes from him were not what she’d been expecting at this juncture.

“It’s fine,” she muttered. “I’m just gonna go investigate, find a missing greenling, and I’ll be back.”

A light growl sounded around the edges of another whine, and while he released her elbow, he didn’t back away.

Rubbing her eyes once more, she slapped her cheeks and then pulled out a wakeberry from her pouch. Even as she chewed, the lord didn’t back down, nor back away, practically standing over her.

“Piss off,” she muttered as she shouldered her way around him and to the door. Only, when she went to shut it, he nosed the door open, clearly intent on following her.

She gave him a glare, whispering, “What—don’t follow

me, you overgrown fluffball—”

He didn’t bother to listen, staring her down. Unlike the dual-colored eyes of his other half, the wolf version only had eyes of bright gold, meaning more than likely the lord’s soul was either asleep or simply unable to regain control of the wolf’s actions.

And it was rather annoying to try and convince an animal of anything. Animals could rarely be reasoned with.

Few were as perfect as Mole.

Throwing up her hands in frustration, she muttered, “Fine, but don’t you dare make a scene.”

As she turned and stalked off, she could only hope that few fey had seen his monstrous wolf form, and that, at the very least, anyone who saw him following her wouldn’t realize his identity.

She didn’t need to add greenling to the swirling rumors of his bed partner preferences.

Squirt arrived at the carriage storage a few minutes later, the lord’s wolf trotting silently along behind her. She turned and held up a hand, fixing him with a stern glare.

To her surprise, the wolf obediently sat, his head cocked like a puppy.

She hesitated for a brief moment, waiting for him to rebel against the silent order she’d just given the gods damned lord—

Realizing he wasn’t moving, she pushed her way into the quiet, darkened space. Pakos greeted her at the door. Just beyond him was a pile of fey, some already snoring away, others still in the process of finding the most comfortable spot for themselves. She scanned over the space, searching.

There was one key thing missing.

Turning her attention to the hound, she asked, Where’s the pest?

He was the one that noticed Glow did not return with his fellows and went to go speak with the seamstresses.

When?

Just before the end of half-light.

And he hasn’t returned?

Shall I go look under the carriages? Perhaps he’s hiding just to surprise us both.

Rolling her eyes, she bit her lip. Then she exited out of the carriage storage, Pakos following along behind her as she squatted down in the dust and scattered hay of the barn, ignoring the obediently sat lord.

Pakos didn’t.

I see you have a new tail today.

Shut up.

I daresay my fluff is softer than his.

It’s not a competition.

It’s always a competition, mother.

Making a rude gesture at him, she fixed her attention back on the dirt. There it was. That faint, barely perceptible line in the dirt of the pest’s barrier. Yet he hadn’t returned. By now, even the most overworked of the seamstresses would have headed off for bed. And what idiot goes after someone that’s gone missing without bringing a damn hunting hound with them?

Turning back towards the door and straightening, Squirt called quietly, “Zhadin.”

No one responded.

I told you, mother dearest. They are not following you right now.

She dropped her head to her chest with a sigh.

The lord’s wolf stood, drawing her eyes up as he made the softest vocalization, staring down at her with intention.

Pakos translated, He says to stay here.

Though she bristled indignantly, she gave the wolf a nod, muttering, “As you wish.”

He responded by bending down to where she was crouched and licking the side of her face.

Grimacing, she wiped off the slobber with a “Gross,” while the wolf turned and left. It didn’t matter that it smelled like sea salt and pine tree, slobber was slobber, and slobber was gross.

Shaking her head, she waited as the wolf indicated, even if it irritated her.

Not five minutes later, he returned, and tendrils of shadows reached over to wrap around her wrists, Zhadin rising from the lord’s shadow before the tendrils disappeared, their fey legs forming as they stepped into the light. They knelt in front of Squirt. “It is late.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “There’s a missing greenling.”

“Ah. Bartos was less than talkative.”

Squirt went to answer when she realized the lord’s wolf had trotted around behind her, his massive jaw bending down and pulling her into his chest as he sat. Once she was standing tucked between his paws, his massive head rested over hers. She glared up at him for the damn possessive maneuver when she realized he wasn’t staring at Zhadin, but farther down into the barn.

Her eyes followed his before a shimmering form appeared by the entrance, and the pest trotted in. His expression brightened at those present, and he quickstepped forward, enacting a silence barrier in the same instant such that it was active before he landed in front of them.

Like some kind of ridiculously overpowered demi-god.

Asshole.

“Greetings!”

Far too vibrant for the late hour and dire situation, as usual.

Though the sound was faint, pressed against the lord’s chest as she was, Squirt could hear the telltale rumbles of a growl directed at the pest. She couldn’t decide if she approved—as the pest did subtly wince and she was petty enough to notice—or if the action annoyed her.

As usual when undecided, she ignored it. “Pest. Did you find Glow?”

He nodded. “Yes. I have. He is unhurt and sleeping in a tent.”

Her eyes narrowed.

He held up his hands placatingly. “Ah, yes, it is a kidnap, not his choice.”

The shadows grew longer and a dusting of frost glittered over the space, coating the wolf’s fur. Interestingly though, Squirt didn’t feel even a touch of cold, the lord’s aura completely avoiding her.

Taken from NovelPhoenix, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Knock it off. Pest, why the fuck did you leave him—”

“Ah, non, non, m—I mean, huntress. I um…” He rubbed the back of his neck before an epiphany lit his eyes. Waving his hands, they dissipated into loose particles that retained the vague shape and color of his flesh. “This is not me.” His form solidified once more, and he gestured at himself. “This is, ah, a copy. To find you and ask.”

“Ask what?”

“I want to talk to them.”

“Talk to who?”

“The ones who kidnapped.”

The growling of the lord was now far more audible, Zhadin’s shadows stretching threateningly towards the pest.

Squirt threw her elbow back ineffectually into the wolf’s chest, snapping, “Knock it off. Pest, what do you mean you want to talk

to them?”

The pest was giving the lord’s wolf a thoughtful look before his eyes returned to Squirt’s, steady and calm. “We can take Glow back, but then they will try again.” Scratching through his hair with one hand, he continued almost sheepishly, “I believe I can convince them to not do this.”

Zhadin answered with a gleam of eagerness in their eyes, bending forward to be eye-level with the pest. “I find the dead need little convincing.”

The pest nodded, clearly agreeing with the argument. “This is true. But the huntress wants secrecy, non? Dead bodies pile. Convinced ones leave.” His eyes flickered up to the menacing form of the lord. “Zhadin can fetch Glow. It costs nothing to try. You know Bartos would agree, old friend.”

The lord’s upper lip curled in a distinct threat, his ears back.

The pest merely grinned, as if finding the threat of the wolf a fun quirk and not a potentially deadly consequence. “If I fail, I can feed them to the redcaps.”

The rumbling growls behind Squirt’s head finally came to a stop, the wolf clearly considering this an acceptable deal.

Meanwhile, Squirt’s eyes were focused not on the three other fey, but on the air around them. Though all three kept their auras contained in the pest’s barrier, she could see the visible weight of it in the air around her. The way that even the straw on the ground flattened, molding itself to the cobblestone brick of the stable floor.

A terrifying reality check.

Unconsciously, she leaned into the wolf’s chest, an action that left the wolf inordinately pleased and the other two mildly jealous.

The pest clapped his hands together. “So. Settled? Shall I wait until Zhadin can fetch Glow to begin?”

The auras eased back, the visible weight of them dissipating into nothingness once more. Squirt still gave it an extra minute before attempting to step forward, testing the air and the three fey’s reactions before taking a second step. Assured that the three eyes were on her and their auras contained, she let out a sharp breath out her nose, the action containing both her annoyance and acceptance in a single sound. “Come on, Zhadin, let us fetch our missing greenling. The pest can do whatever he wants after.”

The pest beamed, then bowed to her. “As you wish, right this way my lady—”

“I’m not a lady.”

“Ah, non, I did not… right this way, huntress.”

Why did she snap at him if he was going to give her those damn puppy dog eyes once more?

Angry both for snapping at him and regretting snapping at him, Squirt ignored her emotions as usual, following silently behind the pest. His silhouette dimmed in the light, the dust that made up his form dissipating until he was little more than a barely visible shadow.

Damnit. Even his magical clone was sneakier than her.

Just before she exited the barn, she turned back, noting that neither Pakos nor the lord’s wolf followed, both canines sitting regally as they watched her leave.

Despite being grateful that they were both silently watching over the greenlings in her stead, she turned and slipped out the door without acknowledging anything at all.

Half an hour later, Squirt was darting between shadows as she followed the barely visible silhouette of the pest, hiding from the occasional drunkard returning to their tents in the temporary housing district.

Of course they were here. As she should have guessed.

It seemed all of Squirt problems were currently born in this dump. First the redcaps, and now this.

Sneaking through the tent city, Squirt heard far more than she ever wanted to through the thin tents that few fey bothered to ward against sound and imagined burning it all to the ground. Finally, the ghost of the pest stopped by one particularly cheap looking tent, the canvas of it patched and lacking any magical quality to it whatsoever.

Squirt crept forward towards some barrels that would give her a vantage point to see the tent entrance. Peeking around, she noted an ogre, an elf, and, of all things, a fishman playing a game of dice with the pest.

Fishmen were humanoid in shape, but aquatic in origin, and thus tended to remain coastal. Their communities thrived in the deep oceans, sharing it with merfolk and aquatic elves. All three had gills and webbed hands, but merfolk had beast lower halves, and aquatic elves had more common fey features than fishmen.

Fishmen skin was scaled, their teeth closer to a fish than a fey, their eyes bigger and wider set in their faces. Few if any had hair. They rarely had noses, just a set of receptors in visible slits somewhere on their face. Sometimes they had a nose facsimile, but there were never any nostrils.

Meaning they were perpetual mouth breathers.

This one appeared to be a shark type. His teeth were sharp and triangular in his mouth, a gray tinge to rough looking skin, and a dorsal fin sat prominently between his shoulder blades. His head was triangular in shape, something that would cut well through water and look awkward on land.

Was he some kind of guard? Mercenary? Benefactor? He was smaller than most fishmen Squirt had seen before, though that wasn’t uncommon. All merfey ran the gambit of fey sizes, from four-foot pixies to hundred-foot giants of ancient times.

Though most of the land giants had disappeared in the Cataclysm some four thousand years ago, like the dryads, the nymphs, and the gods themselves.

Supposedly.

Squirt found herself puzzling over this for longer than was polite. But it was just so rare to see fishmen this far inland. Fresh water tended to not agree with them, so the rivers are not enticing for most of them to even consider it. Unless he was from some freshwater variant?

They often made their way into the Capital for trade, so she’d seen her fair share of them there, but in Everwinter?

Movement drew her eyes back to the pest’s silhouette waving her towards the back of the tent.

She hesitated.

Instead, she peered back around the barrels at the odd group playing cards in front of the tent, sizing up what on earth the pest was even doing

here.

With an elf, an ogre, and a fucking fishman.

Why had he asked, anyway? Wouldn’t it have been better for him to just do things his way from the beginning? Why seek permission for something he would have been free to do?

The fishman’s sharp shark teeth gave him a lisp as he spoke. “Thinging ith for fey with talent. Like thirenth.”

The pest shrugged with a grin. “I cannot deny the songs in my soul.”

“Handthome fey like you get a pathth.”

The pest tutted. “The Motes care little for the faces of their artists, my friend.”

Motes, the phenomenon of inspiration for artists, were fabled to bring the attention of gods onto their favorite works and were often prayed to by those hoping for artistic success. They were considered sentient spirits born of magic, not unlike the Whims. Or, rather, they were a specific aspect of the Whims that focused solely on artistic expression and cared nothing for greater destinies, mating, battles, or political plots. Thus, most considered them separate, even if they were functionally the same.

The fishman and elf both scoffed at the pest’s mention of the Motes, returning to the game.

The ogre glanced awkwardly between them before his eyes returned to the pest.

The elf laid out some cards, saying, “I raise. Three earth pieces. And Motes smotes. They care for beauty.”

The pest reached into his pocket, pulling out the coins Squirt knew he did not possess, easily tossing them onto the pile and earning greedy gleams in the eyes of the three he was playing.

Her eyes narrowed. Coins had a simple spell on them to validate them, a spell closely guarded by the banks that created the coins. It would take just one observant check to know that those coins were conjured and not real.

Just one check.

Just one.

None of them checked.

Squirt was furious that they didn’t fucking check.

Pissants.

They had some quiet conversation, the pest poking and prodding in his way, teasing a few chuckles out of even the elf despite the perpetual annoyance that pinched his brows together. The words were too quiet for Squirt to make out until the pest burst out, “But music moves the soul.”

The other two looked more dubious, but the ogre’s eyes had the beginnings of stars in them.

The fishman scratched his jaw with his bare, webbed foot. “Eh. That kind of performanthe workth for handthome fey like you. Maybe Louthe could pull it off.”

Squirt doubted it. Though elves were traditionally more beautiful, crafted by the gods from clay instead of born from the elements like fata, this one was balding, pudgy, and had lopsided features that made his face look like he was perpetually smelling something just slightly off. Dancers and performers did better with more charisma and were usually epitomes of beauty.

Like the pest.

The pest tutted at them. “Non, non, non. All that’s needed is rhythm in your body and confidence in the soul.”

Rolling her eyes and convinced he wasn’t about to get stabbed—since the other three were clearly too keen on winning the pot and sneaking admiring glances at his handsome, albeit pink, features—Squirt finally crept after the ghostly apparition of the pest towards the back of the tent.

The apparition lifted the edge of the canvas up for her. She scowled, waiting long enough to thoroughly inspect for any barriers, spells, tripwires, anything at all to get between her and her quarry.

Nothing.

She crawled in, noting the layout of the space. It was plain. There was no magic she could sense other than just the ambient magic of existence. In the center of the tent was a metal cage, and just off to the side was a single stool, small table, and a chest. Creeping forward towards the lump in the cell, she noted the quality of the stool in the dim glow of a single glowlamp resting on the table.

The stool was slightly crooked, the three legs of it roughly the same shape, but of slightly varying thickness and sizes. The table was better, the surface of it being level, but she was certain the back leg didn’t quite reach the ground. The chest lacked the gleam of a wood finish, meaning it was rough cut and sanded but not sealed.

Meaning all the furniture was likely apprentice castoffs sold for cheap. Practice pieces for those honing their craft priced such that the apprentice might barely cover the cost of materials used.

Truthfully, the tent itself wasn’t much better. Most tents had some magic to them, weatherproofing being the most common. The most expensive item was the metal cage, but even that was not high quality. The gaps between bars were of varying sizes, the shape lopsided and sloping to one corner as if in a perpetual hunch.

Glow was laid out flat, his expression peaceful in the straw hastily added around the bottom of the cage. Completely unharmed, just missing his leathers, but left in the dark linens of the guard.

Zhadin appeared beside her, a barely audible whisper of their voice tickling her ear. “Shall I fetch the greenling?”

Squirt nodded. She trotted around the other side of the cage, glancing through the crack in the front flaps of the tent at the scene of the fey playing cards, oblivious to her presence as she silently approached the locked chest. Turning her attention to the lock, she studied it, sensing for any traps or magical locks that would blow up at her if she tried to pick it.

Nothing.

It was a genuine tossup if these fey were just that poor, that desperate, or that stupid.

Probably all three.

Reaching into her breastband, she fished out the lockpicks she’d stashed in there, noting the sandy, ghostly apparition of the pest’s form hovering on the other side of the cage and watching her with a soft, loving smile.

Zhadin didn’t even glance at the apparition’s direction as they pulled Glow through the shadows and into their arms. The action took less than a single breath. Which was good, because the shadow plane was deeply uncomfortable to those not born from it, and had the sleeping Glow breathed in the shadow matter, Squirt wasn’t certain of the side effects.

Satisfied Glow was retrieved, she gestured rudely at the dopey pest before going back to picking the chest lock, praising herself for remembering to line her breastbands with a full lockpick set after the last

kidnapping incident when the Lord Prince Ranin reminded her she had that skill.

It still took several minutes to shift the tumblers around, muscle memory finally kicking in, but with a bit of effort and a dash of stubborn resolve, the lock opened with a satisfying click.

Triumphant, Squirt reached into her pouch, checking on the hinges and oiling them with some cooking oil. Only when she was certain it would be as noiseless as she could make it did she risk lifting and opening the lid.

It creaked quietly nonetheless, and she froze, listening, watching, waiting.

Nothing.

Reaching into the chest, she retrieved the stolen leathers, stashing them into her pouch for safekeeping before closing and locking the chest once more.

Only when she removed any sign of her presence, including shifting scattered dirt and removing her footprints, did she turn to Zhadin and notice the body in the cage. There was a second Glow laying there, peacefully breathing in and out. Her eyes traced back to Zhadin’s arms, who held the first Glow. Then, narrowing, they returned to the cage.

She approached long enough to confirm her suspicion that the pest’s apparition form had replaced the sleeping Glow.

Damn him.

He hadn’t even cast a gods damned spell for that trick. And yet the illusion was nearly flawless. The fake-Glow eyes cracked open, glancing at her furious face, and even had the audacity to wink at her before shutting once more.

Impressed, furious that she was impressed, and furious she was furious, she stalked silently around the cage, exiting out back into the tent city, determined to leave the pest behind her. Glow needed medical attention, and that was more important.

Meaning she had a fallen to go see.