Showing posts with label Kathryn Sommerlot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kathryn Sommerlot. Show all posts

Release Blitz + Giveaway: The Loyal Whispers (The Life Siphon #3) by Kathryn Sommerlot


Join author Kathryn Sommerlot & IndiGo Marketing in celebrating the release of The Loyal Whispers (The Life Siphon #3). Find out more about this LGBTQ fantasy, read an excerpt & enter the giveaway to win a $10 NineStar Press credit! Good luck!



Title: The Loyal Whispers
Series: The Life Siphon, Book Three
Author: Kathryn Sommerlot
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: May 25, 2020
Heat Level: 1 - No Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 78900
Genre: Fantasy, LGBTQIA+, Contemporary, sports, romance, lesbian, bisexual, demisexual, ice hockey, coach, teammates, slow burn

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Synopsis


Ravee: a pious Rad-em merchant’s
daughter sailing with her family’s goods

Mairi: the Runonian king’s advisor
seeing the outside world for the first time

Alesh: an alchemist’s apprentice in
Joesar with a past rapidly catching up to her

Three women find themselves caught in
the threads of change as the world threatens to fall apart around them. From
across the Oldal Sea, the southern kingdom of Dusset has declared war, and if
anyone is going to survive it, the alliance between Runon, Chayd, Rad-em, and
Joesar must be solidified.

But there are forces at work that could
undermine all the progress King Yudai and Tatsu have made. Peace treaty
negotiations between the four realms could crumble at any time beneath the
building tension.

As the women’s paths converge, they must
navigate the true meaning of loyalty to themselves, their countries, and their
families, while at the center of it all, a shattered king, hellbent on revenge,
threatens the world balance.

Excerpt


The Loyal Whispers
Kathryn Sommerlot © 2020
All Rights Reserved

One: Ravee
Choked with debris, the waves lapped at
the fire-blackened hull boards left behind, and worse yet, bodies bobbed in the
spaces between splintered wood. They quivered up, bobbing with each crest,
clothing billowing around motionless limbs, and Ravee had to turn away with one
hand pressed to her mouth to keep her meager breakfast down. The air smelled of
burning softwood and singed flesh interwoven into an overpowering and
inescapable tang which did nothing to help her constantly queasy belly.

“Gods above,” Captain Wret hissed under
his breath. When Ravee peeked over her shoulder, she couldn’t miss how his
knuckles had blanched white, his fingers clamped around the deck rail. “What
happened here?”

The answer seemed very obvious: the
worst. The lingering fear of anyone who took to the seas was a shipwreck,
whether it be by pirate attack or by the unforgiving elements, and the evidence
of just such a tragedy lay strewn around their vessel in the whitecaps. But no
storms had darkened the sky in the past week, only a clear blue horizon with
favorable winds. Pirates tended to strip the ships of both treasure and
hostages before destroying them. Broken shards of porcelain dishes floated
among the wood, and anyone searching for profit wouldn’t leave something of value
like that behind. The knowledge should have helped to ease Ravee’s nerves, for
they were far less safe with their trade cargo if pirates roamed the Oldal Sea.
Still, the uneasiness was slow to dissipate.

As her stomach settled and stopped
roiling at the grisly aftermath, Ravee turned back to peer over the ship’s
side. If it hadn’t been pirates and couldn’t have been the weather, few other
possibilities made sense. Ships didn’t simply spontaneously break apart, and
the sea serpents had already entered their dormant months. A horrible stillness
settled over the remains, as though not even the sun’s bright rays could touch
the bloody mess.

“Look!” one of the deckhands yelled.
“Rad-em colors!”

The man’s outburst prompted a scrambling
of boots across slick boards as the sailors searched for something to reach the
silk with. Eventually, the cloth floated near enough for a man to fish it out
with one of the long deck mops, and while Ravee’s heart skipped at the sight of
her countrymen’s flag, the shock paled in comparison to what came up after it.
More silks, strung together on the single rope line, tangled together in a mess
of clumped, torn fabric. Ravee had never heard of the countries sailing under a
united banner, not even in the oldest orated history lessons. She whispered a
prayer under her breath as the crewman struggled with the cord, grateful her
hands weren’t visibly shaking.

Captain Wret pushed the sailor aside to
grab at the bulk, and his hands were steadier than the deckhand’s had been. He
pulled the Rad-em colors free, and then the rest one at a time, peeling the
sopping layers apart until four flags lay spread across the deck. Four silk
banners, fraying and burned on the right side as though they’d caught fire as
the ship went down and only the briny seawater had stopped them from being
completely devoured.

Four silk banners representing the
kingdoms of the southern coastline.

Ravee’s stomach twisted again with a
painful throb.

“Rad-em,” Wret said, pointing, “Chayd,
Runon, and Joesar.”

“Impossible,” one of the men argued.
“They’d never sail together like this, and under united colors?”

All the flags had been displayed on a
single vessel, and to have such a bold showing could mean only one thing.

“They were on official business,” Ravee
whispered, speaking before she could stop herself. Wret’s head snapped in her
direction, his eyes sharp, but he didn’t stop her from continuing, which was
something. “In an official capacity.”

“Yes,” Wret said. “They were traveling
as ambassadors. Peaceful ones, likely, given the treaty negotiations.”

“Who would attack a ship containing
peaceful representatives from all four of the coastal kingdoms?” the sailor
nearest to Ravee asked.

Wret’s gaze shifted to the broken,
charred pieces of the ship still floating out on the sea. “The easiest way to
answer that is to figure out where they were going.”

Then his expression morphed, cycling
through surprise and shock before hardening in resolve. He crossed to the rail
with long steps and hesitated only for a moment, scanning the water before
shouting, “Get a lifeboat dropped! Someone’s alive down there.”

In the resulting chaos, Ravee was pushed
back, shoulders bumping into her arms with such force her skin would bruise.
She couldn’t see around the sailors to confirm for herself, and she knew better
than to try to fight it; Captain Wret was displeased enough already to have her
aboard his ship accompanying her family’s goods and hadn’t bothered to keep his
feelings quiet. Making her presence known could result in banishment to the
belowdecks sleeping quarters afforded to her.

A lifeboat splashed down into the sea
and a few of the sailors started up nervous muttering, but it wasn’t until
several moved to the rigging that Ravee felt confident enough to slip through
the small crowd to the railing again.

The sailors in the lifeboat were pulling
a body out of the water, and despite Wret’s earlier outcry, the man looked very
dead to Ravee. He didn’t so much as twitch as the sailors rowed toward the
ship’s side and prepared the dinghy to be lifted back up. When one of the crew
hauled the man over the rail and deposited him onto the deck, his head lolled
lifelessly to one side. Bits of his shirt had been eaten away by the flames and
a nasty-looking cut sliced across his forehead, the red of the still flowing
blood mingling with the sea water clinging to his skin. The sailors spent a
long moment staring at him in silence.

In the stillness, the air above the
ship’s deck shimmered as shivers ran the length of Ravee’s spine in a familiar
tremble. Bithlad, God of healing, appeared behind her with all four of his
hands ghosting over her biceps as he whispered, He’s alive. Help him.

Ravee darted in between the sailors,
nostrils burning with the lingering smell of the less fortunate passengers and
her feet propelled by the murmured command. She pressed her head to the injured
man’s chest, shoulders sagging at the muffled breath sounds. He was alive, but
only barely so.

“How did you know?” she asked Captain
Wret, who had advanced to hover uncomfortably over her shoulder.

“He was clinging to one of the bigger
pieces of the ship’s hull, and his position was too unnatural to have been the
result of post-death rigor.”

Ravee studied the man’s body. “I doubt
he would’ve lasted much longer out there in this state.”

“He may not be the only one. The
lifeboat’s already prepared—we should search the area for more survivors,” Wret
said, and he walked away to bark the orders at his crew.

Ravee stayed where she was kneeling with
one hand on the man’s shoulder, wishing she could will him to wake up. His eyes
stayed closed, though it was comforting to see his chest rise and fall, even if
the breaths were shallow. The lack of movement gave her a better opportunity to
check him for injuries. Though bleeding steadily, the cut on his head wasn’t deep,
but as she peeled back the soaking layer of clothing from his torso, she
exposed a fresh wave of crimson. Along his side darted a dark gash, and it
seemed his shirt had been the only thing holding what remained of the skin
together. Ravee clasped her hand against the wound in shock.

“Please!” she called, and one of the
crewmen thrust a rudimentary first aid kit into her open hand.

At least she had a needle and thread,
even without time to sterilize the metal. Ravee sent up a quick prayer to
Urutte, God of fate. Her family sold leather goods, and while she’d never had
to sew flesh before, her needlework skill ranked high. Her hands trembled so
badly she pricked her own finger trying to stitch the wound, and all she could
think of was how thankful she was the man remained unconscious. It would’ve
been agony if he’d been awake to feel the needle threading through his already
flayed skin.

She wanted to vomit, and somehow managed
to keep all the bile in until she’d finished. Running to the railing took two
heart-pounding moments, and she only barely made it in time to avoid her
breakfast splashing across the deck. Her cheeks warmed, but there wasn’t time
to be embarrassed; the lifeboat was hauling another body from the sea, and
Ravee wiped her forehead with her shirt sleeve before moving to the newest one.
Bithlad’s presence behind her faded, but she murmured a prayer the God might
watch over the rest of the poor souls fished out from the brine.

By the time the entire area had been
scoured, the sailors had found two more survivors, and Captain Wret called the
search off as the sun set bright behind the wreckage. Fewer pieces of the
unfortunate ship remained than had floated earlier along the whitecaps, and
even many of the dead had been pulled beneath by the undertow. Wret’s men found
four survivors total, including the first man: two more men and one woman. The
crew carried the limp bodies to the bulkhead closest to the rudder and did what
they could with the extra bedding supplies. But it wasn’t much, and as Ravee
stood looking over the remnants of the ship’s unfortunate passengers, she could
hardly breathe.

The man whose side she’d stitched closed
seemed to have stabilized, and the woman had surface burns seemingly unrelated
to her head trauma, but the last one, an older male whose arm had been severed
at the wrist, was unlikely to make it through the night even with the
tourniquet and linen wrapping they’d employed. Knowing the background of their
survivors was impossible. They could have been crew on the ship, servants
accompanying the envoys, or the dignitaries themselves, but until one of them
woke with a clear enough head, Wret’s Sheersilk was sailing blind.

An entire ship destroyed, with nothing
stolen and the passengers left to bloat.

“Where was their course?” Ravee asked as
Captain Wret’s heavy footsteps sounded down the wooden stairs behind her.

“This far south? Dusset, probably, the
same as us.”

Ravee swallowed hard. “You said earlier
we’d know who did this by studying their heading. What does this mean?”

Wret’s face, almost unrecognizable
without its usual sneer, was grim. “It’s possible someone has declared war on
us all.”

The man missing his hand let out a low
moan, and Ravee wrapped her arms around her chest to try to fight the sudden
chill sweeping through the bulkhead.
Purchase

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Meet the Author

Kathryn Sommerlot is a coffee addict and craft beer enthusiast with a detailed zombie apocalypse plan. Originally from the cornfields of the American Midwest, she got her master’s degree and moved across the ocean to become a high school teacher in Japan. When she isn’t wrangling teenage brains into critical thinking, she spends her time writing, crocheting, and hiking with her husband. She enjoys LGBTQ fiction, but she is particularly interested in genre fiction that just happens to have LGBTQ protagonists.


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Release Blitz + Giveaway: The Mage Heir (The Life Siphon #2) by Kathryn Sommerlot


Join author Kathryn Sommerlot and IndiGo Marketing as they celebrate the NineStar Press release of The Mage Heir (The Life Siphon #2)! Learn more about this epic fantasy and enter in the $10 NSP credit giveaway! 


Title: The Mage Heir
Series: The Life Siphon, Book Two
Author: Kathryn Sommerlot
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: October 14, 2019
Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 97100
Genre: Fantasy, LGBT, fantasy, royalty, magic users, epic mage battles, fearsome desert predators, action/adventure, family drama

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Synopsis

Exiled from Chayd and pursued by Runon, Tatsu’s life twists into something unrecognizable when he escapes with Yudai into the mountains. Despite the growing danger trailing them, the biggest threat lies within Yudai and his voracious magic, a force spiraling outside his control. Their only hope is to head into Joesar in search of a way to contain the magic.

But Joesar’s desert holds perils of its own, and the only answers Tatsu and Yudai find lead them farther into storms. Friend and foe blur until impossible to tell apart, and all the while, the unchecked siphon devours any energy it can find. If Yudai can’t fix what the Runonian mages broke, the siphon could swallow the world, and Tatsu will watch the horror unfold.

No matter how tightly Tatsu’s heart is tied to Yudai’s, and after everything they have sacrificed for freedom, the past might catch up with them, murky and muddled, betrayal lying in Tatsu’s traitorous bloodline.

Excerpt

The Mage Heir
Kathryn Sommerlot © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Prologue
Tatsu woke with such a start he couldn’t breathe.

Heart hammering, he spun up and onto one knee, grabbing his bow and notching the arrow before his thoughts had completely righted. He waited for one breath, and then another, poised and ready to release the arrow into the shadows of the trees. Everything around them loomed threatening, and the pulsing dread shouldn’t have been a surprise—they were fugitives, after all.

His throat closed, pulsing along with his heartbeat. When nothing jumped out from the darkness, at least the idea of the soft sounds belonging to one of the queen’s guards faded. No one had come to drag them both to the prison cells in Aughwor.

“Alesh?” Tatsu said, voice low, and was met with only silence. The low murmuring wasn’t Alesh and Ral either, and knowing they’d stayed in Dradela eased Tatsu’s mind a bit, though his stomach clenched at the thought of the queen guessing their involvement in Yudai’s escape.

With their camp set up in a small clearing, the mountains stood half a day’s walk away, close enough to feel the threat from both Chayd and Runon still breathing down their necks. If the queen hadn’t sent guards after them, then Runon certainly had. The last thing Tatsu wanted was to underestimate Nota—no, his mother, no matter how difficult placing the designation on her was. Underestimating mages had landed them into the whole mess in the first place.

Whatever stirred within the brush faded away—a small rodent foraging across the forest floor, perhaps—and Tatsu dropped his arms back to his sides. He focused on returning his heartbeat to normal rhythms.

He was jumping at shadows, and at such a rate, he’d exhaust himself long before they could hide themselves in the mountain peaks. Willing his body to relax, he settled onto his sleeping roll as the branches overhead waved gently in the night breeze. There was nothing strange about the trees, but Tatsu kept imagining he could hear them sing.

After traveling through so much of the drained land and its twisted aftermath, nature didn’t hold the same comfort it used to.

From his vantage point beneath the tree cover, the moon remained obscured behind branches brimming thick with leaves, but Tatsu guessed half the night had passed, giving them three or four hours before the sun rose. Yudai, sleeping several paces away near the fire pit, was curled into a tight ball on his leather bedroll. Occasionally, he would murmur and turn over, but none of the sounds seemed to be enough to wake him. Small favors, if nothing else.

Tatsu closed his eyes, but unbidden, his mind pulled up a scene he’d spent weeks trying to bury: Zakio’s body crumpled in the crimson-stained snow. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes hard enough to leave red spots dancing in his vision after he pulled both hands away, but the image persisted even as he resumed staring out at the trees. When he let his head fall against the trunk of the nearest tree, his hair caught in the rough bark.

At some point, he managed to nod off, still in his uncomfortable sprawl against one of the wider trees, and by the time he woke again, the sky had begun to streak with color. Leaning forward, he winced at the pain the movement elicited in his stiff neck. He was preoccupied enough with the tightness to only vaguely notice Yudai stirring across the fire, but the anguished yell a second later startled any residual sleepiness out of him. A split second of spinning showed they were still alone in the clearing.

The relief, if one could call it that, flashed in an achingly short moment.

Yudai sat up with both hands raised in the air, head jerking from side to side. Around him, stretched out like a too-bold shadow, his own sleeping outline had burned brown into the withered grass. The drained blades bent and curled over on themselves, even the ones that weren’t crushed beneath Yudai’s weight. In only a single night, life had been bled dry by Yudai’s wild, uncontrollable magic.

Yudai glowered up at him, eyes glinting with vulnerability.

“No,” he said, and that single word reverberated through Tatsu’s limbs until he feared he could no longer stand. His chest heaved, a pang of copper blood on the back of his tongue.

The life siphon had endured.

Purchase

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Meet the Author

Kathryn Sommerlot is a coffee addict and craft beer enthusiast with a detailed zombie apocalypse plan. Originally from the cornfields of the American Midwest, she got her master’s degree and moved across the ocean to become a high school teacher in Japan. When she isn’t wrangling teenage brains into critical thinking, she spends her time writing, crocheting, and hiking with her husband. She enjoys LGBTQ fiction, but she is particularly interested in genre fiction that just happens to have LGBTQ protagonists. Find out more at her Website.

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Release Blitz + Giveaway: Ibuki by Kathryn Sommerlot


Ibuki by Kathryn Sommerlot is out! Celebrate with the author and IndiGo Marketing today! There's an excerpt of the fantasy novella! And a NineStar Press eBook giveaway! Good luck!


Title:  Ibuki
Author: Kathryn Sommerlot
Publisher:  NineStar Press
Release Date: January 29, 2018
Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex
Pairing: Female/Female
Length: 26000
Genre: Fantasy, LGBT, lesbian, fantasy, cleric/priestess, magic users, abduction, royalty

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Synopsis

Ibuki: the gift of healing through breath. Chiasa has possessed the ability since childhood and shares it with her father as they care for their Inuru community. Chiasa has never doubted the stability of her simple life. That is, until Namika, a water-gifted priestess, shows up outside the Ibuki shrine gates with information promising Chiasa’s doom.

With Namika’s help, Chiasa is determined to find the secrets behind the ritual that will claim her life, but her growing feelings toward the other woman reach beyond her control, adding to the confusion. Time is rapidly running out, and Chiasa can’t seem to sort out the lies woven through the magic of Inuru and its emperor.

Caught in a tangled web of immortality, betrayal, and desire, Chiasa must find the right people to trust if she hopes to stop the ritual—or she will pay the consequences.

Excerpt

Ibuki
Kathryn Sommerlot © 2018
All Rights Reserved

When Chiasa first saw the young woman standing outside the shrine, her throat seized in fear around a single thought: the emperor is dead. A moment later, she realized the woman appeared far more nervous than grief-stricken, and she relaxed, only to wonder why a seseragi priestess would be on her doorstep before the sun had fully risen.

The woman was unmistakably one of the water-chosen. Her hands were fidgeting and pressing tiny creases into the telltale blue of her silk robe, its pale folds hanging uneven above her shell-lined sandals, and above the short collar, a silver clip in the shape of an ocean wave held her hair in two overlapping plaits. She glanced down either side of the empty road, shoulders bowed, before starting up the stairs.

Chiasa hung back to observe.

It took the woman a minute or so to climb the steps that led to the small fountain, and with the shrine deserted, her footsteps echoed through the grounds. Her hair seemed to have been hastily done as an afterthought—long strands had come free and hung down her back like splatters of black ink across parchment.

She did manage a jerky half bow when she reached the slotted board holding the wooden ladle, though most of the water she then tried to pour over her hands ended up splashing onto the front of the blue silk, a testament to the shaking in her arms. Chiasa let her continue without interruption until she reached the top of the stairs and clapped her hands together before the silver bell. Any farther, and the seseragi priestess would make her way inside the sanctuary, to where the ibuki power-stone was held, and the thought was unsettling enough to push Chiasa forward.

“If I can help you with something,” Chiasa began, slipping out from her hiding spot between the side of the sanctuary and the hall of worship where she spent many hours praying in solitude.

The young woman started, nearly tripping on the hem of her robe. One hand went to her mouth as she stared far longer than was comfortable, and then she bowed again, the force of the action throwing the loose tendrils of hair over her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t send word, and…well, I know it’s strange for me to be here, but I must speak with an ibuki priest, please.”

Chiasa took a step back, one corner of the hall’s intersecting wall panels jabbing between her shoulders.

“My father is the head priest, but he’s not here. He’s out with the herbalist to tend the sick. If you wish, I can leave him a message for when he returns—”

“It’s urgent,” the other woman whispered. “Please.”

At a loss, Chiasa looked around the shrine grounds she knew by heart. There was no one else to summon. Her father wouldn’t be back until much later, perhaps even after midnight, and old Isao was seldom of much use anymore, relegated to menial groundskeeping tasks and selling talismans. As the morning breeze broke through the tree line and nipped at the exposed skin of her cheek, she felt acutely alone.

Chiasa tried to imagine what her father might do were he present as the young woman, still bent in an awkward bow, began to shake with the exertion of it. Chiasa, afraid she would topple over entirely, sprang forward and dropped the broom she was holding, the tool clattering noisily across the pathway.

“He’s not here,” Chiasa repeated, though she wanted to help the woman when she was in such a state. “But please don’t panic, I will not send you away. If you’d like, I could make you some tea?”

“Yes,” the woman said. Her hands went to her face, cupping cheeks that were tinged with an uneven smattering of powder. As Chiasa watched, her gaze seemed to get lost in nothing, until she finally blinked and focused once again, settling on Chiasa’s face. Again, there was something sparking in her eyes that Chiasa couldn’t entirely read. The woman lowered her hands and nodded. “Yes, I would appreciate it. I’m sorry to intrude.”

Chiasa thought briefly of disagreeing, but it felt best to avoid lying. Instead, she led the seseragi priestess into the hall of worship and through to the small back room where they kept a low, small table and supplies unrelated to the shrine itself. There was a heavy iron kettle, which was so old that one side of it was slightly lower than the other, making the whole thing lopsided. Chiasa placed it onto the small fire in the center of the room with care and waved the smoke up into the open flume built into the roof’s small, soot-blackened bricks. Her strange guest knelt at the table, smoothing her silks beneath her knees.

“I don’t know when my father will return,” Chiasa apologized as she waited for the water to bubble. The other woman deflated somewhat, her shoulders curving in and over on themselves as she ran a finger over the grain of the table.

“Is there no one else?” she asked. Then, a half second too late, her eyes snapped up, wide and frightened. “I didn’t mean… I meant no offense. I’m sure you are quite capable at the breath—”

Chiasa waved her apology away. “I’m not offended. But I am afraid there is no one else. It’s only my father, myself, and old Isao.”

“Then, your father is part of the emperor’s circle?” the woman asked. The expression on her features changed from nervous to suspicious, and Chiasa couldn’t follow the reasoning behind it. Her guest tapped her fingers against the tabletop as she pursed her lips together, and her gaze shifted away from Chiasa and the teakettle. “Perhaps it was unwise to come here. I thought there were more in the ibuki shrine.”

The kettle whistled its completion, and as she poured the fragrant hibiscus blend, Chiasa frowned, puzzled by the transformation in both the conversation and the woman’s demeanor.

“My father is not advising the emperor today,” she said, again, in case it had been missed, as she handed the other woman the small teacup of hollowed bone. Her guest held the cup between her fingers, but didn’t sip from it. Her gaze seemed lost again, her eyes focused on something far beyond the table and the crackling fire pit, in a place Chiasa could neither see nor touch.

After quite some time, the woman raised her head once more. “My name is Namika. I suppose with your father too close to the source I should not have asked for him at all. You are the youngest within the shrine?”

“Yes,” Chiasa answered, though she regretted doing so in the next heartbeat when the oddness of the question fully registered.

Namika’s brow furrowed as her fingers knit together around the bone cup. “Then I must tell you of my discovery.”

“Discovery?” Chiasa repeated.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” Namika said and grimaced. “I was tasked with sorting through our cellar, where many of the old texts and records are kept. The majority of them are simply logs of visitors to the shrine and the actions our priests performed at the emperor’s command. But within the piles, I discovered what seemed to be a set of entries detailing the truth behind the emperor’s longevity.”

“The gods have seen fit to bless him with immortality,” Chiasa said, but she felt suddenly very cold, crossing her arms over her chest and running her hands over her sleeves. The small room seemed to constrict even further around them, squeezing the air from Chiasa’s lungs until she was gasping for it. They should not even be discussing the emperor. They were far too young and unimportant to think they had more wisdom than a man who had been ruling Inuru for nearly three hundred years, and despite their solitude within the shrine, Chiasa got the distinct feeling someone, somewhere, could hear them. The sensation sent toe-curling shivers down her back.

“No,” Namika said. She leaned forward, like she, too, was reacting to the sudden chill permeating the air. “It’s unnatural, his lifespan— He is stealing it, all of it; he is stealing his life.”

“That’s impossible,” Chiasa snapped. “No magic could grant a mortal so much time.”

Namika shook her head and set the cup of tea down, still just as full as when Chiasa had handed it to her. “He is stealing it through blood. He’s drinking blood to absorb the life within it and add it to his own.”

Chiasa stood so suddenly that the table shook, splashing tea across the surface. The scent of steeped flowers and herbs grew even stronger.

“You’re lying,” she said through clenched teeth, hands curled into fists at her side. The flash of indignation that flared up beneath her skin came from a source she couldn’t identify, but she knew from years of practiced obedience that it was necessary. “My father is on the emperor’s circle, and he would never allow such a thing, even if it were possible.”

“But that is why I had to come!” Namika exclaimed. “It’s written in the documents, by the seseragi high priest himself. I swear to you I did not come here with a lie!”

Chiasa wove her hands through her hair, tugging bits of it free from the tortoiseshell clasp holding the twist snug at the nape of her neck. Her father couldn’t possibly be implicated in such a monstrosity—and beyond that, the insult to the emperor weighed like a stone within her gut. The emperor protected them all. The emperor loved them all.

“It’s impossible,” Chiasa said, letting her hands fall back down to her sides. “What blood could possibly grant such—”

“Those with the breath!” Namika cried out and then sat back on her heels, cheeks flushed and pink. As Chiasa stared at her across the table, the unwanted and uninvited woman with the poison-tipped tongue of lies inhaled deeply and then pushed the air back out, slowly, through red lips.

“He is drinking your order,” she said. Her voice was far quieter, filled with something that sounded an awful lot like sympathy. “He is drinking the blood of ibuki priests.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Kathryn Sommerlot is a coffee addict and craft beer enthusiast with a detailed zombie apocalypse plan. Originally from the cornfields of the American Midwest, she got her master’s degree and moved across the ocean to become a high school teacher in Japan. When she isn’t wrangling teenage brains into critical thinking, she spends her time writing, crocheting, and hiking with her husband. She enjoys LGBTQ fiction, but she is particularly interested in genre fiction that just happens to have LGBTQ protagonists. You can find Kathryn on her Website.


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