Free The Pale Waters (#1 Reclaimed Souls) by Della Roth

dramatically open the box
and I spot its contents: a single vial of three pearly-white
stones. I go stock still.
    It can’t be…
    Reaching for it, she snaps: “Careful,” she
warns. “Be careful, m’luv.”
    “Is this what I think it is?”
    Blessed stones known as The Pale Waters. It
is a myth it even existed.
    “Rarest element on da continent. Da Feeble
Princess’s Pale Waters. Me mind tells me ye be needin’ it
soon.”
    What else does your mind tell you,
Dorni? When I look in her eyes, it feels like I’m looking back
at myself.
    “How did you come across three of
them?” And how many dead bodies did you pry them
from?
    My friend shrugs. She can be stubborn.
    “These things have a way of workin’ out,
is’all.”
    A burst of shouting outside the shoppe
interrupts our conversation. I shove the vial into a deep pocket
inside of the fabriskin robe, kiss Dorni on the cheek, and tell her
to keep the rest of the money as a shoppe credit for me in the
future.
    “Also, tell the Grandfather that all is on
track and to get a message to me if anything has changed. Goodbye,
Dorni.”
    “Yes,” she mutters absently as she takes a
peek outside. “Everything is on track.”
    Without warning, she grabs my hands tightly
and asks, “If yer feller be needin’ help, if he be dying, will ye
be givin’ me permission ta assist?” Her wisdom scares me sometimes.
She has that look about her right now, like she’s not looking at
me, but some future scene.
    Something hits her shoppe then, a rock
maybe. The loud metallic ring echoes in my ears.
    “Of course,” I answer her quickly.
    Dorni kisses my cheek, clucks her tongue
like a mother hen, and pushes me through her metal door.
    And she literally pushes me into the middle
of a scuffle.
    A bear-sized man, equally as furry but
uglier, wearing nothing but a loin skirt and laced-up black boots,
holds a long metal rod the same size as a thick tree branch. He’s
swinging it at Roland.
    It is Gryan, a ruthless son of a bitch and
one of the Grandfather’s guards. When I met him years ago, we took
an instant dislike to each other, and generally I try to avoid him
if I can.
    But not today. Surprisingly, Gryan isn’t
alone. A pretty young woman, small and petite, with long, braided
blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an attractively embellished,
though semi-sheer, fabriskin robe stands on the opposite side of
the scene, near Gryan, and watches the situation with interest.
It’s Galeni the Pretty, Gryan’s third wife, though how he managed
to convince her to marry him is still a mystery.
    The moment Galeni spots me, she crosses her
arms across her chest and raises an eyebrow disdainfully, her
expression one of complete contempt for me . But her look for Roland is another story. It’s no wonder why Gryan suddenly
looks ready to destroy my would-be lover.
    Naturally, I step in.

SEVENTEEN
     
    AN AUDIENCE FORMS. EVERYONE LOVES FREE
entertainment, especially a bloody sport, and soon, dozens of
disheveled inhabitants—from the elderly to the toddlers sitting on
their mother’s hips to the half-humans—step outside into the alley.
The smell of fruity cigarettes fill the air.
    “How dare you speak to my wife without my
permission, you filthy mutt,” Gryan yells.
    “Kill’em!” Galeni’s pretty voice urges.
    “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Galeni?” I
ask her over the crowd. She doesn’t respond to me.
    “What?” Roland asks incredulously as he
steals a quick glance at me. He backs up and nearly trips on loose
stones. “You know her?” he asks. The hood still covers most
of his scarred face. It wouldn’t matter if they all knew who he was
or not. They’ll gladly destroy him, royal or not, and brag about it
for a full year.
    Gryan swings the metal rod again just as I
step in. Roland dodges it easily, as do I, but the force of its
movement ripples my robe. I can hear the air shift, the sound of a
low, thundering whoosh. Galeni continues to stare at me with a