Fate and Fang: Seer's Gambit, #0

By Shari Branning

A werewolf is man's best friend-- especially when there's an evil sorcerer on the loose.

 

Tristan Quinn is seeking justice for the people he helped to murder, and the only way he can see to do that is to kill himself. When Reed offers him something to fight for instead, and the playful Elise Landon starts calling him a hero, he wonders if there might be another option. But with a sorcerer in the city bent on kidnapping and revenge, redemption might cost him his life anyway

 

Reed Eliott, twice-cursed of the Fae, wants nothing more than to rid himself of his debilitating curses and get his normal life back, and to that end he once sought counsel from the Seer. Instead, he's partnered with a troubled werewolf and thrust into the role of vigilante protector to two beautiful ladies caught up in the schemes of an evil sorcerer. Will his friendship with Quinn the werewolf be enough to save both of them from a disastrous fate?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shari Branning
• Release date: Oct 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215714102

Book preview

CONTENTS

1 THINKING ABOUT JUMPING

2 BLOODHOUND

3 ONE OF THE MONSTERS

4 RACE FOR THE BORDER

5 STUPID OR CLEVER

6 THE WRONG GENRE

7 NOT YOUR LOVE INTEREST

8 IRREDEEMABLE

9 COMMS AND KISSES

10 NIGHT TERRORS

11 EVERYONE DIES

12 PAYBACK

13 JUMPING

14 CURSES AND CRUTCHES

1

Thinking about jumping

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Tristan Quinn stood on the handrail of the Roan River Bridge, gazing down at the glint of dark water in the gorge far below. A chill wind coiled around him, tugging at his shaggy, tangled hair and flapping the corners of his worn jacket. To the west, the noise of the city was a distant, constant symphony of traffic, car horns, and sirens, even long after nightfall. He leaned casually against one of the riveted steel supports that jutted up from the bridge to hold the cables in place as he watched the water. It was mesmerizing, with the shifting glitter of moonlight on the current. As he stood there, he heard the quiet purr of an engine creep along the bridge behind him, and felt the vibrations through his feet. He paid it no mind until it slowed and stopped, and a door slammed. His shoulders tightened, and he scowled.

Great. A late night do-gooder.

Thinking about jumping?

It was a man’s voice, young sounding, but with rough edges and the low, breathy quality of someone out-of-breath or in pain.

Not really, said Tristan without turning.

The sound of footsteps approached across the road. Uneven footsteps, accompanied by the soft thuds of a crutch.

About a dozen people jump every year. Once in a while one of them survives, if they hit just the right spot in the water. It’s never pretty. I have to say—if you’re trying to commit suicide, there are better ways to do it.

Tristan’s frown deepened. A moment later, the man with the crutch joined him at the railing, though he didn’t, thankfully, try to climb up onto it like Tristan, who eyed him sideways without getting down. He was a youngish man, with nondescript brown hair cut short, wearing a light blazer and corduroys, with a crutch wedged under his arm. His face had the pinched look of someone in constant pain, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

Since his solitude had been interrupted—these would-be savior types were notoriously hard to get rid of—Tristan shifted and made to hop down. Mistaking his intent, the other man dropped his crutch and lunged toward him, grabbing for his coat.

Don’t! His panicked exclamation broke off into a sudden squawk of pain, and instead of pulling Tristan back, he stumbled and fell against him.

Tristan’s sneakers slipped off the rail.

In truth, he had been thinking about jumping. At least, it crossed his mind. But given his nature and the accelerated rate at which he healed, there was always a chance that the fall would only badly injure him instead of killing him, and that wasn’t an idea he relished. When he finally decided to off himself, he planned on using a bullet.

Twisting sharply in mid-air, he caught one of the bars of the handrail. His body slammed into the steel girders beneath it, knocking his breath out in a whoosh. He hung there, staring down at the dark water far below his dangling feet while he gasped short, hitching breaths. The wind tugged on him again, rushing in his ears as if it was laughing at him.

Above him, his clumsy rescuer dragged himself to the railing and peeked over. As he did, his glasses slipped down and fell from the end of his nose. He made a swipe for them and missed. Tristan reached out with his free hand and caught them as they tumbled past. Looking back up at the round, terrified eyes peering down at him, he started to growl. The eyes widened.

He tucked the glasses into his pocket, then grasped the rusted, peeling bars with both hands and started pulling himself up. The stranger backed away as Tristan hauled himself over the rail. His feet hit the bridge and he straightened up till he towered over the other man, who was a good six inches shorter. He allowed the growl to rumble through his chest, but said nothing as he handed the man back his glasses and turned to walk away.

Wait!

There was a scuffle and a few muffled curses as the guy picked up his crutch and somehow got himself back on his feet. Tristan didn’t wait.

Please! I need to talk to you. I... he panted and cursed again. I came here to talk to you, not to push you off the bridge. The Seer sent me.

Tristan stopped. He stood gazing into the night, the breeze once again teasing his jacket and ragged hair. The hackles rose on the back of his neck. He turned slowly.

What seer?

In Barra. I went to Barra, to the Seer, and he sent me to you. Please hear me out. The stranger wheezed as he came up to Tristan and held out his hand. Reed Elliot. You’re Tristan Quinn, right?

Tristan eyed his hand a moment before shaking it. What did the Seer want?

Elliot’s eyes widened behind his glasses. Nothing. It was me that wanted something. The Seer just pointed me in the right direction.

Tristan shifted when the man’s pause became lengthy. Which is?

Right. The glasses got a nervous shove up the bridge of his nose. I want to hire you.

One of Tristan's eyebrows went up. I'm not looking for work.

This time it was Elliot's turn to be skeptical. Dude, look at you. You're homeless. When was the last time you had a bath? Or a meal? Or a reason to live?

You propose to give me a reason to live? he asked quietly, without inflection.

Elliot paused for a moment before he responded. Maybe. Yeah. I'm offering... redemption.

If Tristan's mouth tightened, it was the only indication he allowed that the comment meant anything to him. He said nothing.

Here. Elliot slapped his pockets until he came up with a roll of cash, which he handed over. A retainer. If you're interested, then go get yourself a meal and a decent night's sleep, and come see me. He rattled off an address in one of the ritzy business districts.

And if I'm not?

Then... Elliot glanced back toward the center of the bridge, his expression shadowed. Then carry on, I suppose.

They stood eyeing one another in silence for a moment before Elliot turned and hobbled back to his car. Tristan watched him, then looked at the wad of cash in his hand.

Redemption... he muttered. His stomach growled.

* * * * *

Reed Elliot stood at the floor to ceiling windows in his penthouse office and watched the sunrise. He'd been there since the wee hours of the morning, unable to sleep, his stomach a knot of anxiety. Golden sunlight glittered from thousands of windows across the city skyline, but it did nothing to cheer him this morning.

Stupid, he mumbled to himself. Stupid, stupid. You almost kill the one person who can help. No way he's going to come here after that. He slapped his hand against the glass in frustration. And what would he do if Quinn didn’t show up?

Granted, he was putting a lot of faith in the Seer to believe that the wreck of a man he'd talked to the night before was capable of the kind of help he needed. Then again, the way he had caught himself on the bridge after that stupid blunder made Reed wonder if he was even human.

Reed scratched at the stubble along his jaw. He hadn't thought to ask the Seer what race he was dealing with. In Thyrus, nearly ninety percent of the population was human, whereas the ratio of magicals to humans was much higher in Barra and Maireadd, their neighboring countries to the northwest.

Finally, unable to stand in one position any longer, he turned and limped to his desk to sit down. Half a second later, the intercom buzzed.

Mr. Elliot? It was the security desk at the entrance. There’s a Mr. Tristan Quinn here that wants to see you.

Reed’s heart gave an almost painful leap of mingled hope and fear as he replied. Yes, send him up. Oh, and get him a pass for the building will you? I’ve just hired Mr. Quinn. At least he hoped he would be able to convince him to stay, after he explained his strange predicament.

A few moments passed before the monitor beside him beeped a warning that someone had entered his office space. He couldn't see the door from his desk, since he had converted most of the penthouse into a personal library. Books and computers were his only companions here.

Good morning, Mr. Quinn. You’re here early, he called into the shelves of books. When Quinn finally appeared, though, Reed did a double take, and almost reached for the gun in his desk drawer. Surely this wasn’t the same man he’d met last night? Gone was the homeless bum with matted hair and beard and threadbare clothes. In his place stood a force of nature. He had shaved and cut his hair short, revealing a spattering of silver amid the black, though he couldn’t be older than thirty-five. Sharp cheekbones stood out below steel gray eyes that had lost none of their wildness. He had traded his fraying coat and holey sneakers for a crisp white dress shirt, black jeans, boots, and a trench coat that reached almost to his knees.

He spread his hands a bit and said quietly, Here I am.

Reed blinked. Maybe the Seer knew what he was doing after all. Last night he’d pitied this wreck of a man. Now he felt a distinct knot of envy settle in the pit of his stomach. He shoved his glasses up.

Yes. Here you are. Welcome aboard.

Maybe you should tell me what we’re doing here before you assume I’m going to stay, Quinn said. His voice was still quiet, almost frighteningly so, his diction precise and ever so vaguely accented. He took a seat across from Reed.

You’re from Barra? Reed asked.

Once.

With no other explanation forthcoming, Reed cleared his throat. Are you human, Mr. Quinn? It was a rude question, but he wasn’t feeling overly gracious at the moment.

I’m not.Again, no other explanation.

Well, I am. Unfortunately. And unfortunately, that means I don’t have any extra abilities to compensate for this. He waved at his crutch, leaning against the desk beside him.

If you traveled all the way to Barra to see the Seer, then you could have seen a nymph healer as well.

And therein lies part of the problem. Reed drew a breath. Nymph healers can’t help me. I’m cursed.

Quinn cocked his head ever so slightly. So you need... a personal assistant? A bodyguard? I fail to see what that has to do with redemption.

It wasn’t a threat, but Reed still found the perpetually soft voice unnerving. Also, he noted that the Seer had been right about another thing as well. It was the promise of redemption that had hooked Mr. Quinn.

Neither of those things. A year ago I had a run-in with a couple of vengeful fae...

They did this to you?

Reed waved him off. It’s a story for another time. But yes. I can’t be cured by magical means, and until or unless I can, I will never recover fully. But that’s only half of the problem. At a raised eyebrow from Quinn he continued. Two fae—two curses. He smiled wryly. But the smile dissolved into a look that was probably more forlorn and telling than he wanted it to be, and he lapsed into silence.

The other curse? Quinn prompted.

Reed rubbed his head. Yeah. The other curse. I have visions.

Silence. Mr. Quinn obviously wasn’t the conversational, easy to talk to type. Reed sighed.

"I won’t trouble you with the why, but they cursed me with visions of terrible things that... that always come to pass. And I am always powerless to stop them. I’m always given enough information to be able to figure out who and oftentimes where, but... he looked pointedly at his crutch. I can’t stop it. I’ve tried. I can’t go to the authorities. I’m only human. If I go and claim I’m getting visions, they’ll think I’m a soothsayer—a magic stealer, and you know what happens when