Tangle of Thornes Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1│ Highcrowne Noir

  2│ The Wrong Crowd

  3│ Knuts

  4│ Mysterious Stranger

  5│ Family

  6│ Visitors

  7│ Meet My Evil Twin

  8│ Authentic Human

  9│ Not His Girl

  10│ Kali

  11│ Anticipation

  12│ Looking for Trouble

  13│ A Grall Steps Into a Bar…

  14│ Innocent

  15│ Questions

  16│ Searching

  17│ Observations

  18│ Faded Memory

  19│ Barely Controlled Chaos

  20│ Secrets

  21│ All I Never Wanted

  22│ Sacrifices

  23│ Highcrowne Justice

  24│ Bargains

  25│ You Tangled with the Wrong Thorne

  26│ Epilogue

  About the Authors

  More by Lorel Clayton

  AUTHORS’ NOTE:

  I hate prologues. They’re like the instruction manual for a shiny, new toy. I prefer to start playing and figure it out as I go along. If you’re like me, go straight to Chapter One. It might take you about thirty pages, but you’ll be fine. The world and story will click into place. Like watching Shakespeare, there will be a light bulb moment when it all finally makes sense. Not that this is Shakespeare, it’s Eva, and a shock to the system. That’s why, for this second edition, I’ve created an optional prologue. Some people prefer a map (or instruction manual) when they enter a strange world. Completely understandable. So here you go….

  PROLOGUE

  ~

  LIKE EVERY WORLD, OURS IS the only one that matters. That’s because I live here. Me. Eva. Likewise, your world is important to you because you live there, but it must not be perfect, else you wouldn’t be visiting mine.

  Don’t get me wrong. My world is far from perfect. It’s close to ending, if you listen to the doomsayers on every street corner that is. I tend to be more optimistic and figure there’s a way out of this.

  We have ancient, Avian rulers, sage old birds who never die unless someone kills them, of course. There’s not many of them left to be fair, but they’re oozing with powerful magic, and they keep the whole of the Three Kingdoms safe from the bad stuff happening outside our borders.

  And there is a lot of bad stuff. For one thing, the God of Death is running around. The human god, not the god worshiped by dwarves, elves and other races. Come to think of it, I’m not sure they have a death god? I should ask my friend, Gypsum. She’s a dwarf. I don’t have any elf friends. They’re not very friendly, so I may not get that question answered soon.

  Where was I? Oh, yes, the Dead God.

  Gods tend to be overachievers, and this one is making everyone else dead, or undead, to serve in His legions and conquer the world. He’s done a thorough job, and out of the dozen or so human kingdoms in the South, only a few remain. I think three, but I don’t keep count.

  I do know the Fortress of Mages guards a strategically important stretch of river and has trapped the god’s forces on the other side for almost two decades. That I do follow. There are always heroic battles where the best of human warlocks summon fiery storms and burn advancing armies to ash. I think they do other things, but those stories are particularly impressive.

  I like stories. I read mysteries or whatever is cheap that I can get my hands on. When I came home from school last year, my friend, Karolyne, gave me a job at her tavern. It involves a lot of standing around, so I read. If I’m not doing that, I’m dropping plates of food. I don’t think Karo is happy with me—I can tell by the way she frowns and yells. Call me observant. I’d do something else, but I’m not sure what I can do. All I know is I don’t want to join the family business.

  What is the family business? No one says, but I’ve figured a few things out through my aforesaid keen observational skills.

  Uncle Ulric is rich, but he doesn’t work. People stop by to visit him and leave caskets of gold and gems as tribute. Or offerings. He’s not clergy, though, as much as he tends to revere the gods. I think he’s the exact opposite of clergy. They often tell people to be kind to one another—but I once heard my uncle tell his thugs to break someone’s legs. Usually, his orders are indirect, a subtle nod or hand gesture. Those often indicate someone will have more than their legs broken.

  My uncle’s goons are everywhere in the Outskirts. The gangs have different leaders and territories, but every leader pays Uncle tribute. He has his favorites, like Duane, who work for him directly, rather than simply buying him off. I grew up with Duane, but I also grew smarter and made better friends.

  What is the Outskirts? The place where they throw Highcrowne’s garbage, including humans. And Highcrowne? Okay, a bit of geography. Let me look at a map.

  The world is a single land mass with a few islands, all bordered by vast, impassable ocean. There are dragons and other nasties drawn around the edges of the map, so I assume that’s why it’s impassable. At least, no one has come back to share the tale.

  The South—which makes up about two thirds of the continent, and so wouldn’t be ‘south’ if you lived down there—is inhabited by humans. Or was. Plus, wild goblin nations and the rare grall, troll, or pixie village.

  The northern third of the continent consists of Solheim to the east, more on that later, and the Three Kingdoms of Avian, Dwarf and Elf. The elves live to the west, the dwarves to the southeast, and the Avians in the north. Because there’s few Avian’s left, the north is mostly mountains with more wild tribes of gralls, trolls and bears. Bears don’t talk, so I don’t know why I included them, but they can be big and scary like gralls and trolls.

  Highcrowne is the center of the civilized world. It’s in the north, in Avian territory, but the alliance between the Three Kingdoms means the King of the Dwarfs and the King of the Elves both get representation in the capital, alongside the Avian Queen. All three must agree on laws and policies that affect the Kingdoms.

  Laws don’t change often, as none of the rulers tend to agree. Especially the Elf King, who is most disagreeable. And smelly. Not that I’ve met him, but that’s what I hear.

  You may have noticed there’s no human representation in the Three Kingdoms. That’s because we’re not citizens. Even though I’ve lived in Highcrowne most of my life, I’m still an outsider. That’s what the Outskirts is: the place where outsiders huddle for protection against the big, scary world beyond the Kingdoms.

  Some humans came when Darrub fell. Others came later, when Gola, or Jzeryn, or Lanercost, or Bradon, or Ynys…and so on fell.

  My family came to Highcrowne after the fall of Solheim. We’re Solhan and hated by everyone. Dozens of races and nations, but most can agree on hating us. That’s because we’re responsible for what happened to them all.

  Solhans are necromancers, worshippers of the Dead God, and our rulers summoned Him into the world. Not smart. It must have sounded like a good idea at the time, ruling the world. But they couldn’t control the power they’d called forth, and the god set His own agenda.

  I was a baby when the war started, so it’s been the backdrop of my whole life. I pay attention now and then, but most days I worry about how I’m going to eat, how my hair looks, and whether the ale delivery man is married. Not that I want to be married—ever—but I can’t resist looking at exposed muscles. That’s what I was doing, flirting with the deliveryman, when I got the news that woke me from my lifelong daydream. When the world intruded.

  Viktor was dead. And three days later, I was looking for his killer.

  1│ HIGHCROWNE NOIR

  ~

  I’VE READ A FEW OF
those hard-boiled detective novels. You know, The Maltese Griffin, Murder on the Troll Road...the classics. None of them ever mentioned the smell. Mister Hylar, my last hope, smelled like old sweat mixed with fermented stomach contents, some of which stained his shirt collar. City elves were like their country cousins, filthy.

  The detective lounged at his desk, cigar in his mouth, glass of whisky at his elbow. When he took a swig from the bottle, the caramel alcohol scent swirled with the cloud of cheap cologne he wore. I thought I might pass out.

  I pinched my nose shut and tried to bat my eyelashes like every femme fatale should. The effect was ruined by the hand clamped over my nose and how green I was turning. I wasn’t a good femme fatale. That’s another thing those detective stories never told you—how tough it was to be the dame with a problem.

  “I’m in trouble,” I said nasally.

  Mr. Hylar turned his full attention to the near empty glass, seeming to wonder if he should bother with the sip remaining. He shrugged and chugged it back, decision made.

  “Look.” I tried again. “My brother died and left me a fortune.” All my life I’d been told to keep Thorne troubles in the family, not to show weakness. Yet, here I was asking for help and hating it.

  “A fortune? How is that bad? Other than your brother being deceased of course. Though, with you people, it might not be.” The detective curled his lip. I was accustomed to the expression and the way he said, ‘you people’. He meant Solhans, like me. We were a whole different category of human, one other races tended to hate. Not without good reason.

  I needed the elf, so I closed my nose tighter and went on. “Viktor was attacked in an alley...his heart cut out.”

  He perked up with professional interest. “Odd for a robbery.”

  “Nothing stolen, not even his jeweled dagger. Where did Viktor get one anyway? My brother always had the same vow of poverty as me.”

  “You’re broke?” The detective sat up, ready to see me out.

  “Not anymore. Remember?”

  He slouched back in his chair and eyed me head to toe, not like he was appraising a client but more like he was looking to buy property. “Right. I’m listening. What’s your name, gorgeous?”

  “Eva Thorne.”

  “Thorne.” He stood all the way up this time, crossed the room and held open the door. “Sorry.”

  Was he kicking me out? “My brother was murdered. People are saying it was me, but I loved him. I need to find his killer. You are a private investigator?”

  “Private means I choose my clients. I don’t choose you or your troubles.”

  I wanted to smash that cigar into his face, but I kept my anger in check. “What should I do then?”

  “Talk to the City Guard.” He took my arm.

  I pulled away, not about to let him push me around. “Why won’t you help me?”

  “I’m not the first person you came to.”

  I should have known. These jerks were all in the same business and talked to one another. “The other guy took off with my money. He never got back to me.”

  “Your last detective, Oberon, is dead, murdered, and he was better than me. Whoever killed your brother is making sure no one finds out. I advise you to go home, have a good cry, and be done with it. Your brother isn’t coming back, assuming he was cremated. He was, I hope?”

  “Of course.” I was off balance from hearing the dwarf I’d hired was dead, Gypsum’s brother-in-law. She would be upset when she found out.

  “Best if we all get on with our lives.” The detective took advantage of my daze to usher me to the exit.

  I was stunned. Other people were dying? What had Viktor been into? The elf nudged me the last few inches out the door. I wobbled on unfamiliar heels and then there was nothing but unvarnished wood in my face. The lock clicked.

  The shock wore off along with any desire to keep up the pretense I was a lady. I was mad. I kicked off the heels, tore the large, decorative pin out of my hair, and stabbed it right into the ‘P’ of ‘Stanley Hylar Private Detective’ painted on the door. It thunked like a throwing knife hitting its target.

  “If you’re going to sit around all day and do nothing, Stanley, you might as well take a bath,” I screamed, making sure he heard me. I turned on my bare toes and fumed down the hall and all the way out to the street.

  Talk to a guard? Some advice. Guards were mostly elves and dwarves, paid by the Three Crowns to police the Central City, which meant no profit, no incentive to help those of us who lived in the Outskirts. What I needed was a human guard, which was impossible.... I paused, remembering something: Karolyne’s cousin. That would be my next stop after I grabbed a pair of decent shoes.

  There was dirty snow and ice in the cracks of the cobbles. Solhans loved the cold, but we didn’t like going around barefoot in it. I put the atrocious high heels I’d pinched from Ilsa back on and headed for home, trying not to break an ankle. My sister bragged about the shoes’ no slip enchantment, but it didn’t guarantee I wouldn’t fall off them.

  It was early morning, the district busy with elves going to market, human servants trailing, arms laden with baskets of produce or bolts of cloth. Their smiles were as fake as Stanley the detective. All he could detect was the bottom of a bottle. Why had I come here?

  A dirigible in the sky, carrying wooden crates bound for the market dock, suddenly dumped its sewage. No one noticed, probably because it all landed in the Outskirts, where I lived. No one cared if humans waded around in muck.

  Everyone stared as I cursed my way across the treacherously uneven cobbles. I wasn’t a servant, dressed as I was, but I certainly didn’t look like any of them. Ilsa could have glided through the crowd, charming her way into any company. I imagined her mocking laugh as she chided me, saying something like, ‘Sugar, don’t even try. You’re not in their class.’

  “Eva?”

  The wall I’d run into was talking. I looked up at a guileless expression and recognized the slab of muscle, Gormless, a thug from the neighborhood. Why had he followed me here?

  “Please move. I’m in no mood.” I was always courteous to Gormless. I like to think it’s because I have a heart—who could be angry with someone so simple—but, really, it was my survival instinct.

  Someone stepped up behind me. I hadn’t heard him coming. That would be Grim, Gormless’ smaller, more slithery companion. He was the unlucky one. I didn’t like having him at my back. I didn’t like having Gormless at my front either. If only I could get these shoes to work, I might escape sideways.

  “We worried you was Ilsa, what with the dress and all. You look just like her,” Grim said.

  “Don’t ever say that!”

  “You’s twins,” he reminded me.

  “Well, I’m Eva. Now, what do you want?”

  “Boss wants to see you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Duane? He’s not my boss.”

  “Don’t call him that. He don’t like it.” Grim shook his head.

  “I’ll call him whatever I damn well want. Get out of my way.” There was no pushing past Gormless, so I mowed over the little one.

  I shouldn’t have touched him because his notorious bad luck rubbed off on me, and I fell on the hard stones. My palms were scraped, arms twanging, but I’d saved my chin. Grim was less fortunate. He landed on a pitchfork. Where did it come from? One tine was poking into a buttock, and he spit blood.

  “I ‘it my ‘ongue!”

  “He bit his tongue,” I translated.

  “Oh no.” Gormless helped his friend to stand, pulled out the short pitchfork—it was the same size as a trowel, really—and flung it behind him.

  Miraculously, it landed back on the table in the blacksmith’s stall from which it had fallen. That’s where Grim’s luck went: Gormless sucked it all up. I didn’t know which of them I was more nervous being around.

  My shoes were standing where I’d been. Definitely non-slip. Gormless lifted me up and set me back in them, easy as dressing a doll for him.
<
br />   “You’s gotta be more careful.” He was genuinely concerned for me. “I’ll helps you walk.”

  Meaty hands clamped over my shoulders, guiding me and lifting me into the air every few feet. Grim cursed eloquently, though it was the kind of eloquence the elven ladies weren’t accustomed to, judging by their aghast expressions, and limped along behind us.

  Looked like I was going to see Duane.

  I dreaded this meeting for three reasons. First, while he and my brother had been best friends their entire lives, he and I...’clashed’ would be the polite way of putting it. I was seldom polite, so I called it ‘hating his guts’. Second, Viktor’s will gave Duane guardianship of my five-year-old nephew. My uncle was contesting it, as the boy was his only remaining male heir. I didn’t care to choose sides, not when Duane and Ulric were equally evil.

  Ilsa could teach them both a thing or two. I shuddered.

  Best not to think the Dark One’s name. My twin was extra grouchy these days after being excluded from Viktor’s estate. She didn’t like all this male heir talk either. With Viktor gone, my sister assumed she would inherit Uncle Ulric’s nefarious enterprises. I wanted no part of them.

  Of course, with no alternative prospects, I was living in a dingy room above the tavern where I worked. Cleaning tables at Karolyne’s wasn’t enough to pay for both her over-priced food and supposed friend’s rates. After six months, I’d squandered all my savings on rent.

  Viktor’s will could save me, which is why some people believed Ilsa’s stories about me having him killed. I’d started moving into Viktor’s old house, just to watch out for Nanny, but none of it sat well with me. I was stupid that way. I knew from being a member of one of the oldest and richest Solhan clans, there was a long trail of blood behind any fortune. I tried to avoid money, and in return it had avoided me—until now.

  Viktor had never accepted family money either. He’d had a legitimate job as a bookseller. Yet, somehow, he managed to leave me a house in the expensive section the neighborhood and enough silver coins to keep me footloose and fancy-free for a year. Not to mention the pile of gems he bequeathed to Little Viktor’s new guardian, and the fund held in the Highcrowne bank for when his son came of age. My brother’s gains were ill-gotten; they had to be.