The Calm Before (Reign and Ruin novella) Read Online Free PDF

of
birdsong. The house was grounded today and for that, Lucan was
grateful. He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible on
his own two feet.
    As Lucan rose
up, something fell from his lap. It took a moment to register, but
after a pause Lucan reached down gingerly and picked up the black
piece of fabric that had settled on the carpet in front of him. He
regarded it blankly, like one would a discarded candy wrapper, and
made to throw it to the side. But suddenly, like someone had just
tipped over a bucket of visions from the night before, he
remembered.

    The Riders will
come for you.
    A storm is
brewing.

    It was a
handkerchief, jet black and thin as rice paper. And Marty had left
it in his hand, a breadcrumb clue on the path towards his great
plan. But what plan? And who were the Riders?
    Lucan walked
absentmindedly to the window and pulled back the curtains to stare
at the yellow sun perched above the backyard. His mind didn't
register his fingers knotting the black handkerchief around his
wrist, but as he heard his brother moaning upstairs, tossing and
turning in his jagged nightmares, he gritted his teeth.
    Whoever these
Riders were, he was damn well going to find out.

    You will damn
him yourself . . .

    "So damn him to
hell!" Lucan shouted at the circling buzzard, which had been eyeing
him up for signs of weakness. The sudden outburst sent it shrieking
backwards and flying up into the sky, in the opposite direction of
the still approaching sand storm. Lucan spat onto the ground and
then immediately regretted it. He didn't know how these things
worked, but he was starting to get extremely dehydrated.
    The jug of
water that was left, not out of courtesy but out of spite, lay on
its side by the base of his post. Cirrus had walked off with his
men, giving it a sound backwards kick and staring up at him coldly.
There was no laughter or gloating smile; on the other hand, there
was no pity, no remorse or sadness that could remind Lucan that no
matter what he had done, no matter the betrayal, they were still
brothers. The look Cirrus gave him was full of justice. What a
heartless bastard.
    A sledgehammer
of wind hit Lucan smack in the face, knocking the breath from his
lungs and filling his mouth with sand. The storm was minutes away.
It was hot and blinding and felt like thousands of tiny needles
piercing him in every inch of exposed skin. Lucan squeezed his eyes
tightly, dipping his head down as far as he could, and with every
lull in the gusts he gulped in great breathes of clean air.
    This was it,
then. The Riders had come for him. He had done his best and failed.
And this was how he was to be paid. But despite all of his trials
and tribulations, there was only one regret in his mind. Sand and
wind he could face. The disappointment of his multiple mistakes was
bearable. But as the storm tore around his post like a furious
monster, his one regret was softer and only fleeting.
    If the Painter
was dead, as he had seen in his brother's eyes, he would have liked
to have seen the Daughter of Palet, the niece of the Painter and
legend of the rebellion he had devoted so much of his passion
for.
    Tales were told
of her beauty and of her wisdom, a girl filled with fury and yet
fragile as the wings of a butterfly. Brown hair as deep and dark as
molasses, eyes gold as an oak in Autumn and lips like the blood of
a fallen warrior. A goddess in her own right and someone worth
fighting for.
    He so
desperately wished he could have seen her, just once.
    And then it was
gone and Lucan was left with the howling of the Wilds and the bite
of thousands of grains of sand . . .

Ready to begin the
Reign Walk? Keep reading for an extract of the first book in
Maggie's story The Wilds , available
now . . .

    "The Daughter
of Palet. You look so disappointingly normal."
    "What did you
expect me to look like?" I asked.
    "Smoke! Glamor!
Fire!" the Ringmaster crowed ecstatically. "You are the heir to the
throne. You could at least have washed your