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No Place in Heaven

Quinlan must go on a mission with the guy who killed his father, lend his body to a mad god, and murder his mentor – all to become Blessed and keep his place in the peacekeeping guild.  What he learns proves the Blessings are bondage curses only he can break. No Place in Heaven is a science fantasy with crossover potential into the YA market (in the vein of Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn series). I've published a spin-off story set in this world with Aurealis Magazine (issue 101). Read Chapter 1 here!

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No Place in Heaven: Sample Chapter: Recent Books

Chapter 1

1.



            The buzz in the Headquarters building filled Quinlan's ears like flies. Navy-robed students huddled in the hallways, whispering with their heads bowed. Quinlan tried not to listen to their gossip as he wove between arches and pillars. His heart thudded hollowly, and the smell of cherry blossoms from the trees outside twisted his stomach.

            High in the main foyer, tied to two pillars with white silk, a banner read: PLACEMENT DAY, CLASS OF 1690 AA OF THE FOURTEENTH GENERATION. Some birds had flown in through the open ceiling to perch on it. Quinlan swallowed in a dry throat. His robes fell to his heels – he'd never grow into them if he hadn't already– and sweat trickled down his sides as he walked. Finally, he spotted her under a carved archway talking to...

            Father's bane, not Phaedon.

            He almost turned back, but she'd seen him and he'd obviously been looking at her, and besides, he didn't want her to think he was afraid of the oaf beside her. He was – Phaedon was twice as wide as him and a head taller – but that was beside the point. He walked over, trying to keep his shoulders loose.

            “You look worried,” Lyria said with barely a glance at him. She'd straightened her hair and let it down for a change. He could barely see her freckles for the pale, shimmery dust she’d put over her cheeks.

            “Of course he's worried,” said Phaedon. “He's probably going to place as part of the custodial staff.”          

            “And yet you're the one recycling jokes,” Quinlan muttered. Jokes so old they didn't even annoy him anymore.

            “Come on, Pet. When have you ever done decently in the practice rooms? You can barely lift the scimitars, for the Father's sake. The Council's finally going to expel you.”

            A jolt of primal fear shot through Quinlan. He couldn't let that thought get into his head and turn today into a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe he didn't have any physical abilities as obvious as Phaedon's brutish strength, but that didn't mean he wouldn't find a division. His abilities were just subtler.

            “He wouldn't be here if the Council didn't think he was Blessed,” Lyria said, and smiled at him. “You're probably going to make Scout, like me.”

            Quinlan shrugged, but the knot in his throat tightened. Lyria could hear a magnolia's petals stirring in the wind; she'd shown a Scout's aptitude since they were little. Quinlan's hearing was as average as it got, and despite his short stature and slight build, he couldn't sneak up on a blind man.

            “Scouts have the most boring job in the Guild,” Phaedon said. “You'd be perfect for it.”

            “I'm not going to make Scout,” Quinlan said.

            “Because you're Unhallowed.”

            “Because my mentor isn't one.”

            Phaedon’s face darkened. Lyria shifted and made an offhand remark about the decorations in the foyer, but Quinlan didn't tear his eyes from Phaedon. A low blow – everybody wanted to be mentored by someone so important – but how else would Quinlan shut him up?

            “Just because you're the Magnate's pet doesn't mean you have his skills, or any at all,” Phaedon muttered.

            “I have skills!” Two girls glanced at him, and he felt his cheeks heating.

            “Like what?”

            Now people were turning to stare. Sweat dripped down Quinlan's elbows. Was it even possible to sweat from your elbows?

            “That's what placement's for,” Lyria said. “Let the senior agents decide what his skills are. Maybe he has the Magnate's Blessing, or maybe he's equipped for more than one division and they'll let him choose.” Chuckles swept across the hallway; everyone thought she was making fun of him. Lyria seemed oblivious to it, and he grimaced at her when she whispered, “What?”

            “Keep dreaming,” said Phaedon. “How could the Father’ve Blessed him after what his crazy mother –?”

“Phaedon,” Lyria hissed. But the words slid over Quinlan like water off feathers: there for just a moment, then gone before their chill bit too deep. He’d stopped lingering on comments like that long ago. He couldn’t, not if he wanted to keep moving.

“Whatever,” Phaedon muttered. “I'm pretty sure I'll make Silencer.”

            Only Phaedon actively dreamt of becoming a murderer. “You're a little too obvious to be a Silencer,” Quinlan said. Phaedon turned on him, but trumpet fanfare sounded then as if from the heavens themselves. Quinlan lined up with his back against a pillar, the cherrywood against his spine steadying him. Lyria and Phaedon fell in line beside him, the other students in the foyer deftly following suit. The chattering dwindled away until the only sound was the wind hissing through the open rafters.

            The trumpets became violins and trilling flutes. Quinlan kept his eyes on the tiny figures he could see approaching the Headquarters building from around campus. The placement agents wore flowing white robes over their clothes, and he couldn't distinguish them from each other in the distance. Then, one-by-one, they climbed the Waterfall Steps and entered the foyer.

            “Welcome, class of 1690, to your placement ceremony,” said an unseen announcer. Quinlan didn't bother looking around anymore, though as a kid he'd spent hours searching for the tiny speakers placed around Headquarters that made announcements sound like they were being made by the immortal Father. “Nearly seventeen-hundred years after the Ascension, the Ascendant Guild continues to pride itself in offering its students the best peacekeeping training in Ethèria. Together, you will keep your Ethèrian brothers and sisters safe from the perils of the Deadlands below. With subtlety and wisdom, you will help the Deadlands govern themselves, prevent war, and reach a higher state of understanding. Know that there is no greater vocation in the realm of Ethèria. She thanks you for your service.”

            What service? Quinlan hadn't been on a mission to the Deadlands yet, not even as an apprentice.

            “Before becoming a full Guild member, however, you must find the profession that best suits your interests and talents. Does your gift for languages make you an apt Extractor, or does your sure-handedness with a blade draw you to the Guards' division? Today, your abilities will speak for themselves.”

            Quinlan flexed his stiff fingers.

            “Here to sort you today, we have Agent Laris Finn from the Scouts’ division.” Agent Finn appeared at the top of the Waterfall Steps, exuding the grace and precision of a Scout. Here was a man who could disappear in a crowd in the space of a heartbeat. Beside Quinlan, Lyria's breathing quickened. The students inclined their heads toward Finn and he nodded politely back.

            “Agent Deroia Xu of the Guards.” The tall, muscular Xu entered the foyer behind Finn, the look on her face stern compared to Finn's polite pleasure.

            “Agent Mahlia Ungari of the Seizers.” Agent Ungari didn't even bother nodding back, all business as she took her place beside Xu. The sunlight streaming through the rafters made the green band in her eyes flash. She had shorter hair than most of the male agents on campus and wore a long tunic and pants rather than the customary heel-length robes, but looked all the more feminine for it.

            “Agent Tiv Za'Vana of the Silencers.”

            The man with flame-red hair and a dead smile. A chill gripped Quinlan. Phaedon shifted beside him, but he but didn't chance glancing over at the guy. It felt like a bad idea taking your eyes off a Silencer.

            “Agent Naia Camarin of the Extractors, Council member.”

            This time he did look from Za'Vana, and his heart lifted as he saw Naia take her spot beside the Silencer, her dark hair falling down her shoulder in a simple braid. Naia had always liked him, even after the incident with his mother. She'd make sure he got placed.

            “Ascendant apprentices,” Naia began, and Quinlan knew her well enough to tell she was following a script, “I hope this day finds you prepared for what's to come – not only in the next few hours, but in the rest of your lives. The following test is meant to simulate what you'll encounter in the Deadlands of En-Aratum. As an Ascendant is never sent alone on a mission, the committee has split you into groups with which you'll work to complete your assignment. Group assignments can be found on the banner behind you.”

            Quinlan and the others turned to once again face the banner strung high between two pillars. The welcome message was gone now, and in its stead, several vertical lists of names had been projected. Quinlan squinted looking for his own – how would he ever make Scout if he couldn't even see to the blasted banner? – and found it sandwiched between Phaedon and someone named Eleon.

            “We're on the same team,” Lyria breathed in his ear.

            With Phaedon. Not only did he have to worry about embarrassing himself during placement, but embarrassing himself in front of Lyria with Phaedon there to provide a running commentary. The committee had to have a motive behind these groupings.

            “Group One,” Naia called, “please follow the committee to the practice rooms.”

            Quinlan's own group had a shining silver “six” at its head. As the committee marched Group One out of the foyer, the remaining Ascendant apprentices remained lined up as if they thought they were already being tested. The Ascendant masters always pulled moves like that. Quinlan kept himself as stiff as the others.

            By the time the committee returned for Group Two, Quinlan's legs were already sore. Were they supposed to take the test tired? Maybe it was meant to prove stamina. No one else seemed restless, so he tried not to fidget.

            “Did you see the way everyone kept their distance from Za'Vana?” Phaedon said after what felt like hours. “I hear even the Father’s scared of him.”

            “Fear isn’t respect, and Agent Finn is much more respectable than that cutthroat,” Lyria snapped – possibly the most negative thing Quinlan had ever heard her say about anyone. “I'd be happy to train with any of the Scouts, obviously, but if Agent Finn took me...”

            They both turned to Quinlan as if expecting him to fill the silence. He continued staring straight ahead. Did they seriously think he had a preference? Father's love, he just wanted to place somewhere. No one else he knew had been born into the Guild, which meant they'd been chosen and recruited from around all the realms of Ethèria based on some indication that they’d have Blessings one day. But he couldn’t be the only person with Guild parents? Even if the Father had originally been the one to grant Blessings, they could now be passed genetically.

            How is that any comfort? Everyone says your mother was Unhallowed because of what she did.

            When Naia came for Group Six, Quinlan's stomach churned so violently he saw white. An Ascendant's sword is restraint, his shield apathy. He forced himself to sweep into a bow as Naia halted before the lineup of students with her hands clasped before her.

            “Group Six, follow me.”

            She led them past the classrooms and the eastern wing holding the senior agents’ dormitories. Golden shafts of sunlight trickled through the rafters, filling the halls with spotlights that broke over Quinlan's head when he disturbed them. The air seemed to darken the farther through Headquarters he walked, growing thicker with dust, the roof becoming more closed. He studied Group Six to distract himself from his anxiety. In addition to Phaedon, Group Six was made of Lyria, the boy named Eleon, and two girls Quinlan knew by sight but not by name. Floorboards creaked under his and Phaedon's feet, but no one else's. Quinlan felt a perverse pleasure seeing Phaedon struggling to muffle his steps as any Silencer could. “If only Za'Vana could see you now,” he whispered. Phaedon scowled.

            Finally, they passed through a set of carved double-doors and came to the practice room. The room was as Quinlan remembered it, equipped with private cubicles as well as a large floor that students and agents alike used to train in swordplay. The wall of tools at the far end was better stocked than usual.

            Sitting on stools of petrified wood, at a table on the practice floor, was the placement committee.

            “Each of you will take a separate cubicle,” Naia explained. Backlit as she was, she looked like a statue. “Inside the cubicle, you will find a helmet and a choice of three weapons. Please put on the helmet and select the weapon with which you're most comfortable.”

            Quinlan placed his hand over his heart, indicating his wish to speak – how was he supposed to choose a weapon before knowing the nature of the assignment? – but Naia continued. “Once you've chosen your weapon, I'll begin the simulation. Please take your cubicles.”

            Group Six split as evenly as water around a boulder. Quinlan stumbled into the only cubicle still empty once he'd thought to move.

            Inside, the cubicle smelled like old sweat and leather. Quinlan had to wait for his stupid, un-enhanced eyes to adjust to the dark.

            The room was layered with reflective glass so that he saw himself from every angle imaginable. Short, lean instead of muscular, and with auburn hair overgrown and awry, he hardly looked like the Ascendant ideal. But that didn't mean anything, did it? The rumours that his mother had been Unhallowed were just that – rumours. Of course the Ascendants would say that about her after her betrayal of the Guild, but if she hadn’t been Blessed, she wouldn’t have ever been part of the Guild. And surely the Father wouldn’t hold her crimes against Quinlan?

            A single chair stood in the cubicle's corner, holding the helmet Naia had mentioned. Leaning against the chair were three weapons: a scimitar, a double-headed axe, and a double-ball flail. All primitive weapons the Deadlanders would use. Quinlan fit the helmet over his head, snapped down the visor, and reached for the scimitar. It felt clumsy in his grip.

            “Your mission today is a retrieval,” came the transmission of Naia's voice in his ear. “You're not collecting resources or quelling a rebellion; you're simply looking for a fellow Ascendant who has been kidnapped by brigands. Your mission is to bring your partner safely back to Campus without alerting the brigands of your abilities or Ethèrian heritage.”

            Depending on where their mission took them, they might very well find themselves in a realm that worshipped the Ethèrians as gods. Still, if Naia didn't want them banking on the Deadlanders' cooperation, it meant they were going somewhere lawless even by the Deadlanders' standards.

            “Use whichever methods you see fit,” Naia continued. “Remember that your partners' safety and the Ascendant Guild's secrecy are your topmost priorities. Go with the Father's grace.”

            Then the practice room vanished. Quinlan was falling straight through the Dome, through wisps of steam-like cloud, past migrating birds and the sunset's light until the air became thick and dark. It surrounded him like smoke. The words CHOOSE YOUR REALM flashed before his eyes.

            “Mandoria,” Naia said for him.

            And he was on his feet in a snowy, mountainous landscape. He barely had time to glance around before something pinched the back of his neck. A chill gripped him, and he grew aware of the wind carrying the warmth from his body. He was wearing bear fur and what looked like three sets of trousers. That was the problem with Mandoria: you had to compromise mobility to avoid frostbite.

            Lyria appeared to Quinlan's left, her image still flickering. “I hate Mandoria.”

            “Better than Darranal,” said Eleon, who'd chosen the double-ball flail and kept swinging it with effortless precision. “Darranese warlords aren't nearly as stupid as Mandorians.”

            Phaedon clasped his furry cloak over his broad shoulders. Quinlan hated admitting it, but the oaf looked like a true Ascendant when he wasn't talking. “How will we know when we find our guy?”

            “Easy,” said Eleon. “He'll be the only one whose face you can tell from his ass.”

            Lyria grimaced.

            While the others bickered about whether or not it was polite to call Mandorians ugly, Quinlan scanned his surroundings. A mountain range rose against the horizon, and the snow falling from the heavens was flaky – the kind that packed high but collapsed when you stepped into it. Quinlan rubbed his boot into the ground and found that he was standing on a layer of ice.

            “There are footprints,” he announced, then flushed at the statement’s obviousness. It looked like a caravan had gone in circles around them. Of course the Ascendant masters wouldn't give them a clear trail to follow.

            “These are backtracked,” said one of the girls Quinlan didn't know. “Some of these trails are falsified. Looks like our brigands are expecting us.”

            Quinlan stared at the ones she'd mentioned, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary about them. Lyria was already on her knees, studying a separate trail.

            “This one!” she said, motioning them over. “These are Ascendant boots. The Ascendant we're looking for is small. A child, by the size of his feet. He was being dragged.”

            Again, Quinlan nodded as though he could see it too. Was he cheating if he let them do all the work? How were they graded if they had to work together? Questions to ponder later, but he just hated not knowing. He tightened his grip around the scimitar and started on the trail, Lyria in the lead and Eleon giving himself a wide berth in the rear in order to swing the flail.

            “Have you ever died in a simulation?” one of the girls asked Quinlan.

            “More times than I can count. Hurts.”

            “Eleon,” Lyria said, “are you keeping a lookout for the brigands?”

            “Sure,” said Eleon. He left no footprints as he passed, made no sound even as he swung the flail. Quinlan had a feeling he'd abandon them at the smallest whim. He felt a chill he pretended was from the wind, and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.

            The prints finally disappeared before a cliff face. Quinlan's eyebrows were so flecked with snow he could barely see.

            One of the girls whistled. “Mandorians are strong.” The cave's face was blocked by a boulder nearly as tall as Quinlan.

            “Move,” Phaedon said, and shoved her. The proximity bracelet around their wrists, for once, didn't whine at the physical contact. The Council must have deactivated them for the test.

            “What, you're going to chop the boulder away with your axe? Or hope it shivels at your stupid jokes?” Quinlan said, only half-kidding. It seemed a very Phaedon thing to do.

            “Shut up, Pet.” One-handed, Phaedon stuck his axe into the rock face and then rolled up his sleeves. Did the guy think he was going to move that boulder all by himself?

            Soon, though, the boulder began twitching.

            “What's that?” Lyria whispered suddenly, glancing over her shoulder.

            “I don't hear anything,” the dark-haired girl said. At least Quinlan wasn't the only one.

            “There it is again. Phaedon, hurry. I – I think there are wolves out here.”

            Sweat trickled down Phaedon's thick neck and became steam as he struggled with the rock. “Well, hold them off! The committee didn't send you here to watch me work!”

            They made a perimeter around Phaedon, breathing heavily and wielding their weapons. Lyria looked as uncomfortable with her scythe as Quinlan felt, but the other three held their weapons assuredly, their feet set far apart. Soon, white specs in the distance distinguished themselves from the snowflakes drifting from above. Ah, good. Giant Mandorian wolves.

            “Hurry, Phaedon!” Lyria screamed.

            The wolves began a steady trot toward them.

            Quinlan readied his scimitar even though he knew he didn't have the strength to wrestle with a regular wolf, let alone one of these beasts. He could see the saliva frothing at their black-gummed mouths as they approached. Fighting them wasn't an option. All he could do was what he'd done all his life in the Ascendant Guild: find a loophole.

            “Breath the ice beneath us!” he yelled. He couldn't do it himself, not with his stupid scythe. But with his double-ball flail, Eleon began slamming at the ice around them. Either it was thinner than it looked, or Eleon was stronger than Quinlan had given him credit for, because one crack branched into ten, then twenty. Quinlan grabbed for Lyria instinctively, as if that could do anything but drag her down with him if the ground cracked.

            The closest wolf in the pack tumbled into the black waters with a yelp. The others skidded to a halt before the cracked ice, their nails screeching. Another cartwheeled into the water, and now the cracks were beginning to reach Quinlan's feet. The Ascendants edged back toward Phaedon.

            “I've made a big enough gap, I think,” Phaedon said. He stood aside, wiped his brow, and motioned to Lyria. “Get in.”

            Lyria dropped to her hands and knees and crawled through the narrow space between boulder and cliff face. The others followed until only Quinlan and Phaedon remained. One of the wolves was slowly making its way across the cracked ice, determined to reach them. Quinlan swallowed; an Ascendant didn't let fear overtake courtesy.          “You first.”

            “Get in, you idiot! You don't stand a chance if that thing attacks!”

            Well, an Ascendant also didn't argue with logic, and in any case, Lyria wasn't here to see him give Phaedon the upper hand. He dropped to his knees and grimaced at the bite of the snow leaking through his trousers as he pushed himself through the crack. Phaedon was right behind him, shouting, “Move your ass!”

            Finally, he emerged into a dank and cavernous opening. Quinlan straightened and bumped his head on a stalactite. Pain shot down his neck, and he nearly fell on top of Phaedon. Hands steadied him.

            “You okay, Quin?”

            “Fine,” he muttered, rubbing his head. More important was that Lyria was holding him, unhampered by the proximity bracelet that normally forbade these sorts of interactions. Maybe this placement test wasn't all bad.

            “Good idea with the ice,” Lyria said. Quinlan was grateful for the pitch dark; even she wouldn't be able to see the heat crawling up his neck. She didn't lift her hand from his arm.

            “I can't see anything,” one of the other girls said. “Lyria, can you?”

            “A little. There are many openings leading out of here. I'm not sure which one we're supposed to take.”

            “Are there footprints on the ground?” Phaedon asked.

            “No. There's no snow here.”

            “Shh! Listen!”

            They let the echo of their voices dwindle away. Quinlan's ears were as average as his eyes, but this time he did hear something: a soft sniffle.

            “Hello?” Phaedon yelled. Quinlan shushed him and received several more shushing noises for his effort. The sniffling continued.

            “So many voices,” Lyria said. Her grip on Quinlan's arm was getting tighter. “I can't concentrate. What're they all saying?”

            “There are no voices,” Quinlan tried to reassure her, but she broke away from him and wandered further into the cave. “I – I think we have to go this way. I hear people talking...”

            “The crying's coming from the other direction,” Phaedon called after her, so loudly that Quinlan was struck by the urge to hit him. A very un-Ascendant feeling, that, but Phaedon would bring the Mandorians to their doorstep if he didn’t shut up. Eleon and the other two girls were already heading where Phaedon was pointing.

            “Leave her be,” said Eleon. “She's lost it.”

            “Her hearing is better than ours,” Quinlan whispered. “She could be on to something. Lyria, what are the voices saying?”

            “I don't know, they're speaking Mandorian.” His vision had adjusted enough to see her figure moving deeper into the cave toward one of the branching tunnels. “But I think these are the –”

            Her voice dissolved into a resonating scream as the cave floor opened up beneath her and swallowed her whole.

            Quinlan started forward, but she'd disappeared and the floor had closed up before he'd covered half the ground between them. He skidded to a halt, his heart beating shallowly. He heard it even over the echo of shifting rock.

            “Father's bane!” Eleon said with a laugh. “Mandorians don't booby trap their lairs like that. I bet that was the judges taking her out.”

            “That doesn't make any sense.” As much as he wanted to, Quinlan couldn't make himself move forward lest he met the same fate as Lyria. “You mean she failed?”

            “Probably. She went looking for voices that weren't there, for the Father's sake.”

            Phaedon was already pressing forward toward where the sniffling was coming from. “Come on. Our Ascendant will be dead by the time we reach him.”

            Torchlight was beginning to flicker on the walls, and now Quinlan could hear the voices Lyria had been talking about. Their blundering about had finally alerted the Mandorians. “Run!” he hissed.

            The other three Ascendants ran soundlessly, but Quinlan's and Phaedon's feet shuffled loudly against the rock. Quinlan's scimitar hung in his grip, burdening him. The torchlight from behind grew close enough to illuminate his path.

            “Dirur ki'vash!” a voice said. Quinlan spared a glance over his shoulder, saw three broad-shoulderd men in furs rushing after them. All carried bows and arrows, and two had already nocked their arrows.

            “Watch out!” he shouted, but the arrows were already whizzing through the tunnel. The two girls didn't even turn, weaving around the shafts as if they could feel their presence by the rippling air at their backs. Then Eleon pushed the blonde to avoid an arrow, and she fell. Quinlan veered sharply right to avoid tripping over her body. When he glanced over his shoulder, she was gone. Only the echo of her scream lingered.

            “Father's balls!” the remaining girl shouted. “You're an animal!” She made to shove Eleon, but he wove out of the way, laughing.

            Quinlan could feel himself falling steadily behind. The arrows kept coming, and he managed to block one with his scimitar, but soon he felt a searing pain in his calf and went tumbling to the ground. His chin hit the stone, and he bit his tongue on impact. Blood bloomed in his mouth. His brain felt padded in thick wool.

            But the ground didn't open, didn't swallow him as it had swallowed Lyria and the other girl. One of the Mandorians stopped and heaved him to his knees. He couldn't bite back a scream as the man yanked the arrow from his calf, then bound his wrists together with thick rope as the other two sped after the remaining Ascendants. Moments later, Quinlan heard a cry and a curse, then the sound of another body hitting stone.

            A shorter Mandorian rounded the bend holding a bloodied and sullen Phaedon by the back of his shirt. Blood oozed down Phaedon's side, and he looked pale as the moon. The sight of him made Quinlan's wound throb.

            “Why haven't we failed yet?” Phaedon hissed as the Mandorians marched them through the tunnel.

            “Maybe they want to see how we get out of this,” Quinlan offered. His Mandorian barked something and punched him in the gut to quiet him. Quinlan doubled over. When he'd regained his breath, he noticed his scimitar hanging from his captor's belt. The most useful thing he'd done so far was provide weapons to the enemy.

            “What do we do?” Phaedon whispered. He sounded like a child, and that scared Quinlan more than it satisfied him. Things had really gone to hell if Phaedon was asking his advice.

            “Okay, this isn't so bad. Let's think rationally –”

            “I'm stuck with a pansy whose only skill is thinking rationally.” Even in the dark, Quinlan could see a vein pulsing in Phaedon's temple. “An Unhallowed traitor's son for a partner. Why would the committee do this to me?”

            Quinlan clenched his hands into fists. He shouldn't take the bait, not now when he needed to concentrate on what lay ahead, but he heard himself say, “She wasn't Unhallowed.” The traitor part he couldn't deny.

            “Her only Blessing was that Magnate Lathron was alone and bored.”

            “Shut the hell up!”

            “Why else would the Council keep you around after she attacked the Father? It's always been favouritism with your whole damned family.”

            Quinlan's cheeks felt hot, but even as his captor shook him, probably demanding silence, he noticed Phaedon's biceps straining against the animal-hide material of his tunic and knew he had to turn the guy's tactic on him.

            “So maybe it is favouritism. Face it: even if I'm Unhallowed, people like me better. Lyria only spends time with you because she feels sorry for you.” Phaedon's jaw worked in the torchlight. “People are saying she takes in strays, except I'm the mysterious, shunned one and you're just a blundering idiot who can't tell he has no friends.”

            His Mandorian pushed down his head, hard, until pain shot up his neck.

            But the barbs had done their job. Phaedon yanked his wrists apart and snapped the thick, braided rope as if it were an elastic band. Quinlan hated himself for hating him even as he was saving their asses. Phaedon threw a fist in his captor's face that had the Mandorian skidding across the floor. Quinlan's captor shouted unintelligibly and held Quinlan in front of him like a shield. Phaedon turned. The rage on his face told Quinlan he couldn't care less whether his next target was Ascendant or Mandorian.

            So Quinlan let himself drop, his body weight acting as an anchor. In the next moment, Phaedon delivered a roundhouse kick that sent Quinlan's captor flying into a nearby wall. Quinlan thought he heard the crack of splitting ribs.

            “I swear, Pet,” Phaedon muttered as Quinlan struggled to his feet under a swelling, buckling leg. “If the committee decides we work well together, I'm going to banish myself to the Deadlands.”

            They stumbled down the corridor, leaving smears of blood in their wake. Quinlan grabbed his scimitar from the Mandorian as he passed him. He was beginning to see white splotches, which meant the blood loss had already become critical. And was it his imagination, or could he hear the sniffling again?

            “This way,” he said at the same time as Phaedon. They caught each other's eyes and veered left in silence.

            The tunnel narrowed until they were brushing shoulders, then opened up into a cellar-like space with a low ceiling and stalagmites that seemed to glow in the dark. A boy, only a few years younger than Quinlan by the looks of him, sat slumped with his arms tied behind his back around a tall stalagmite. A stream of bloody snot dribbled from his nose. When he looked up, Quinlan saw that one of his eyes was swollen.

             “We're here to bring you home,” he said, then mentally cursed himself. Of course that was why they were here, and besides, he was talking to a simulation. Phaedon bent to untie the knots, but his thick fingers fumbled with the rope.

            “Give me your blade,” he told Quinlan.

            “You'll hack his hands off.” Quinlan pushed him aside, relishing this rare opportunity to do so, and began working at the knots himself. His leg throbbed like a second heart.

            “Give me your blade,” Phaedon repeated, standing.

            “I'm doing it! Shut up and –”

            Footsteps skidded to a halt behind him; Quinlan turned to see Eleon at the cave's entrance, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood, his breaths echoing around the vault. “They're coming! Give him the damned blade!”

            Quinlan reached for his side with shaking hands, but Phaedon had already yanked the scimitar from its scabbard and taken a defensive stance in front of the bound Ascendant boy. Three more Mandorians appeared in the doorway, hulking silhouettes in the eerie glow of the stalagmites. As Phaedon and Eleon prepared to meet them, Quinlan forced himself to return his attention to the knots.

            It was like trying to fit a key in a keyhole. Every shout from behind made him twitch. A sound like a splitting melon, and a moment later one of the Mandorians fell in Quinlan's line of sight with Eleon's double-ball flail impaled through his head. Eleon yanked it out and bits of brain splattered across Quinlan's cheek.

            Then Eleon disappeared from the simulation, mid-laugh.

            With a final pull, the knots came free and the boy slumped forward into Quinlan's arms. After the day's exertion, Quinlan could barely keep him upright.

            When he looked over his shoulder, he saw the other two Mandorians unconscious at Phaedon's feet. Phaedon's scimitar was bloodless; he was holding it hilt-first. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down at Quinlan.

            “Well, come on! Get him up!”

            Quinlan opened his mouth, but Phaedon had already grabbed the boy's arm and yanked him to his feet. A pop sounded, the boy screamed, and Phaedon too disappeared like snow melting in the sun.

            Quinlan remained alone in the simulation, the boy smiling oddly at him while his arm hung at a strange angle, until the glow from the stalagmites extinguished and darkness swallowed him.

No Place in Heaven: Sample Chapter: Text
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