The Darkest Promise. Gena Showalter

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      “A witch sells the dust in town,” Blondie continued. Babbling to distract herself from the sadness Cameo exuded? “She’s a crazy one. Does nothing but compliment herself. And she has a devil for a pet. The creature—”

      Cameo grabbed the edge of the vanity. Nothing but compliment herself...devil for a pet... No help for it, she had to speak. “Do you know where I can find Viola, keeper of Narcissism, and Princess Fluffikans?”

      Blondie burst into tears.

      Cameo jumped up and took the woman by the shoulders, shaking her. “Concentrate. Look past the despondency and tell me what I want to know.”

      An-n-nd Blondie hunched over, sobbing and dry-heaving. When she calmed, she rattled off coordinates beyond the forest.

      “Is there another part to this outfit?” she asked, not waiting for an answer but rushing to the dresser.

      Blondie burst into a fresh round of sobs.

      “Go.” Exasperated, Cameo waved toward the door. “Leave me.”

      The woman didn’t have to be told twice. She beat feet, gone in a blink.

      Story of my life. Always better off alone.

      She searched through every drawer, at last finding a wraparound skirt that tied at the waist. If someone mistook her for a lady of the evening, well, someone would die.

      She exited the room, stunned to find Blondie hadn’t locked her in. Not that a locked door would have mattered. Cameo could pick any lock anytime. A skill she’d honed as a better-safe-than-sorry measure against Hunters.

      The reason Blondie hadn’t felt the need to engage the lock became very clear a second later. Two armed males stood sentry in the hallway.

      Both males gazed up at the ceiling, as if afraid to look at her.

      “Milady—” the tallest said.

      “Cameo,” she corrected without thought. Titles had never been her bag.

      Both males flinched. One teared up. She gnashed her back teeth.

      “If you won’t return to your room,” Crier began.

      “I won’t,” she interjected.

      Fat teardrops slid down his cheek. “Then I will be your shadow.”

      The tall one sprinted away, as if he couldn’t bear her presence a minute more.

      Misery cackled with glee, and a familiar wrath boiled inside Cameo. Hate the demon!

      “What if I don’t want a shadow?” she demanded.

      Crier gulped. “The king’s orders.”

      What, did Lazarus think she would steal the silver? Run away? And did he really think a single guard could stop her if she decided to go?

      Why not make use of him?

      “I’m to protect you with my life,” he added.

      Oh. Well. “Take me to the exit. Also, I need a map of the forest. I’m visiting my friend. The woman with the pet Tasmanian devil.” Cameo wasn’t looking forward to seeing Fluffy again. The rat-like beast was the size of a small dog, had sharp teeth, spiked black fur and a hair-trigger temper. He emitted a noxious odor when he was stressed.

      The guard tried to hide a second flinch. What sweet progress, she thought drily.

      “I know of whom you speak. Horrid pair. Are you sure—never mind. There’s no need to respond. I’ll take you to her abode.” He strode in front of her, careful not to brush against her, and led her downstairs and out the back door.

      The backyard took her breath away. Moonlight blended with multiple rows of torchlight, illuminating the rainbow-colored river winding through a spectacular rose garden.

      Between the bushes were life-size statues, both male and female, each depicting different degrees of terror and regret. Some of the statues were missing limbs. Others were posed in defensive positions.

      The artist had done a remarkable job, ensuring every creation captured the full range of human expression. From the crinkle at the corner of an eye to the shadow of every individual lash. The statues even had fingerprints, and on one of the females, Cameo noticed a chip.

      Never, in all her days, had she seen such detailed work. Had Lazarus inherited the garden from the former king? Or had he collected the pieces for his own enjoyment?

      When she noticed countless butterflies swooping down to land on one of the statues, she froze. Her heart sped up, slamming against her ribs.

      I get it. Danger is coming. Leave me alone!

      “So many,” the guard said, his awe unmistakable. “So beautiful.”

      In an effort to distract herself, she said, “A group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope.” A group of men is called a migraine.

      He cringed, making her feel worse. She rushed ahead to escape the area—again she froze. This time, her stomach churned.

      Up ahead, two pikes waved proudly in the wind. Atop each pike rested a severed head. Not stone, but flesh. Rotting flesh.

      Lazarus’s doing?

      Of course! Who else would have dared?

      What had the victims done to earn such a gruesome punishment?

      Although, Lazarus could have done a lot worse. She and her demon-possessed brothers by circumstance had done worse.

      Their motto: the enemy who fears you is less likely to attack you.

      What would Lazarus do to her if she inadvertently harmed someone in his kingdom?

      She wanted to ask the guard about his king’s motives, but remained silent. Whether she intended it or not, the question was an admission Lazarus hadn’t trusted her with his reasons. Also, the question disrespected Lazarus, reducing his choices to fodder for gossip.

      Over the centuries she’d learned a warrior’s pride needed care and tending. Males spooked easily, so it was always best to handle one in private.

      Not that she would be seeing Lazarus again.

      “If you want to reach the witch by nightfall, we had best continue on,” Crier said, and motored forward.

      She followed, soon reaching a gaggle of females who were pruning the rosebushes and wearing the same bra and butt-crack shorts as Cameo. When they spotted the guard, they accidentally on purpose dropped their tools and bent over to retrieve the items, revealing a hidden slit in the center.

      Well. The Bend-over Babes certainly gave new meaning to the term come and get it. Were they here in porno land for Lazarus’s personal enjoyment? Did he sample their pleasures regularly?

      The guard couldn’t hide his new pant-tent.

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