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Hello dear friend!

It is LAUNCH DAY for A Hoard of Tales, and turns out, I might actually be the craziest person alive.

Why is that crazy? Well... because I'm launching a story in a genre I've never done before in a format I've never done before, with just one week's notice directly on my own website/newsletter while simultaneously taking a break from social media. All of that combined is, uh... bonkers behavior. BUT, I'm hoping you enjoy it anyway and that this world/story is something super fun that we can share. I'm so excited to bring you along as I craft this tale! (Or rather... this HOARD of tales. *ba dum tss*)

Speaking of which, a little update on the format of the serial: I know I told you guys I would share it on Instagram, but God had other plans. Suffice it to say, social media is something I need to take a giant step back from for the foreseeable future. Yes, I have a serial launch today, a book launch in less than three weeks, and ANOTHER book launch this fall. So the timing feels bad, but it also feels necessary. Right now I'm just trusting that if the Lord called me away from that kind of marketing for a while, He must have a good reason.

Luckily, you are reading this email, which means that YOU won't miss out on anything! Work in progress updates, announcements, serial episodes, memes, and book recs will continue to be delivered to your inbox every week as usual.

In this week's issue of the Goblin Grace Gazette:

• Work in Progress Updates
• A Hoard of Tales: Episode 1
• Memes of the Week

WIP UPDATES: Lost King of the Pattern bookshop orders are on their way from Amazon to me. Huge thanks to everyone who pre-ordered! Every order before August 9th will still qualify for the pre-order goodies, but based on the time it takes Amazon to ship author copies, orders placed now will have delayed delivery by a few weeks. I'm so super sorry for the inconvenience, and I'm grateful for your patience. The Fralsningdor Chronicles, Book III is in research mode. I'm reading a book recommended to me by my friend, Cassandra, called How to Write a Fantasy Battle: Basic Medieval and Modern Military Tactics for Authors. Lost King of the Pattern has an EPIC battle scene (no, really... there's a reason I included "I Survived Chapter 27" certificates in my pre-order goodies), but Book III is going to be even BIGGER! Working out the details of the Final Battle now will help me make sure everything else in the book leads up to it well. Should I include A Hoard of Tales writing shenanigans in my WIP updates? I kinda feel like you guys are SEEING the progress as I publish episodes, but maybe some behind the scenes on research/plotting/editing would be interesting? Let me know!

And now... without further ado,
I present to you:
​A HOARD OF TALES

A Hoard of Tales: Episode 1

A faun wearing scrubs and a fleece-lined hoodie scrolled on his phone with a bored expression. The monitors surrounding him beeped softly in concert, and the one-way glass in front of him depicted a rather dismal scene.

The woman on the cot in the small medical room wore a thin hospital gown but no blanket, and her shallow breaths puffed out of her nose in tiny frosted clouds. Her lips were blue from the cold, and her golden-blond hair lay tangled and lank on the paper sheet below her. Hands, feet, waist, and forehead were secured to the cot with wide leather straps, and scabbed-over incisions dotted her body every six inches from head to toe. She had an IV in her hand and a feeding tube in her nose.

The harshly lit room had no decorations, no flowers from loved ones, and no chair for visitors. Because this woman was not a patient.

She was a prisoner.

The door behind the faun banged open, and he swiveled in his office chair, raising an eyebrow at the newcomer. A burly minotaur edged in sideways, as if worried he wouldn’t fit through the door walking normally. He sat on the other chair in the observation room, which looked comically small under his girth, the pitiful plastic groaning slightly in protest. The minotaur ran his hands up and down his heavily muscled arms.

“Don’t know why you always gotta keep it so shift-snared cold in here,” he grumbled.

The faun rolled his eyes. “You know why, Bent. You’ve just gotta find reasons to complain.”

“Think you’ll turn the heat up once her implants heal?”

The faun sighed. “I don’t know, man. She’s dangerous. Higher-ups say it’s best to keep her cold. Keep her docile.”

The minotaur, Bent, snorted. “Her entire body is the size of my forearm.”

“First, your forearm is freaking huge, so that doesn’t mean much,” said the faun. “And second, she’s a kings-cursed dragon, you moron. She may not look like much now, but if she shifts, it’s over. For all of us.”

“Well, it ain’t over yet, Nick. The Boss wants to know when she’ll be ready for another extraction,” said Bent.

Nick snorted. “Tell the blasted fae to go suck a tire iron. How am I supposed to know?” His companion raised a single bovine eyebrow, to which the faun swore and tossed his phone on the control panel. “I was kidding, okay?” Nick snapped. He paused for a moment before adding quietly, “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

Bent nodded, and the faun looked relieved. “Your secret’s safe with me, goat boy. But it’s been three days, and he’s getting impatient.”

“It’s my job to keep her alive,” said Nick. “And those extractions are brutal. I know he needs intel, but sucking her dry doesn’t exactly make my job any easier. A dead girl won’t do him any good.”

The minotaur raised his vast hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t hex the messenger. I’m just saying, whatever you’ve gotta do to get her ready, do it. Because you’ve got a day, maybe two, then you’ve gotta start ‘er all over again.”

“Oh joy,” replied the faun in a paper dry-tone, his sarcasm serving as a rather ineffective mask for his anxiety.

Bent stood, and his chair whined in relief. He walked back to the door and paused by the threshold. “Thirty-six hours, Nick. I can’t promise you any more than that.”

Nick nodded. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Bent nodded back and squeezed out the door.
​
***

Inside the medical room, the blonde woman shifted slightly on her paper sheet. She could hear… things. Vaguely, as if from deep under water. People? People said… words. Words made… stories. And stories — she swallowed and nearly choked on her own dry tongue — well, stories were important. Very important.

Maybe?

An empty part of her mind, where something significant had once been, ached like the loss of a limb. Like the loss of a loved one. She wished she knew what that empty bit was. Or rather, what it had been. Her forehead wrinkled from the effort of trying to remember. The empty part was like… like a smell from childhood, but one you couldn’t quite place.

She wasn’t just empty, though. She felt weak and cold. So very bitterly cold. But she couldn’t even shiver. Could hardly think. And — molten rot — she hurt. What was that pulsing source of acrid, metallic pain? Was it coming from inside her skin? She was… was…

Wait.

Who was she?

She was sure she’d had a name… before.
​
***

Inside the observation room, Nick noticed his charge stirring. He pressed a button to release a potent sedative into her IV — a dangerously strong combination of propofol, etomidate, and distilled naiad tears — then documented the time and dose in her chart. He double checked her heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation. All within normal limits.

He breathed a shallow sigh of relief. So long as he did his job well, he stayed in the Boss’s good graces. Which meant that right now, the soft steady beeping of the woman’s heart monitor was the most beautiful sound it the world.

These moments of semi-wakefulness were happening less frequently since her implant surgery two days ago. Which was great news for him. The more she rested, the quicker she’d heal, and the more she healed between extractions, the less his own life was on the line.

Lothienne is just a man; get a grip on yourself, Nick sternly reminded himself, picking up his phone again as a distraction from his churning stomach.

The lecture might have helped… if it had been true. Unfortunately, the fae mob boss of Valehaven could hardly be called “just a man.”

You get TWO memes this week (as an apology for what I just made you read). I am so sorry. Apparently, I don't know how to craft a prologue without making it mildly traumatizing? Anyway, stay tuned for a less stressful scene next week. PINKY PROMISE!