Crashing Paradise (A Novel of the Menagerie) by Golden Christopher & Sniegoski Thomas E

Author:Golden, Christopher & Sniegoski, Thomas E. [Golden, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Daring Greatly Corporation
Published: 2013-01-24T16:00:00+00:00

The forest seemed impossibly quiet.

Squire liked the weight of the Gemini dagger he carried on his hip, and wished he had the time to return to Boston and bring the whole damned armory back here. With the serpent lurking along the Shadowpaths — and no doubt keeping an eye on the forge — it would be difficult for him to retrieve weapons from his workshop. But there were plenty of killing instruments back at Conan Doyle's house.

Time wouldn't allow it. Not for the moment, at least. The train was leaving the station. The she-wolf, Jelena, picked up the wolf skin she'd shed and strode toward the ruined face of the old mill and went to the door, which sat at odd angles in a crooked frame. Squire paused a moment to admire the way her muscles moved under her skin, which shone in the moonlight. Mostly, he was just staring at her ass. The view from the back was breathtaking; nearly as delicious as the front.

"We've got work to do," Clay said as he strode past, following Jelena, Ceridwen, and Mr. Doyle up to the door of the mill.

Squire watched the she-wolf as she pressed her hands against that awkward door — a door that couldn't possibly open — and muttered words in an unfamiliar tongue. The hobgoblin didn't think it was Croatian, particularly as it involved a lot of guttural snarling. He couldn't have missed the interplay between Ceridwen and Conan Doyle as this bit of spellcasting went on. The mage tried not to look at Jelena — a nearly impossible task, giving the way her breasts rose and fell as she moved her hands over the door — and Ceridwen stared at him the entire time, ignoring her.

It made him wonder if his boss had ever had a thing with the she-wolf. Some guys had all the luck. Though Squire wouldn't have wanted to trade places with Conan Doyle now — not with the harsh looks Ceridwen kept shooting in his direction.

Something shimmered just to Squire's left, and he glanced over to see the ghost of Dr. Graves standing there, arms crossed, studying him with obvious disapproval. The hobgoblin knew that Graves had lived a life of adventure and danger, but half the time, he had trouble believing it. Graves could be the ultimate buzzkill.

"She's beautiful," the specter said.

"And naked," Squire replied.

The ghost sighed and nodded slowly, as if talking to a slow-witted child. "Yes, Squire. She's also naked. Do you think you could set aside your diminutive lothario act long enough for us to keep Eve alive?"

The hobgoblin blinked several times. "Act?"

"Squire."

"Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "Jeez, Doc, give a guy a break. You put something that yummy on my plate, I'm gonna salivate, right? Ask Pavlov. Just can't help it."

"Pavlov worked with dogs," the ghost replied.

"Your point?"

"Eve is your friend."

Squire nodded. "Evie loves me. She's also gorgeous. Though not naked nearly as often as this chick, from what I gather."

The ghost of Dr.

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