The
Only Option
Megan
Derr
Genre: Gay Fantasy Shifter
Romance,
Dragons
Publisher: All Romance eBooks
Date of Publication: May 1, 2016
ISBN: 978-1-943576-78-4
Word Count: 30k
Cover Artist: Erin Dameron Hill
Book Description:
A desperate dragon. A lonely
necromancer. A marriage neither wants.
When he is summoned to the royal
castle, Rochus anticipates nothing more than a particularly difficult
assignment. The bothersome journey is almost made worthwhile when he is
propositioned by a young, beautiful dragon, Tilo, who seems untroubled by the
fact that Rochus is a necromancer.
When Rochus arrives at the castle
he is ordered to marry the very same dragon he spent the night with. Though
Rochus would rather sign papers and return home, he is helpless against Tilo's
pleas for help, even if it means spending more time around a man he is
desperately drawn to but who doesn’t seem to want him.
Excerpt:
Rochus pulled
off his spectacles and wiped them clean as the door of the tavern slammed shut
behind him. Noise washed over him, along with the smell of cheap food and too
many unwashed people, an undercurrent of smoke, and the faint tingle of magic.
He stared through the large, open archway into the dining hall, the need for
food warring with a need for solitude and a reluctance to endure the stares
that would come when everyone realized what he was.
But he detested
hiding in his room like he was something to be ashamed of, and hiding wouldn't
stop the rumors or whispers. So he slipped his spectacles back on and
approached the counter, pushing back the hood of his cloak. He set two worn,
gleaming coins on the counter, ignoring the wide eyes and gaping mouth of the
man behind it. "A room, a bath, supper, and breakfast."
"Supper
and—" The man snapped his mouth shut. "Of course, magus. Um…" He
picked up the coins, eyes flitting about nervously. So close to the royal
castle, one would think they'd be more used to the likes of Rochus, but then
again, most of his kind preferred to avoid undue attention, and the rest were
spoiled brats who'd never settle at a cheap tavern when the royal castle was
only a few more hours away.
Stifling a sigh,
Rochus answered the question the man couldn't quite get out. "Pig or cow
blood will work fine, and chicken or some other fowl if that's the best you can
muster. A full pitcher of it, though merely a cup will suffice if more cannot
be found. Not horse." They were far too expensive to drain, and the taste
wasn't worth it.
"Y-yes,
magus. Um." The man licked his lips. "Will you want to see the room
first or go straight to the dining hall?"
"The room,
and I'll take the bath after I've dined."
The man murmured
another affirmative, tucked the coins away, and slid a key across the counter.
"Up the stairs, all the way at the very end of that first hall."
"My
thanks," Rochus replied and resettled his saddlebags on his shoulder
before heading up the dark, creaky steps and down the long hallway. It branched
off in three places, but as promised, his was the room at the very back of the
first, main hallway.
It smelled of
dust and disuse, with a slight tingling-tang of old, faded magic. Powerful
magic, likely wards or some other cage meant to keep something in. But the inn
had once been a castle in its own right, before it had been torn down and
rebuilt, changed to something less expensive and more profitable than an empty
fortress. It wasn't surprising remnants of the fortress remained in more than
the old stones.
He dropped his
saddlebags on the bed and quickly sent his heavy travel cloak after them.
Removing his spectacles, he combed fingers through his short, sweat-damp hair.
In the dark room, with nothing but slips of moonlight to lend visibility, his
hair appeared black. Better lighting would prove it to be blue, so too his
nails and teeth. It was the teeth that always made people most uncomfortable—dark
blue, some more pointed than they should be, all the more stark against his
too-white skin.
Rochus briefly
considered changing into fresh clothes, but there was little point until after
he'd had a bath—and no telling what would happen in the dining hall. It would
hardly be the first time some country bumpkins or foreign nitwits wailed
superstitious nonsense and tried to kill him, nevermind he reported directly to
the crown.
He smoothed out
his robes, frowning at a small tear in the right sleeve. He'd have to stitch it
later after his bath.
For the moment,
it was time for supper, and hopefully he'd get to enjoy it in peace.
Heading back
downstairs, Rochus walked into and through the dining hall, keeping his head up
even when the whispers started.
Necromancer.
Half-dead.
Blood-drinker.
His lips curled
briefly when he heard someone ask their companion if Rochus was a vampire. As
though he was one of those needle-teethed, full-dead mongrels. He drank blood
and his teeth were meant for hunting, but it wasn't the same thing. His teeth
were more like those of a wolf—teeth he did not use thus because he was a
civilized, capable necromancer of forty-three, not some ravening monster.
Rochus sat down
at a table in the corner where he wasn't too close to the fire but would still
be warm and would be able to see anyone who tried to approach him.
A couple of
minutes after he sat, a pale-faced young man brought him a pitcher and cup with
faintly trembling hands. Rochus slid a coin across the table, nodding for him
to take it. The boy took it and skittered away, and the whispers increased as
Rochus poured himself a cup of blood and sipped it. Pig, which he preferred,
save for those rare occasions he was able to get something as decadent as
human.
He took several
more sips, savored the way it warmed him through. There was nothing he hated
more than being cold, but it was the one thing he would always be due to what
was called his half-dead state. He wasn't actually dead, half or otherwise, but
necromancy demanded a high price, drained away half his spirit, replaced it
with those unique spiritual energies he needed to wield his strange magic. The
physical effects—the corpse white skin, the death-black bones, the need for
food replaced by a need for blood—were what earned necromancers the reputation
of being half-dead.
About
the Author:
Megan Derr is a long time writer
of LGBTQ romance and keeps herself busy reading, writing, and publishing it.
She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she’s not involved in writing,
she likes to cook, harass her cats, or watch movies. She loves to hear from
readers, and can be found all over the internet. For more information on other
books by Megan, visit her website: www.maderr.com.
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