QSFer Aldrea Alien has a new MM fantasy book out: Tracking Trouble.
For years, Tracker’s life has had two facets: Hunting spellsters and entertaining strangers in his bed. Few doubt he’s good at both, although only one is considered acceptable amongst the King’s Hounds. His trip to Toptower should be just another task in an endless string of routine. Take down any dangerous spellster he finds and send the timid ones to Demarn’s tower prison.
It is a role he was born to play. One he has grown weary of.
But there’s something off about the spellsters he’s encountering. The people he typically finds aren’t usually this powerful or anywhere near as lethal to a man immune to magic. It’s as if something, or someone, is releasing them with an eye to weaken an already harried kingdom. To what end, he cannot be certain of. History is littered with the dangers of magic running unchecked.
He must uncover the truth, and quickly. But with all leads pointing one way, will he be able to uphold the code of the King’s Hounds once he finds it?
This book contains violence, gore and explicit adult themes.
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Excerpt
The infirmary was less crowded than Tracker had expected. A few figures took up a handful of cots, including Rhiain, who appeared to have been left to absorb her current situation in silence.
The curtained section at the far end of the room was their goal. Beyond it sat a crude surgeon’s table, bearing a guard already stripped to the waist.
The medic turned at their intrusion. “Sergeant, sir,” he exclaimed, shuffling to stand between the woman and his patient. “I did not expect you—”
“To find out?” Folding her arms, she pinned the man in place with one of her infamous looks. “I ought to write the lot of you up for this,” she growled before looking over her shoulder at him. “Sir Hound? Your professional opinion?”
Before Tracker could move, the medic blurted out a garbled protest. “Is that truly necessary, sir? I have everything under control and I am certain the hound has more important matters than this.”
Tracker wasted no time with the medic’s babbling. If the man hadn’t administered an antidote by now, then he clearly had no experience with poisons. Wordlessly skirting the medic, he critically examined the poisoned guard lying on the table.
The wound in question was a shallow slice to the palm of his hand, likely gotten in an attempt to free himself. Few poisons possessed enough potency for the residue to render a man comatose. Please, do not be Aerona’s Kiss. It was the deadliest toxin in his arsenal, one nick from a properly applied blade could drop a spellster in two heartbeats.
He drew back the man’s eyelids, exposing the bloodshot whites, and sighed. Of course it was Aerona’s Kiss. Fool. If the guard had waited until Tracker returned to the old storehouse, then he wouldn’t be in this state.
“Your guard is lucky to be alive.” The knife-edge must’ve carried no more than the ghost of a hint.
“Will he live?” Sergeant Ceri asked.
Tracker nodded. The quality of that life was another matter. “It will have affected his brain by now and those few who survive Aerona’s Kiss typically do not regain full function of their extremities. A mixture of stardew, dropweed and Elan’s hair will help reduce the tremors.” He didn’t bother explaining where to find the relevant herbs. Any apothecary worth their training would have them. “Your standard poultice should be enough to draw out the toxin.”
The sergeant nodded sagely. “Did you get all that, son?” she asked of the medic.
The man nodded, already scrambling to gather the required ingredients.
Grumbling under her breath, the sergeant flung back the curtain and stormed out of the room.
Unable to do anything further for the man—that wouldn’t end in putting him out of his misery—Tracker followed the woman back out of the infirmary. They parted ways in the corridor, Sergeant Ceri marching off to her duties whilst he returned to the debriefing room where the remainder of his knives awaited him.
Captain Owen lingered in the room, fiddling with the few knives Tracker hadn’t claimed previously. He jumped as Tracker entered, placing the weapons back on the table much like a child caught thieving from a grocer’s stall.
Tracker collected the last of his weapons, all whilst under the man’s watchful eye. The man wasn’t being overt about it, but Tracker had been the subject of many a gaze over the last two decades. He had learnt how to pluck the charge of sexual interest from the air.
Ensuring each knife was properly sheathed, he nodded his thanks to the guard captain. “I must be off.” He needed to send a message to the capital confirming Chaser’s demise as well as that of the spellster who’d taken his life. Then it was an early night, a quick tour of the old slave market and away to wherever else he was needed. As always, everywhere across Demarn required a hound’s attention. There just weren’t enough of them to be everywhere all the time.
Owen regarded him with a shock of panic. “You cannot linger for a while? Maybe long enough for me to, say… buy you a drink? You deserve at least that much for getting rid of that monster and bringing everyone back alive.”
Tracker chuckled, waggling a finger at the guard captain to warn the man off. There was definitely a keen gleam in those eyes—the colour an almost storm-cloud grey that was especially striking. “You are cute and a drink is tempting, but I truly must be on my way.”
“Cute?” Owen echoed. “Not saying a handsome being like yourself is a poor judge, but come on.” He gestured to his face. “Really? Obviously I am no patch on…” He trailed off, indicating Tracker’s whole body. “All that,” he eventually managed, his voice a little huskier. He stroked his jaw. “Does the beard not, at least, grant me a certain ruggedness?”
Caught off guard by the jabbering, Tracker planted himself before the man. “That has to be the worst attempt at fishing for compliments I have ever been subjected to.”
Owen gave him a crooked smile. “And I bet a man like you has heard his fair share.”
He had. “You are attempting to chat me up, yes?” And doing a terrible job of it of he was truly after sex. Tracker wasn’t sure if he should take pity on the guard captain or leave before the man completely embarrassed himself. A small part of him even found the blundering charming.
“I did offer a drink,” Owen pointed out, his smile turning sheepish.
“That you did, my dear man. But I have imbibed many times in pleasant company without it leading to more carnal acts.” Those times were few and far between nowadays, but they happened.
Author Bio
Aldrea Alien is an award-winning, bisexual USA Today bestselling author of fantasy romance with varying heat levels. Born and raised in New Zealand, she lives on a small farm with her family, including a menagerie of animals, who are all convinced they’re just as human as the next person. Especially the cats. Since discovering a love of writing at the age of twelve, she hasn’t found an ounce of peace from the characters plaguing her mind with all of them clamouring for her to tell their story first.
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