I’m having so much fun writing the third book (am in Chapter 10). If you have half the fun when you read it, you’ll find it very enjoyable. While I’m not introducing any new characters (other than monsters), Calen is going to meet his worst nemeses yet. He’s going to be in peril for most of this book.

Here’s a tantalizing tidbit:

I hear crackling noises, so I open one eye and look around. Fortunately, my metal face mask is up. I’m in a room with a low ceiling from which small white things, tied with string, hang. My vision is still blurry, so I can’t tell what they are. The room smells acrid, like old garbage or well-worn tennis shoes.

Where am I? I ask the Creator. And how’d I get here?

You’re in the home of the worst kind of evil, he responds. Be very careful. She used magic to transport you here.

I try to remember what happened. Then I recognize the back of the lovely girl I saw in the Stagthorn, and the memories come flooding back. She zapped me with my own conjured lightning.

She whistles a lively tune as she stands in front of a roaring fire surrounded by a river-rock hearth, while she stirs something in a small cauldron. A much larger cauldron sits on the floor next to the fire.

I’m lying flat on my back on some kind of cot, close to one of the walls. My hands are bound behind my back. She didn’t search me, however, while I was unconscious because I still feel the purple pouch of royal fairy dust pressing against my skin.

I tilt my chin down, which causes a thumping headache, to find that my sword sheaths are empty, and I see why I can’t move my feet. They’re tied together. I twitch the muscles in my arms and legs a little to see if they still function, and they do. Nothing else seems to hurt. I rub my fingers over the bindings behind my back and feel rough rope.

Crisa suggested I hide a small knife under my wrist armor, in case my swords were taken from me. If I can just reach that knife, I can start sawing through my restraints. I don’t wear gauntlets, so I squiggle my fingers around, trying to get under my vambrace. My fingertip rubs across the end of the knife’s handle as it rests in a small sheath. I latch onto it with my thumb and forefinger and start to inch it out from under the armor.

The lovely girl sets down her ladle, turns, and says with a broad smile, “Ah, Calen, so nice you could join me. I have plans for you.”

My heart pounds as I say with as much courage as I can muster, “I’m afraid I won’t be staying long.”

She chuckles. “Always the optimist. When will you learn that evil is so much stronger? You really need to get on the winning side of this war.”

I grin. “I already am.” My comment makes her cackle, like an old crone, which contradicts her appearance.