Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Read online

  Never Fear -

  The Tarot

  Heather Graham Tim Waggoner

  Michael A. Stackpole Matthew Costello

  C. L. Wilson Tori Eldridge

  Lisa Mannetti Jaime Rush Rebecca Paisley

  Patrick Freivald Edward DeAngelis Richard Devin

  Lance Taubold Jeff DePew Lee Lawless Hal Bodner

  Jennifer St. Giles Lori Avocato Michael M. Hughes Tara Nina

  C.M.C. Dobbs Linda J. Parisi Jason Pozzessere Crystal Perkins Aidan Russell Mathew Kaufman

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between real life events and people, and the events within this product are purely coincidental.

  13Thirty Books

  Print and Digital Editions

  Copyright 2016

  Discover new and exciting works by 13Thirty Books at www.13thirtybooks.com

  Print and Digital Edition, License Notes

  This print/ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This print/ebook may not be re-sold, bartered, borrowed or loaned to others. Thank you for respecting the work of this and all 13Thirty Books’ authors.

  Copyright © 2016 13Thirty Books, LLP Authors’ Cooperative

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0997791209

  ISBN-13: 978-0997791204

  DEDICATION

  All who inspire.

  CONTENTS

  Note to the reader

  the fool - lance taubold

  the magician - hal bodner

  the high priestess - michael A. stackpole

  the empress - heather graham

  the emperor - linda j. parisi

  the hierophant - mathew kaufman

  THE lovers - lori avocato

  the chariot - taRa nina

  strength - ed deangelis

  the hermit - lisa mannetti

  the wheel of fortune - jeff depew

  justice - jennifer st. giles

  the hanged man - matthew costello

  death - lee lawless

  temperance - c.m.c. dobbs

  the devil - michael m. hughes

  the tower - rebecca paisley

  the star - patrick freivald

  the moon - tim waggoner

  the sun - crystal perkins

  judgEment - richard devin

  the world - jaime rush

  ace of wands - tori eldridge

  ace of cups - jason pozzessere

  ace of pentacles - aidan russell

  ace of swords - c. l. wilson

  bONUS STORies

  ace of wands - JANE BELMONT

  ace of wands - JANCE M. JONES

  About the Publisher

  note to the reader

  13Thirty Books asked twenty-six authors to agree to write stories based on the Tarot, with the cards determining which stories the authors would write.

  Over the course of several months we reached out to some of the best genre authors and proposed our idea.

  Once we had our authors, we took a Tarot deck and a list of all twenty-six names. We read the author’s name, shuffled the deck, and drew a card.

  That tarot card and its traits were all the authors had to go on.

  The card was removed, the deck was reshuffled, and the next name was read off.

  This anthology contains twenty-six stories based on the twenty-two cards of the Major Arcana and the four cards of the Minor Arcana.

  Award-winning and New York Times bestselling authors combine their talents to deal out twenty-six dark tales influenced by the Tarot.

  0

  the fool

  lance taubold

  Upright: Folly, mania, extravagance, intoxication, delirium, frenzy, betrayal

  Reversed: Negligence, absence, distribution, carelessness, apathy, vanity, nullity

  Mincey was no fool. Of course, his moniker was the King’s Fool. But Mincey was so much more. He knew so much more. Very few even bothered, or knew, his real name, but it mattered little to him. They were all merely tools for him. Players in his game.

  The real fool was King Zendar, the ruler of Boldovia, this small, inconsequential, uninfluential, kingdom in northeastern Europe—but then there were so many such kingdoms spread throughout the continent.

  But Mincey had a plan. He wanted to be king of Boldovia, and he had the means to do it. His mother—God rest her miserable soul—had seen fit to ensconce him in the Royal Court.

  When he was growing up, his mother had always told him he was destined for great success, and that she would help him achieve it. He was special.

  Then she had gotten sick, ague. Then it got worse.

  On her deathbed she told Mincey her secret. His secret. Mincey was royalty. He was the bastard son of King Zendar. He had never known his “father.” His mother had told him his father had been thrown from a horse and broken his neck right after Mincey was born. Zendar and his queen, Anya, had never had any children, and Zendar desperately wanted an heir.

  Mincey’s mother, in exchange for her silence, had extracted a document from the king stating that upon her demise, Mincey would be taken care of and be given a position in the court. Idiot that Zendar was, he made Mincey his fool, telling him that that way he would always be close and protected, and that he would be his informant should any of his courtiers decide to rebel or usurp him. As the king’s spy, no one would ever suspect the simple fool of treachery. Mincey understood the logic of it, but it didn’t make things any better for him at court. Zendar would never know the indignities Mincey had suffered over these past years from his court: the insults, the thrown food, the kicks and slaps—all at his expense.

  But then again, there had been the opportunities for revenge on those that had been exceptionally unkind to him.

  Mincey’s greatest advantage, other than his handsome features, was that King Zendar was quite paranoid of everyone—everyone but Mincey. Zendar trusted him implicitly, believing that their blood tie meant more than anything and that Mincey would have nothing to gain and everything to lose by betraying him.

  More the fool he.

  Another advantage Mincey had was that Zendar had a cruel side, evinced by the vast dungeon and torture chamber in the bowels of the castle. Mincey, not one to be squeamish, saw the opportunity. He had always had a penchant for rats and he had collected his small “family” of them. His rats had been trained to have a particular fondness for blood and flesh. Human flesh. He would hold back on feeding them until they were ravenous, then would let them have samplings of blood, his blood at first. He would slice a finger and squeeze the droplets onto morsels of food. They learned well, and soon blood became their seasoning of choice.

  The first time he had used his pets was on the king’s advisor, Ruttan. Ruttan had been cruel to him. He was jealous of Mincey’s fine features—himself having a rather large boil on his forehead, and his body odor only bested by his foul breath—and would demean Mincey and impugn his masculinity, often trying, and sometimes succeeding, in giving surreptitious kicks to Mincey’s genitals.

  Mincey hated him.

  One night after a feast honoring the visiting king of Esdaria and his retinue from a nearby region to the south, Mincey had had enough from Ruttan. The oily, drunken sot had struck true with one of his vicious kicks to Mincey’s groin. Ruttan had hollered with glee and ranted how Mincey could not be injured as he was a eunuch and merely everyone’s butt-
boy. Everyone had laughed.

  That night, after the feast, Mincey went to the king’s chambers and told Zendar that he had overheard Ruttan conspiring with the visiting king to overthrow him.

  Zendar yelled, “We must stop this, Mincey. You must discover the truth!”

  “Yes, Sire, we will. Mayhap we should question Ruttan privately, and ‘persuade’ him to tell us their intent?”

  Zendar gave a slow smile. “If you feel that is best.”

  “I do, but I also think that you should be in attendance to observe the ‘persuasion.’”

  Zendar maintained his smile. “I am in agreement.”

  Ruttan was taken to the dungeon. The king’s executioner, Grutha, a brooding giant of a man, conducted the inquisition, while Zendar and Mincey looked on.

  Rattan started off with indignance, then became more manic, with shouts of “lies” and “outrage.”

  Mincey had a suggestion. Zendar acquiesced. Mincey, knowing of the king’s secret appetite for brutal torture, brought out his favorite pet, Greedy, the largest and blackest of his little family. And the hungriest.

  “Grutha, bring the head cage for the king’s advisor.”

  Grutha nodded and produced an iron cage with a small, hinged door on top and a matching one on the bottom. He opened a latch on the bottom and secured it around Ruttan’s head. He locked it at the neck. Ruttan sputtered and yelled all sorts of denials and imprecations. He had been bound firmly with ropes in a wooden chair secured to the floor so that a hapless victim could not tip it over during the interrogation.

  Next, the voracious rat was placed in the cage where it could devour the feast before him.

  Mincey happily recalled the screams and pleas from Ruttan. “Please, I beg of you! I am innocent! These are lies!”

  That was all Ruttan managed to say that was coherent before Greedy took the first bite of ear. And at the rush of blood into the hungry mouth, he became enraged with implacable blood-lust.

  Mincey and the king watched impassively as the rat bit and gnawed at the man’s face. It finished off an ear then moved to the nose and lips. It seemed to Mincey that his rat had a rhythm going: a bite of nose, a bite of lip—as if one taste complemented the other.

  Ruttan’s screams rose to a peak, then slowly began to fade to whimpering as his face became deformed from the torn pieces of flesh from his skull, revealing the sinew and bone beneath. His head would jerk periodically as each new piece of flesh was ripped away, followed by a mewling yelp—that is until one particular bite tore half of his tongue from his mouth. Not long after, the only sounds in the cage were from the rat tearing another succulent piece of flesh and slurping it into its still unsated maw.

  Mincey had loved every agonizing moment and knew the king had as well. Grutha remained silent and stoic throughout: the ideal executioner. Unemotional. Mincey had found a friend.

  Not only had he ingratiated himself to the king, but he had the ear of the queen—and more—as well. Queen Anya, who, while from a small kingdom herself and being quite a bit younger than Zendar, had aspirations of her own.

  Mincey had noticed her secretly eyeing his fine form and strong features on several occasions. He kept his fine figure from hours of tumbling exercise and performance. Many a courtesan had paid him notice, and the occasional dalliance was common for him.

  Until the queen came to him one night.

  She was dressed in a light wrap, the evening being quite warm. There was the lightest of knocks on his chamber door.

  Mincey often slept unclothed—his small chamber could get uncomfortably warm on hot nights—and tonight was no exception. He clutched a pillow to his midsection and cracked open the door.

  Anya thrust the door open and rushed in. “Close the door quickly, lest I be seen,” she said.

  Mincey complied and turned to face her, his naked backside to the wall. “Milady, what brings you here?” he asked innocently, fully knowing the reason for her nocturnal visit. Is everything all right with the king?”

  “Yes, well, the king…” she let her voice trail away. She raised her eyes to meet his. Her hands went to the silk ribbons securing her wrap. A bold look came to her face as she undid the ribbons and let her sheer gown puddle to the floor at her bare feet. The rest of her was bare as well. “The king does not know how to pleasure me. He is too old. You are young. Virile. My body is feverish.” She ran a hand between her legs and slowly rubbed herself.

  Mincey felt himself stir. Her body was lean and white, like the purest of cow’s cream, with medium-sized high breasts tapering to voluptuous hips and the dark triangular thatch of hair between them.

  She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “My ladies have informed me that you are quite skilled at pleasuring a woman and are favorably gifted as well.” Her eyes lowered to the pillow Mincey clutched before him.

  Mincey knew the queen well, and this happening was as he had expected. He was prepared for this to his utmost advantage.

  He dropped the pillow.

  The queen’s eyes grew large with desire. “My ladies were not just in their assessment.”

  Since that first night, Anya had come to him many times. Each time he had expected her to exact a favor from him, a boon from the king. But it did not happen.

  Several months later, another great feast was held to welcome back King Justus of Esdaria. Justus’s purpose, Mincey discovered through listening at doors, was to unite their two kingdoms, something Mincey most decidedly did not want. He needed sole control of Zendar for his plans to work.

  Mincey spoke to King Zendar before the feast. “My King, there are rumors of King Justus’s ambition.”

  “What do you mean, Mincey? What are they saying?” Zendar instantly gave Mincey his full attention.

  “I overheard King Justus’s royal commander telling some of his men how easy it will be to wrest your kingdom from you once an alliance is made. ‘A simple usurping,’ was how it was said. Possibly as soon as a month.”

  “You are certain of this?”

  “They spoke freely, not thinking I was paying close attention, Sire. And there is yet more.”

  “More?”

  “The commander also plans to remove King Justus from the throne and take it by force for himself.”

  “The commander… what is his name?”

  “Borkin. He has an unfriendly countenance, one not to be trusted.”

  “Something needs be done with this Borkin.”

  “Yes, Sire.” Mincey gave a slight smile. “My pets would be most pleased to show Commander Borkin the error of his ways.”

  “Quite so. A visit to the dungeon seems to be the only way. How will we accomplish this?”

  “Please, Sire, you need not trouble yourself with this petty matter. I will employ your loyal guard to assist me.”

  “Ah, Mincey, it seems you are the only one I can trust. What would I do without you?”

  “It is nothing more than my duty you, My King.” He turned away, fearing he would be unable to hide his nefarious smile of glee.

  *

  “What are you doing to me? My king will hear of this!” Commander Borkin yelled, the spittle catching in his bushy beard while he lay bound and recumbent on the large, solid wooden table.

  “Your king did hear of this… and of your plot to assassinate him and usurp him from his throne. And the throne of my liege as well,” Mincey said, staring down into the burly man’s furious visage. “But we are not unjust, and mayhap a full confession will garner you some mercy and a more expedient end.”

  “I have done nothing! I am loyal to my king!”

  “Ah then, perhaps my friends can aid you in restoring your obscured memory, your braggadocio about becoming the ruler of both our lands.”

  Grutha aided Mincey in affixing a large metal cage over the hirsute, naked, lower belly of the commander.

  “What are you doing?” the commander yelled once more. His renewed effort to break his bonds proved futile. His hands and feet had been securely
bound to the sides of the table. He lay naked and helpless. The cage was now firmly fixed over the man’s lower abdomen and genitals.

  Mincey stood straight and gave the cage a firm pat. The commander involuntarily jerked. “Before I introduce you to my friends, I will ask you a final time: Were you plotting to murder both of our kings?” Mincey had his face mere inches from the commander’s face, the fetid breath making him draw back slightly.

  “No! I would give my life for my king!”

  “As you wish.” Mincey gave his most cloying smile, then reached beneath the table to produce another metal cage. In it was an ebony-colored rat a foot in length, with a tail to match. It had large jet eyes that issued malevolence. Its crowning glory: two prodigious fangs protruding nearly an inch in length, the tips honed to fine points, capable of piercing the hardest of woods—let alone soft, human flesh.

  “Ah, Percy,” Mincey cooed to the rat. “Are you hungry? Well, your father always takes precious care of you and this night I have some tasty morsels for you to munch.” He held the cage over the commander’s groin. The rat’s nose and teeth thrust anxiously through the small metal bars. Its nose and whiskers worked in a feverish manner. “A couple of tasty bits and a juicy sausage to whet your appetite for the main course, my pet.” He set the cage between the bound man’s spraddled legs. The rat pawed at the fleshy inner thighs, barely able to make a scratch on the tender flesh—but it was enough.

  The commander screamed.

  “Hush now, Commander.” Mincey once again leaned into the man’s face. “You profess that you would give your life for your king? What about your man parts?” He chuckled softly.

  “The king will have your head!” Borkin spat a large gob of mucus in Mincey’s face.