Cover Reveal

Inevitable Dusk has been a labor of love for me over the past thirteen (yes, thirteen!) years. Dedicated to my sibling and best friend, this YA fantasy follows the journey of sixteen-year-old Acio as he navigates through grief after his brother’s murder and wrestles with his conscience as he pursues vengeance. It took many years and countless drafts, but Acio’s first quest is finally ready for sharing. Below is the cover, made by my good friend Kay S. Villoso, along with a preview of Inevitable Dusk’s prologue, which is told from Acio’s brother’s point of view.

From Inevitable Dusk:

He came here when the turmoil of the wider world got to him, when the televised news programs his mother was addicted to drowned out all else in his mind with their reports of doom and war, their relentless footage of gory conflicts among the world’s powers hundreds of miles away yet invading Bolyern’s humble home via camera and transmitter and receiver. At such times, this piece of virgin land, untouched by technology, unmarred by bloodshed, became his sanctuary. These old gardens never failed to give him a sweeping sense of peace.

He drew a deep breath and lay down on his side, observing. Grape ivy trailed down from the stone arches, bleeding into the base of the fountain. All that could be heard was the slight trickle of water as it dripped from the Lady of the Ice, who stood graceful and childlike, with stone features that had cracked over the centuries. Some water leaked down from her eyes, and a steadier stream flowed from the crocus she held. No one alive knew where the water, which gave off a honeyed fragrance, had originated; it had a deep green tint to it, and Bolyern often doubted whether it was even water. According to legend, a young girl who had been dying of thirst sipped from the fountain and turned into the carved rose that adorned the Lady’s hair. The girl was said to be called Gloria.

Now Bolyern thought of his aunt Gloria, as she was before she became ill. Curtains of sleek honey-brown hair; a musical voice and a spirit of levity. Where was she, now? Bolyern had often prayed for her soul—she was not religious—and he wondered whether her kindness was enough to get her into Heaven. Sometimes still, he prayed for her, beseeching God to rescue her from Hell. Whenever he asked Mom about Auntie Gloria, she would say, “Your aunt always wore a mask. She was a deceitful, evil woman. You don't want to go to Hell? Stop admiring Auntie Gloria. It’s wicked.”

And that was that. At least, Mom spoke as though it was. Bolyern knew something ran deeper between Mom and Aunt Gloria, something secret, maybe damning on Auntie’s part, and that spurred his prayers.

Bolyern lay on his back now, resting his head on his crossed arms. He was waiting for Quilliard, the Almagata of his family’s House: The House of Seward. Each of the great Houses of Olara possessed an Almagata, and each Almagata was centuries old. Quilliard, who took the shape of a large barn owl, had served at least a dozen generations of Sewards.

Every Almagata was treasured. Each one produced its own payment to its masters when properly fed and cared for. Quilliard conjured smooth beads of tiger’s eye, precious gemstones enchanted with his magic that warded off the all-too-abundant disease-carrying mosquitoes of Olara, neighboring islands, and Verdegran. Each tiger’s eye fetched a good price on the market, and that gemstone greatly aided the Sewards’ fortune. Quill coughed one up every morning. However, the Sewards were also famous for their coal mines and exquisite metalworking, and the former had been the cornerstone of their livelihood. Some people said that qualifications like these caused Almagatas to deem families they chose worthy, but Bolyern doubted that was true. Well, some Almagatas must have. They were people after all, as vulnerable to vices as anyone. But Quill certainly had been attracted to the first Seward’s character, not empty qualifications.

Over the trickle of the fountain, Bolyern heard voices. Two men approached, their heavy boots crushing the dry pine and twigs that had fallen from the trees. Perhaps they were here on a mission of piety. Not wishing to interrupt, Bolyern pushed himself to his feet and crept away from the fountain.

The taller man, whose back was to Bolyern, was dressed in a stuffy navy-blue suit despite the heat. His dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail with a barrette that was adorned with sapphires. Gingerly, the man sat down on the rim of the fountain and leaned back, supporting his weight with his hands. Bolyern squinted, able to make out rings on each of the man’s fingers. The man must have had an Almagata who produced sapphires, because each of his rings contained one. His left pinky, though, had a second ring that was clearly tiger’s eye. Bolyern wondered if Quill had produced it.

A slight rustle in the trees above made Bolyern jump. Quilliard let out a low screech and flew down to Bolyern’s right shoulder. It was so natural to Bolyern when Quill perched there; sometimes, Quill felt like an extension of his body. And it was no secret that Bolyern was the owl spirit’s favorite. Almagatas tended to attach themselves to one family member until one or the other died.

“Quill,” Bolyern whispered, “you scared me. And where were you? Father said there was a fight among the Committee members—”

The owl spirit nipped Bolyern’s ear and hopped down onto the soft brush in front of him. Quill lifted up his feathered brown head and said, “Your father's been down at the mines. All day! A wealthy businessman from Verdegran's trying to buy the new mine off him. Imagine that! He tried to buy me off your father, too.” He said this last sentence with pride. “In fact, . . .” Quilliard cocked his head. “That man right there. With the rings. His name’s George Rivers.”

Bolyern doubted anyone had tried to buy Quill; to do so would have been an insult. Most likely, the man had admired Quill in hopes of acquiring a better business deal and the owl spirit’s ego had magnified the man’s intentions. “Rivers,” Bolyern repeated. “Father has mentioned him. Who’s that other man?”

Quilliard glanced at the second man, who wore loose-fitting clothing and a faded bandana over sparse hair, before saying, “I’ve no idea, Bobo.”

Bolyern thought his nickname was ridiculous. It had come about when his younger brother, Acio, began talking and could not pronounce “Bolyern” correctly. How many times had Bolyern stooped in front of Acio, saying, “Repeat after me, little brother. Bolyern. Bol-yern.” And little Acio, even then, had untamable dark hair that stuck out at all angles, and he would say, “Bo . . . bo. Bobo.” After all these years, Mom still thought “Bobo” was adorable, and Quill insisted on using it.

Mr. Rivers’s voice boomed and Bolyern jumped, afraid he and Quilliard had been seen. Quill said, “Calm down, Bobo. He’s just yelling at that other man.”

Bolyern turned his attention to the conversation, but an airplane soaring overhead drowned out the rich man’s next words. When the craft had passed, Mr. Rivers’s voice carried once more, now a low growl.

“Oh, Garton,” said Rivers, “it’s gone to hell. Nine-tenths of my wealth! All gone. He promised me he’d found a cure, that it would get me more than triple of what I invested. He showed me rats, said he’d treated them all with the tonic, and ‘See how healthy they are now.’ He had charts, graphs. I was too foolish to question it.”

“Mr. Rivers, you can’t blame yourself. Have you gone to Congress?”

“My downfall thrills them. Dog-eat-dog world, you know.”

Garton sighed. “And Lalo? Isn’t the execution set for tomorrow?”

Rivers placed a hand over his own forehead. “Yes. I—I tried; you know I tried. I couldn’t stop it.” Rivers tried to smother the sound of an abrupt sob. “Excuse me,” he croaked.

“Shh,” said Garton. “It’s going to be all right. Lalo’s a good man who made a simple but grave mistake. Don’t worry about him. Within twenty-four hours, he’ll be in eternal bliss. He’s always carrying around those religious books. Turned his whole life around, and now he’s one of the most respectable men I’ve ever met.”

Rivers rocked slowly back and forth. “It’s my fault. It is. I sent him out there to risk his life.”

Garton shifted uncomfortably. Bolyern thought he was searching for a topic to change the subject. After a few moments of silence, Garton said, “How did it go at the House of Seward?”

“Oh! I saw their Almagata, that beautiful owl spirit—”

His next words were lost, for Quilliard hopped back onto Bolyern’s shoulder and nipped his ear again. “See, I told you, Bobo.”

Rivers went on, “He produces tiger’s eye. See this ring right here? I bought it nearly a decade ago, and it’s still going strong. It’s a curious thing because the protection power often fades after a year or two.”

“Well, you know the House of Seward. Always outdoing themselves.”

Rivers let out a short laugh. “Ah! But that owl, he is something. Almagatas have always captivated me. My own takes the shape of an ocelot. Lalo may have told you. Gorgeous thing. She has been in the family for going on three hundred years. If you ever come to Verdegran, you will have to stop by.”

Garton whistled. “I wish my House had an Almagata. We’ve never been rich enough. Don’t care how ugly or how useless it’d be. They bring good luck all the same.”

Rivers shook his head at Garton’s assertion. “My friend, that is an old wives’ tale. I know firsthand how utterly wrong it is.”

“All the same—”

“There are wild ones, you know,” said Rivers. “Some say you have to lure them with a raw chicken. The plumper, the better.”

“Tried it. Again and again, I tried it. Guess my bloodline isn’t worthy.” There was a long pause, and Garton’s tone went grave. “I do have a question, Mr. Rivers. I don’t see how Lalo—”

Bolyern didn’t hear the rest of Garton’s words or Rivers’s reply, because Quill suddenly struck out to trap a small mouse in his beak. It was more from instinct than hunger, Bolyern knew; Quill was given several gourmet meals a day. The mouse squealed horribly, and its blood sprayed along Bolyern’s arm.

“Quill!” he hissed in shock, rubbing the blood off into the grass.

“Who’s there?” boomed Rivers. He had stepped away from the fountain and a pistol glinted in his hand.

Bolyern’s heart raced. He wriggled farther back into the foliage.

“Show yourself!” said Rivers.

But Bolyern was rooted to the spot.

“Come out or I swear to you I’ll shoot.”

Well, this was a respectable politician, Bolyern assured himself. He wouldn’t go around shooting people, eavesdroppers or not. So Bolyern stepped out from behind the trees and ivy, but he was on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry, sir! I was here to pay respects to my ancestors. I’m descended from the Lady. And I was waiting for Quilliard.”

Rivers frowned. “Tell me your name.”

“Bolyern, sir. Bolyern of the House of Seward.”

Rivers relaxed and put his gun away. “I apologize. One can’t be too careful these days.”

Bolyern’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave the man a smile. “Of course, sir.”

Rivers rubbed his hands together. The sunlight glinted on his rings. “What a coincidence, Bolyern. I was just at the mines to see your father. Very hospitable man, and your mother is much the same; she had sent over some pulled pork sandwiches for me. And—Quilliard, did you say? Who on earth is that?” There was a note of falseness in the man’s voice that pricked the hairs at the back of Bolyern’s neck. Rivers and Quill had been properly introduced, so odds were he knew Quill’s name.

Bolyern swallowed hard. He wanted to run away, but incorrigible politeness kept him still and attentive. He cursed his shaking voice as he answered, “He’s our Almagata, sir. He takes the form of an owl. He’s very friendly.”

On cue, Quill fluttered over and perched on Bolyern’s shoulder. He let out a raspy call.

Rivers strode forward, his gaze on Quill. “Ah. Yes, I saw you just an hour ago.” There was something in his eyes that Bolyern couldn’t read, but it quickly passed, and Rivers said abruptly, “I had better be headed back to the docks. I have quite overstayed my visit.”

“Overstayed?”

“I hail from Verdegran. Every once in a while, I come here to Olara. I had . . . business. With an old friend.” His manner changed again, from nonchalant to intense. “You’ve probably heard of him. His execution is tomorrow.” What was it on his face—puzzlement? Apprehension? Even unease?

Bolyern forced his mind back to the topic at hand. “Do you mean Lalo Steppe, sir?”

Rivers took a step forward. “You know him, then? Why he’s being put to death?” His ring-bedecked fingers pinched into Bolyern’s shoulder.

“Uh—” Bolyern stepped backward. “No, sir.” Bolyern’s heart rate seemed to have doubled, but he couldn’t pinpoint his fear. He wanted to run and take Quill with him, but Quill had alighted on the statue of the Lady and was gazing down upon the water. Someone had probably tossed something shiny into it.

Rivers examined Bolyern. “I trust you’re an honest young man,” he said slowly.

“Father doesn’t tell me much,” Bolyern blurted. It wasn’t quite true, as Bolyern was approaching adulthood, and Father kept him abreast of matters. But Father had been oddly reluctant to speak of “the Lalo Steppe business.”

“Well,” said Rivers, glancing at a golden pocket watch. “As I said, I have a ship to catch. I would just like you to have this.” The politician pulled something from his pocket. “Palm out, now.”

Garton leaned forward for a peek, but Rivers held the gift tight in his fist and delivered it into Bolyern’s hand, closing his own over it.

“Good day, Bolyern,” said Rivers. “Don’t open your hand until we’ve gone. Garton.”

“Yes?”

“Come on, now. I do have one rarer tidbit for you on attracting an Almagata.”

Garton practically leaped for joy at this announcement, and he strode ahead, but Rivers lingered long enough to whisper to Bolyern, “It may bring you good luck.”

Bolyern waited until the crunching of the growth underfoot faded. He opened his fist. Lying there was a leaf of emerald stained glass. Its veins and edges were gilded, but aside from being lovely, it served no discernible purpose. He did not believe in luck.

He sighed. He had been expecting something interesting: a jewel, a treat, or some luxury from the Continent. After one more prayer at the fountain, with Quill flying overhead, he turned for home.

He did not see Garton’s body, blood seeping into the foliage mere yards from the Lady and tainting his long-lived haven.