Read Online Game of Souls by Terry C. Simpson - Free Book Online

quarters made Winslow wish to be one, while at the same time he despised the man for being a dreg.
    With a sigh, he nodded to the yellow-uniformed guards stationed on each side of the foyer and headed to the massive, oak double doors. He stood before the entrance pondering if he should enter. Whorls and carvings in the wood depicted two men fighting with fire. Scales covered their bodies. They were Dracodar: the original melders, the strongest soul magicians that ever lived. Most thought them extinct. His father believed a few still lived.
    After sneaking into his father’s study, he understood the count’s obsession with the race. According to his father’s notes and books, legend had it that one could gain a Dracodar’s attributes by ingesting their flesh, blood, or donning their scales. Near impenetrable, a Dracodar’s scales were harder than the strongest metals and more malleable. However, the reports of the creature’s sightings were questionable. Most were rumors. None of them dissuaded Count Cardiff from his pursuit.
    Taking a deep breath, Winslow knocked on the door. Moments passed in silence. For the first time, he noticed he still reeked of the Smear’s stench. He hesitated, but it was already too late to turn away. To hell with it, he will have to understand.
    “Enter,” the Count’s deep voice called from inside.
    Winslow pushed open the door. Mosquitoes buzzed at him, and he shooed them off. He hated the damned things. They seemed to take too much of a liking to him. He even thought his father enjoyed watching him bat at them. Once, he swore he saw a smile steal across the count’s face. Why his father kept his windows open and curtains tied at dusk was beyond Winslow. If he had his way, he would have closed them long before the insects gathered to invade the chambers. They were a nuisance, alighting themselves on any exposed skin to feed. As the thought crossed his mind, he slapped at one where it pricked the back of his hand.
    Smoke rose in wisps from incense around the room. Its sweet aroma mingled with that from scented candles. Sitting at a table with a lamp illuminating his many books and papers was his father, Count Ainslen Cardiff. At times like these, when deep into his studies, a person might mistake the count for being anything but an able-bodied, demanding, and dangerous man. With the horn-rimmed glasses on his nose, he appeared more like a professor than a warrior; more some librarian or assistant rather than one of the most accomplished and deadliest melders outside of the King’s Blades.
    People often said Winslow didn’t have much of his father in him. Some even went so far as to spread vile rumors that Count Cardiff was not his father, stating Marjorie had stepped out on him. Of course, they refrained from such statements in public. The report of such a rumor had left more than one man or woman dead. His father’s reaction was the main reason people were careful not to mention his deceased mother or brother within earshot of the count. Referring to them in the wrong light or in any way deemed inappropriate sent his father into a rage. Count Cardiff seldom spoke of them to Winslow. And when he did, his words were steeped in melancholy. On more than one occasion, Winslow had heard his father mutter their names while asleep.
    Winslow still recalled the one time several years ago that he’d asked after his mother and Kenslen. Count Cardiff had broken his ribs. He shuddered to think of seeing that murderous glare in the count’s eyes again.
    As far as looks went, Winslow could see why some folk thought the way they did regardless of how preposterous the idea was to him. Where his hair was long and obsidian, the count’s was cropped short, brown and curly. Winslow also didn’t have quite the same light skin tone. His shade was a touch darker. Some claimed it to be a trait from his mother’s ancestors. But the two things he felt he had in common with the count were his height and his