Page 2 of Voidwalker (Beasts of the Void #1)

A beginner’s guide to extra-dimensional bomb smuggling

Fionamara Kolbeck saw her first door between worlds at eight years old.

The never-melting ice of the Winter Plane had grown thick that year, a slick patch as she’d played along the river rocks near her home. One slip, and the water had snatched her like icy claws, dragging her beneath the current, flooding her lungs as she’d screamed for help.

Then, black. An endless Void that had sought to swallow her.

She’d jolted back to consciousness coughing water on the riverbank, black hair plastered to pale cheeks, shivering hard enough to chatter her teeth. Her father had knelt over her, rubbing her chest raw as worry creased his cold-hardened face.

Behind him, a strange distortion had warped the air, like nothing she’d ever seen before. Some kind of translucent Curtain. Those who’d been touched by the Void and returned to life saw easier through the fabric separating worlds, people claimed.

At age ten, Fi learned to step through her first Curtain.

At fourteen, she’d flee to neighboring Planes of reality to escape house chores.

By twenty-three, she’d discovered the lucrative business of cross-Plane smuggling.

Now, hot off thirty-two and with precious few shits left to show for it, Fi nursed a splitting headache while leaning her shoulder into a tree trunk, the spongy paper bark gleaming cheerful white with an intensity she was entirely too hungover to appreciate.

A crisp breeze sent the forest swirling.

Leaves cascaded like spilled paint, a head-throbbing blend of gold and scarlet glaring in afternoon sunlight.

The trees of the Autumn Plane lived in eternal fall, an endless cycle of growing and shedding and postcard-perfect vistas that drew the snobbiest tourists and entrepreneurs.

Plus Fi, who was neither of these.

She sought refuge in her binoculars, puckering plum-painted lips while surveying two men in the clearing below.

They, too, appeared unenthralled by the wish-you-were-here scenery.

No whimsical leaf gazing, all fidgeting boots.

The pair hunched in wool coats and low-brimmed hats, stationed like wraiths alongside, by comparison, an amusingly quaint wooden cart.

A donkey idled in the harness, fluffy ears twitching at flies.

Atop the cart, wooden crates brimmed with apples, yet not an orchard for miles.

Amateurs.

“Half an hour early to a rendezvous.” Fi lowered her binoculars and glowered at the too-bright sunlight. “Either clueless or desperate. What do you think, Aisinay?”

Behind her, a Void horse sniffed the underbrush, searching for needlemice to snack on.

Dappled shade fell upon silver scales from snout to hooves, a finned tail brushing crimson leaves.

At Fi’s voice, the beast perked webbed ears.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the loam, milky blind and framed in black sclera.

The horse huffed, scattering leaves beneath her nose.

“Probably clueless,” Fi agreed. She returned to her binoculars, inspecting the gleam of a golden wristwatch. “But clueless with money? I can live with that.”

Fi had never arrived late to a client meet-up in her life. Neither had she ever met a client on time. People behaved more genuinely when they thought no one was watching, and these men were hurried. Brazen.

Aisinay snorted. What the Void horse lacked in sight, she made up for with a keen sense for energy sources, and she’d been restless since they arrived.

Could be a pack of trade wardens prowling nearby.

Better settle business quickly. Fi latched a metal cart to her horse—careful of the fins spining her neck, in place of a mane—then grabbed the lead and headed for the clearing.

Now came the matter of entrances. This, Fi learned early in her career, could make or break a deal.

Crunched leaves alerted the men to her approach.

The younger, Fi’s age, kept close to his cart with downcast eyes that screamed “assistant.” The one with the wristwatch pushed middle-age, sixty by her guess.

He straightened at Fi’s arrival, steel-eyed with the intensity of a man trying too hard to look intimidating.

She met them with a crooked grin, arms wide.

“Fear not, gentlemen. I have arrived!”

What an arrival it was. Fi wore a bodysuit of dark gray silviamesh with purple accent lines, tailored tight to her curves, the hexagonal fabric light as silk and tough as steel.

Sinfully expensive, paid for by a lucrative job five years back, moving a rare collection of sundrop tulips off the Spring Plane.

Her mascara: knife-sharp against smoky eyeshadow.

Her weapons: on bold display, the metal hilt of an energy sword at her belt, five glowing silver energy capsules affixed to her gloves.

But most eye-catching of all: her hair, Void-black roots shifting to pastel rainbow, curls cut to her collarbone.

At least one of these details solicited a raised brow from the elder man. He masked it with a toothy smile. “A beautiful day on the Autumn Plane.”

“Always is,” Fi returned. Consistent to the point of dullness.

Aisinay snorted and yanked her bridle. Odd.

The Void horse made excellent character judgments, but beyond this man’s sour attitude, he wore no visible weapons or energy sources.

Just a gaudy green vest and suit jacket with gilded pinstripes and…

a hint of silviamesh peeking out his collar? Maybe not completely clueless.

“Fionamara Kolbeck? Your reputation precedes you. Impressive, for someone so”—his watery gaze slid over her, appraising in a way that made her fist clench—“ young .” He extended a hand. “I’m Cardigan.”

Fi snorted. “ Cardigan? Your mother name you after her favorite knitwear?”

He retracted his hand, a scowl curling thin lips. “Perhaps we should get to business.”

Rolling over so easy? Not just impatient, then.

If dear, sweet Cardigan had no rebuttal to her insult, he must be desperate as well.

In need of discretion, since their meeting was set up in someone else’s name—his sheepish assistant, she assumed.

Not local, either. Seasonspeak served as a common language across all four Season-Locked Planes, but he didn’t have the crisp enunciation of an Autumn dialect, nor the heavier syllables of her Winter accent.

Something lighter, more frivolous with vowels… Spring, most likely.

All things considered, Fi smelled an opportunity for a price markup. She reached into her cart and pulled out her most intimidating weapon: a clipboard.

“All right, boys.” She brandished a pen like a threat.

“Where are we headed? I transport to all four Season-Locked Planes, and all pockets of existence in between. Plus, half-price special for anything you want tossed into the infinite Void between realities—that one’s popular with the politicians. ” She winked.

“The cargo’s going to Thomaskweld,” Cardigan answered. “Winter Plane.”

Fi whistled. “A territory capital? I can recommend a good drop-off on the outskirts—”

“The delivery point is inside the city.”

Her pen halted. Each territory on the Winter Plane ran a little differently, and Fi had operated out of the one in question for a decade—obviously why Cardigan sought her out.

The frigid wilds were plenty dangerous, but capital cities housed trade wardens, regional police, the elected mortal governor. And worse. Something with claws.

“Moving anything inside the city will cost extra,” Fi said.

“Done.” Cardigan offered a slip of paper. “They’re expecting you in two days.”

Fi frowned at the address, a hotel on the city’s east side.

A too-nice part of town. She resumed scribbling on her clipboard, though no actual words.

Only an idiot left a paper trail, but she enjoyed watching people crane their necks trying to spy her notes.

Cardigan barely recovered from his ostrich stance when Fi continued.

“Are you transporting any perishable, spillable, corrosive, explosive, or in other way hazardous materials?”

The men glanced at each other a heartbeat too long.

“No,” Cardigan replied.

Brow arched, Fi stepped to the cart and knocked her knuckles against the lower layer of boxes. In contrast to the decoy apple crates up top, these were sealed, a rattle of glass inside. “What’s in the boxes?”

Cardigan puckered. “We expected discretion.”

“Discretion is a given, Cardigan. I need to know proper handling.”

“It’s wine. An excellent vintage, from the Autumn Plane.”

Fi drew another swirl on her clipboard, slitted eyes locked with her stubborn client.

The bulk of her business came from merchants and private collectors skirting import taxes between Planes, but unless these crates packed an exquisite alcohol collection, Cardigan would be lucky to make profit after her fees. Not her problem.

“Your payment?” At the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

Cardigan pulled a metal case from his pocket. When it clicked open, Fi’s eyes widened at the velvet interior, ten metal cards set in individual slots.

The Season-Locked Planes ran on energy chips—currency for daily exchange, the backbone of every industry.

Fi kept a stash of energy chips at home to power her furnace.

She kept the smaller glass capsules on her gloves for aid in combat.

Factories in big cities like Thomaskweld churned out the common varieties.

But these . Glass strips along the edges glowed not with silver human magic, but crimson.

Immortal energy. Gifts from the race of daeyari who ruled the government of every territory.

Compared to mortal energy chips, daeyari-made were a hundred times stronger, more valuable.

This box could power a village for a month.

“Where did you get these?” Fi asked, unease knotting her stomach.