I’m dedicating The Lucas Letters to Abhivyakti Singh, a wonderful writer and member of my first writing critique group who inspired me to undertake this format through her own amazing correspondence-based novel laced with lively humour.

The Lucas Letters are best read in order

Find the previous despatches here

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The Lucas Letters: Despatch Two

Appartement 5, 3ème étage

14 Avenue de Camoëns

75116 Paris

France

26th January

By the hand of Slaughter

Lucas, my son,

Are you suggesting that I, the one who bears the knowledge of all that is and all that is not, have made a mistake? If unruly parts of your anatomy are troubling you, I suggest you take a long dip in the icy waters of the Seine.

There are but few threads that bear the possibility Camille Amiel will not become a Keeper of the Bounds and your partner. One is that she fails the testing. Of that, there is always a chance. The other is if she refuses the role, for there is always a choice.

Proceed with the trial.

La Vieille du Fil

SLAUGHTER: DO NOT SEND THIS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES

26^th January

My dearest Belomar,

I could hear La Vieille’s raucous cackling as I read her reply, the shrewd, conniving old…

But no, I must refrain from cussing her. It will only come back to me a hundredfold. No doubt she finds the situation highly amusing, and I cannot prevent my hands clenching, every part of me much too taut, ready to strike. I have already thrust my fist into the wall, evidenced by a hole in the plaster that a couple of Men are patching up while casting me wary side glances. It defeats me why they still hang around.

And here I am, scratching out my frustration to you again. Though after Slaughter almost sent the last letter, bundling it with the others, I’ll be more careful this time.

You would laugh if you saw the state of me, dishevelled and distracted, barely able to concentrate on work today, and your laughter would know no bounds if you read my scrawl.

I didn’t sleep last night either.

I could only replay the memory of Camille Amiel in the cafe, the recollection of her intoxicating scent, the curve of her form as she wove about the tables.

When Hector and I left the place, it was almost dark. I excused myself, pulled up the collar of my overcoat against the snow and took the footpath into the mountains. You should have seen me, my old friend. You would have said I was bewitched, or that I’d taken a foul potion. I could not think, could not gather myself. It was ridiculous that a woman I hadn’t even met could influence me so.

Needing to run, I expanded into sinew, embracing the darkness hidden within, feeling the power of the creature I truly am. A snarl escaping my desiccated jaws, I charged into the heights, the chill of the snow and the gusts of harsh wind doing nothing to ease my predicament.

Nothing at all.

You would have chastised me, my friend. You would have thought me a boy once more, unable to contain myself. And you would have been right, for at that moment, I could not.

But no matter how far I ran, her scent was caught up in me. I could not be rid of it, and after a while, I returned to the town, powerless to resist seeking it out.

Camille Amiel was no longer at the cafe, though wisps of her remained. I know where she lives. I have the details in her file, but they were irrelevant. I followed her scent, wanting to be consumed by it.

For fuck’s sake, writing this, staring at the page, I can’t believe myself, can’t understand what I’ve been reduced to. I will be taking that swim in the Seine imminently.

But as I loped through the town, I caught another scent. Male, testosterone, chemical grooming products, unpleasant. It was the man who’d made life so difficult for the staff at the cafe, who’d leered at Camille. The one she’d dealt with by pouring scalding coffee into his lap. My hackles rose. He’d threatened her, and I wouldn’t allow it.

Perhaps my reaction was some kind of foreshadowing of the Keeper-partner bond? But of course it wasn’t. There was no way we could become partners. Whatever it was, it drove me through the narrow streets of the Old Town, buildings leaning close, shutters secured against the frost-laced night.

The lowlife sensed my approach, knowing on some level that what tracked him was preternatural. His instincts took over, and he ran blindly into a dead end alley.

Fury forged an unearthly roar as I prowled toward him, sinews scraping bone, claws tensed ready to impale. His greasy, sweat-damp hair was plastered to his face, his vapid, pale eyes much too wide, his weak jaw slack and trembling, the snowflakes that adorned him a death shroud.

He barely fought as I wrapped my claws around his throat, as they dug inward, blood beading into his coat. I would destroy him for imposing himself upon Camille Amiel, I would end his miserable existence.

Yet as I squeezed, what should I hear but, “Uh, gov? Uhhumm. Just a moment of your time, if you don’t mind? It is, uh, sort of important, like.”

I stilled my grip and turned to Slaughter.

The miniature prehistoric warrior emerged from behind a bin. I’d been so absorbed, I was taken aback. ‘What is it?’ I scraped out. ‘Can’t you see I’m occupied?’

“Yes, boss, I can see you’re very occupied with being about to rip out the throat of that human, but I uh, just wanted to say that, perhaps it might not be the most sensible thing you’ve ever done.”

“What?” I roared, the lowlife’s body shaking, his eyes on stalks.

Slaughter adjusted the stone axe on his shoulder, unperturbed. “I do appreciate that you’ve got uh… the pong of a woman all stuck up your nozzle, but with you having been appointed a Keeper and all, I’m not sure how well this kind of thing will go down with the assembly. Not to mention, with you about to be the only doctor in the area, isn’t it going to cause problems if you murder the townsfolk?”

All I could do was stare at Slaughter, the scum in my grip sobbing.

He was right, damn him. I could scarce believe what I was doing.

Releasing ragged breaths, I fought the urge to squeeze that accursed throat, fought not to do the one thing that would wreck everything I’d worked so hard to achieve. I was so utterly possessed by Camille, by my instinct to protect her.

Belomar, what the fuck is wrong with me?

I caught Camille’s scent again. So out of it was I that I couldn’t be sure if it was real or a memory. Even so, my claws slackened, the trace of her overcoming me once more. All I could do was follow that blissful fragrance, leaving the lowlife sobbing in the snow.

You know how fast I move, my friend. In moments, I’d traversed the town and the forested foothill beyond to conceal myself in the bushes below her farmyard. There she was, tidying up under a meagre lamp that battled the dark, the goats milling around the yard waiting to be milked, snow trodden away to mush beneath their hooves.

Curses, it was cold there, the night bitter. The chill vied with the warm light radiating from the farmhouse and Camille’s loft apartment above the barn to the side. Not only did I know her living arrangements from the file, but the smell of her was all-consuming.

She broke the ice on the trough so it wouldn’t freeze too hard, and spread straw upon the ground for the mush. Bundling it thicker inside the central goat barn, the queen of the herd nibbled at her pocket.

She was wrapped up against the weather in a feather-stuffed jacket, a woollen hat and ski trousers that covered substantial boots. I pictured unwrapping her, and all I would find inside, my nostrils flaring, her scent assaulting me afresh. I wanted to drown in it, my blood pulsing hard. I wanted to take her and—

Something shifted at the far side of the yard where the farmhouse met undergrowth, something that bore the tang of snow and ice and the north wind.

Tearing myself from her, I slunk closer for a better view.

Through the trees, surrounded by a faint white glow, strode an old woman, her lanky grey hair bedraggled, her dress and shawl thin and tattered, her face as hard as ice. Eternal winters shone in her eyes, and all about her as she walked, the undergrowth froze harder, icicles forming upon branches, the ground glazing.

It was late in the year to see the Mascou abroad, a fae embodiment of winter who trails the harshest weather in her wake. Her gaze locked onto me, a fierce chill piercing my monstrous hide, her bitter stare more sobering than any dip in the Seine.

It brought me to my senses. What was I doing here, reacting to Camille Amiel, responding as if… as if… as if she meant something to me.

Ridiculous.

I was having some inexplicable reaction to her pheromones, a physical, chemical response, that was all. The only problem… however could I manage a Keeper partnership with a woman who could unravel me by her mere existence?

It was at that moment, my dear friend, that I realised what I must do. It was also then that the Mascou vanished, and the stately queen sensed my presence and ambled over, followed by a good number of the herd.

Camille tracked their advance into the bushes, searching the darkness for whatever caught their attention. And although I do not think she knew it, her eyes met mine. Her gaze captured the air in my lungs. But certainty had overruled my instincts.

With all I possessed, I pulled myself away and left without a backward glance.

Thankfully, Belomar, my path is now clear before me, for I must preserve myself. I cannot let this woman tear me apart. It is so obvious that I release a laugh, startling the Men who’ve almost finished repairing the wall, one of them falling off the sideboard.

La Vieille wrote that there was a thread of possibility Camille might fail the Keeper testing. Well, I must ensure by any means necessary that she is unsuccessful.

There can be no chance of our partnership proceeding.

LUCAS ROUSEAU: AMAZON’S RECOMMENDED TITLES FOR YOU

Folkloric Fae (A Prequel Novella to the Folkloric Series) by Karenza Grant

Perfect for reading before or at any time during the Folkloric series, it is an accompaniment to the events that take place at the time of The Lucas Letters.

(Also available free by signing up to the author’s newsletter here.)

Slaughter, send this one, not the other, and whatever you do, DON’T SEND ANY MORE TO BELOMAR WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT INSTRUCTIONS

Belomar Rei, High Elf King, Charmant

By the hand of Slaughter

Belomar,

It seems matters are proceeding with my appointment as Keeper of the Bounds.

I have to say, my friend, I’m beyond honoured that the assembly has taken a chance upon me. I imagine your influence was not insignificant, and for that I am grateful.

You are most likely aware that I have been appointed a partner by La Vieille, though I have to admit, after observing her, I wonder how suitable she is. However, the testing will bear that out.

To that end, I require use of the Chateau de la Lune to set up the trial on the full moon, which will be ideal timing for the incantations and colludes, as well as the intrusion into the candidate’s mind.

Wishing you and your kin the very best. Surely it is time we drank together once more? It has been far too long.

Lucas

Thank you for reading!

The next instalment will be in a month’s time.

For those of you who haven’t read Folkloric yet, the series can be found here. And the prequel novella eBook Folkloric Fae is available as my gift to you on subscribing to my mailing list.

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The Lucas Letters: an introduction

This is my way of giving you, lovely readers and newsletter subscribers, something extra—a little more of the Folkloric series once a month. The Lucas Letters are a sequence of communications between Lucas and various other people, written as he prepares to make contact with Camille, knowing she will be his partner as Keeper of the Bounds between the fae and human realms. They detail his side of things and feature exploits of his own, taking place in the period from before Folkloric Fae, the prequel, to the beginning of Folkloric, book one.

Why letters?

I’m aiming to do something fun and different whilst delving into the murky regions of Lucas’s head. I flirted with the idea of writing Lucas’s point of view out in full, but it didn’t quite fly, possibly because this is Camille’s story, but also because I want to focus on book six, Folkloric Devilry.

The letters can be read at any time

I’m doing my absolute best to avoid spoilers, so other than new material, there’s nothing in these letters that isn’t in the blurbs for book one and the prequel, other than a more detailed look at what’s going on in Lucas’s head at that time, so you should be safe reading at any point. A few characters who feature in later books do appear, but there are no spoilers as to the storylines.

To help the letters’ delivery…

As we don’t all have Slaughter to deliver things, I have to use my mailing list. Let me know you’re enjoying the content by clicking somewhere on the newsletter. This helps as deliverability of this kind of email depends on how many people open and click. So if you click something, anything, even a random link, it helps so much.

Without further ado, the first despatch…

The Lucas Letters: Despatch One

25^th January

My dearest Belomar,

Honeysuckle. That was the scent of her skin. Couteto in the old language.

Wild woodlands. Summer evenings.

I could sense her before I entered the café, and when I did, all I could do was draw her in, my sinews constricting, the monstrous part of me pressing at my fingertips, urging to unfurl, to take hold. Even now, while scribbling this, it is demanding everything I have not to submit to my own dark self, to expand into cord and muscle, to feel the power of what I hide so well rushing through my veins. But I will not allow my drac to form, not now.

Something is wrong. Seriously wrong.

Which is why I’m writing to you, my old friend. Not because I’ll send this. Of course, I won’t. But because something cursed is stirring within, something that has caused me to already snap two quills as I scratch this out, though I barely know why. It is unnatural to me, unexpected, unruly.

The snow flurrying at my apartment window, filling the Avenue de Camoëns and almost obscuring the Tour Eiffel on the other side of the rushing Seine, is usually a comforting sight, but today it is not. Neither is my reflection in the window. Too fierce, too intense, the arrogance others see in me unmistakable. My hair is a mess as usual, along with my stubble, all of it made stark in the glass by the encroaching dusk, a sign I need to grasp this situation firmly, to crush the life from it.

Belomar, all I can do is imagine we’re holed up in a camp deep in Fae, armoured and weaponed to the hilt, awaiting first engagement against some terrible foe. Knowing that we may not see another dawn has a way of loosening tongues and opening hearts. Indeed, I may have to write to you, or pay you a call if matters proceed further, but this is most definitely not that communication.

No, for now, I’m scraping this out as if I can scrape away everything that occurred in Tarascon yesterday because… it is impossible. In no comprehensible way does it make sense. In fact, it’s preposterous.

I returned to the town on the edge of the Pyrenees Mountains for the first time in many years. The towering foothills surrounding the valley were capped in snow that descended to cover the streets and houses, the Tour du Castella wearing a white cap. Tarascon had always been home to me, and the moment I entered the town, the notion rekindled with vigour.

I had no reason to doubt La Vieille. The old lady of the thread who winds the yarn of fate between her fingers is never wrong—she spins the knowledge of all that is upon her wheel. Of course, she had chosen the right Keeper partner for me. Her selections are infallible. The bonds she forges are the strongest.

I’m honoured to be offered the position of Keeper. Me, a drac. Thinking of it, a smile tugs at my lips. All I’ve done in recent years has been worth the effort. The assembly has placed its trust in me, and my posting to Tarascon after the current Keeper’s unfortunate ailment seemed a blessing.

Hence, without a backward glance, I have put everything in motion for my move to Tarascon. Yes, it was a high priority to meet Camille Amiel. I’ve studied her file thoroughly. On paper, she seems reasonably appropriate for the partnership. An amateur yet extremely committed folklorist with a well of knowledge, acceptable handling of a sword, a forthcoming personality.

I’d hoped to observe her before meeting with the town doctor, Hector Fournier, but the traffic from Paris had been hellish and I’d cut it fine. Once Hector and I had thrashed out the details for the sale of his practice upon his retirement, he invited me to Pyrenees Café, a short walk away, to sample the renowned patisserie. And as that is Camille Amiel’s workplace, I accepted without hesitation.

That is where I saw her smelt her first, her scent mingling with cocoa and bread and hazelnuts and coffee.

Unmistakable, sweet, fragrant honeysuckle.

I wore a glamour, so I’d be overlooked by those I didn’t address directly. It meant I could track her unhindered as she wove between the regulars and the parties of skiers heading further into the mountains.

Her face was bronzed a little by the winter sun, her hair tied back in a loose plait, escaped strands surrounding her forehead. And curses, if her figure in jeans and a jumper was all too apparent. Fit, strong, yet with substance. She is no waif.

Her dark eyes darted from cup to cup as she cleared tables, and there was a buoyancy about her, a lightness, a thoughtful attentiveness, her lips pursing as she contemplated thoughts I could almost hear. The softness of her nose belied the forcefulness of her gaze, which made me want to come up against her, to challenge her, to experience her extremes, her anger, her laughter, all that lay within.

As Hector covered some of the finer details of our arrangement, I tracked her as often as I could—as she tidied up, served behind the till, confronted a group of overconfident leches who were hassling her and the staff. She dealt with them by pouring hot coffee into one of their laps.

Even writing it down now, my middle shudders with mirth, hilarity rising from my depths, my fingers shaking around the quill to see their startled expressions.

I can certainly still laugh, for what is life without that?

And yes, it was clear she has gumption, but my trouble was, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, that accursed feeling I couldn’t identify stirring me, disconcerting to my depths.

Belomar, we have fought aside each other many a time. We have faced the worst of enemies, and I have held my ground. What’s more, I have kept my composure in the most dire of political situations. And there I was, in the presence of someone I was destined to partner, with whom I would likely develop a fervent bond of strictly platonic friendship, and I was… unhinged.

As written in the old lore, Keeper partners always constitute a male and a female, a fae and a human. They are specifically chosen because they feel nothing for each other on an intimate level. In fact, it is something La Vieille du Fil and the old lore prohibit. Yet despite all this, I could not drag my gaze from Camille, my body responding to her, my loins stirring.

I have to admit it, my friend, I was… I am physically attracted to the woman.

Damn it, I’ve just broken another quill, then roared at Slaughter who turned up unexpectedly to collect the mail. As always, the foot-high prehistoric Man of Bédeilhac stood his ground, grinning and swinging his axe.

Fuck, I need to relax. Because there has to be a mistake. How could it be anything else? So you can see my predicament, my friend. Camille Amiel cannot be my Keeper partner. I don’t know how it is possible, but La Vieille has made a grievous mistake, and something must be done.

LUCAS ROUSEAU: AMAZON’S RECOMMENDED TITLES FOR YOU

Dracs: A Study (A History of French Fae) by Professor Margo Joly

A fascinating overview of one of the most mysterious of European fae. Dracs are incubi and succubi said to haunt the edge of waterways. A vision of perfection in their human form, this is but a disguise of their hideous true shape. As such, they are said to have two faces, one mischievous and one wicked, the epitome of evil, known for luring people into rivers to their deaths. Renowned folklorist Professor Margo Joly explores the associated folklore of this intriguing fairy race.

The Hut, Charmant

By the hand of Slaughter

La Vieille,

I have had the opportunity to observe Camille Amiel in Tarascon, and I can tell you unequivocally, she cannot be my partner as Keeper of the Bounds. As much as it pains me to admit, I find myself having to quash inexplicable physical feelings for the woman, even on first observation. I understand you strictly prohibit such a thing as these sentiments are impossible in a Keeper relationship. I presume there has been a mistake. Please advise.

Lucas Rouseau

Status: SAVED TO DRAFT

To: FredericNoir@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

From: LucasRouseau@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

Subject: My resignation

Dearest Frederic,

We have discussed the likelihood of my resignation for some months now. I’m writing to convey that it is time for me to move on to other pastures. Working with Doctors Without Borders has been an honour, not only in Sudan but more recently our work together with refugees in Paris. I will miss the camaraderie greatly, as well as the numerous patients I’ve had the privilege to assist.

I’ve taken a small practice in Tarascon-sur-Ariège in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains and will be the sole doctor there. It is certainly a change of pace, but one I welcome. I am due to take my position on May 1st, so I am available to work until shortly before that date.

With much appreciation for all you and the organisation does, and particularly for the Paris team.

Best,

Lucas Rouseau

Thank you for reading! The next instalment will be in a month’s time.

For those of you who haven’t read Folkloric yet, the series can be found here. And the prequel novella eBook Folkloric Fae is available as my gift to you on subscribing to my mailing list.

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