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Hello, lovely readers,

A small request to help The Lucas Letters get out into the world. Mailbox providers judge the health of newsletter emails particularly by how many folk engage with them. If there aren’t many clicks, newsletters are cast into the dungeons along with the scammers and bots (I really don’t want to go there. It’s not a nice place—worse than Grimmere dungeons). As there isn’t much to interact with in The Lucas Letters, if you could click on the little heart (something Substack provides to help with this) I’d be very grateful. This also lets me know that you want more of this kind of content. Or if you don’t wish to bestow a heart-shaped blessing, clicking one of the links at the bottom would be super.

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Karenza

The Lucas Letters: Despatch Four

LUCAS ROUSEAU: AMAZON’S RECOMMENDED TITLES FOR YOU

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

A detailed account of Camille Amiel’s perilous Keeper testing at the Chateau de la Lune. Perfect for reading before or at any time throughout the Folkloric series, it is a necessary 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

Appartement 5, 3ème étage

14 Avenue de Camoëns

75116 Paris

France

3rd February

Lucas,

I am writing in an official capacity as head of the assembly to convey our heartfelt congratulations that Camille Amiel was successful in her Keeper trial. In fact, considering the gruelling tasks you set that would’ve tested the most competent fae warrior, myself and the assembly are extremely pleased with the outcome. Camille has more than proved herself.

Please commence your relocation to Tarascon without delay, for Keepers are sorely needed there. Once you are moved, we will make provision for Camille to be given verity, so she becomes aware of the hidden world as soon as possible. She will require time to acclimatise before she is formally offered the position of Keeper and your partner.

Belomar Rei

High Elf King, Charmant

SLAUGHTER: DO NOT SEND

9^th February

My dearest Belomar,

It is done.

I cannot believe it.

I scrape my hands through my dishevelled hair, seeing the pitchy darkness in my eyes reflected just a little in the glass as another day dawns late. I cannot eat the croissant sitting on my desk. I have no appetite for it. For blood, perhaps. That would be satisfying. The pleasure of the kill, vitality seeping into me as I fed.

How I need something satisfying after Camille’s testing.

For she passed every devious, punishing trial that the Chateau de la Lune could extract from her subconscious—every trial I augmented, each as diabolical as possible. I’d walked a thin line, ensuring they were quite so extreme, for the testing was hardly fair at all and La Vieille’s threads of consequence might have wound tightly about my neck for it.

Yet still, Camille succeeded.

It was more than a pleasure to meet her for the first time in the uppermost tower of the chateau, this woman who drew me utterly. The moment was indescribable. She was both attracted to me and repelled, her pheromones a cacophony as she was drawn closer, her pulse responding to my proximity, her instincts screaming she was in a tower with a killer.

The heart knows what I truly am.

And her scent. There it was again. Honeysuckle. Couteto. There is something in it. Something I cannot name. It drove me wild, though I forced myself not to show it.

I was tempted to use my incubus influence on her, more tempted than I’ve ever been to will a creature to me, to feel her skin under my touch, to brush my fingers over her fluttering pulse, to taste her, to savour her in so many ways. It took all my might to resist, for that is not me. I will not use such treacherous means to gain the proximity of another.

Never. I have sworn it.

Fickleturn did an acceptable job of overseeing the trials. The fact that Camille managed to work around her own nightmares to target him instead showed extreme strength of character.

There was an unforeseen setback in the form of one of Näis’s servants showing up and aiding Camille. The water nymph has had it in for me for years since I jilted her daughter. She must have heard of Camille’s trial and my intention for her to fail, no doubt from Fickleturn whose mouth is a thing of legend, especially if the price for information is right. But seeing how Camille handled the rest of the obstacles, I have a feeling that if she had not received assistance, she would’ve overcome anyway.

She is intelligent, resourceful, utterly wilful.

And… I am speechless… dumbfounded…

So much so that it has taken me more than a week to arrive at the point of writing, of processing through my pen. A week in which I worked, I paced, I swam in the Seine, I stared for hours at the fucking wall, my disbelief a physical thing chaining me, not allowing me to move on, the events replaying over and again.

All the while Slaughter recounted every single detail at the chateau repeatedly to the small band of Men who generally reside in my apartment and are never far away. Even now, he is at it.

‘Did you see her, Blather?’ His eyes sparkle and his hand-sewn skin jerkin and trousers ruck up as he gestures wildly, barely reaching halfway to the table under which he’s camped. ‘The boss set up the most devious of traps. I told him he was right cruel to do that to anyone, let alone the woman who might become his partner. But no, he wouldn’t be told. And then she went straight for Fickleturn’s weak spot. You should have seen her.’ His grin was so wide it almost split his face. ‘And you know what? She used it against the boss. She got him back.’

The lot of them break out in laughter.

Blather is holding his belly, he’s howling so much. ‘The surprise on his face when she got Fickleturn to tie him up,’ he manages.

My fingers tighten around my quill at that. For a moment, she’d had me.

‘Serves the gov right for putting her through hell.’ Slaughter shakes his head. ‘Such a nice girl, she is.’

I roar at them all, then, the lot of them launching into the air and laughing once more.

For heaven’s sake, if they want to go over it again, why the hell do they have to do it near me? I will have their hides for it if they don’t let up soon.

Damn Slaughter and the lot of them for bringing that moment back.

All I could think of, then and for days after, was what part of her augmented me and what part of me augmented her, as is the way with Keeper partnerships. They form the closest of platonic bonds. There are traits in both that complement the other in the most striking of ways. I laugh, staring out at the grey street beyond the windowpane. It’s incomprehensible that the woman who draws me so is also my Keeper match. There are never amorous partnerships, for then the bond is too intense to bear.

And since the day of her achievement, the snow has melted all over France, as if it were not able to withstand her warmth, her fire, her accomplishment.

She called me sick, loathsome, despicable, a beast for pitting her against such foe. She is more right than she knows. I am all those things and more. I am a nightmare worse than any she could’ve faced in the chateau. She went for my mask. She was intrigued, wanted to know who hid beneath, tormenting her so. I promised to show her exactly what I am.

She will see.

Her victory confirms it. Despite all my efforts, she is to be my partner.

Taking up the role of Keeper is too important for me to refuse. Too essential to Fae. She has passed the testing, and there is not one single thing I can do about it. To come up against it would be to come up against fate itself.

Though I have to admit, I will be glad to return to Tarascon. I have always felt at home there.

And all I can think to do is to harden myself against Camille, against everything that draws me. I will steel my soul. I will refuse to think of her scent, her curves, her strength.

Complete impartiality is required. I will quash my physical responses, never act upon them. I have spent my life tempering myself. It will be but little more effort.

She will not defeat me. The assembly and La Vieille will have their platonic partnership.

I will make preparations for my relocation immediately.

SLAUGHTER: SEND THIS ONE

Belomar Rei, High Elf King, Charmant

By the hand of Slaughter

11^th February

Belomar,

I have to admit, I did not think Camille Amiel would pass the testing. But resigned to the outcome, I’ve already begun my relocation. I expect to take up my role in Tarascon on May 1^st. Do not make arrangements for Camille’s introduction to the hidden world. The administering of verity and the transition are fraught with complications. It makes sense that, with my medical training, I oversee the transition.

Lucas

Status: SENT

To: FredericNoir@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

From: LucasRouseau@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

Subject: My resignation

Date: 11^th February

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 in 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’m due to take my position on May 1st, so I’m available to work until shortly before then.

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

Best,

Lucas Rouseau

Status: SENT

To: HectorFournier@CabinetMedicalTarascon.fr

From: LucasRouseau@gmail.fr

Subject: Practice transferral

Date: 11^th February

Dear Hector,

The matters delaying me have now resolved. The documents for the transfer of your practice into my hands are signed. They will be with you in the morning’s post, and the financial side will be settled imminently. I look forward to relocating and my couple of weeks’ induction at the beginning of May. Working together briefly will be a privilege as well as the ideal opportunity to become acquainted with the townsfolk.

Best,

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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Find the previous despatches here

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The Lucas Letters: Despatch Three

Appartement 5, 3ème étage

14 Avenue de Camoëns

75116 Paris

France

27^th January

Lucas,

It is good to hear from you, my friend. And yes, you are right. We must drink together again very soon. You well know, my obligations presently keep me in Charmant. Therefore, I am relying on you to make this happen imminently.

As for the Chateau de la Lune, it is yours on the full moon. Be warned though, Fickleturn is currently appointed there. The goblin’s mandatory service is due to his latest double dealings. Slippery as he is, his transgressions were borderline and not fitting a more severe punishment. Avail yourself of him as you see fit. As much as I despise his underhand ways, he is competent and will not cheat me—nor consequently you—as he understands full well that the dungeon awaits.

I have to say, I was surprised to hear of your doubts concerning Camille Amiel. Know that the assembly, myself included, have considered the matter of your Keeper partnership long and hard, guided by the ever-wise counsel of La Vieille. The match appears extremely promising, auspicious even. For that reason, I hope most dearly that the testing goes well and your concerns are assuaged.

Belomar

Status: SENT

To: LucasRouseau@gmail.fr

From: HectorFournier@CabinetMedicalTarascon.fr

Date: 29 January

Subject: Practice transferral

Dear Lucas,

Touching base as I haven’t heard from you for a few days. I believe the majority of the paperwork has been sent. Could you confirm you have received it? My solicitor and I await your signature on a couple of documents before we may proceed.

Looking forward to hearing from you,

Hector

Dr Hector Fournier

Médecin généraliste

Cabinet Médical Tarascon

1096 E9, 09400 Tarascon-sur-Ariège

Tél. : 05 61 05 47 82

Courriel : HectorFournier@CabinetMedicalTarascon.fr

RPPS : 10100456789

Ce message et ses pièces jointes sont confidentiels et destinés à la

personne à laquelle ils sont adressés. Si vous avez reçu ce message par

erreur, merci de le détruire et d’en avertir l’expéditeur.

Status: SENT

To: HectorFournier@CabinetMedicalTarascon.fr

From: LucasRouseau@gmail.fr

Subject: Practice transferral

Date: 29 January

Dear Hector,

Apologies for the delayed reply. Your documents have arrived. However, there are a few matters concerning my move to Tarascon that must be dealt with before signing. I’ll update you in a few days.

Best,

Lucas

SLAUGHTER: DO NOT SEND

30^th January

Dearest Belomar,

It was a pleasure to receive your reply the other day and to make contact with the real you rather than these imagined communications that are nothing more than screwed-up conversations with my own dark self.

Though I have to admit, it was more than a little disturbing to read of your confidence in my partnership with Camille Amiel, when the pairing is clearly not at all appropriate. Moreover, it is inconceivable. But the testing will settle the matter in your mind as well as in mine.

I am certain she will fail, and because of it, today I write calmly. My scrawl is almost legible for once. There is no need for me to concern myself with thoughts of the woman any longer, for she will not be a part of my life. No doubt a more suitable candidate will be appointed in her place, and the affair will be concluded speedily.

I’ve not returned to Tarascon since the night I succumbed to my drac. I wince now, thinking of how I was subject to my own physicality. In all my years of restraint, rarely have I been unable to control myself. But today, though the snow still dresses Paris in white and the Seine is leaden, the sun streams through the window. It gives me hope—no, surety—that there is an unhindered way forward.

The Chateau de la Lune is prepared. I have cast the most potent colludes, using rare herbs to ensure they augment the chateau’s powers. Being within its phantasmal walls once more has been curious. The vestiges of the millennia-old dark elves’ exploitation of humanity hang about it. The subjugation attempt to infiltrate mortals’ sleep could not be allowed to continue, yet because of their designs, it is the perfect testing ground for Keepers.

It fascinates me how the place possesses the power to draw the darkest fears from a candidate and project them into their dreams, whilst at the same time giving the overseer access to that selfsame mind. And I confess, darkness stirred up a little within while I made the preparations, old memories I fought hard to resist. I will be glad when the chateau has its attention fully upon Camille Amiel. The experience of being confronted with her worst nightmares will be too all-consuming, for there is always darkness within that we cannot face.

Perhaps you would chide me for this, Belomar. Actually, I know you would. But if you had seen the turmoil the woman stoked, you would understand—likely after laughing to your belly.

That scum Fickleturn is not pleased at having to work with me. Not that he is ever pleased at much. But he is adept at what he turns his oily hands to, and I have no doubt he won’t betray me with the threat of the dungeon looming. To ensure that he does his best most diabolical handiwork in condemning Camille, I have given him a not inconsiderable amount of gold, and promised more on completion, when Camille fails.

Perhaps she deserves a fair trial, but I won’t allow that to gnaw at me, for I cannot risk her success.

My only present regret is that I’m messing Hector Fournier around. It’s unlikely another suitable partner will be found in Tarascon, and I will be posted elsewhere, though the place is in need of Keepers. The paperwork is well underway for the transfer of his practice. I will have to let him down, something I’m averse to doing. He’s a good man, and a part of me longs to return to Tarascon.

Oh, and there is yet another thorn in my side. Slaughter and the Men.

Not only were they protesting about having to dress up as fluffy black sarramaucas, the disguises Fickleturn found for them for the concealing of our fae natures, but Slaughter, speaking on the behalf of the whole goddamned lot of them, insisted that it isn’t right that I go so hard on Camille, asserting that it’s not my place to interfere with what La Vieille has decreed, and he is convinced no good will come of it.

Ridiculous.

So displeased were they, one might think they’d leave me to it. But no, still they insist on sticking to my side, their cusses and grumbles causing me a grievous headache.

I resorted to ordering a large platter of cream patisserie. The Men are strong and fearless, but even they are unable to resist such things. Slaughter and a few of them are now cream-drunk, comatose and snoring on the rug before the fire. The rest of them are back in their cave doing the same. The stuff puts them out better than ten barrels of scrapelather ever could. I will have peace until tonight when the testing begins.

Whoever said I resort to underhand means?

But curses there are plenty of them, and the patisserie bill was not inconsequential.

No doubt next time I write to you to myself, it will be with great relief that I detail Camille’s failure and all that has taken place in the Chateau de la Lune.

It will be a pleasure to bring this affair to an end.

Status: SENT

To: FredericNoir@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

From: LucasRouseau@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

Date: 29^th January

Subject: Immediate leave request

Dear Frederic,

I require leave from the 30^th January to 3^rd February. Apologies for the late notice, but a personal matter has come up. I understand there are enough staff to cover me at that time, though I hope this is not putting the team to too much inconvenience.

Best,

Lucas

Status: SENT

To: LucasRouseau@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

From: FredericNoir@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

Date: 29^th January

Subject: Immediate leave request

Dear Lucas,

Granted. And it’s not at all an inconvenience. It’s hard to stop you working. I believe MSF owes you about six months’ vacation at this point. We’ll catch up when you return.

Best,

Frederic

The events that take place in the Chateau de la Lune are detailed in Folkloric Fae (A Prequel Novella to the Folkloric Series), if you want all the details. Available free by signing up to my newsletter here.)

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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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

NB: This message may be truncated due to length. If so, click read entire message.

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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