Wizard hunter.
In my Clandestine Magic books, set in an America run by wizards, that's the disparaging term for a certain type of young woman.
One trying to marry into the ruling class.
I had a lot of fun writing a story from the perspective of an unusual wizard hunter: Pen Novak, who needs to marry on short notice to avoid being shunted to her awful uncle after her father dies. Her town's omnimancer seems like her only choice because he's going to pick someone imminently (at a dance, no less, very Cinderella).
But as she spends time with his assistant, she starts to fall for that intriguing man instead. Against her better judgment. Because surely it's a bad sign that he won't tell her his name ...
So that's the premise. I wrote the story for a fantasy romance anthology, and I'm adding a couple additional scenes as I prepare to eventually release it on its own.
And because one of those scenes works whether you read the original story or not, I wanted to share it with you. Here it is:
Pen caught the hint of it as they finished distributing medicinal brews to elderly residents—the buzz of indistinct sound that implied a crowd in the distance.
For an instant, she thought of suggesting they go see what it was.
But no: She should be trying to get them back to the house. Omnimancer Porten could have returned while they were out, and she was in no position to satisfy idle curiosity.
Or extend a pleasant walk with the omnimancer’s assistant.
The not-quite-spring air rippled the crimson coat he wore, as outmoded as his frock coat underneath but just as striking on him. He swung one of the empty baskets in time with his stride—the other was tucked in the crook of her arm—and turned to her with his expressive lips curving into a smile. “Oh, hear that? Do you know what it is?”
He had the look of a man in possession of a secret he might tell you, if you made it worth his while. Ideas crossed her mind, unbidden and utterly inappropriate.
She stomped them out like sparks that could easily become a raging fire.
“No, I don’t know,” she said. “Shall I guess?”
He made a go-ahead gesture with his free hand. (She wanted to slip her hand into his. To feel the pads of his fingers ghosting down her bare skin and—stop, stop, stop.)
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