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tropes 'n details
- metal elemental magic
- action & adventure
- sweet romance (secondary to main storyline)
- set in London, UK
- full novel
- free gift with purchase
- written with co-author, Aaron D. Schneider
Guardians don't get a choice between dreams and duty. When something terrible stirs...duty calls.
With the help of her best friend Jackie and Uncle Irshad, her only remaining family, Ibby has rebuilt a normal life after the chaos of the year before when she discovered she was Inconquo––a metal-shaping, iron-slinging guardian.
But a normal life is too much to ask for someone wielding the power Ibby has.
When a secret society with sinister intentions returns to resurrect the original Inconquo, a bloodthirsty demi-god of mythic proportions...Ibby steps to the front lines. Stakes rise when she discovers treachery among her trusted peers and learns she’s not just fighting for herself and her family but everyone who has Inconquo blood running through their veins.
With so much on the line, Ibby looks for help wherever she can get it. When a hated enemy comes crashing back into her life, will Ibby make a deal with the devil in the hopes that she can stop the apocalyptic awakening?
Metal Guardian is the second book in the Rings of the Inconquo trilogy. If you like new twists on old myths, kickass women, and plenty of full-metal action, don't miss this exciting urban fantasy series!
Get lost in a story filled with thrills and elemental magic the way you've never seen it before. Witness the forging of a modern legend today...
Intro to Chapter One
Intro to Chapter One
I almost didn’t make it in time.
The oil on the skillet had been hissing at me for long enough, too long really, but I was busy trying to give Jackie instructions concerning the basbousa.
“You need to let the syrup soak into the cake before putting on the second layer,” I’d been saying before a soft crackle told me I had seconds before scorching another sheet of kisra.
Turning smartly, I scuttled to the electric griddle and used a small paddle to scrape the edges up before peeling the thin sheet of sorghum flatbread up in one stroke. Mindful of the hot sheen of oil clinging to the surface, I laid it out on the cooling rack. I frowned at the deeper brown colour of the sheet, more than one shade further from the golden hue I was going for, but I couldn’t be too picky. The stack of charred sheets in the rubbish bin was nearly as big as the stack beside the griddle.
Jackie had followed me into the kitchen, looking over her sinewy shoulder at the living room she’d spent the last hour and a half cleaning and primping.
“Let it soak and then put on a light layer,” she said with a nod. “Right, but where’d you put the syrup?”
“It’s on the stovetop.” I ladled out more batter for the next sheet of kisra intending to keep a sharp eye on it. “Slice a diamond pattern across it as soon as it comes out and then put the syrup on. Do it all while it’s warm; otherwise, it won’t soak properly. I put the instructions on the fridge.”
Jackie, my best friend and roommate for the past year, stuck out her lip in a mock pout as she took the one step required to reach the refrigerator and the recipe I’d scribbled across the memo board there.
“It’s almost like you don’t trust me, luv.” She crossed her arms. “You think I’ve never baked a cake before?”
I freed another sheet from the griddle and smiled at its golden finish before turning to Jackie, my expression flat as the kisra.
“The closest you’ve ever gotten to baking anything is watching The Great British Bake Off.”
For a second, the pout melted into a quivering expression of utter hurt, and I felt a tug of guilt. But the pained look vanished in a twinkle of milk chocolate eyes, and she grinned with childish mirth.
“Had you going!” She giggled and danced away as I flicked a dob of batter at her. “Oi! Not on my nice clothes. Wouldn’t want Uncle Iry thinking I’m a slob.”
Uncle Irshad was finally coming to live with us. Not for the first time this week the thought overwhelmed me with a giddy kind of shock. I bounced a little on the balls of my feet.
“As if,” I snorted as I scraped up and ladled out the very last of the batter. “You’ve been called many things, Jackie, some of them by me, but slob isn’t one of them.”
“Maybe, but my wardrobe is a lot more limited lately,” she huffed, tugging at the front of her blouse. “This is about all that fits me anymore.”
I spared a second from watching the flatbread cook to give my friend a once over.
It is amazing how slow and subtle changes can creep up on you. Jackie was still a tall, gorgeous young woman, the type that turns heads yet remains blissfully ignorant of how beautiful she is, but she’d added a stone of weight to her frame. And that stone was nothing but pure, bone-breaking muscle. In the space of a year, she’d gone from party-hopping knockout to amazon queen, and the difference was impressive. Her arms and legs corded with sinew, her shoulders distinct, ridges of muscle rippled down her stomach––she was strong enough to squat the back end of a lorry.