Most writers will probably tell you the same thing: not every chapter or scene survives the revision stage. For me, the hardest part of editing and revising a book is the infamous “kill your darlings” stage. As enjoyable as they were to write, not every scene pulls its weight in contributing to the plotline of a novel. Whether it’s a single line or an entire chapter, if it doesn’t serve the story, it’s time to commence the killing.
If you’re into bloopers and deleted scenes like I am, read on! Below you’ll find a deleted scene from BLOODBOUND REQUIEM, the first book in the Nightshade Network Chronicles. Though it hurt my heart to cut it out, hopefully you can still enjoy this little sneak peek into BLOODBOUND REQUIEM. Let me know what you think in the comments, or shoot me a message! Happy reading!
“We have positive confirmation on the identity of the victim found by the Nornir River.”
A voice from behind tore Varian Sharpe’s attention away from his notes. He glanced up to find Dreven Craft lingering in the doorway, a folder clutched between his scarred hands. Relatively new to the Realmguard Investigative Division, Craft always seemed a little unsure of everything he said. Varian tried hard to like the guy, but he sometimes wondered how the kid stumbled into a role with the Realmguard.
“Her brother identified the body,” Craft continued. “Her name was Charlotte Dumont. 23 years old. She served three years fighting on the frontlines before she moved back to Starfall to help her brother care for their aging parents.”
“Sad story,” Varian said without much inflection. Damn near every body he found came with a sob story. Varian had learned a long time ago that even the most reclusive of people didn’t exist within a bubble. Everyone had someone out there who cared. “Did the brother have any ideas on who might want to hurt her?”
Craft shook his head. “To his knowledge, everyone who met Charlotte loved her. Said she’s never had a cross word to say about anyone.”
Varian reached for the folder. He snatched it from Craft’s hands and flipped it open, scanning the pages inside for any mention of the most unsettling part of Charlotte Dumont’s crime scene. When he found nothing, he snapped the folder closed.
“Did her brother happen to mention a lover or romantic interest in her life?”
Craft’s brows furrowed. “He didn’t. Why?”
Varian thought back to the crime scene from earlier that morning. He had noticed the blood first, deep crimson spreading from the skull and staining the snow around the body like an ominous aura. The bruised and swollen face had made it difficult to distinguish any of the victim’s facial features. Whoever had attacked the woman had done their best to erase her very identity with violence.
And then there were the burns on her legs and feet. From the knees down, the girl’s pale flesh was blackened and charred. Though Varian didn’t see any visible blisters or burn marks, he had no doubt they would find them beneath the ash covering her skin.
“It looked personal,” Varian said. “Like someone had a lot of anger towards Charlotte, and once they started hitting her, they couldn’t stop.”
“Maybe. But what makes you assume it was a lover and not someone else in her life?”
“Trust me, kid. It’s always the husband or lover. We find him, we find our killer.”
Craft’s expression remained unconvinced. He crossed the room and sat at the desk next to Varian’s. “What about the burn marks on her body?”
Varian shook his head, still unsure what to make of that particular detail from the crime scene. The evidence collection team’s report indicated they found nothing at the scene to suggest a fire had taken place anywhere near the river. Though still waiting for the final report, it seemed probable that her death and disfiguration had taken place somewhere else. The river was a dump site, not a murder scene.
“We’ll know more once we locate the lover,” Varian said. “Did her brother happen to mention her work or home address? Maybe we can track down some of her friends and family. They might know who she was involved with before her death.”
Craft leaned over and flipped the folder on his desk open, pointing to the top sheet. “Home address, place of business, and a few shops and stalls he said she frequented.”
“Nice work.” Varian gave the parchment a quick once over. “Let’s start with the tavern. Maybe someone there will know how she spent her leisure time.”
They reached the Frosthelm Hearth Inn and Whispering Winds Tavern in the late afternoon. Streaks of pink and orange bled out into the sky above. Varian paused on the cobbled street in front of the twin establishments, the sturdy structures hewn from ancient timber. Smoke curled from the chimneys, the promise of warmth beckoning his feet forward.
A roar of laughter pierced Varian’s ears the moment they stepped through the threshold into Whispering Winds. Thick, warm air perfumed with honeyed mead and sweat surrounded him. Tattered banners adorned the walls, trophies from battles and wars fought in years prior.
Varian and Craft weaved their way through the mazes of tables and chairs to the intricately crafted wooden bar. A few patrons glanced their way, but no one’s interest held for longer than a few seconds. They waited by the bar for several minutes before the pleasantly curvy woman pouring drinks glanced their way.
“Can I get you gentlemen something?” She dabbed at the sweat collecting along her silvering hairline.
Varian screwed on his best charming smile. “I certainly hope so. A round for my friend and I, please.”
Craft shot him a quizzical look, but Varian ignored him. He would learn the rule of reciprocation in time. Less seasoned detectives had a tendency to assume their badge had the power to compel answers from suspects. But in Varian’s experience, the easiest way to get someone to talk was to ingratiate himself into their circles.
The woman returned with two glasses filled to the brim with golden amber liquid. She placed them on the bar in front of them and asked, “Anything else for ya?”
Varian thanked her and took a sip. “Out of curiosity, is Miss Charlotte around somewhere?”
The barmaid’s eyes narrowed. “Why? How do you know Charlotte?”
“Her brother is an old friend. We ran into him earlier this afternoon, so we thought we’d stop in and see Charlotte on the way home.”
The woman shook her head. “Charlotte never came to work this morning. Poor girl must have fallen under the weather.”
So news of Charlotte’s death hadn’t reached the tavern yet. He would have bet a week’s pay everyone in Starfall had already heard about the body found by the river. No one in the tavern seemed especially rattled by the news, but that didn’t surprise him. Their city was no stranger to death, natural or otherwise.
“Are you two close?” Craft asked, seeming to catch on.
“Not especially, but we work together most days. Charlotte mostly keeps to herself, though. I’ve always gotten the impression she’s rather shy.”
“Hmm.” Craft touched a finger to his lips. “I take it she didn’t share much about her life outside of work? Maybe she mentioned a lover or upcoming plans?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed again. “If you’re old friends of hers, shouldn’t you know better than I? Who are you two?”
Varian reached into his pocket and pulled out his Realmguard identification card and badge. Her eyes widened. She brought a hand to cover her open mouth, and Varian watched as she put the pieces together.
“Something’s happened to Charlotte?” she asked, voice choked.
“I’m sorry,” Varian said, “but yes. We’ve come in hopes of figuring out what.”
Tears pooled in the woman’s eyes. She steadied herself against the bar. “Can I ask what happened to her?”
Varian shook his head. Even if he had enough information to share, protocol prohibited releasing details of an ongoing investigation to anyone outside of the Investigative Division. But he tried to soften the blow by saying, “We don’t know much yet. We’re hoping to talk to someone who knows Charlotte well so we can piece together what happened to her.”
“I’ll help in any way I can.” She wiped her face on the sleeve of her dress. “Charlotte was a sweet girl.”
“What else can you tell us about her?” Varian pressed. “Any detail, no matter how insignificant, might help us figure out who hurt her.”
They talked with the barmaid until a shroud of darkness replaced the afternoon sun outside the tavern’s windows. The barmaid—Gisele, as she introduced herself—told them that to the best of her knowledge, Charlotte Dumot lived a quiet life. She spent her days pouring drinks and making polite conversation at the tavern, then stopped by her parents’ home to check in on them before returning to her own dwellings to rest. She spoke of few friends and even fewer men. When they paid their tab and left the tavern, Varian was no closer to answers than before.
“Let’s stop by her house before we call it a night,” Varian told Craft over the clatter of hooves against the cobblestone street nearby. “Gisele said it’s a short walk from here.”
The cobblestone streets of Starfall wound like serpents through the heart of the city, their path illuminated by the flicker of gaslamp torches that cast dancing shadows against the towering facades of the ancient buildings scattered throughout. Glimpses of the aurora danced overhead, bathing the city streets in an ethereal glow. Varian and Craft navigated the labyrinth alleys with practiced ease. Their boots echoed against the cobblestone as they made their way to Charlotte Dumot’s home.
They eventually arrived in front of a modest cottage nestled between two towering elm trees, its windows shuttered against the encroaching darkness. Ivy crept along its weathered walls, its tendrils reaching out like grasping fingers seeking purchase in the night. The scent of pine and earth hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of woodsmoke from the chimney of one of the nearby homes. The night around them seemed to hold its breath, the silence broken only by the mournful wail of the wind.
“How do we get in?” Craft asked. “I forgot to ask her brother if he had a spare key. Should we shoot it open?”
Varian didn’t hate the idea, but he shook his head. “Too loud.”
“Then I’ll assume smashing the door open is out, too.”
“Any other less violent suggestions?”
Craft shrugged. “We knock and ask the house nicely to let us in?”
“Pick the lock,” Varian said, stepping aside from the door to give Craft room to work. He could do it himself in half the time, but Craft needed the practice. The next person he shadowed on the job might not have as much patience with his greenness. “If that doesn’t work, we can smash it open.”
Craft rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes pinned on his too polished boots. “My kit is back at The Bastion on my desk. I didn’t realize I’d need it.”
Varian groaned. “It’s a mandatory part of your uniform for a reason.”
“Good thing you brought yours?” Craft flashed him a hopeful smile. “I’m sorry, Sharpe. It won’t ever happen again.”
Varian handed over his own lockpicking kit with a roll of his eyes. He stood back and watched as Craft’s fingers fumbled with the small button securing the worn leather sheath. He flipped it open and pulled out one of the slender rods, one end curved into a set of jagged teeth. Craft shoved the jagged end into the lock unceremoniously and twisted, his face scrunched in concentration. After a few minutes of labored breathing and frustrated grunts, the lock popped open with a subtle click.
“Got it!” Craft beamed like a proud schoolboy showing his father an impressively high grade on an assignment.
The door creaked open with a ghastly sigh as Varian and Craft stepped inside. Worn wooden floorboards groaned beneath their weight. A gust of wind slammed the door shut behind them, encasing them in darkness.
Varian struck a match and lit the three pillar candles resting in a brass candelabra on top of a small table near the door. The flickering glow illuminated a sparsely decorated but cozy space. Varian’s gaze swept over the room, committing each detail to memory.
A worn armchair sat by the hearth, its flattened cushion holding a thick wool blanket. A scattering of books adorned the shelves built into the walls, their spines cracked and weathered. The title on one, etched in silver script along the spine, caught Varian’s eye. He read it twice, half convinced his exhaustion was playing tricks on his mind.
Varian slid the book from the shelf. ‘CHILDREN OF THE GODS: SCRIPTURES AND RITUALS OF WORSHIP’ stared up at him in bold silver letters engraved into the cover. Craft glanced over and swore.
“Her name isn’t on the registry,” Craft said. “There’s no documentation of her having any aptitude for magic.”
“Doesn’t mean anything,” Varian said. “Her parents might have kept her abilities hidden from the crown.”
“It could be nothing,” Craft said. “Maybe Charlotte collected interesting books.”
“Maybe,” Varian agreed. “Let’s finish up here. We’ll arrange to meet with the family tomorrow.”
Nothing else in the small cottage caught their attention. They found no signs of forced entry or struggle, nor any visible signs of distress. No other arcane texts or artifacts appeared, no love letters or elaborate gifts from a potential suitor. They left as empty-handed as they had come, aside from the book tucked inside Varian’s coat.
Varian and Craft said their goodbyes outside the house, heading down the cobbled streets in opposite directions towards their respective residences. Varian found himself grateful for the separation, the alone time allowing his thoughts to spiral freely through the vague details of the case.
His trips to the tavern and Charlotte’s home had shaken his confidence in his initial theory about a murderous lover. Everything about the sparsely decorated cottage and Giselle’s descriptions left him with the impression that Charlotte had little interest in courtship. The crime still struck him as too much violent overkill for a stranger. But the more he learned about her, the harder he found it to imagine who might have wished her such a brutal end.
Varian shook his head as if he might physically shake Charlotte out of his thoughts. When the sun rose, he would visit her family and dig around for more clues about her private life. Craft’s explanation about the book’s presence in Charlotte’s home made perfect sense, but it still didn’t sit right with Varian. Why hold onto forbidden texts if she had no personal use for them?
Head full of questions, Varian made his way through the maze of narrow streets towards his home. Charlotte’s secrets wouldn’t die with her. Not if they had something to do with the abrupt end to her life.
