Just previewing a (second!) fanfiction I wrote for one of my zines, "A Collection of Langst Volume Two" in which proceeds are going to The Anti-Cruelty Society Charity -- a shelter and outreach program based in Chicago for dogs, cats, and other small pets.

Preorders for this are closing tomorrow, Monday, December 2, so if you'd like to pick up a copy and help me help puppies and kitties don't delay! You can preorder at my Bookshop (a BigCartel shop) or feel free to post below if you have any questions. I also have a Keith zine too that will also be benefiting The Anti-Cruelty Society also with a zine exclusive fic if that interests you as well. You can find more previews and more details on that fic and the other Lance zine fic on my Tumblr, icypantherwrites.

Enjoy the preview and snippet!

A Game Called Blood and Bones

Summary:

“You need someone to deliver your message and get the money, right?” Lance asked. “And someone to stay as your hostage?” He swallowed, eyes darting to Pidge. “Take… take me instead.”

The alien captain stared. And then he threw back his head and laughed. “You?” he came down from his mirth. “Why would we want you when we have her?”

“Because,” Lance kept his voice even. “I’ll… I’ll tell you all I know about the Blades. And, and the Coalition. Information goes for a lot, doesn’t it?”

Except… Lance doesn’t know any actual valuable information. And the aliens are not happy about that. Not happy at all.

Snippet:

“And what’s our game?” shouted one of the crew.

“Blood and bones!” came the booming response.

It became a chant that grew in intensity to where Lance could feel the vibrations through the floor.

Just when it was becoming too loud, too much, it cut off with a terrifying silence.

Lance decided he’d rather have the chanting back as he cracked open an eye to see Beard standing in front of him and the kitchen table next to him littered with kitchen utensils.

More knives from paring to a, a butcher cleaver.

Potato peeler.

Meat hammer.

Grater. 

Serving fork.

And a bunch more that Lance couldn’t place their purpose for the kitchen but he could take a stab (oh Dios, he did not just think that) at what they might be for.

“Here’s how this works,” Beard smirked. “I use one of these,” he held up the potato peeler, “on you. If it draws blood, it’s a point for blood. And if it breaks bone… you follow? And we keep going until you either tell me something I want to hear or until your little friend returns with my money.”

“Blood won last time, cap’n,” an alien supplied. “Sixteen to eight.”

“Well then,” Beard far too gently lifted the hem of Lance’s shirt up to place the peeler against his stomach.

Lance tasted bile in the back of his throat.

“Let’s start with blood.”