Trickster’s Hunt Read online

  Trickster’s Hunt

  Three Tricksters Book One

  Carrie Whitethorne

  Kel Carpenter

  Contents

  A Note from the Editor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  9. Silas

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  12. Rhett

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  15. Silas

  Chapter 16

  17. Amos

  Chapter 18

  19. Rhett

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  23. Rhett

  24. Amos

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  29. Rhett

  30. Amos

  31. Silas

  Also By Carrie Whitethorne

  Also By Kel Carpenter

  About the Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Coming Soon

  Trickster’s Hunt

  Carrie Whitethorne

  Published by Carrie Whitethorne

  Copyright © 2018, Carrie Whitethorne

  Edited by Analisa Denny

  Cover Art by Fiona Jayde

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to all you gorgeous bitches.

  May the cocks be hard and the breakfast cooked by someone else.

  In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.

  Terry Pratchett

  A Note from the Editor

  The spellings and phrases used in this book may look strange at times to American readers.

  As Trickster’s Hunt is co-written with a British author, our colourful main character is British, and the story is set in, you guessed it, Britain, we felt it appropriate and have chosen to adhere to British English.

  Mostly.

  ~A

  1

  I want to make it perfectly clear that I don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or prophesies, or people being special. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t. I was just Maia. I was antisocial, ate too much, and drank on occasion. I’d had an average upbringing, if a bit different, in an average town just outside of Manchester. I did normal kid stuff, normal teenager stuff, and grew up to be a normal human.

  Okay, so my job was a bit different. I was different, but I wasn’t exceptional in any way other than I could eat my bodyweight in any given food and not throw up. And I attracted men who were bad for me, who didn’t care about me, who wanted to change me, and I’d just about had my fill of that. So when my best friend, Adam, suggested signing me up to a dating site, I laughed in his face.

  “Yeah, let’s trawl through the millions of weirdoes on Tinder to discover what we already knew. Men hate me.”

  “I love you to bits and I’m a man.”

  “You’re the exception. In every way.”

  He ignored me, tapping away at my laptop. He’d finished eating his Chinese takeaway a good ten minutes before, but I was still ploughing through mine. I liked to eat in courses, so the plate of starters had left me behind. Deep fried wontons, wings, ribs, prawn toast, crab claws, butterflied prawns, and spring rolls were a lot to get through.

  “Okay. Describe yourself.”

  I shovelled another fork full of chow mein into my mouth while I thought of an answer. It isn’t exactly easy, describing yourself. You either come off as self-hating or narcissistic. I’m neither, but there were still no right answers, but hundreds of wrong ones.

  “Blonde, mid-height, slim. Enjoys stuffing her face, shagging, days out, and time spent watching daytime TV with lazy dog. Self-confessed fag hag, no homophobes please, looking for companionship and fulfilling sex life with right man.”

  “No.” He started typing again.

  I pointed my fork at him. “Add no dirty, shagging, lying bastards.”

  “No.”

  I scraped every last noodle from the plate into my mouth, then put it on the floor and joined him on the sofa. Every time I tried to look over his shoulder he shrugged me away, and I sat back with a sigh as Bruno ambled into the room.

  Adam clicked his tongue and looked over at my empty plate and the huge, slobbering Mastiff licking at it so thoroughly I was sure he would take the glaze from it. “Will you stop him?”

  “Why? It’s going in the dishwasher. Leave him alone.”

  “I don’t know how I’ve survived living here. You’re both disgusting.”

  Nudging his hip with my foot I grinned at him. “You could always go home to your mum.”

  Adam’s mum was wonderful, but involved. Every time Adam met a new guy, she was on it. When she took him breakfast in bed after a wild night, it was the last straw, and he invited himself to live with me. Well, that’s almost how it happened.

  “Go and fuck yourself. Okay. ‘I enjoy weekends away, eating out, and having fun. This all happens with work and I get to bring friends since I’m a competitive eater for a living. Perks. I eat a lot. Like loads, just a heads up. Feel free to check out my social media here.’ I’ve linked that so they can see you in action and see that just because you eat like a pig doesn’t mean you look like one. I chose that pic of you that day in Blackpool. The one on the tower? The sun brought out your freckles, and you’re laughing. Everyone loves your laugh smile.”

  I was kind of impressed. He’d taken the stuff that people hated about me and turned it into a positive. Well, not people. Exes. Wankers who didn’t deserve my time or thoughts. But that one fucker had taken up over six months of my life without even being part of it. “Do what you want. I won’t get a date anyway. I never do.”

  He frowned at me and reached out a hand to squeeze my knee. “You would if you’d let anyone in, Mai. They won’t all fuck you over. You’re only twenty, for fuck’s sake. You can’t live a life of celibacy.”

  I watched him click the upload button. Maybe it was time to get back into it. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? I didn’t want marriage. I just wanted someone to enjoy shit with. Adam couldn’t hold my hand forever. He had his own love life to handle. “Whatever. They’re all gonna swipe left. And I’m still nineteen. Don’t put years on me.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  I kissed his cheek. “I’m going to bed. Get me up. We can’t miss the train to Leeds tomorrow. It’s my first quarter and I know for a fact I can at least get a semi.”

  “There’s an innuendo in there somewhere.” He kissed me back, leaving my cheek wet. “Sleep well, sweetheart. I’ll sort Bruno.”

  I smiled and clambered from the sofa, rubbing the now sleeping dog on the head as I left the room.

  Maybe dating again wouldn’t
be that bad. God knew I needed some.

  As the last bit of food slid down my throat, I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes. It wouldn’t last long, that over-full-could-probably-vomit-if-I-moved-wrong feeling. Five, ten minutes? No more than that. It didn’t happen often, so this had been a challenge and a half. I didn’t mind. I’d eaten worse.

  Well, not worse. The establishments sponsoring these contests always served the best, even though most of it would be cold before I got through it. I can’t say I enjoyed the last third of anything I’d ever stuffed down myself. I didn’t do this for enjoyment of food. I did this to feel full, and I never really felt full without spending a fortune. I mean, I can eat. And eat. Doctors says there's nothing wrong with me, apparently, if you count having a bottomless pit for a stomach and the metabolism of a hummingbird as being entirely normal.

  So here I am: stuffing my face and getting paid for it.

  The crowd was cheering and chanting my name. I zoned in on Adam, dutifully recording the whole event. I had to stay there and pass the fifteen-minute barf test, but he’d be pushing past the crowd after two so he could congratulate me. He always did. They knew I wouldn’t part with any. I never, ever threw up.

  That’s why they loved watching, awestruck at the tiny eight stone blonde who would out-eat the guys four times her size, then sit back and smile while they turned green. It didn’t matter how many times they witnessed it, and there were more than a few familiar faces in that crowd. They were always shocked.

  “You’ve done it, you greedy bitch. Semi-final!”

  His kiss was hard and wet, and I raised my arm to stroke the side of his face. “London, it is.”

  “Is it expenses paid?”

  Cheeky bastard was expecting to come with me.

  “Yep, in two weeks.”

  “I’ll dust off the Visa. Where will we be staying?”

  I rolled my eyes. Not that he presumed to be the one accompanying me. Out of my social group of five people, there was no one else I could stand to share a hotel room with. What bothered me was that meant he was planning on hitting Westwood and Chanel at the very least, and I’d still have to do the customary tour of fucking Harrods.

  I closed my eyes again as the over-full sensation began to ebb, wondering if it would be in poor taste to order a dessert.

  “The Belgravia…no…it began with a B…oh, I don’t know. I’ll check it later.”

  “Can you go yet?”

  And his concentration had gone. Bless him. He was supportive, but when it was done, he had to be off. I felt the same, but rules are rules.

  The adjudicator caught his bored, roaming eye. “Urgh. Really. Does Captain Birdseye have to stare at you like that?”

  I smirked and gave the guy a wave. He hated me, I was sure. Not that he set my nerves jangling or anything. Some people made me feel uneasy, like I couldn’t trust them, but not him. He was just unfriendly. Never a smile, never a hello, but he always spent that final fifteen scrutinising me from under his bushy eyebrows. His chubby chops were hidden beneath his white beard, but I could see his jowls wobbling when he shook his head in answer to a question another judge had muttered. He didn’t look away from me, determined to catch me gagging and swallowing down anything that forced its way back up my oesophagus.

  Not today, Cap’n. I had it in the bag. I was London bound.

  Leeds was always a good night out. Not too far from home and a large student population meaning there were plenty of chain bars and clubs to visit. Adam was in his element, gyrating on the dance floor, three sheets to the wind. I’d stuck to soft drinks. No point paying for alcohol unless I wanted to enjoy the taste of it. Bloody metabolism. Not that I needed a drink. I needed my bed. I was exhausted. The experience of roaming the city and watching Adam shop had drained me entirely, adding the competition to the mix…well…

  Not the eating. That was one of my favourite past times, but the ceremony. The whole show just wore me out. I preferred my smaller challenges. The ones I chose that were just me, Adam, and the camcorder, but they didn’t pay big chunks of money in one go, or send us on expenses paid weekends away. They required editing and work, then I had to upload them to all the current social media sites and reply to comments, keeping in touch with fans. It was constant, but it wasn’t as bad as these contests.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket I checked the time. No wonder I was dying. It was gone midnight. We’d been up and out for six the previous morning, having to sign in to the competition by ten, filling in paperwork, and posing for photos with the local press.

  Judging by his body language, Adam wouldn’t be rejoining me any time soon. Whoever he was dancing with was demanding his full attention and, well, Addie was a pleaser. I text him and picked up my bag, keeping my phone in my hand.

  Our hotel wasn’t far from the club. We’d chosen it deliberately. Cheap. Cheerful. Central. I just had to hope Adam didn’t bring his friend back.

  The streets were teeming with people, and I made a point of sticking to well-lit areas. I wasn’t jumpy or anything like that; just aware of those around me. Especially when I was wearing this dress, heels I could barely move in, and was walking alone. I loved the dress, and usually I felt amazing wearing it, but alone in a strange city? The open side detail that exposed my right hip attracted attention. They were all wasted. Groups of them singing, swaying, and shouting.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed a little black cat darting up the middle of the road. Poor little thing looked terrified, but it stayed in the road seeming to keep pace with me.

  I crossed the road, coming close to it as it stopped to watch me pass. It puzzled me, but not enough for me to stop as I hopped up onto the pavement and turned left down the road that my hotel was on.

  When I reached the front door, I opened my bag and rummaged for the key card before reaching for the handle. I heard a loud purr and paused, looking down.

  “You should be at home.”

  I crouched to pet the cat. It was friendly enough. Probably looking for food, I decided, as it rubbed his face against my thigh. It rubbed and rubbed, turning in circles as I stroked down its back. “If my dog smells you on my clothes tomorrow, he’ll have a fit. Go on home.”

  It stopped, facing my side, and pressed its nose against my skin. I gave it a little scratch behind the ear before pushing up to my full height. All five feet and nine inches of it, thanks to the heels. “Go on, you can’t come in here, and I’ve nothing for you.”

  Its eyes narrowed before it turned and sauntered away, tail in the air. I shook my head, opening the hotel door, relieved to be in off the street. The foyer was brightly lit, and there was no one at the front desk as I passed, making for the door to the lower floor rooms. Ours was second on the right, and I was kicking off my shoes before I’d even unlocked the door.

  The huge bed was calling me, and I could have happily flopped down on it and passed out if I didn’t have Adam to think about. By the time he got back, I’d be in a coma and he wouldn’t be long after me, but I always made a point of being properly dressed for bed when we were sharing. So I grabbed a pair of pjs from my bag and threw them on before giving my teeth a quick brush and combing out my hair.

  As I jumped into bed and turned out the light, I smiled to myself. Of course, being crowned champion wasn’t a massive achievement. Everyone could eat. But it would be nice to have a title. Few people could boast the ability to gobble fifty hotdogs or a twenty-pound steak. Certainly not women of my stature. And who knew? If I could win this, I could get to visit the states and stuff my face there, too. Adam would love that. He’d quit his job to join me for that.

  My phone beeped. Looking down at the screen, a grin spread across my face and I rolled over to turn on the light.

  Hastily replying with, “Do I want pizza? Do bears shit in the woods?” I dangled over the edge of the bed to pull out his sleep shorts and sat myself upright.

  He was good to me. I could suffer shopping in London. He was worth the pain.r />
  2

  Sprawled on the sofa, I stuck my hand into the bag and tossed a tortilla chip at my faithful old friend. “That’s your last one, mind. The salt isn’t good for you.”

  He looked at me, a shoestring of drool hanging from each corner of his huge, droopy mouth.

  “You’ve got a bit of…yeah, never mind.” I looked back at the TV and reached back into the bag, feeding myself this time. I noticed his head tilt and he grumbled at me.

  “I said no, Bruno.”

  Another grumble. Another rustle of the bag.

  He caught the chip expertly and I cringed as a glob of drool separated from his face and landed with a splat on the laminate and on the wall.

  Moving as little as possible, I reached for a wet wipe, threw it down on the floor, and stretched uncomfortably with one leg out to rub at the offending slick. I’d get the wall later.

  “Don’t go to too much trouble,” Adam said, coming to my aid. He stuck the bowls of salsa and vegetable sticks he was carrying on the coffee table and cleaned the mess before returning to the kitchen. I heard the bin lid slam and the taps run.

  “Isn’t there some sort of procedure to stop that? Like when they sever a nerve in our ribcage to stop people sweating like warthogs?” he asked, curling up on the sofa by my feet. “Here. Have a carrot stick.”