Elfhame: A Dark Elf Fairy Tale/Beauty and the Beast Retelling (The Darkwood Chronicles Book 1)

by Anthea Sharp

  At the edge of the trees, three glowing motes bobbed up and down in greeting. Her steps sure, Mara strode under the whispering hemlocks, scarcely needing the glimglows to show her the way. The doorway pulled at her, and in a shorter time than she believed possible, she stood at the edge of the clearing.

  The standing stones rose against the stars—the familiar, beloved stars of her own world. She stared at them a moment, then stepped forward. There was no key in her pocket, no husband at her side to clasp her hand and link their powers.

  Only herself, Mara Geary, a girl who had, all her life, yearned for more. And when she’d gotten it, she’d foolishly thrown it aside.

  But deep in her belly was a wellspring of magic. And deep in her heart a shining love. Surely those would be enough to open the door.

  Closing her eyes, she reached for the power she knew dwelt inside. It shimmered and surged, just out of reach. She clenched her hand about her ring, and thought fiercely of Bran.

  For a moment she thought she touched her magic. She opened her eyes, and a blue spark shot from her hand to sizzle against the nearest stone.

  “Edro,” she cried aloud, praying she’d recalled the Rune correctly.

  The air between the stones wavered briefly, then faded again before she could take a single step. In that moment, though, she’d caught a glimpse of Bran lying in the clearing beneath the double moons, his eyes shut, his skin white as marble, his chest barely moving.

  Her heart squeezed tight with the knowledge that he’d been waiting for her. And she had not come in time.

  “No!” she yelled. The echo of it reverberated through the trees.

  An owl hooted in the distance. The glimglows darted frantically back and forth. The doorway did not open.

  On the other side of it, Bran lay dying.

  “Please,” she said, falling to her knees on the cool moss. She splayed her hand against the carved stone. “Please, open.”

  The air between the stones remained quiet and still.

  Grief cracked her open, hot tears spilling down her cheeks to splash on the ground. She had not realized how much Bran meant to her, and now it was too late.

  No.

  She refused to give up.

  She had not traveled twice through the doorway to let it defeat her a third time.

  Slowly, Mara stood. She stared at the stones, letting her determination rise, pushing every willful ounce of herself to the fore. Making a fist, she beat it against the stone.

  “Let me in.” Her hand kept time with the words.

  She said them louder. “Let me in!”

  And louder still. “LET ME IN!”

  The power sprang up from her belly in whoosh of blue flame. As it flowed from her to engulf the stones, she cried the Rune of Opening once more.

  The doorway shimmered. Without hesitating, Mara sprang through.

  The warm air of Elfhame wrapped around her as she scrambled forward, every sense focused on reaching the man who lay cold and still at the edge of the clearing.

  “Bran!” She dropped to her knees before him and grabbed his hand. His fingers were limp.

  Desperately, she laced their hands together, willing her magic to reach him, willing him to open his eyes.

  “Wake up,” she said, her throat clogged with emotion.

  He did not stir.

  “I need you, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor. I am your wife, your woman of the prophecy, and I command you to hear me!”

  A faint wind brushed the towering evergreen trees, but still Bran did not move. She placed her other hand on his cheek, as he had so often touched her. His skin was ice.

  Her heart was breaking into a thousand pieces.

  “Bran,” she whispered, leaning over him. “I love you.”

  She pressed her lips to his, a last kiss for the Hawthorne Prince. A tear dripped down her cheek and landed on his face.

  He flinched.

  She pulled back, hope stabbing through her.

  “I came back to Elfhame for you,” she said, “and I refuse to let you go so easily. Now you must come back to me.”

  Warmth kindled in her ring. She glanced down to see it glowing softly, calling an answering light from Bran’s.

  She kissed him again, and this time felt the faintest flutter of breath against her lips.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked. “I love you, you stupidly honorable man. How dare you come out here to die without me?”

  He drew in a ragged breath and slowly opened his eyes. “Mara?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Void,” he whispered. “It marked me. Sapped me. It is too late.”

  “It is not,” she said fiercely, holding up their linked hands. “Let me in, Bran.”

  “Too dangerous.” He closed his eyes.

  She pinched his arm, and he opened them again.

  “I’m strong enough,” she said. “And if I’m not, I’d rather die here with you than live the rest of my life—in any world—without you.”

  “You said… you love me.” Even in a whisper, she heard the surprise in his voice.

  “I do. I love you. It took me far too long to appreciate the man inside this hideous exterior.”

  He smiled weakly, which had been her goal, but still he held his magic back from hers.

  “Bran,” she said. “Please. Trust me.”

  He let out a long breath, then nodded once. “I do.”

  He always had, she realized. And somehow, she’d always known that his strength would be there for her. Now it was time to lend him hers.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Always,” she said, bracing herself.

  Bran opened his wellspring, and she shuddered at the coldness lacing itself through his power. But they had defeated the Void once, and they would do so again.

  Squeezing his hand tightly, she fought back, sending waves of heat through their connected rings. The Void resisted, pushing back with emptiness, loneliness, rejection.

  She countered with sunlight, family, and love. Boundless love. Love that would cross worlds to be together.

  Blue flame arced into the sky. Bran stiffened and let out a shout, and she felt the last of the coldness burn away.

  The light of their magic faded and she slumped over, her power a mere trickle. Bran reached, his arms encircling her, and pulled her to rest against him. She wrapped herself about him and laid her head on his chest. Beneath her ear his heart beat strongly, and she nearly wept again to hear it.

  “Did you know you were wounded, when you sent me back?” she asked softly.

  “I suspected. And the moment you went through the doorway, the Void took the opportunity to attack. I collapsed here, and only the faint hope that you might return kept me fighting for my life.”

  “I was almost too late.” Anguish for what might have been rose up in her.

  He smoothed her hair. “Shh. You came, and it was enough.”

  “I’m never leaving you again.”

  “Nor I you.”

  They lay there silently for some time, breaths matching, hearts beating in unison. The flowers glowed about them, and high overhead the pale moon chased the bright one across the sky.

  “Now what?” Mara finally asked, propping herself up on one elbow so she could see his face. His stern, terrifying, beloved face.

  He smiled at her, his violet eyes glowing with promises. “Now, my love, we have worlds to explore. Together.”

  She smiled back, then inched up to kiss him one more time. Her Hawthorne Prince. Her true love. She did not know how they would fit, mortal and Dark Elf—or in which world—but she trusted they would make their way.

  Together.

  This is the end of the book - but not of Bran and Mara’s adventures! Read on for an excerpt from HAWTHORNE, Book 2 in the Darkwood Trilogy, coming late summer 2018!

  Make sure you don’t miss the release announcement - subscribe to Anthea’s mailing list, and be sure to follow her at various online retailers and on Facebook as
well.

  HAWTHORNE Excerpt

  CHAPTER 1

  The twilight halls of the Hawthorne Court were filled with purple shadows and low whispers. The heir, Brannon Luthinor—along with his strange mortal bride—had disappeared three brightmoons ago, without a word to anyone in the court.

  Except his sister, Lady Anneth.

  Something was wrong—Anneth knew it deep in her bones. Knew it in the way the soft wind circled through the corridors. Knew it in how the glimglows had dimmed, the court gardens nearly abandoned, lit with only a handful of their bobbing, light-filled forms.

  Bran would never simply abandon Elfhame. Not after having defeated their ancient enemy and making the realm safe for the Dark Elves once more.

  As Anneth made her way to the dining room for luncheon, she heard the whispers of the court, twisting and sibilant through the corridors. Rumors that Bran had run away, now that he’d fulfilled his birth prophecy. That, or been murdered by the human girl he’d wed.

  Which was purely nonsense. Anneth knew the mortal, and the love between her and Bran was unmistakable, no matter much they both tried to deny it.

  But perhaps their stubbornness had been their undoing.

  Anneth stepped through the arched doorway to the dining hall, though her appetite had fled. She made her formal curtsey to the head table, where her parents sat, regal and uncaring. Well, her mother certainly seemed unconcerned, wearing her usual cold, remote expression. The Hawthorne Lord had a slight furrow in his brow that might mean he was worried about his son and heir.

  Or that his blackberry wine had soured.

  Anneth took a seat at a half-empty table. Glowing balls of silvery light hovered overhead, illuminating the brocade tablecloth and platters of food.

  Although the lord and lady presided, luncheon at court was an informal affair. Diners were free to summon whatever dish they wished from the kitchens, though most were content to eat the array of delicacies laid out.

  She took a slice of moonmelon and some cheese, and poured a small measure of wine into the silver goblet at her place. Though she might not feel hungry, she must eat something. The hazy worry inside her was clearing, leaving a purpose behind.

  She knew where Bran had gone. It was her task to go and attempt to find him. As soon as she finished eating—

  “I don’t understand how some people can eat in the face of this tragedy.” A high-pitched voice broke into Anneth’s thoughts.

  Before she could protest, an ornately dressed lady took the place beside her, glancing at Anneth’s plate with smug superiority.

  “Lady Mireleth,” Anneth said, offering no greeting of welcome.

  “For myself, wine and honey is the only thing I can stomach.” Mireleth let out a dramatic sigh. “Alas, Prince Brannon has abandoned us. That mortal woman he was forced to wed has lured him into her world. Or killed him with her treacherous human ways. Either way, we’ll never see him again. I suppose you’re next in line for the Hawthorn Throne, ill-suited as you might be.”

  The words sent a stab of panic through Anneth. Her, inherit the throne? Oh, stars forefend.

  “Bran will return,” she said. “And Mara too—you’ll see. They didn’t save Elfhame from destruction merely to abandon the realm. Besides, Bran is ever true to his duty.”

  “His duty.” Mireleth sniffed in disapproval. “Better that he’d honored the betrothal bond he made with me. Dark Elf blood should not be tainted by associating with mortals. If that human woman never returns, none will miss her. Good riddance, I say. But we need the Hawthorn Heir.”

  Anneth’s fingers tightened on the leaf-carved handle of her fork. Carefully, she set it down so that she would not stab Mireleth in the arm.

  “You know as well as I do that your betrothal to Bran was a sham. A ploy, concocted by our fathers to activate the prophecy. And it worked.”

  Mireleth turned a wounded look on her. “I’ve loved Brannon all my life! I would have married him in an instant. But no—he spurned me for that hideous mortal creature.”

  There was no reasoning with Mireleth. Though Anneth strongly suspected her “love” was far more a fondness for power and the title of Hawthorn Lady than any true affection for Bran.

  Anneth took a bite of melon, tasteless on her tongue, and forced herself to patience.

  “And now he’s abandoned us,” Mireleth said.

  Anneth half expected her to fall into a despairing swoon so that she could be the center of attention, but Mireleth showed remarkable self-restraint, settling for another melancholy sigh instead.

  “He’ll be back soon,” Anneth said, infusing her voice with a certainty she did not feel.

  “I hope he returns, for all our sakes,” Mireleth said. “What good is it to save the Hawthorn Court only to let it fall into disarray?”

  Anneth shot a quick glance at her parents at the head table. As long as Calithilon and his unyielding wife ruled, the court would be stable.

  But what if Bran never returned?

  She swallowed back the panic that tried to rise, hot and sickening, in her throat.

  Whatever had happened, the time had come for her to act. As soon as luncheon ended, she would pack a traveling bag, fetch food and supplies from the kitchen, and go out in search of her brother.

  Unlike him, she would leave a note, telling her family where she was bound; a place where the edges of the mortal world and Elfhame brushed up against one another, full of magic and dangerous mystery. A place her people called Erynvorn.

  The Darkwood.

  Make sure you don’t miss HAWTHORNE’S release announcement - subscribe to Anthea’s mailing list, and be sure to follow her at various online retailers and on Facebook as well.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my fabulous editor, Laurie, for catching chapters as I flung them at you, and keeping pace with me in a mad dash to the finish line. You are a treasure.

  Another big tip of the hat to Arran for the fine copy editing work and quick turn-around, not to mention cleaning up my semi-colon abuse.

  Special thanks to Jennifer Munswami for the gorgeous cover and chapter headings! Additional thanks to Sylvia Frost for picking up the print design and carrying the series forward.

  I’d like to acknowledge the work of Leonard and the wonderful folks who compiled Parf Edhellen, a free online dictionary of Tolkien’s languages. The Dark Elf language is deeply inspired by Sindarin, with many thanks to this excellent resource. https://www.elfdict.com/about.page

  And finally, this book wouldn’t exist without Scarlett Dawn and her extraordinary vision for the Skeleton Key book series. Thank you, Scarlett, for being an indie pioneer!

  Make sure to check out the books in the Skeleton Key Series:

  https://skeletonkeybookseries.com/

  Also by Anthea Sharp

  Have your read the USA Today bestselling FEYLAND series yet? The prequel novella, THE FIRST ADVENTURE, is FREE! Fae magic, high-tech gaming, and a touch of romance await~

  Feyland is the most immersive computer game ever designed, and Jennet Carter is the first to play the prototype. But she doesn’t suspect the virtual world is close enough to touch — or that she’ll be battling for her life against the Dark Queen of the faeries…

  ~ THE FEYLAND SERIES ~

  THE FIRST ADVENTURE - Prequel Novella

  THE DARK REALM - Book 1

  THE BRIGHT COURT - Book 2

  THE TWILIGHT KINGDOM - Book 3

  HOW TO BABYSIT A CHANGELING - 3.5

  SPARK - Book 4

  BREA’S TALE - 4.5

  ROYAL - Book 5

  MARNY - Book 6

  Trinket: A Feyland Tale

  ~ SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS ~

  Tales of Feyland & Faerie

  Tales of Music & Magic

  The Faerie Girl and Other Tales

  Stars & Steam

  Comets & Corsets

  Visit www.antheasharp.com for a complete book listing!

  About the Author

  ~
USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of Fantasy-flavored fiction ~

  Growing up on fairy tales and computer games, Anthea Sharp has melded the two in her award-winning, bestselling Feyland series, which has sold over 200k copies worldwide.

  In addition to the fae fantasy/cyberpunk mashup of Feyland, she also writes Victorian Spacepunk, and fantasy romance. Her books have won awards and topped bestseller lists, and garnered over a million reads at Wattpad. She’s frequently found hanging out on Amazon’s Top 100 Fantasy/SF author list. Her short fiction has appeared in Fiction River, DAW anthologies, The Future Chronicles, and Beyond The Stars: At Galaxy’s edge, as well as many other publications.

  Anthea lives in Southern California, where she writes, hangs out in virtual worlds, plays the fiddle with her Celtic band Fiddlehead, and spends time with her small-but-good family. Contact her at antheasharp@hotmail.com or visit her website – www.antheasharp.com

  Anthea also writes historical romance under the pen name Anthea Lawson. Find out about her acclaimed Victorian romantic adventure novels at www.anthealawson.com.

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  www.antheasharp.com