by Tasha Black
Whatever needed to happen with Tabitha, he found himself feeling very certain it could be arranged.
He would do whatever needed to be done for his queen.
13
Tabitha
Tabitha awoke to the sensation of warm sunlight on her skin.
She stretched and felt strong arms around her.
Oh.
The events of last night came rushing back, and she opened her eyes and turned in his arms to look at Tristan.
The light king was reclined beside her, his flawless tawny skin practically glowing in the dawn light. His golden hair was spread out on the pillow, and one brawny arm lay across his face. The other was locked around Tabitha.
He was larger than life, too beautiful to be real.
I’m living in a freaking fairy tale, she thought to herself.
Suddenly realization hit her like an anvil hitting a cartoon coyote.
The story she had read about the banshee, it wasn’t in the files at the museum. It wasn’t in a reference book at all.
It was in one of her fairytale books from childhood.
That book had never been her favorite. It was a dry little volume put together by a local storyteller. The only drawings were simple pen and ink, which was why she hadn’t remembered at first that the story was in a book at all.
She slipped out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom to freshen up and shower.
Under the hot, pounding water it was impossible not to think about last night. As she squeezed soap into her hand, she noticed the inky vine, still wrapped around her left ring finger.
I didn’t marry him, I didn’t agree to be his queen, she told herself. Besides, Sara’s vines go up her hand and circle her wrist. This one probably just means lust, not love.
But the lightness in her heart never darkened no matter how she tried to tell herself it was just a normal day.
A normal day, other than the fact that they’d had a battle with a loose banshee last night. But maybe that was becoming the new normal for her and her friends.
She dried off, then headed to her room and dressed quickly before heading to the bookcase to find the storybook.
Her fingers moved across the spines of her beloved books and rested at last on the spiral bound volume: Legends of the Rosethorn Valley Fae by Jessica Bell.
“Hey.”
She turned to find Tristan standing in the doorway, a sheet wrapped around his hips, revealing miles of muscular, beautiful man.
“Hey,” she echoed.
“What are you doing?” he asked, striding over to join her at the bookshelf.
“I remembered where I read about the banshee,” she told him. “It’s actually a local legend.”
“Many humans enjoy fae legends,” he said fondly.
“Do you drink coffee?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “But I’m hungry.”
“Let’s check this out over breakfast,” she suggested.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about what had gone on between them last night, but she was pretty sure if they stayed up here with him half-naked, they would be back in bed in no time and her whole body might wind up covered in magic tattoos.
“That sounds good,” he told her.
“Let me show you how to use the shower,” she offered.
He nodded and let her lead the way to the bathroom.
By the time he joined her downstairs, she had a pot of coffee going and was slathering fresh butter over some multi-grain toast.
“Your shower bath is blazing hot and delightful,” he declared.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she told him. “Your new clothing suits you.”
He looked fantastic in another pair of dark jeans with a light blue untucked Oxford that contrasted deliciously with his long golden hair.
“What does the book say?” he asked.
“I saved it,” she said. “Thought we could look at it together.”
He smiled and she noticed that he unconsciously glanced down at his finger.
Her heart actually throbbed, and she turned away to throw the toast on plates and set it on the counter in front of him.
She grabbed a carton of mango-orange juice from the fridge and put it on the counter along with two glasses.
Tristan was already putting away toast like he was in an eating competition.
She put two more slices of bread in the toaster and returned to the counter to pour the juice.
Tristan eyed it suspiciously.
“It’s fruit juice,” she told him. “It’s sweet. Like the soda, but no bubbles.”
He grinned and downed the glass.
She leaned back on the counter with her coffee to watch him.
He carefully poured another glass and drank it down in one swig as well.
“Mm, that’s good juice,” he remarked.
His next swig was straight from the carton.
She watched his Adam’s apple slide up and down as he finished off the container without lowering it once.
“Yes, very good,” he said approvingly when he was finished.
“Yes, it’s good stuff,” she agreed. “Mostly just sugar, but I guess there are some vitamins in there somewhere.”
He looked down a little sadly at the empty carton. But she didn’t have any more and even if she did, he’d probably reached the limit of how much a person should put away in a sitting.
But he’s not a person…
The idea gave her an excited little shiver and reminded her why she had hurried downstairs.
“Are you ready to look at the book?” she asked him.
“Sure,” he said.
She placed it down on the counter, as far from the toast crumbs as possible, and began flipping through it.
“This doesn’t look like your other books,” he said dubiously.
“It was written by Jessica Bell, a local woman back in the 90s,” Tabitha explained. “It’s not traditionally published. I think she just made enough copies to sell at the farmer’s market. My mom bought this for me at a yard sale when I was a kid.”
“And it’s about local legends of the fae?” Tristan asked.
“Yes, Jessica must have really been into the legends,” Tabitha said. “But Rosethorn Valley was settled by a lot of Welsh immigrants. They brought their stories with them.”
“Stories?” Tristan raised an eyebrow.
Wow. He was right. They weren’t just stories.
“Sorry,” she said. “Until this week, I had no idea there was anything real behind the legends.”
“Never say that word to me,” he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek.
“What word?” she asked. “Legends?”
“No,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Oh, is that some kind of fae offense?” she asked him.
“No, of course not,” he laughed. “I like a good grovel as much as the next guy, but not from you - you are my queen. Apologies are beneath you.”
Her heart thumped and she looked down at the dark vine that twined around her finger.
“I have one too,” he told her, holding up his hand. “Are we going to talk about this?”
“Not yet,” she said as lightly as she could. “We have to find the banshee first.”
He frowned, but didn’t protest when she bent over the book again.
After a brief search, she found the chapter heading she’d been looking for.
The Banshee and the Bone Fiddle
Tabitha scanned the story. It was typical fae storybook fare.
The banshee had appeared on the outskirts of Rosethorn Valley at the end of a private street with three tiny Arts and Crafts cottages that everyone locally had dubbed the Three Bears.
A newlywed couple had just moved into the Three Bears cottage closest to the woods. The husband was a violin teacher and he had gone to the village to teach a lesson, leaving his wife alone.
When a woman in a black cloak knocked on the door, the young wife answered.
The woman in black opened her mouth and the song that came out was so shrill and sad that the young wife was driven mad by the sound of it.
When the husband came home, the hag was gone.
And his wife had drowned herself in the backyard well.
The husband went half-crazy with grief himself and to honor her memory, had her bones crafted into an exquisite violin - like that was just a thing people did.
He went into the forest to find the banshee, sure that the magic of his dead wife’s vengeance would be enough to kill the banshee.
“The banshee must have agreed, for she was never seen in these parts again,” Tabitha read. “Something about that is familiar.”
She turned the page.
A pen and ink image of the characters made up the end page to the story.
Tabitha gasped.
The banshee in the drawing was absolutely identical to the one they had seen last night, down to the last wrinkle on her cloak.
“Yes, that’s the one,” Tristan said, nodding.
Tabitha studied the musician’s beautiful wife. She was lovely and the artist had captured both her youth and her mad expression.
Then her eyes rested on the music teacher. He had a violin under his chin, and a bow in his right hand. Neither of them looked like they were put together from actual bones, but they both had what looked like a light-colored inlay in the wood that might have been bone.
Something about the bow looked oddly familiar.
“Oh my God,” Tabitha breathed.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
“I’ve seen that bow before,” Tabitha said. “It was in a glass case in Helen Thayer’s office.”
“We need it,” Tristan said. “And the violin, too.”
Tabitha already had her phone out and was tapping Helen’s contact.
“Helen Thayer,” said a booming voice after the first ring.
“You have a bone bow in the glass case in your office,” Tabitha said, cutting to the chase. “I think it’s referenced in the book Legends of the Rosethorn Valley Fae.”
“Oh yes,” Helen said. “It’s really quite lovely. I’m not sure if the inlay is really bone, but the story is brutal and interesting.”
“Do you have the violin as well?” Tabitha asked.
“No,” Helen said. “I’ve been trying to buy it for years, but he won’t sell.”
“Who won’t sell?” Tabitha asked, her heart pounding.
“Elton Burke, though I think he goes by Sandalwood Burke these days,” Helen said, sounding disgusted. “He lives in some hippie art commune up in the Poconos. Sooner or later, he’ll run out of cash. I send him an offer around the holidays each year.”
“Would it be possible to stop by and get that address?” Tabitha asked.
“Of course,” Helen said. “And if you can get him to sell, I’ll pay a finder’s fee. Or donate the bow to the Rosethorn Valley Historical Society to keep the pieces together - your choice.”
“That’s very generous, Helen,” Tabitha said, steeling herself for a moment before pushing her luck. “One more thing. Do you think it would be okay for us to take the bow with us, just so we can make sure we get the matching violin?”
A moment of silence stretched out for so long that Tabitha though maybe her phone had dropped the call. Before she could ask if Helen was still there, her voice rang out, firm and resolute.
“That’s fine, dear. I just want to get that beautiful instrument away from those dirty hippies,” Helen told her. “Our local history should be treasured. For all I know, that scruffy man is using it to store his drugs.”
“I’m sure that would never happen,” Tabitha said, hoping she was right.
“See you shortly, dear,” Helen said.
Tabitha hung up and started cleaning up their dirty dishes and wiping the crumbs off the counter.
“So?” Tristan asked.
“We’re going on a road trip,” Tabitha told him.
14
Tristan
Tristan gazed out the window as the tall trees flew past.
Tabitha was an excellent driver and her horseless carriage moved with ethereal smoothness, hugging the turns, and even playing out strange music.
Tabitha herself was bright-eyed and beautiful.
He begged himself not to think of last night, but it was impossible not to picture her face, suffused with ecstasy, or not to recall the taste of her on his lips.
She is mortal, a voice in his head cried out.
The pain of it threatened to tear him in half.
How could he love a mortal?
And besides, he had called her his queen and she had said she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Here, it’s calling Sara,” Tabitha said, handing him her communication device. “Tell her what we’re doing.”
He took the thing.
On the screen were the words: Calling Sara BFF.
“Hello?” a tiny voice said.
“Put it to your ear,” Tabitha said, laughing. “Hang on, Sara, he’s figuring it out.”
“Hello,” Tristan said, holding the device to his cheek as he had seen Tabitha do.
“Hi, Tristan,” Sara said politely. “How are you?”
“I am well,” he told her. “We are on a road trip.”
“Wow,” Sara said. “You’ve really latched right onto the vernacular.”
“Indeed,” he acknowledged.
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Tabitha found a reference to a bone violin in a local history book,” he told her. “She believes it will help us defeat the banshee.”
“A book of local fae legends,” Tabitha yelled.
“Oh, right, the one with the spiral binding,” Sara said.
“Yes, yes,” Tristan said, a little annoyed at having one woman by his side and another one in his ear, talking through him as if he were a window. “At any rate, your friend, Helen, has the bow and told us where we might find the violin.”
“Fantastic,” Sara said. “Hey, want to talk to Dorian?”
“No, I don’t—”
“Hello, brother,” Dorian’s voice boomed across the connection.
“Hello,” Tristan replied, holding the phone slightly away from his ear.
“Are you well?” Dorian asked, a smile in his voice.
Damn him for sounding so cheerful. He had doubtless spent the night tasting satisfaction in the arms of his queen. Tristan was supposed to be the happy one.
“I am,” Tristan allowed.
“And do you now have a vine ring around your finger?” Dorian asked, still sounding annoyingly jovial.
Tristan glanced again at the vine around his finger.
“Well, brother?”
“I do,” he admitted, holding the device close to his ear and hoping Tabitha could not hear his brother’s words. “But we do not wish to talk about it.”
He wondered if she would notice his wording there.
If she did, she showed no sign of shame.
“Well, don’t mess it up,” Dorian told him darkly.
“How do I deactivate this device?” Tristan asked Tabitha.
“Don’t you want to say good-bye?” Tabitha asked, as Dorian roared with laughter in his other ear.
“No,” Tristan said, feeling furious.
“Here you go,” Tabitha said, taking it and touching the screen. “All done. Are you okay?”
“I am well,” he said. “Why do you all keep asking that question?”
“Oh shoot,” Tabitha said. “I know what’s going on.”
Damned well she knew.
“We need to get some lunch,” she said. “You’re probably crashing hard from all that sugar you drank. Hang tight, I’m going to swing off at this exit.”
As was often the case, her words were all known to him, but he still had no idea what she was talking about.
Her admonition to ‘hang on’ was astute though.
She whipped the carriage off the mai
n road and onto a smaller lane in a breathless heartbeat.
In spite of Tristan’s discomfort, the sturdy little carriage stayed on all of its wheels.
Soon they were driving down a narrow road and Tabitha was tapping the clicking stick beside the wheel that steered the car again.
They were driving up to the very walls of a small building with large yellow arches over it.
“Look, there’s the menu,” Tabitha said, pointing to a sign. “Just tell me what you want.”
The board she was pointing to was covered in words and images of food so juicy and colorful it was a delight to his senses.
“Happy meal,” he read out loud. “Why is it happy? Does your food crave to be eaten? Or is it implying that the consumption of such a meal will make the eater happy?”
“You know what, that’s an excellent choice,” Tabitha said. “It has a little bit of everything.”
A loud and splintering noise came from the sign along with the garbled sounds of a human voice.
“—can I take your order?” it finished.
“Yes, I would like two happy meals, both with cheeseburger and fries,” Tabitha said.
“For boys or girls?” the woman asked.
“Uh, one of each, please,” Tabitha replied.
“And to drink?” the voice inquired.
“Two chocolate milkshakes,” Tabitha said, winking at Tristan as if he would know what that meant.
“That will be ten fifty-five,” the voice said. “Please pull around.”
Tabitha drove around the corner of the little brick building and down the other side to a window, where a woman in a cap peered out.
Without exchanging words, Tabitha handed the woman a small rectangle and the women took it, did something with it and handed it back again.
A moment later she was handing Tabitha two red boxes and then two beverages.
“Thank you,” Tabitha said to her, handing Tristan the two boxes and putting the drinks into two circular holes in the seat between them.
“Bye now,” said the lady.
Tabitha continued to drive.
The boxes were very warm on his lap.
“Surely this is magic,” he said.
“What’s magic?” she asked.
