by Casey Lane
I could have retracted them if I’d wanted, but I had been without them for far too long. They were a part of me, and I’d missed them terribly. I’d spent five years feeling like something was missing from my life, not even knowing what it was. It was my wings and my magic and…yes, even the arrogant god standing in front of me.
“Your wings are beautiful,” he said, stepping forward. His movement was as smooth as silk and as fast as lightning. His fingers stroked across my feathers, a warm tingle spreading out from everywhere he touched them.
I sighed, struggling to keep my wits about me. “How did you find me in that dreamworld?”
“For many years, the Legion has been tracking a strange phenomenon: telepaths dying in their sleep. It was a rare occurrence, a death happening only once every few decades, but then again, telepaths themselves are rare. We thought someone had found a spell to identify and kill them while they slept, but we couldn’t figure out how. Nor did we know why they were always women—until two days ago when the Legion interviewed a telepath who had seen her sister die in her dreams.”
“Melanie, Fern’s sister.”
“Yes. She described seeing a woman who looked like Snow White and fought like an angel. When I read the report, I knew it had to be you. I knew you were alive, and that somehow this was all linked to you. So I led the mission to the dreamworld myself. The others kept Leon’s guard dogs busy while I snuck in to find you.”
“That’s really sweet.”
“You mean daring.”
I smiled. “Of course.”
“I missed you, Nyx.” He leaned into me, his chest brushing across mine, his mouth teasing my neck.
My heart was pounding in my chest, my skin flushed with heat. “You’re trying to distract me.”
He looked up, meeting my eyes. “Yes.” The word fell against my lips, dark and sensual.
“I invited you here to hear my report,” I reminded him.
His deep chuckle purred across my skin. “And I invited myself here to kiss you. Doesn’t that sound like much more fun?”
“I’m serious, Ronan.”
A sexy smile twisted his lips as he took my hand. “As am I.” His thumb stroked my palm, tracing slow, small circles into my skin. Each stroke shot a jolt of his power up my arm, rippling across my senses.
“The dreamworld is gone,” I said, trying to focus. “I sent a team back there, and they found nothing. No arena, no people, no minions of hell—nothing but an empty field. Leon and his people have retreated back into hell. And they won’t ever use that dream field again. My soldiers have destroyed it and its connection to hell.”
“I’ve missed your fierce efficiency. My Legion wasn’t the same without you,” he said. “And you are changing the subject.”
“From what?”
“Us.”
“Are you sure there is an us?” I said. “Once upon a time, you were quite clear that there wasn’t.”
“A mistake I’ve spent the last two hundred years regretting.”
“And maybe I should make you spend the next two hundred years repenting,” I said, smirking at him.
“If that’s what it takes for you to forgive me.” His face was perfectly serious.
“I’ll think about it.”
He nodded, then said, “In the meantime, have dinner with me.”
“Will you be cooking?”
“Yes.”
“Then I accept.”
Ronan cooked just as well as he fought. I would have accepted his invitation even if I still hated him—which I didn’t, I realized. Of course, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to make him work for his forgiveness.
“But just dinner,” I told him, pulling back. “No kissing.”
He rose to the challenge, magic flashing in his eyes. “As you wish. Though I shall, of course, endeavor to change your mind.”
“I’m sure you will.” Chuckling, I turned to stare out of my windows once more. “It’s so beautiful.”
“It’s even better from way above.”
Then he took my hand. The sliding doors parted before us, responding to his magic, and we stepped outside onto the balcony. The wind bit at my skin, strong and unyielding. And absolutely perfect. Wings so unlike my own unfolded from Ronan’s back, glistening like a tapestry of diamonds, as though they were lit up from within.
“We’re so high up,” I said.
“Scared?” he asked, his brows lifting in challenge.
“Are you?”
“Scared to take the plunge with you? No. Not ever again.”
He jumped up onto the barrier, pulling me with him, and then we stepped off the edge, soaring over the city on wings of magic.
About the Author
Ella Summers has been writing stories for as long as she could read; she's been coming up with tall tales even longer than that. One of her early year masterpieces was a story about a pigtailed princess and her dragon sidekick. Nowadays, she still writes fantasy. She likes books with lots of action, adventure, and romance. When she is not busy writing or spending time with her two young children, she makes the world safe by fighting robots.
Ella is the international bestselling author of the paranormal and fantasy series Legion of Angels, Dragon Born, and Sorcery and Science.
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Books:
- Vampire's Kiss (Legion of Angels: Book 1)
- Shadow World (A Dragon Born Trilogy)
- Mercenary Magic (Dragon Born Serafina: Book 1)
- Magic Edge (Dragon Born Alexandria: Book 1)
- Fairy Magic (Dragon Born Awakening: Book 1)
www.ellasummers.com/
The Goose Girl
A Classical Kingdoms Collection Retelling
By Brittany Fichter
“Good evening, Miss.”
I looked up from the sack of goose feed to find myself staring into eyes the color of the ocean on a cloudless day.
“I apologize for the interruption,” he continued, “but I cannot seem to find Princess Evony.” He fingered his hat and shifted from one foot to the other. “We were about to go riding, and I’m afraid she might have become lost in the stables.”
I’m here! I wanted to cry out. I’ve been here for four days! But as my mouth had been closed against any words that might betray my betrayer, I could not utter my plea. Instead, tears pricked my eyes, and I could only shake my head with a sad smile.
“Ah, I see. Well, thank you for your help.” He began to turn then looked back at me. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. What is your name?”
Would he ever ask a single question I could answer? And why did he have to be everything I had ever imagined? I struggled to think of a name that the royal family here wouldn’t recognize, one that the dratted magic would allow. My father’s pet name for me was all that came to mind. “Etta, Your Highness.” Surely no one here would know that.
Just as I’d expected, and much to my chagrin, the prince merely gave me a polite smile and nodded. “When did you come into service here at Hafton?”
“Four days ago, Sire.” Four miserable days.
The prince looked as if he were about to say something else when a familiar voice interrupted him.
“Maxence! I am ready for the riding lesson you promised me! Where are you?”
“I will be right there,” he called out. Then he looked back at me. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Etta.” He glanced down at the corn sack still in my hands. “I hope you find your employment here fulfilling.”
I nearly forgot to curtsey as I watched him walk away. My chest ached, and the sack that had seemed almost manageable a few moments ago suddenly seemed as heavy as the horses clip-clopping past the goose hut’s door.
Something within me snapped. I dropped the sack, scattering corn everywhere, and took off after them. I might be unable to face my betrayer directly, but I could follow them and see what she chanced to reveal. Perhaps she would reveal something that might be used to expose h
er.
Keeping to the late afternoon shadows, I slipped between the castle courtyard stalls as men and women began to prepare for the evening meal. Thankfully, the courtyard was busy enough that I didn’t draw much attention to myself, and I was able to follow them easily until they made it past the gates and down to the little lake that sat in the shadow of Hafton Castle’s great walls.
I had never followed anyone before, at least while attempting invisibility, and it proved more difficult than I had first thought. The tall grasses scratched my ankles and arms, and mosquitos tried to make a meal of my exposed skin, but at least the greenery hid me from the couple as they sat on their horses and talked just at the edge of the lake. Much to my disappointment, I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but at least I could watch them.
He wasn’t quite as tall as I had imagined, but his shoulders were wide enough to draw any girl’s attention. His skin was a warm chestnut brown in the late afternoon sunlight, surprisingly dark for the striking blue of his eyes. I watched him as he spoke and gestured, amazed to finally put a face to the man I’d been imagining for so long. Still, despite the unfamiliarity of his face, from the moment he’d spoken to me back in the goose pen, I had known his voice as if he had spoken to me every day of my life. And in a way, he had.
Immediately, my hand moved to the reticule I carried, the one gift from my home that my betrayer hadn’t stolen from me. It hadn’t been fancy enough for her taste, was all I could surmise, for even though she’d demanded my clothes, my horse, and my dowry on the filthy bank of that blasted river, she had let me keep this and all its contents. Reaching into the reticule, I gently touched the little jewel at the bottom of the purse, then the letters. It was good for my betrayer that she hadn’t tried to take those. I would have died before surrendering such treasures.
Sighing to myself, I pulled the letters out. If I didn’t read one soon, as had become my habit when I was alone, it would be too dark by the time I returned to my bed. So I sat and pulled one of the crinkled parchments from the bag. By now, I knew the words well enough to have them nearly memorized, but seeing the neat, tight words in their thin, straight lines was still comforting.
My Dearest Evony,
Tonight’s supper discussion marked the first conversation about our upcoming wedding. My mother informed my father and me that she has begun redecorating some of the older chambers here, determined to make you a room no princess could scoff at. (Not that I am of the opinion that you shall scoff, but it tells you at least of her determination to please.)
My father is less concerned with tapestries and bed coverings, and has since begun to give me marriage advice instead. Some of it seems practical, such as learning humility and putting one’s spouse first. Some of it, however, I think is simply an attempt to convince my mother that he is carrying out his patriarchal duty. My father is a good man and a fair king, but I believe he could care less if we got married in a cellar with the cook for a witness.
I wonder, though. We have been writing for so long now, do you think it will be very awkward when we finally meet and wed just a week apart? I certainly hope not. I feel as though I know you quite well. (Another accomplishment I must thank my mother for, since it was her insistence that I write to you since I could first use a quill.)
I used to pester my mother about what you looked like. With adolescent desires being what they are, I was convinced for a while that they had made you up. I was sure they might have used such a trick as an excuse, so that I might miss out on the fun of wooing girls with the other foolish boys my age. If they couldn’t at least tell me what you looked like, you must not exist. My mother would scoff at my accusations and reply that looks are fleeting, but a queen of sound heart and mind would be invaluable. She was sure that your mother, her oldest friend, would raise a daughter of such good qualities. I haven’t doubted her in years, of course, but do you think that for my own curiosity’s sake, you might at least tell me a bit about your person? Hair color? Eyes? I should like a face to match your words with in my mind, even if it’s only a vague picture.
Well, if this letter hasn’t made our approaching nuptials awkward enough on its own, I’m not sure what could. So I will end this correspondence before I bury myself even deeper in the mud of foolishness. Good night for now, my dear.
Your betrothed,
Maxence
I touched the wrinkled parchment gently. I had responded to the letter at the time of its arrival, of course, several months before, but I couldn’t recall exactly what I had said. My words had been read and corrected by my always loving but ever refined mother, who had insisted that it was improper for me to describe to him my person. He would learn soon enough, she said. If only she had known that telling him what I looked like would have saved my life. For my betrayer had yellow hair and blue eyes. Even the blindest of men wouldn’t have been able to mistake one of us for the other.
Well, I thought rebelliously, if I couldn’t talk to him as was my birthright, then I could write to him. I could respond to the letter as I would have had my mother not read and amended my words. He would never see this letter, of course. Whatever curse my betrayer had placed on me would never allow me to give it to him. But I could still write to him, even if just for my own satisfaction.
The sun was beginning to set, and I was sure Maxence and my betrayer would be returning to the castle soon, so I needed to write quickly. Yanking a goose quill from my reticule and a bottle of ink the size of my thumb, I turned the parchment over and began to write.
Dearest Maxence,
If our meeting is at all awkward, I shall strive to make it otherwise. For I have a wicked love for pranks and am forever saying the improper thing at the improper time. Mother loved to sigh at my mishaps, saying that I was beautiful but a mess.
Your curiosity is not unique to yourself. On countless occasions, I have found myself wondering at your height, hair color, and smile. I shall endeavor to satisfy your curiosity, though I cannot guarantee an unbiased eye.
I am short enough that if I were not royal born, people would have called me short to my face, I’m sure. My eyes are green, and though no one is willing to say it out loud, my lower jaw is just a hair too far forward. Lest you think you are marrying a monster, however, I assure you that it doesn’t seem noticeable to most. At least, I assume it’s not. Not even my mother ever commented on it. My smile, however, is said to be completely amiable. My hair is stick straight, the color of deep bark in the dark of the woods, and far too thick for its own good. Do you think that you might share a bit about yourself as well?
On a less pleasant note, it nearly killed me today to finally meet you in person without you knowing who I was. Watching you ride off with her was even more difficult. I had seen you, of course, when we arrived here four days ago. But it was raining then, and you were quick to run out, swoop my betrayer off her horse (my horse, actually), and carry her into your castle. And all I could do was stand and watch, unable to utter a word about her betrayal or falsehoods. If your father had not found me, I don’t know what I would have done. Of course, the life he offered me is not the one I had envisioned at Hafton Castle. But at least the duty of goose girl gives me the excuse to remain near to you, praying the Maker might somehow reinstate me.
Oh how I should have liked for you to stumble upon me earlier today! For the goose boy that your father has employed me with is one of the most forward and determined creatures I have ever met. He seems to be under the impression that I am a desperate wench without hope of a happy home, and has thus proposed to me every day since I arrived.
“D’ ya need help?” he asked me on that first day. I was struggling to lift the corn feed sack when he entered the stall. The steward had just left me alone after explaining my duties, so I readily accepted his help. As you can guess, back at my own castle, I’d never had much need for the strength to lift a corn sack and was not faring well on my own. As the goose boy lifted the sack for me, a thoughtful look came to his fa
ce.
“You married?” he asked.
I turned to look at him, surprised. He isn’t really a boy, as the steward had called him. He must be at least twenty and five years of age. His skin has been browned and weathered by the sun, and he is one of the most solid men I have ever laid eyes on. The way he stared at me was suddenly much like the way our cook at Anfange Castle appraises the tomatoes her girls fetch for her from the garden.
“No,” I answered, “I am not married.”
“You could marry me.”
I thought I might faint from shock.
“My cottage is dry,” he continued, shuffling his feet and staring at the ground. “We could get along tolerable ‘nough.”
I struggled to find my voice. “Mister . . .”
“Name’s Joseph Peck.”
“Mr. Peck,” I tried to stay calm, “I . . . I know nothing about you, nor you about me. How could you-”
“My mum says it’s time t’take a wife. Need sons to carry on in my stead.”
Now, Maxence, you must believe me when I say that I have never slapped a man before in my life. But I did so that day. And at first, I feared his retribution, so wide were his eyes with surprise. But in the end, he only mumbled and walked away. And would you believe it? He has proposed to me again every day since!
I do not know whether or not such behavior is considered acceptable in most common circles, but even if I were common-born, I can assure you that such a proposal would have no sway on me. How I wish you were here to speak up for me. But never fear. Your betrothed isn’t one to lie down and be trampled upon. The geese are really quite spunky creatures and seem most inclined to help me with my revenge. Today, while he was asleep, I sprinkled corn in his boots, and he awoke with a most fearful shriek, not unlike my old tutor whenever she saw a mouse. I think that tomorrow I shall try to convince the geese to steal his hat.
