Bespelled
Fae Magic, Volume 5
Jessica Aspen
Published by Abracadabra Publishing, 2019.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
HIDDEN
Discover more of Jessica Aspen’s paranormal & fantasy romance today!
Dedication
Dedicated to my readers. It’s been a tough few years and I’ve fallen down so many times. Thank you so much for supporting me.
And, as always, to Jeff, K & B. Love you!
-Jessica
Copyright Information
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person living or dead, or any events and occurrences is purely coincidental. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. Please purchase only authorized editions.
Copyright 2017 by Jessica Aspen
Originally published as Queen of Thorns, October 2017 by Abracadabra Publishing
All rights reserved
Chapter One
Deep in a forest on the edge of the wild mists of Underhill, in an overgrown garden of mostly pink roses, there stood a small cottage. Its grey stones were nearly worn down with ruin and neglect but hidden under the masses of ivy smothering the thatched roof you could still see that once it had been the type of home about which a young girl might dream.
How they’d come here, Aeval wasn’t sure, but the sight of the sweetly dilapidated building made her hesitate.
“It’s a ruin.” She didn’t want to go past the tumbled-down stones of the low garden wall. As lovely as the setting was, as tired and disoriented as she was, the place gave her a chill.
But the old woman who was her companion ignored her protest. Instead, wrapping her black cloak tighter around her bent shoulders, she sidestepped the leaning gate and entered the grounds.
Aeval was forced to follow.
She and the Crone had once been three together with the Morrigan—the fierce fighter who came out when danger threatened—all of them living inside one person. Sharing a body. Sharing a life as Queen of the Black Court.
But then the unthinkable had happened. They had been betrayed.
And now the Morrigan was dead, and she and the Crone were separate individuals who could walk side by side, talk together, and think separate thoughts. Aeval didn’t understand how any of this had happened, but she knew one thing—even without the Morrigan, she and the Crone were tied together by the cord of life.
And while Aeval reeled from the loss of their warrior self, their kingdom, and everything she’d ever known, the Crone had become even more competent and determined.
“It’s home.” The old woman moved forward, the cord between them tugging Aeval right along with her into the deceptive peace of the garden.
“Home?”
“You don’t remember, but then again, you don’t need to. I keep the memories. All of them. The bad. The good. You just keep the pretty face and enjoy yourself.” She muttered the rest of it under her breath, but Aeval heard her. “I keep the bad, you get the rest.”
A filmy remnant of memory left the old woman and brushed the side of Aeval’s face. It was cold and clammy and tasted of fear. Something horrible was in the room with her—someone horrible. He pushed her naked shoulder and she fell on her knees, bruising them on the uneven wooden floor. She shuddered, rubbing the memory off her face and shaking it from her fingers. The old hag could keep the memories. She didn’t want them.
The Crone caught the fragile strands and rolled them back up, tucking the small ball away somewhere under her black cloak—just like she’d taken the memories from the Morrigan when she’d died and they’d split apart.
“No, you don’t want them. That’s why you created us.”
They reached the front door.
“I created you?” You’d think she’d remember that. And maybe she did, come to think of it, but it was tied to something else, something black and horrible. Something she never wanted to remember.
The old woman pulled out a heavy black key, inserted it in the keyhole, and twisted. She put it back into her pocket and pushed. The ancient wood resisted, but she put her shoulder to it, shoving harder. It creaked open. A blast of mold and damp came rushing out of the dark interior.
“Yes, dearie. You created her, and you created me. That way you could just remember the fun.” She moved into the cottage, past the old door leaning drunkenly on its hinges.
Once again, Aeval followed, every nerve screaming not to go.
The death of the Morrigan had left her woozy and her head ached. She was the Black Queen. She didn’t understand how she’d splintered apart into three people, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t, be separated from this last piece of herself. No matter how much the cottage frightened her.
The windows were smeared with dirt and covered with ivy, allowing little light inside. Aeval’s eyes had almost adjusted when a flame flared. The small room was nearly empty. A broken three-legged stool lay on its side in the corner beside a twisted set of stairs.
The old woman held up a lamp. “Come upstairs. We have work to do.” She turned.
Aeval followed her narrow, skirted backside as she shuffled up the stairs. “What kind of work?”
“I’m going to make sure you’re safe.”
This sounded good. Some of Aeval’s fear left her. The old woman was here because, long ago, Aeval had needed safety. She’d needed a place to hide and someone to defend her from...
No...she didn’t want to remember. That was why she’d created them in the first place. The old woman to hold the pain and the fear and the darkness.
And the Morrigan to defend them.
But now, the Morrigan was gone and there was only herself and the old woman to defend them from the hateful people who were out in the world.
In a cold, empty room where the steep roof slanted under the eaves, the Crone waved her hand. Suddenly, a single bed with a downy comforter took up one corner and next to a welcoming fire sat a well-worn wooden chair and a spinning wheel. The sharp point of the spindle was empty, but a full basket of carded wool sat at its feet. The woman sank into the chair as if she were very tired.
“Come, my dear, and start the wool for me. I have work to do and spinning wi
ll ease my mind.”
Aeval obediently scooped up a large bundle of the fluffy roving. It was already drafted—separated into fibers and ready for spinning. She found a piece of yarn and turned to the spinning wheel to attach it to the bobbin. The old woman suddenly stood up and tripped, pushing Aeval over into the spinning wheel. Her hand hit the spindle.
“Ouch!” Blood oozed from where the sharp point had pricked her middle finger.
“Whatever is the matter, dearie?” The Crone’s violet-black eyes glittered oddly.
Aeval held up her finger. A drop of blood swelled on the tip.
With the swiftness of a hawk, the previously exhausted woman seized her hand in an iron grip. Aeval struggled, suddenly afraid, but the old woman’s withered lips slid over the wound and sucked hard, pulling the blood from Aeval’s finger.
“Stop this at once! What are you doing?” A wave of dizziness swept over her.
“You look pale. Lay down on the bed and rest.” The old woman shoved Aeval at the bed.
She stumbled, and nearly fell on the floor, but the frail elderly woman picked her up as if she were as strong as any fae youth, and laid her down on the soft blankets.
The Crone sat down at the wheel and took out the cords of memories and life she’d taken from the Morrigan from her pocket. She began to spin, singing a crooked little tune. Aeval lay in a daze and watched her own memories spin out of her head onto the spinning wheel, mixing with the thread the woman had torn from the Morrigan as she died.
“Are you going to kill me?” The thread gleamed black and red and glimmered with power.
“Oh, I would if I could, dearie, but unfortunately you are the root from which we all sprang. If I kill you, I kill me. So I’m doing the next best thing. I’m taking all the portion of our lifeblood and Gift that you had poured into that wretched Morrigan creature.”
“You’re taking my Gift?”
Horrified, Aeval tried to lift her head, but she was too weak—and growing weaker. “No, I can’t take that. Or at least not all of it.” The old woman’s voice was bitter. “But I can take your memories from when you were queen, all the things that made you powerful. I can take everything from you from the moment you created me.”
The room spun. “What have you done?” Time slid away from her and into the threads on the wheel. Her wins against the prince, her son, Kian. His adulthood. His childhood. Being the Black Queen. Her fear and anger at Kian’s father. How much she hated the Golden King for what he’d done to her. The abuse. The rapes.
The memory of her own father glamouring her into a human slave and sending her to the Golden Court to be used and abused and impregnated. It all went. Even the memory of being a princess.
She moaned and lifted her hand to stop it. “No, not that.” But it too was gone and she slipped into blackness.
When she woke again she didn’t know who she was. Wait, she did. She knew her name. Aeval.
“Who am I?” she whispered. “Who are you?”
The strange old woman bundled a gleaming ball of yarn into her pocket. “Shh, dearie. You don’t need to worry about that. Just sleep.”
“Mmm...” Aeval curled on her side, and laid her hand by her face, pillowed on her red curls.
“Sleep, dearie.”
The old woman looked at the form on the bed. She’d finally done it—broken free. She smiled, the unaccustomed expression stretching and cracking the skin of her face.
What had once been a woman in her prime was now a young fae girl, with smooth skin and soft lips. Defenseless in sleep, she looked innocent. And she was. She didn’t remember ever being raped, or having sex, or killing anyone. Even her own father.
The Crone had taken it all. And she would use it to survive and thrive. All she had to do was make sure this one stayed safe.
She went down the stairs and exited the old building. Using her Gift, now reinforced with all the Morrigan’s magic, she encapsulated the building in a stasis spell. She left via the old broken gate, pulling it shut behind her. It wasn’t enough. Someone could still come and wake the princess. And she couldn’t have that.
She waved her hand. The forest listened to her. It grew into a net of thorns and ivy, winding around the stone wall and hiding it from sight.
When she was done she examined her work with a critical eye until she was satisfied. It was good. Better than good. Foot-long thorns with razor sharp edges protected branches as thick as a man’s arm. The hedge rose high into the sky, tall and fierce with leaves and vines an inky green, so dark as to be almost black. And it went all the way around the old cottage. No way in. And no way out.
Nothing and no one would dare penetrate something this formidable.
She used the last of the power in the blood she’d swallowed and her shape shimmered and shifted. She pulled a mirror from her pocket and admired her work. Black thick hair curled down to her waist, full soft lips and her own gleaming violet-black eyes. She stowed the mirror and opened a portal. She couldn’t be a girl. She’d left their youth with the princess. But who wanted to be a powerless young chit? Not her. She knew what happened to the powerless. She remembered.
She entered the portal. No reason to stay here anymore. She had places to go. She’d be the strong woman she’d always been. The one who could take the pain. The one who could exact their revenge.
Chapter Two
Present day
Ardan ducked, the sharp edge of his opponent’s sword swooshing past his ear. He lunged, and shoved his sword, Gleam, deep into the other man’s gut. His opponent’s wound gushed, spraying bright red onto Ardan’s armor. The sword twisted in and he yanked on it, the pressure of the torque making his arm ache. His muscles would pay for that later but right now he was flooded with adrenaline and the pain was nothing more than a nuisance.
The troll-kin’s face paled in the light of the flickering torches. So like his own, with pointed ears and pale skin, but wider and rougher, like the blunt-edged knives children used for sword practice compared to the flexibility and strength of his own magical blade. The green crystalline fractures in the man’s irises stood out as his black pupils shrank and he opened his mouth in a howl of pain.
But Ardan didn’t have time to watch the man crumple to his feet. Nor to acknowledge the life now draining out on the floor. He spun on the cavern floor, worn smooth from years of disciples’ feet. Gleam slammed into the other troll-kin’s blade and metal screamed as edge slid along edge.
This new opponent’s blocks and parries showed a higher level of expertise, but he was no match for Ardan. As the fight wore on the troll-kin slowed, each time his sword dipping a little lower in the torchlight. But Ardan didn’t pause. When the man over-compensated and raised his blade too high, Ardan took advantage. He slipped Gleam into the space between his opponent’s ribs and tore a hole in his lung.
Bright red blood sprayed from the wound. “Argh.” More blood burbled from his opponent’s wide open mouth.
Even as the troll-kin lurched, off balance from the wound, he moved, a killing look in his eye. The man’s blade descended and Ardan slipped away from where he’d been. There was a swish of air by his face as the man’s blade missed, stabbing instead into the worn stone of the cave floor.
Taking advantage of his opponent’s temporary loss of balance, Ardan swung his sword in a circle and turned. Momentum gathered for the strike, he brought his weapon down hard on the troll-kin’s wrist.
Gleam’s sharp edge caught on the crunch of bone and gristle, slowing, as if cutting through frozen butter. The troll-kin’s hand dropped to the ground, thick dirt-encrusted fingers still clutching the pommel of his sword, and Ardan finished the follow through, ready for the next challenger.
But there were no more.
Ardan left the dying man on the ground and checked out every inch of the cave he could see in the flickering light of the torches, casting a tiny globe light of his own into those corners where he couldn’t see. But the place was empty.
“You’l
l pay for this.” His opponent lay curled on the ground in a spreading pool of blood, gasping for breath and clutching his bleeding stump. “The Goddess will send her emissary to come to get you, you’ll see.”
Ardan snorted and kicked the man’s sword further away. The hand went with it leaving a wet trail in the dirt. “Tell her I’m looking forward to it.”
This cult of troll-kin worshiped an old goddess, so old and so minor he doubted anyone else in Underhill even knew her name. No one would come looking for him. And if they did, it was worth it.
Ten months of searching for the Black Queen and what did he have to show for it? More scars on his body and dents in his shield, but he’d yet to catch up to her. Not even once. But tonight...tonight here in this forgotten place of worship, he stood a chance.
He ignored the man’s moans and mutterings and wiped off his sword, sheathing it before making his way to the stone altar in the back of the cave. What he wanted was nearly lost in the clutter of small tokens. Stuck in generations worth of hardened wax drippings from the motley collection of candlesticks, the small wooden box didn’t look like much. The twelve-pointed star carved in the top, the design picked out in white paint faded to a chipped and peeling grey, had faded almost to non-recognition. But this was it. His hands shook as he pulled his knife and used it to dig the box out of its prison.
He stared at the box, almost afraid to open it.
For the first few months of his quest he’d followed the trail of the queen, thinking that he’d catch up to her eventually. But all he’d found was carnage and fear. And tales of a woman in black who left traces of dark powerful magic. No one would tell him where she was—if they even knew.
And as the year he’d been given to find her eased from winter into summer, he grew desperate. His own Gift not one of searching, he traded what he could for others’ talents, fighting small skirmishes in return for money he could use to buy spells.
But no one’s spells worked. Not the witches on Earth, frolicking in their RVs at their annual meeting of the Seven Tribes outside of Denver. Nor the mystics on the hot sands of D’nun. Not even from the magic pool in his own native lands up north, where he’d spent most of his life in service to the Winter Queen, could he get a fix on the location of his quarry.
Bespelled: A Fae Fantasy Romance (Fae Magic Book 5) Page 1
