Bespelled: A Fae Fantasy Romance (Fae Magic Book 5)

by Jessica Aspen

  There was no response and he stood there for a good ten minutes. He let his breath catch up to his heartbeat and the heat of the sun soak into his skin, before he pulled out the compass again. The needle pointed straight into the house.

  He didn’t have much left, but he pulled as much magic as he could and loaded his shields until they glowed.

  This was it. If the Black Queen was here she must be inside and waiting for him, like a spider in a web. She’d ruled for hundreds of years. The rumor was she’d even killed her father to gain the throne. And he’d been sent on this quest to chop off her head by her son. She was nearly a thousand years older than him, far more powerful, and far more experienced.

  He’d heard stories of how she’d cut men down in her own courtroom for petty offenses like wearing the wrong shoes. Or smiling at jokes she hadn’t gotten. And stories of how no one in the Black Court could match her for power.

  But he had desperation on his side. Killing her was literally the only way he’d be able to stay in Underhill without a price on his head. And he’d lost so much at this point, his lover, his home, his entire life. He wasn’t leaving the only world he’d ever known. Not without a fight.

  Fear, anticipation, and funnily enough, a resistance to losing this moment full of the possibility of success, rose up inside him. He shook it all off and made his way to the curved wooden door sagging on its hinges. He ducked under the heavy curtain of ivy and seized the ancient black latch, lifting it and pushing on the door. It resisted, far too swollen with neglect to move easily.

  He put his shoulder to it and with a groan, the door slowly opened in. A waft of dust puffed out and he coughed it away, peering into the gloom. With the light of Gleam leading the way, he stepped into the darkness.

  THE GIRL, SPINNING through the dance, laughed up at the masked face of her latest partner, admiring his red fur-tipped ears and fluffy long tail.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever danced with a fox before.” Or had she? She couldn’t remember and wasn’t sure it mattered anyway.

  Her partner performed an elegant bow over her hand. “And whom do I have the pleasure of dancing with?”

  She curtsied back. “I’m...” Did she have a name? She thought she’d had one once a long time ago. “Do names matter?”

  “Not in the least.” He pulled back the lips of his black-tipped snout and grinned, showing his wickedly sharp fangs.

  “My, what big teeth you have, sir.”

  Before he could reply, the ground beneath their feet shuddered. The mist that always seemed to hang around the party grew deeper, obscuring the yellow eyes of her partner as he dropped to all four feet and scurried away.

  She ran to the edge of the glade, tripping and stumbling as the ground heaved and the fae fled. She could be safe if she found—what was she looking for again?

  Her head ached. She must have drunk far too much mulberry wine. She’d been at this party so long, she couldn’t even remember when she’d arrived. Or who was her host. Or...much of anything.

  The wide trunk of a tree appeared in the mist in front of her and she wrapped her arms around it, grateful for something to hang on to as reality shook beneath her feet and her dream of a party dissolved into chaos.

  Chapter Six

  Ardan moved through the cottage holding Gleam out in front for protection, as well as the light that was the sword’s name. He checked every nook, and cranny, and closet on the first floor. Empty. Nothing but broken furniture and dust that danced in the light of his sword.

  No sign of an ambush. No sign of the queen. No sign that anyone had been here for a very long time.

  He faced the narrow twisted stairs. His heart thumping loud in his ears, he eased his foot onto the first tread. Its creak was loud, echoing throughout the empty house. Ardan tensed, waiting for the attack. But none came. He took out the lodestone and walked around the first floor again, checking direction. No matter where he went the compass point directed him back to the base of the stairs.

  The thick heavy silence was uncanny. It made his skin creep and it took every ounce of courage he had to head back to the bottom of the stairs. Something was up there, he could feel it. But as for what it was, he had no idea.

  This time the creaking was expected as he made his way onto the first stair. He tested each board, tensing at every sound and expecting an attack. Placing his feet as close to the wall as possible, praying the supports held, and skipping a few of the severely rotted ones, he made his way up. Thirteen sweaty steps and he emerged into the narrow hallway beneath the peaked roof. Only one of the doors off the hall was open, leaving a strip of sunlight on the layers of dust.

  Breathing fast he tiptoed to the door and peeked in.

  Light hazed in from the single ivy covered window, dust motes dancing in its watery beams. In the left-hand corner of the room crouched a spinning wheel, its sharp point empty of any wool, a rotting basket discarded by its feet. And in the right corner, on top of a narrow bed, lay one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

  She was just as fae as he was with delicately pointed ears and the fine bone structure of the purest Tuathan. Her face was softly rounded with youth—she was an adult, but just barely. Maybe a hundred, or a hundred and fifty years old?

  Gleam dipped as Ardan gazed at her in wonder.

  The red of her hair shone in the light of his sword, its curls coiling around her face and shoulders as if caught in a moment of wild abandon. Her skin was flawless, the color of fresh cream with just a hint of peach to show she was alive. The low-cut lavender gown she wore showed off the full curves of her unmoving breasts and shoulders, leaving arms and calves bare to the chill in the room. Each perfectly trimmed toenail was painted a darker shade of purple with a tiny glittering white stone embedded in each one. Even her feet were perfect in a pair of stiletto heels, the straps matching her gown and studded with what looked to be real diamonds. And even though everything around her was covered in the thick dust, not one mote had touched her. It was as if she were the one spot of perfection in the moldering house.

  He shook off his bemusement and stepped into the room, checking out every corner, still braced for attack. But nothing moved, except the dancing dust motes stirred by his passage.

  He stared, waiting for her to take a breath. She was still, too still. And she glowed, with the soft light of a spell.

  It dawned on him slowly—she wasn’t sleeping. She was enchanted.

  Ardan’s damp hands slipped on the pommel of his sword. He wiped first one then the other off on his surcoat, feeling the reassuring strength of his armor underneath, and got a better grip. He leaned forward, nearly cheek to cheek with her, to listen to her breath.

  A tiny puff of air touched his skin, barely noticeable. She was as still as starlight, and just as alive.

  He checked the compass again. There was no doubt, it pointed directly at her. But there was no way this was the Black Queen.

  She was too young, for one thing. The queen had been a young girl hundreds of years before he’d even been born. This woman looked to be closer to his own age, or younger maybe, her pearly skin untouched by time.

  Yes, one of Aeval’s aspects had had red hair when she’d ruled the Black Court, but every report he’d followed in the last few months said she had black hair and was a stunningly handsome middle-aged woman. For the fae, that meant at least a thousand years.

  And it was clear this woman had been here a long time. The only signs of anyone visiting were his own marks in the dust around the room. Even the rotting blankets she lay on were thick with the stuff. The only thing in the room not coated was the girl herself.

  He tucked the lodestone away and opened his inner sight to check her aura. It was full of light, with no trace of the black that he knew would run in someone like the Black Queen. This aura was a clear, pale lavender, like lilacs in summer. It was strong, glittering with so much magic he knew she was a powerful fae, more powerful than himself. But it wasn’t nearly strong enough
to hold a kingdom.

  Disappointment filled him. “Damn it!” His shoulders drooped.

  After months dedicated to getting the lodestone, everything was a bust. It hadn’t led him to the queen. The time spent searching for something to find the Black Queen, the payment to the Oracle, the fight with the troll-kin. All a waste.

  Why was he even bothering? According to Aoife he only had a month left now, and nowhere to go from here. The lodestone was supposed to lead him to his heart’s desire, and that was the Black Queen. But the myth around the compass was that it didn’t always lead in a straight path. Perhaps this woman was the key to finding the queen, and not the queen herself.

  He straightened his shoulders and looked deeper, probing to see if a glamour hid the vicious Crone or wild Aeval. But it wasn’t a glamour. This woman was exactly as she seemed. Too young, too weak, too vulnerable.

  Mage-craft was not his specialty, but Ardan gathered his Gift and sent out a tendril of magic to poke at the woman on the bed. He’d braced himself for a backlash of power. But nothing happened. For all intents and purposes she lay sleeping the sleep of the dead.

  He hesitated to do more. She was so peaceful, posed like a lost work of art in the decrepit room. But he hadn’t come this far just to turn around empty handed.

  He touched her shoulder. “My lady?”

  No response.

  He gripped her arm and shook her. Nothing happened. Not even her breathing sped up. He shook her harder, making the dust on the coverlet dance in the light of his sword. Nothing.

  Satisfied that she posed no current threat, he left the room and checked out the other three doors. Two led to even dustier empty rooms and one led to a trap door that poked out into the little turret. He returned to the spinning room and frowned at its occupant.

  What the hell did he do now?

  Up and down the stairs, in and out of the house. Nothing. Outside, he rechecked the garden. He looked at the sky. There was no queen and the sun had moved high overhead. Clouds had moved in, blocking the light and causing the shadows in the corners of the garden to look darker. He braced himself in case the shadow dragon reappeared, but nothing happened. Time was wasting in this garden with its ruined cottage and he had nothing to show for his efforts. He didn’t want to be trapped in here come nightfall.

  There was only one thing to do.

  He went back inside, this time with Gleam sheathed and a globe-light floating in the air in front of him. Nothing had changed. The house still smelled of dust and disuse, and the woman on the bed still slept on. He gave her one good hard shake, hoping she’d wake up, but no. Another push with his Gift proved useless. Alright then.

  She was the only clue he had. Unless he was going to give up the months of sweat and tears, there was no way he was leaving her here. And there was no way he was staying here in the dark.

  He scooped her up, gathering her into his arms, skirt, shoes and all. The house shuddered and he moved quickly to the top of the stairs. With each step the house shook harder. Dust and bits of thatch from the roof rained down on his head. A large clump of moldy straw hit his face and he lowered his head and ran trying desperately to keep his feet to the wall where he’d walked before. She was surprisingly light, but going down the stairs with a woman in his arms was challenging.

  Six, five, four—he was almost down when the board under them gave way, and his foot went through.

  Twisting his body to protect the girl, they fell down the last three stairs. The back of Ardan’s helmet hit the banister and bounced off. He landed hard on his back with the unconscious woman on top of him. Her face came down, right on top of his. Their lips met, in an accidental kiss.

  The floor shook violently underneath them and her eyes opened up. Bright crystalline irises, the color of the wild violets outside, blinked at him and her forehead wrinkled in confusion.

  SHE LAY ON TOP OF THE stranger, the rigidity of his armor making her bruised body ache. The dance, the trees, and all the fae revelers had disappeared, but the shaking continued and her brain was foggy with wisps of music dancing their way through memories of fun and food and frolic.

  She gasped for a breath of the dirt-filled air of whatever hole she’d dropped into. The air was thick with dust and it was so dark that even the tiny glow-light floating in the air did little to pierce the gloom.

  A beam dropped, crashing to the floor beside them and she flinched, coughing at the raised dust. She pushed off of the hard armor of the man and struggled to her feet, trying to keep her balance on the crazily shaking floor.

  “I don’t know who you are,” she said to the knight on the floor. “But it’s time you did your duty and saw to my safety.”

  He climbed to his feet, and held out his hand. “Come on.”

  She stared into eyes like fractured polished silver and tried to place where she was and if she knew him. Finally, she took it, letting him lead her over the quaking floorboards as if he were leading her to the dance. He headed straight for a sliver of light that turned out to be a door. They stumbled outside and ran across long tangled grass, the building behind them shaking apart, sending clouds of dust into the air as they ran behind a tumbled wall of stones, as far as they could get from the collapsing house. The smell of crushed violets rose as the ground beneath their feet shuddered and heaved.

  She took a huge gulp of air, grateful to be out of the dark building.

  “We can’t stop.” He dragged her further away over the shifting ground to a massive hedge of thorns blocking their way, and stopped. A thorn the size of a large butcher’s blade stabbed her in the shoulder and she drew back, clutching at the wound.

  “What in Brigit’s well is going on?” She watched the drop of crimson bloom on her skin.

  This wasn’t what she was used to. Was it? All she could remember was the party, and even that was fading fast under the onslaught of this reality where she was bruised all over from the man’s armor and her feet hurt from running across rocks in her stilettos. This chaos had a biting reality to it, far more real than the fading memories of the party, and yet she found herself wishing to be back there, dancing the days away.

  The land beneath them quaked. She wheeled her arms, clutching at the strange knight for balance. “Where is the gate?” she shouted over the noise. “No gate.” Her companion pulled his sword. “We have to go through.” The tingle of his magic skated across her skin as he gathered his Gift and shoved power into the blade. The metal came alive with the bright glow of dwarven runes. The hedge’s thorns danced frantically, stabbing as far as their blades could reach, and a wild wind rose, pulling and tugging at her hair.

  The soldier hacked into the hedge. She huddled behind him, trying to shelter from the angry wind and vicious thorns. For every stroke he gave, hacking through the branches and lopping them off, more sprang back into place leaving him with only a small dent into the hedge after all of his effort. She could sense he was putting everything he had into it, but he seemed drained, as if he’d been fighting for too long a time and his magic flowed in an ever slowing stream into his blade.

  Behind them the house groaned. A shutter tore off the side, nails shrieking in protest as they were ripped from their beds. It flew at her head and she ducked.

  “It doesn’t want you to leave.” The soldier shouted at her over the noise of the storm.

  “What doesn’t want me to leave?

  “The house.”

  She looked back. There was a pull from the house, an evil lure drawing her closer, urging her back to the dust and debris. She took a wobbly step toward it, and then another, horror crawling along her skin.

  She drew on her willpower and forced her legs to stop. The pull increased. She didn’t know where she’d been or why, but there was no way she was setting a toe back into that house. Drawing as close as she dared to the knight, staying well clear of his sword and the thorns she shouted, “Screw that. Cut harder.”

  He raised an eyebrow, then went back to work, making slow headw
ay into the hedge.

  She raised a hand to protect her eyes from the dirt whipping into her face and yelled into the wind, “You’re taking too long. It’s growing back almost as soon as you cut it.”

  “Don’t you think I can see that?” He gave her a mocking glance. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Stand away. I’ve had enough.” Power came to her call, rising through her like the wild wind whipping her hair. The soldier stopped chopping and backed hastily out of the way.

  Crackling electricity rose to her fingers and she smiled at the familiar tingle of her magic racing through her body. It hadn’t occurred to her, but she hadn’t used her magic at all in the party, and she’d missed it.

  She thrust her Gift at the hedge, expecting to blow it out of existence. But all her magic did was burn a section away, leaving blackened dripping stumps.

  “Hey, that’s great.” He stepped forward and examined her work. “That section isn’t growing back. Do it again.”

  Stunned at the lack of results, she tried again. More of the hedge burned away and between the soldier’s efforts and her own they made their slow, sure way into the darkness of the hedge, cutting and hacking and burning their way through until the sound of the house collapsing behind them was only a dull roar.

  They stumbled out of the hedge into the pale light of a cloudy afternoon. Instead of crashing sound and dust and debris, the valley floor was hushed, covered in the subtle colors of fall. In the distance, tall trees formed the edge of a forest, their thinly leaved branches rising up the steep sides of the valley. A grazing stallion, its white coat a pearly luminescence against the dreary backdrop, lifted its head from the yellowed grass and pricked its ears forward. She took a deep breath of air. She was free.

  Something loosened inside her. She turned to her rescuer, to thank him for pulling her from the collapsing house.

  But his fierce look stopped her. “Okay. Enough’s enough. I’ve been through hell and I need some answers and you’re the only one around. Where is the Black Queen?”