The Fae Queen's Warriors

by Tara West

  “I shall kill them all!” Milas bellowed and blew a stream of fire.

  Yelling and stumbling over one another, the villagers made a hasty retreat.

  She slid down Torin’s back and reached for Milas, tracing a bulging membrane that dissected his wing. “Yes, my dragon king. Yes, you shall.”

  KING MILAS SAT ON A throne made of rubble in what had once been the center of his castle, his barbed tail wrapped around his paws while he growled at servants and slaves as they worked feverishly to rebuild, sweat dripping down their foreheads, their fingers caked in blood. They didn’t complain because the remains of the first servant who tried to quit had been dumped into a cart with the rest of the rubble.

  “Did you send my bride her wedding gifts?” he asked his mage.

  She stroked his bulging bicep. “Yes.”

  She wanted him again after riding him passionately like a rutting animal all morning. Her sexual appetite had been insatiable since she’d brought him back from the dead, transforming him into a terrifying beast. Gone was his weak mortal body. In its place was a mighty demon, a god king. He shook out his wings like a bird ruffling its feathers, relishing the feel of the power that flowed through his veins.

  Purring softly, he rubbed a long talon across her jaw. “Did you find Lea and the queen’s lover?”

  “No, My King.” She trembled at his touch. “I believe Evander helped them escape.”

  Those foolish Fae. They’d tried to kill him. Instead they’d created what would soon be their worst nightmare. After he destroyed the defenders, he would go after the Fae, crushing every last one of them.

  “Then who did you send?” he asked.

  “Someone I believe the Fae bitch cared about,” Demendia answered, pulling his engorged member from his tunic. “And the head of a slave girl who died of Fae Fever.”

  “Good.” Grasping the back of her head, he pushed her mouth toward his groin. “Maybe the fever will spread through Periculi.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” She took him in her mouth.

  Glaring at any mortals who dared watch him take his pleasure, he watched Demendia struggle to fit his girth down her throat. He relished being a God. Soon the world would cower before him or feel his wrath.

  KYRIA SAT ON DEMON, her hair dusted with snow that painted the landscape white. Kyria’s stomach churned as she waited for Theron to return from beyond the wall. Quin sat on his horse beside her, his stony gaze fixed on the tall gate. Titus stood in front of them, hands clenched, his breath fogging the air while he waited for the defenders to pull back the bolts.

  Shifting in the saddle, she tried to get comfortable. Her ankles ached worse than ever, making it impossible to stand. She was afraid the assassination attempt had failed and Demendia still lived, for Euclid had said killing the mage would break the curse.

  The gate heaved open, and Theron, Marcello, and several soldiers appeared. There was a hopeless look in their eyes as the gate slammed shut behind them. The assassination had failed, which meant war was upon them.

  “What news do you have for us, Fae?” Titus said. “Judging by the look on your face, it’s not good.”

  Marcello gave an apologetic look to Kyria. His eyes which were framed with heavy circles, making him look far older than he had last week. “Our plan—"

  “Failed,” Titus finished.

  Marcello rubbed a haggard jaw. “The king was killed.”

  Kyria shared a confused look with Quin. “Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghoul?” she asked.

  Marcello heaved a shuddering breath. “Demendia brought him back from the dead.”

  Kyria gasped and ice flowed through her veins. “You said people turn into unholy monsters if we try to bring them back.”

  “The king is a soulless, flying devil who breathes fire. They also have three full-sized winged dragons. He is assembling an army to march on Periculi.”

  Kyria swayed in her seat, bile rising up in her throat. “Great goddess.”

  “Will the Fae offer us any help?” Titus asked.

  Marcello’s cheeks colored. “The Fae have retreated. I’m all that’s left.” He turned to Kyria. “I’m here to ask you to come with me, Your Highness. A vessel is waiting offshore.”

  She fumed. How dare the Fae create this chaos and then run! “So you’re abandoning humans and letting them clean up your mess?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness.” He looked contrite. “We had not expected this.”

  Her jaw hardened. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Your Highness, your grandfather will be devastated if anything should happen to you.”

  “He doesn’t even know me,” she said, sneering. She was angrier with every breath.

  “But he wants to.” Marcello’s tone turned to one of a petulant child. And to think she’d once thought him handsome. “He specifically asked me to bring you back should the assassination fail.”

  “Tell him, if he’s so worried, to send help.” Her tone turned shrill, splintering like the icicles that fell from Periculi’s thatched roofs.

  Titus let out a low rumble. “Kyria?”

  Fire coursed through her veins when she shot her lover a dark look. “I’m not leaving.” General or not, he wasn’t forcing her from Periculi. If she died with them, so be it.

  “Another rider approaches!” a guard called from one of the turrets.

  Titus raised a hand, and the defenders formed a line in front of Kyria, shields raised.

  “It’s a messenger with a package!” the guard yelled. “A gift for the queen.”

  “Do not pull it up!” Titus called back, grumbling. “It’s probably poison.”

  “It could be from the Fae king,” Marcello said.

  “Then you go get it!” Titus snapped, eyes blazing.

  Marcello kicked his horse and raced back to the gate.

  Watching the gate slowly rise, they waited impatiently, Demon tossing his head, no one saying anything.

  “Where is the package?” Titus said when Marcello returned.

  Marcello’s pallor had taken on a sickly gray and he looked ready to vomit. “There were two. I left them outside.”

  Titus paced in front of him. “Did you open them?”

  He blanched. “Yes.”

  “Well? Just spit it out.”

  Pity reflected in the Fae’s eyes as he looked to Kyria. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. They were heads.”

  She was momentarily so dizzy, she had to grab the pommel to avoid falling off Demon. “My parents?”

  “No, Your Highness. Evander was able to get them to safety, along with Jade, her family, and the slave child, Lea. They are on a ship to Fae Kingdom.”

  The tension that had tied a noose around Kyria’s neck loosened ever so slightly. She released a shaky breath, hardly realizing she’d been holding it. “Then whose heads are they?”

  “I don’t know.” Marcello frowned. “One was an older woman with smeared blue and black face paints.”

  Oh, no! “Melandris.”

  Theron said, “Who is she?”

  “She was my head priestess.”

  Quin settled a hand on her knee. “I’m sorry, Kyria.”

  “Before meeting the king, I loathed her more than anyone, but I wouldn’t have wished her to die that way.” She braced herself. “Who else?”

  Marcello hesitated, then said, “A child.”

  Kyria’s world came to a standstill. “Oh, goddess.”

  “You heard Marcello,” Quin said. “It’s not Lea.”

  “It’s still a child,” she cried, burying her face in her hands. Saliva filled her mouth and she swallowed convulsively. “I’m going to be sick.” Kicking Demon into motion, she whirled and raced across the courtyard.

  “Kyria, wait!” Quin called after her, but she didn’t stop. She had to get away, even though she knew, no matter how far she ran, she’d never escape her nightmares.

  “FOLLOW HER!” TITUS said to Quin.

  He chased after Ky
ria, cursing Demon’s speed as they made straight for the cliffs. Curse her for her foolishness. She knew to avoid that area during mating season. Luckily, they hadn’t seen another dragon since they’d killed the first one, but he didn’t like her being so far from the safety of camp.

  “Kyria,” he called. “Wait up!”

  His blood ran cold when he heard a roar, followed by a mammoth black beast that rose up from behind the cliff, towering over Kyria, water dripping from his scales.

  Fanfir!

  Kyria screamed, tumbling off Demon when the horse reared, kicking the dragon to no avail. With one sweep of his fin, Fanfir knocked the whinnying horse aside.

  Reaching for his spear, Quin kicked his horse’s sides. “Go! Go!” Aiming for the leviathan’s neck, he released the spear, crying out when it bounced off his scales and clanked on top of the dragon skulls below.

  The dragon lunged and swallowed Kyria in a single gulp, muting her screams. He slithered back down the ledge into the ocean waves below.

  “No!” Agony and terror burst his heart. He couldn’t lose her! Jumping off his horse, Quin pulled his sword, climbed on top of a dragon skull, and dove into the ocean.

  He barely registered the pain of the icy water shattering his bones as a wave smashed him against the rock wall. Swallowing saltwater, he prepared to meet his fate as he gazed into the glowing eyes of the legendary leviathan.

  KYRIA WOKE TO A SIGHT that took her breath away. She was—she eventually worked out—inside the beast’s mouth, lying on a smooth surface, looking up at an array of metal wheels and pumping rods that spit out columns of steam. Quin, his clothes and hair drenched, lay beside her. He had a swollen lip and bruised eyes, and judging by the awkward angle of his arms, a few broken bones. She rubbed his back while he vomited water.

  “Kyria,” someone called.

  Getting up on her elbows, she gaped at what appeared to be the helm of a ship, where dozens of tall, slender Fae operated gears and other equipment she could not identify.

  Fanfir was no dragon. This was a vessel controlled by the Fae army. Even more shocking was the man on deck behind a large navigation wheel.

  Surely she was dreaming. “Alexi?”

  THE END

  The Fae Queen’s Captors, Dragon Defenders, Book Two, Fall 2020.

  Academy for Misfit Witches

  Academy for Misfit Witches, Book One

  A Reverse-Harem Fantasy Romance

  Tara West

  AT ACADEMY FOR MISFIT Witches, all new students spend their first night in the dungeon. Nobody told me I’d be fighting for my life against a powerful mage hellbent on framing three sexy dragon-shifters for my attempted murder.

  A strong siren, sexy dragon-shifters, a murderous mage, a zombie witch army, and an ancient fae legend make this fast burn reverse harem romance a wild, steamy adventure!

  Academy for Misfit Witches takes place in the same world as The Fae Queen’s Warriors, about 2,000 years later. Read below for a scene or download Academy for Misfit Witches here: https://amzn.to/3bUM7ft

  Chapter One

  “HOW LONG WILL THEY make us wait?” Miss Pratt whined, checking the time on her wand while she hovered above the floor across the room, her wings angrily buzzing like she was a hummingbird on crack.

  Serah fiddled with a gemstone on her gaudy emerald bracelet and ignored her annoying chaperone, AKA the five-foot clumsy hummingbird. She wasn’t looking forward to starting a new school, but she couldn’t wait to get rid of Miss Pratt. That pixie had been a thorn in her side since Grandfather ordered her out of his office, refusing to hear her version of the story and threatening to disinherit her if she brought any more shame to their family name.

  Serah checked the backings on her earrings to make sure they were secure—a nervous habit—and recalled her grandfather’s dark scowl. She felt like an utter failure for disappointing him, but did that mean she had to attend the worst school in the third realm? It had been one tiny transgression.

  She looked at the cobwebs in the corners, the black mold exposed beneath the peeling wallpaper, and the dust-covered trophy case displaying awards from the Department of Magical Corrections for strict disciplinary action. Apparently this shithole was her last hope. None of the other magical schools would take a siren with a penchant for seducing professors. Actually, it had been only one professor, and he’d seduced her, but try as she might, she couldn’t dispel the rumors that had spread faster than a dragon’s inferno.

  Slumping in her seat, she picked imaginary grime out of her fingernails and avoided eye contract with the female troll sitting behind the admissions desk. At least she was fairly certain the troll was a woman. The big pink bow covering that bald patch on her head might have been a good indicator. Or maybe the bright red lipstick leaching into her upper lip hairs. Steam poured out of the troll’s wide nostrils as she glared at Serah from under a unibrow that looked like someone had glued a strip of shag carpet to her forehead. The admissions clerk at the Dame Doublewart’s School for Misfit Witches had to be the ugliest troll in all four realms, and that was saying something, considering the last one she’d had the misfortune of encountering had had a thumb-sized brown wart hanging out of her nostril.

  The plaque on her desk announced her name was Lady Hoofenmouth. She wore a huge rock on her bloated wedding finger. Serah didn’t know if she was more shocked that Lady Hoofenmouth was a member of the gentry or that there was another Hoofenmouth.

  When the ancient black phone on Lady H’s desk rang obnoxiously, sounding like a bleating, sick cow, the troll picked up the receiver, nostrils flaring, and listened to a shrill voice on the other end.

  Grunting, she hung up and gave Serah the once-over. “Seraphina Goldenwand, the headmistress will see you now.”

  Serah jumped to her feet, fingering the wand in her pocket and clutching her purse. “Thank you.” Turning up her nose, she walked haughtily past the troll, ignoring the annoying buzzing of Miss Pratt’s wings, who preceded her, as she banged into furniture, trying to keep up.

  Once they reached a dark, musty hall, Serah covered her mouth, breathing into her palm while picking up the pace enough to zip past the pixie. This place smelled fouler than a rotting crypt.

  “Wait up,” Miss Pratt called, coughing and choking behind her. “Oh, my. This place smells like dragon farts.”

  Serah strode straight toward a tall slender woman with a long beak nose and hair pulled back in an austere bun, who glared at them from a doorway at the end of the hall.

  “Hello.” She smiled at the woman, not surprised when she didn’t smile back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Serah infused a bit of siren charm into her words, hoping her seductive voice would be hard to resist, then arched back when the woman’s lips twisted into a scowl.

  “I’m Dame Doublewart.” Her face was a mask of stone. “Siren charms don’t work on me.” She held the office door open and motioned to a chair in front of a wide, gray desk. “Come in.”

  Serah’s eyes widened as she walked past Dame Doublewart. In the magical world, sometimes one’s name was an indication of one’s appearance. Dame Doublewart had no visible warts on her face, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have them somewhere. Her imagination raced with possibilities, most of which made her stomach churn.

  “Thank you so much for seeing us.” Miss Pratt’s rapidly buzzing wings ground to a halt when Dame Doublewart held out a staying hand. She dropped to the floor with a squeak and a curse and jutted tiny hands on her hips, glaring at the formidable headmistress.

  Dame Doublewart arched a thin brow and scowled down at the purple-haired pixie. “And you are?”

  “Penelope Pixiefeather Pratt.” Miss Pratt pulled back narrow shoulders, flashing a triumphant grin. “I’m Lord Goldenwand’s personal assistant.”

  Serah fought an eyeroll. She suspected her grandfather’s name didn’t carry much weight with Dame Doublewart.

  “Miss Pratt, I don’t believe your name was called.” Dame Doublewart crossed
her arms and impatiently tapped her foot.

  Miss Pratt’s jaw dropped. “But Serah’s grandfather—”

  “Has no influence here.” Dame Doublewart shooed Miss Pratt away as if she was swatting a bug. “Now, if you’d excuse us.”

  “Fine,” Miss Pratt huffed, eyes crossing.

  Shoo, Serah mouthed, waving Miss Pratt into the musty hall, her grin widening when Dame Doublewart slammed the door in the pixie’s face. She’d never liked Miss Pratt, and not just because she was a whiny, impatient little mouse. Miss Pratt had a habit of shadowing Serah at the most inopportune times and reporting everything back to Grandfather, including the rumors that Serah had slept with every professor at her former school. Miss Pratt was a short snitch with a dragon-sized grudge wedged up her twat.

  Looking her over with an assessing glare, Dame Doublewart motioned for Serah to sit.

  She sat in a slick, squeaky chair, cringing when it wobbled beneath her. She wasn’t surprised this school couldn’t afford decent furniture, given the condition of the place. The outside had been just as decrepit, a crumbling, gray building located in the heart of an old cemetery. This was a far cry from her last school, which was located at the edge of the beautiful city of Sawran, overlooking a tropical beach. That school had been beyond luxurious. If only her former headmistress hadn’t believed those stupid rumors.

  “Serah Goldenwand?” Dame Doublewart’s lips twisted into a tighter scowl, as if she’d just finished sucking on a rotten lemon or the timer on her fifteen-minute enema had expired.

  Refusing to be intimidated, she brushed a strand of her wavy auburn hair behind her ear and turned up her chin. “Yes.”

  If it was at all possible Dame Doublewart’s disapproving expression deepened. “The correct response is ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

  She fought back a curse. Grinding her teeth, she spit out the words. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She had no choice but to kiss Doublewart’s ass. This school was her only hope. One-hundred-and-fifty billion merlins were at stake, thanks to Grandfather’s ridiculous rule. No diploma, no inheritance. She enjoyed designer purses and shoes too much to end up poor.