Enchanting the Fey- The Complete Series

by Rebecca Bosevski

  THE COMPLETE SERIES

  REBECCA BOSEVSKI

  CONTENTS

  Enchanting the Fey Book 1

  Uniting the Fabled - Enchanting the Fey Book 2

  The Fall- Enchanting the Fey Book 2.5

  Destroying the Fallen - Enchanting the Fey Book 3

  BOOK 1

  The alarm clock buzzed beside me. I groggily grabbed for it and threw it towards the wall. It only mocked me, dancing in circles as it continued to buzz, adding the vibration of the floorboards to its irritating drone.

  “Fucking indestructible Hello Kitty crap,” I bitched as I pulled myself out of bed. The thing was ancient but solid as a rock. I threw it against the wall most mornings, but it continued to keep perfect time.

  It was most defiantly time to get moving; the shoot today would pay my rent for a month, or buy me two pairs of fabulous shoes—I couldn’t miss it. I trudged towards the irritating beacon of cute, pressed the little bow to shut it up, and tossed it on the bed.

  Makeup or coffee? I didn’t have time for both, not today, not with the shoot starting in an hour. Coffee won out and I threw on a simple white shirt over my black leggings, fixed it around my waist with a thin, shiny black belt, and scooped my hair into a messy bun. Shoes would take the most time. I could wear the black glitter flats comfort and class, or the blue pumps super high heels, very impractical for a photoshoot, but oh-so-very-pretty. Practicality won out for once and I left the pumps sad and alone, propped up on the coffee table.

  Hair, shoes, camera? “Where the hell is my—” I eyed the apartment. Books littered every surface—most already marked several pages in, waiting for me to finish their tales. A black-and-red strap peeked out from beneath the coffee table. Aha, there it is!

  I grabbed it and quickly made my way to the café down the block. As I waited for my double-shot soy vanilla latte, I surveyed the growing morning crowd. Two cute young men in suits that always made a point of smiling at me were here early, as usual, and three young blondes I’d never seen before—dressed excessively skimpy for the autumn weather, if you asked me—hovered nearby. They giggled in a two-octaves-too-high titter, in a vain attempt to gaining the gentlemen’s attention.

  The suits placed their order and moved to sit by the window, the taller of the two sliding his stool closer to the other as he sat. If I didn’t already know they were a couple, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

  Someone new caught my eye and my stomach flipped. His smooth, black leather lace-up shoes stood out beneath his washed-out black jeans, and the snug caramel tee he wore hugged him in all the right places, showing off how fit he was. One of the blondes noticed him, too, and she was goading her cohorts to take a look. Suddenly, he turned and when his eyes were about to meet mine, I regained a semblance of composure and turned my attention to the phone in my hand.

  I didn’t dare look back up. Instead, I angled the phone, and in its blurry mirror it looked like he was still looking my way. I couldn’t make out his features clearly, but his hair was shortish and brown.

  Shit he is still facing this way.

  “Des!” The barista called my name and I instinctively snapped my head towards the tall cup steaming on the collection counter. By the time I grabbed it and turned back, he was gone.

  I hurried off to work, my continually vibrating phone an unwelcome distraction. 11 o’clock meeting changed to 10. No shoes for outfit four. Client due in twenty-five minutes. The last one caused me to pick up my pace. My job as a freelance photographer with Dazzle was an amazing gig—short, varied hours, great pay, and sometimes I even got to keep the shoes.

  The shoot started out as mildly annoying, but quickly climbed the ranks as one of the most frustrating of my career when a model was a no-show, and the ditz that did show up managed to lose an expensive bracelet in the lake where we were shooting. The client arrived to find we were given two of the wrong outfits. Then, to top it all off, my boss showed up.

  “You better get this done, Des,” she barked as she stepped out of her silver BMW. I’d hated Caroline James in high school and she’d grown up to be a bigger bitch than I remembered—she had a reputation amongst photographers for being impossible to please. But her vague memory of me is what had scored me the gig with Dazzle in the first place, so I bit my tongue.

  “On it, Miss James,” I said, flicking through the hanging rack of clothes. “It would help if fashion sent the right outfits,” I added under my breath.

  “Excuse me?” Caroline glared at me, coming to stand beside the client.

  Oops, she’d heard me. And she was the one in charge of the fashion department. Mistake Number One.

  “Dustin, my apologies for this mix up,” she said sweetly. “Our usual photographer was not available. I thought Des could handle it; I was clearly mistaken.” They both frowned in my direction.

  My blood simmered in my veins. “Maybe because I was the only photographer still willing to work with you,” I said a little too loudly. Mistake Two.

  “Do you have something to ask our client, Des, or a question for me—your boss? No? Okay then, how bout you get back to work. You can start by finding that bracelet. Hop to it, those shoes won’t be missed if you lose them in the lake in the meantime.”

  Bitch went for the shoes. My blood turned to full-on boil “How about you dive in and get it yourself? Oh wait, you can’t; you’ll melt. Oh well, why don’t you go ahead and jump in anyway.” Mistake Three.

  “That’s it,” she seethed. “Your services are no longer required.” She led the client Dustin towards the lake’s edge, whispering in his ear.

  “Fuck!” I spent the next couple of hours walking around the park, trying to think of a magazine that I could approach for work—one that wasn’t associated with Dazzle. When the lights came on along the walking path, I decided to head home. The park was pretty during the day, but at night, it was known for its fair share of muggings and assaults.

  Turns out, I would have been safer in the park.

  I was a block from my apartment when he clenched down with his hand on my shoulder and hauled me into the shadows.

  I would have fought back. I should have. I had taken a self-defence class at the community center a few years back, so I knew how to overpower someone stronger. Nevertheless, his brilliant green eyes transfixed me in place.

  My pulse drummed in my ears, drowning out street sounds of honking horns and the bustle of cars passing by. The sickening thump of my heart and his dangerous green eyes were all that existed in that moment. His eyes… a flash of light flickered across their glassy surface and I felt a pinch at my side.

  He dropped his gaze for a moment. When it returned to my face, his eyes were wide. I saw a glimmer of something unexpected—fear? His mouth fell open and he dug his fingers into the flesh of my arm.

  Is he afraid of me? No one feared me. I could barely bring myself to squish a spider with the tip of my shoe! Yet his eyes bore into me as if I had stepped on him, and was turning my shoe ever so slightly.

  The squawk of a bird forced its way past the heartbeat drumming in my ears and I turned my head towards its call, but my attacker yanked me deeper into the shadows and the fog quickened.

  “Well, shit,” I muttered, as my eyelids suddenly grew heavy.

  I’m not the shoe, I thought. “I’m the spider.” As soon as I closed my eyes, the nightmares returned.

  Glistening teeth. Torn flesh. Ear-splitting cries that cut the bone, and blood-splattered grass shining in the light of the moon.

  Waking to the sound of my own screams happened to be a thankful reprieve.

  Since my mother’s death three months prior, I hadn’t slept throu
gh one single night.

  Normally I could steady myself by lying awake, safe in my apartment, the light from the street casting a ballet of comforting, familiar patterns across my ceiling. I blinked; the world remained devoid of light.

  I shivered against the cold, smooth surface beneath me. A familiar smell burned the back of my nostrils and I sneezed. I felt around me with my palms, trying to get my bearings, and flinched, startled to feel my fingers brush against the bare skin of my torso.

  I’m naked.

  Panicking, I ran my fingertips down the sides of my body, exploring as far as my arms could reach, considering the cold metal confining me. My right hand stopped over my heart and relief washed over me as its beat drummed steadily beneath my fingertips.

  “Focus, Des.” I breathed in a deep, slow breath, letting it out between pursed lips.

  I’m naked, trapped in the dark, my head’s pounding, and I’m sure that pong is bleach. Yep, I’m screwed.

  Whenever I was alone with my own thoughts, my mind tended to explain any situation with the most unlikely of scenarios—an asset when creating a story for a new designer’s six-page spread, but not exactly beneficial in this situation. Thus: A sociopathic murderer has kidnapped me and intends on wearing my healthy un-blemished skin as a suit.

  A thud reverberated from above my head; someone stood on the other side of my dark confines. Before I could decide whether or not to call out for help, the cold surface rumbled beneath me.

  A sudden explosion of light exacerbated my throbbing head, blinding me in its white light.

  Great, I’m dead. “Fucking hell,” I said. “Well, bloody great.”

  Finally, my eyes adjusted, revealing a man leaning in far too close. His hot, strawberry-scented breath filled my nostrils, replacing the stench of bleach.

  “Geez, personal space!” I waved my hands frantically in front of me.

  His cheeks flushing instantly before he looked away. I followed his stare and quickly crossed one arm over my exposed breasts and the other over my lap.

  “Umm, a little help with some clothes? I’ll take a shirt, a towel, anything?” I looked around, and my eyes fixed on the smooth metal tray upon which I was sitting. It protruded from a wall of freezer doors. “Why the fuck am I in the morgue?”

  I glanced across at a tray of shimmering blades and other grisly metal instruments and my stomach back-flipped. Gagging, I pushed the tray aside and swung my legs over the side.

  I took a few deep breaths and then focused on the man who had sprung me. He stood a foot taller than I—which said something. At six feet tall, not many men did. His rich, tawny skin glistened under dusty blond hair—handsome for sure, but almost too perfect. His tailored, blood-red shirt hugged his arms and fell perfectly below the waist of dark blue jeans. The color combination made me think of Superman, all that hero red-and-blue.

  “Why am I in the morgue?” I asked again.

  He didn’t answer but threw a sheet towards my lap and I scrambled to drape myself.

  “Desmoree?” he questioned.

  “Des,” I automatically corrected. Wait! How does he know my name?

  “You are Desmoree?” he questioned again, looking me up and down.

  “Hey, eyes up buddy. Yes, I’m Des. Now third time’s a charm: why am I in the morgue?”

  He stepped back, knocking a saw off the bench. It clattered to the floor. I gagged again.

  “Desmoree, you… umm… you are… umm.”

  What is this guy doing in the morgue? What am I doing in the morgue? What is on my toe? Man, that hurts. Is he answering me yet? Nope, still umming and erring.

  “You’re one of us. You have to come with me; I’ll take you home.”

  “I’m one of you and you will take me home? I don’t fucking think so. You sound like you’ve gotten into the ammonia. Why don’t you scurry along and I’ll see myself home, okay?”

  His brow furrowed and his lips thinned. He no longer resembled any Superman I’d ever seen.

  “Well…” I began, turning my head in every direction, searching for a way to escape.

  Plan A: the ceiling has a small skylight. Though it looks to be open, I have no idea how I could get up to the ceiling, let alone out the skylight.

  So, Plan B: the door.

  Okay, the door probably should have been Plan A. But hey, waking up in the morgue, I’m allowed to be a bit slow off the mark. The door was directly behind him. I would have to get past—

  Before I could finish my thought, he lifted me off the slab, his strong arms cradling my barely covered body.

  “Fucking hell!”

  He flew me towards the closed skylight, throwing his right arm towards it. A blue flash exploded from his hand, shattering the glass into a million tiny specks.

  The broken glass hovered mid-air as we passed through the opening and up into the sky. I gazed down in awe, as the tiny specks re-joined, leaving behind no evidence of our exit.

  The air prickled and my lungs and stomach flipped at the height we soared.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I said, unable to prevent my head from resting on my captor’s shoulder as the lack of oxygen began to take its toll. His warmth pulsed through the delicate fabric of his shirt, but I shivered in the crisp air. The further into the darkening sky he took me, the dizzier I became.

  “What the hell are you?” I managed to ask through gasped breaths.

  He tilted his head, meeting my gaze. “You mean what are we, don’t you?”

  It all went dark.

  #

  Had it all been a dream? I listened for familiar sounds before I was willing to open my eyes.

  There was no bustle of cars or any distant sirens, so I was sure I was not at home in my bed, but whatever I lay upon enveloped me in a cloud of warmth, so I was optimistic. I tentatively raised one arm, praying it wouldn’t hit against cold steel. When it didn’t, I breathed a sigh of relief and lowered my arm back to my side.

  I’d been flying, I remembered.

  “Dreams about flying, what do they mean?” I mumbled.

  If only I could ask my mother.

  Still not wanting to open my eyes, I wriggled down, sending my body deeper into the embrace of the bed. My bed, though comfortable, didn’t hug my body the way this did. Remembering again the cold steel of the slab in the morgue, I quickly patted myself down.

  Not naked, thank God.

  A bouquet of lavender swept across my face, teasing on a warm wind. I tilted my head towards the scent and peeked through my lashes, out into the darkness. My eyes adjusted immediately.

  A large mirror to the left of the bed reflected short rays of light back into the room and the lavender had wafted from a vase of red tulips sitting beside the bed.

  Weird.

  My eyes widened at the sight of the huge bed in which I lay. My flimsy double would be this bed’s footstool.

  “Ew,” I said aloud, imagining why someone might own a bed so big.

  Catching a flicker of movement at the back of the room, I quickly sat up. My heart beat against my chest like wet silk flapping in a whirlwind.

  “Desmoree,” a man’s whisper came from across the room. “Desmoree, please promise not to be angry.”

  “Why would I be…?” I began, but stopped. “Who are you?” I sat forward, trying to focus on him through the muted light, but he stayed hidden in the shadows.

  “Please, allow me to explain first,” the voice began.

  I know his voice.

  Then it hit me: the man from the morgue, the one who had scooped me up into the sky.

  “No. It had to be a dream. You’re not real.” My jaw tensed as I searched the darkness, hoping to disprove what my mind already knew to be true.

  It was him, it wasn’t a dream, and I was screwed.

  “It can’t be real,” I said again, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

  “Desmoree, this is most certainly real! You need to listen to me. They found you because you are different; you’re not the same
as everyone else.”

  “Sure, whatever, buddy.”

  “Desmoree, stop and listen to…”

  “Fine then, you know so much about me, why don’t you tell me how am I different.”

  Silence.

  Frustrated, I ran my hands over my head and down a mess of brown hair, my fingers catching in knots along the way. “Come on, how the fuck am I different?” I probed.

  “Well…” He took a step closer. “To explain…” He took a step back. “Look, it’s complicated.”

  Boy, this guy is taking beating around the bush to a completely new level.

  “Desmoree,” he called, seeking my attention, as he must have noticed me trailing off into my own head.

  “Would you stop calling me Desmoree? My name is D-E-S!” I said it loud and slow, so he could not be confused. “And what the hell is your name?”

  He frowned, rolling his eyes briefly before continuing. “My name is Moyeth. Your family, Des, they are different.”

  “Your name is what?”

  “Moyeth”

  “Really, your name is Moyeth. You aren’t making that up?”

  “No, I am not. Now Des, listen, your grandmother left with your mother so long ago. Only after your mother died were the seers able to find you. Your father has been searching for months.”

  “My father? You know my father?”

  “Your father is not the issue right now. You need to listen to me.”

  “LIKE HELL, HE’S NOT! WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY FATHER?” I crawled to the end of the bed.

  “Des, there isn’t time. They found you once, and they could find you again. You need to let me explain. Then you will see. You will see you have to come with me.”

  I scooted back to sit crossed-legged in the middle of the bed and pretended to lock my lips with an invisible key.

  What could he know about my father? He looks about my age.

  He stepped a little closer. As he spoke, his lips moved but the words washed over me a few steps behind. His brow softened and even in the dull light, I could see his smile.