Protecting Shaylee
The Fae Guard Series
Elle Christensen
Contents
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Books by Author Elle Christensen
Acknowledgments
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Protecting Shaylee
Book 1 Fae Guard Series
By Elle Christensen
Protecting Shaylee
Copyright © 2015 Elle Christensen
All Editions
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Cover Design: Elle Christensen
Photo: Dollar Photo Club
Editor: Jacquelyn Ayres
Formatting: Champagne Formats
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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The Author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication’s use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
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All rights reserved.
Created with Vellum
For my forever love.
The most perfect man I could ever write would be exactly like you.
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Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were.
But without it, we go nowhere.
-Carl Sagan
Prologue
It is common among humans to see things not as they are, but as what their imaginations perceive them to be. Experiences are romanticized, and folklore is created. However, some of these tall tales are not as far-fetched as you might think. For, within a lie, there is always a kernel of truth. Among these legends are those of otherworldly creatures and people. But, the truth is often so wildly distorted that you may not recognize them for what they are. So…let me enlighten you.
There is a world beyond the human realm; one of creatures whose nature is between human and angel. In fact, they are said to be descended from fallen angels. They are a species who crave the sun. Without it, they will lose their pure magic and wither away. They can see beyond the human eye and hear beyond the human ear. They possess white-blonde hair and bright, blue or green eyes that shine like jewels. Their natural bodies are light—though, not see through—but with an astral glow. Yet, they are changeable, and when they venture into the human world, their skin loses some of its luster, taking on a matte sheen that blends them with the humans.
They are a people of magic. Magic that is protective in nature, used for the care of innocents, the healing of wounds, and to fight the evil forces that would threaten the vulnerable. Though they can confuse you with their words, they cannot lie. For, if they do, they will become a part of a darker world—an evil existence. Their glow will dim, their lustrous blond hair will bleed into black, and their eyes will become the shade of the mud that has colored their soul. They will endeavor to bring more light over to the dark.
Children that are a mix of these people and humans are targeted because they are easier to turn. They must spend their early years in the human world until they are marked at the age of twenty-one. Then, their mixed nature will be detectable and the magic will flow through their veins, allowing them to enter both realms. They are virtually undetectable as a Halfling, until they are marked. Still, there are those who can seek the dormant magic, lying in wait, to be released. They are protected because knowledge of their true people is built upon the folklore of the humans. They cannot fully comprehend what they will become, or the importance of keeping the existence of these people a secret. They are more susceptible to being courted by the darkness. And, in the dark, they are as their ancestors are—one of The fallen.
Of what creatures do I speak?
They are the Fae.
Chapter One
Shalyee
My father used to tell me stories about faeries. He spoke the tales about the mythical creatures with such passion that I was convinced of the truth in his words. As I got older, I began to wonder whether he was simply spinning fantasies to entertain me. My friends said there were no such things as faeries or any other magical creature. Nevertheless, he made me re-tell him the stories I’d been taught. When my imagination got the best of me, and I embellished, he would gently correct me, telling me to only ever tell these tales exactly as I had learned them from him.
When I was fourteen, my father was murdered. He was attacked and left in an alley, near our home, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Standing in the cemetery, I buried the stories along with him. My mother asked me about the tales from time to time, but I was too stubborn to let her coax them from my lips. What did it matter? I didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore.
I hurry down the side walk of Columbus Ave, pulling my coat closer around me to shield myself from the biting, late November wind. As I turn the corner onto West 68th St, a shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. I feel as though someone is watching me. I glance around, but only see other New Yorkers walking swiftly to their destinations. No one is paying me any attention. I shake my head at my obviously, overactive imagination. The feeling continues to niggle at me, but I ignore it, and continue on down the street. Something about this day has me overly anxious. I feel as though there is an electric current coursing through me and it makes me want to jump out of my skin. I give my head another little shake to clear it; I’m being absurd.
I finally reach the restored, five-story brownstone that I grew up in and bound up the stairs to the elegant, wood door. Through the beveled glass window, I can just see around the right corner into the formal living room.
Balloons. Damn!
“Mom!” I call out to her as I step inside, shaking off the cold and hanging my coat on the tree stand in the entry. She’s never listened when I told her I didn’t want a fuss made over my birthday, so why would she listen this year? I sigh and walk into the room. The front room is light and open, with a large bay window taking up the whole wall on the right side of the room, looking out onto the street. The wall across from the entrance holds an enormous fireplace. Two vintage, Hepplewhite chairs flank it on either side, matching the rest of the Victorian furniture. Across the large mirror, over the mantle, a sparkly sign boasts the words “Happy Birthday!” And, of course, those ridiculous balloons floating in the air, their thin strings tied to sconces scattered on the walls.
The left side of the room has a wide, op
en arch, leading into a beautiful dining room with wood-paneled walls and an elegant chandelier, shimmering in the sunlight. I wander into the room and groan when I see the long, oak table, set with china and crystal for eight people. Across from me, the small door, leading to the kitchen, swings open, and my mom bustles in with a tray of cookies and sweets, humming “Happy Birthday”.
Violet Bryden is almost my complete opposite. I am tall and slender; close to five-foot-ten inches with long, straight, white-blonde hair. She is a petite woman (a good six inches shorter than me), with chocolate-brown hair that is always twisted into an elegant chignon. Her Irish heritage shows in her pale skin and the smattering of freckles strewn about her face. She has warm brown eyes in contrast with the bright blue of mine; so like my father’s. I am—in fact—his spitting image. I even inherited his unusual, white skin. Rather than tanning in the sunlight, we almost look as though we are luminous. There was no shortage of albino jokes from my friends growing up. See, even though my mother’s skin is pale, there is a pinkish hue, giving her a rosy, healthy glow.
She stops when she sees me, and her face brightens with an excited smile. “Shaylee!” She exclaims, “Happy Birthday, honey!” She sets down the tray and hurries around the table to envelope me in the warmth of her sunshine and the sweet smell of cinnamon. Mom always smells like she’s been baking. I hug her back, and inhale the aroma that always reminds me of home.
Once I step back, I give her a stern look. “I thought I told you no party. Again…” I’m not really mad, and I’m sure she knows it. I just don’t care for birthdays. Every year I feel as though I’m counting down to something that will change the course of my life and I happen to like it just the way it is!
Her cheeks actually take on a little tinge of red, and I giggle at her slightly guilty face. It lasts for only a moment before a twinkle appears in her eyes and she goes back to beaming at me. She knows that if I was truly upset, I would tell her. I don’t keep things from my mom. In fact, I don’t say anything I don’t believe. It just isn’t in my nature to be dishonest. So, I either say what’s on my mind, or keep my mouth firmly shut.
“How could you think we wouldn’t celebrate your twenty-first birthday?” She reaches up and puts a hand on either side of my face. “I can’t believe you’re so grown up. I’ve been excited—and dreading this day—for years.” Her eyes mist a little, and her smile turns almost wistful.
I laugh and take her hands down from my face, giving them a light squeeze. “You act like turning twenty-one is a huge, pivotal moment for me. I assure you, Mom, being able to legally drink doesn’t have that big on an impact on my life. She just smiles at me and returns to the tray, taking it out to the front room, where she sets it on an elegant, mahogany, coffee table.
“Eight place settings, Mom?” My irritation creeps into my tone. She just winks at me and then returns to the kitchen. I sigh in defeat and follow her in there to help with the preparations for a party I can’t escape.
We busy ourselves in the kitchen, and I fill her in on how I’m liking my classes at NYU and my job at a children’s shelter in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m halfway through my senior year and yet, I haven’t settled on a major. I want to do something that will help protect children, but I can’t seem to find the perfect avenue. Unlike most parents, my mother never pressures me to lay down a definitive plan for my future. She’s always told me that I should enjoy being young because, all too soon, my life will cease to be within my own control. I figured she meant the demands I would face as an adult: boss, husband, children, etc. However, there were times when her response seemed cryptic, and I wondered if she meant something else.
Everything is finally ready, and we are sitting at the large island in the center of the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea. I’m still curious about the amount of place settings at the table. I know she will have invited my three best friends and my father’s sister, Rhoslyn. But, I have no clue who the last spot is for.
“Mom, don’t avoid my question. Why eight?”
She sips her tea and beams at me. “Aden is coming.”
I feel my jaw drop in shock. I haven’t seen Aden in two years. Aden Foster was a sporadic presence in my life as I was growing up. He was a close friend of my father’s, although he was at least twenty years younger. He’d stayed with us in the apartment on the fourth floor of our house, for a couple of days, two or three times a year. After my father died, he visited more frequently—almost every other month. He was always indulging me: slipping me candy behind my mother’s back, playing board games with me, even taking me out for ice cream or to the zoo. He was my hero, second only to my father.
“Aden!” I run to the front door as fast as my six-year-old legs will take me. He turns from shaking my father’s hand and swings me up into his arms before I barrel into his legs.
“What’s up, Buttercup?”
I giggle at the nickname. “I’m not a buttercup! That’s a flower.”
“Nah, the flower is named after you, Buttercup.” He kisses my cheek and then props me up on his shoulders, before bouncing down the hallway to the den across from the kitchen. On the way, he greets my mother warmly, bending down to give her a kiss. When he stands up, he pretends to stumble, and I begin to fall. I scream with excitement rather than fear; I know he’ll catch me.
After I land in his arms, he puts me over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, and we continue on to the den to play with my toys.
I shake my head to dispel the happy memory. My mother is watching me with an eager look. I’m sure she’s expecting me to be excited by the visit. After all, when I knew he was coming, I would always wait by the door, impatient for my Aden to arrive.
“What time did he say he’d be here, Mom?” I’m standing at the front window, anxiously searching the street. I hear my mother chuckle behind me.
“He said he’d be late, Shaylee—close to midnight. You should have gone to the dance with your friends.” I don’t respond to her comment. We’ve had this discussion many times over the last month. The sophomore formal was tonight and though I’d been asked by two boys, I’d opted to be home when Aden arrived. I’m sixteen; there will be more dances. I wasn’t going to get into it again, besides, it was too late now. I know she’s worried that I’ve developed a crush on Aden, and though I’d never admit it out loud, she’s right. I know it’s irrational; he has to be at least twenty years older than me. Though . . . as long as I’ve known him, he hasn’t changed in appearance at all. He is still really hot. His muscular body gives him a rugged look that makes my friends and me all swoon. His is, quite simply, perfection. I sigh at my ridiculous thoughts. I know how silly my crush is and I’m determined to hide it before I make things awkward.
After another hour of sitting by the window, I see the white-blond hair of my favorite person, exiting a cab in front of my house. I jump up and run to the door. Flinging it open, I throw my arms around him as soon as his foot hits the top step. His laughter rings out and he swings me around.
“What’s up, Buttercup?” He puts his arm around my shoulders and we walk into the house as I chatter on about what’s been happening in my life.
My mom comes down the long staircase, on the left side of the hallway, and leans up to give Aden a kiss on the cheek. From his six-foot-four height, he has to lean down for her to reach him. He puts his other arm around my mom’s shoulders and gives her a squeeze.
“Hi, Violet. How are things?” He keeps his arms around us and starts down the hall to the kitchen. Aden can never resist Mom’s cooking.
“Things are light. The darkness stays away.” Mom always answers him with something ambiguous like that. It’s weird, but Aden seems to get it, so, whatever.
When we reach the kitchen and he sees the fluffy angel food cake sitting on the counter, he smacks a kiss on the top of each of our heads. “Awe, you really do love me.” He makes a beeline for the cupboard and grabs three plates.
The phone rings as we sit down to our dessert and Mom g
rabs the cordless from its cradle on the wall. “Brydan residence,” she answers.
“Sure, just a second.” She hands the phone to me. “It’s Killian.”
I grab the phone with a smile. Killian is one of my best friends, and one of the boys who’d asked me to the dance. We’d been considering the idea of becoming a couple and I think he was hoping the dance would be the perfect opportunity to take our relationship to the next level. He is almost three years older than me and, since it was his senior year, I felt bad for ruining one of his last dances. But, I encouraged him to take me out one night this week, so we could see where our relationship was going. I really like him and I want to give us a shot. If it helped rid me of my stupid Aden crush, even better.
I excuse myself and take the phone across the room to the den. “Hey, Killian! How was the dance?” I’d told him he could call me after, since I knew I’d be up late, waiting for Aden.
“I missed having you there, beautiful.” No matter what our relationship, Killian is always free with the endearments when it comes to me. It makes me go warm inside and feel special.
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