The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  Now Alice has become a member of the clandestine Collectors’ Society, and the impossible has found her again in the form of an elusive villain set on erasing entire worlds. As she and the rest of the Society race to bring this mysterious murderer to justice, the fight becomes painfully personal.

  Lives are being lost. Loved ones are shattered or irrevocably altered. Each step closer Alice gets to the shadowy man she hunts, the more secrets she unravels, only to reveal chilling truths. If she wants to win this war and save millions of lives, Alice must once more embrace the impossible and make the unimaginable, imaginable.

  Sometimes, the rabbit hole leads to terrifying places.

  An enthralling mythological romance two thousand years in the making . . .

  “Heather Lyons’s The Deep End of the Sea is a radiant, imaginative romance that breathes new life into popular mythology while successfully tackling the issue of sexual assault. Lyons is a deft storyteller whose engaging prose will surprise readers at every turn. Readers will have no trouble sympathizing with Medusa, who is funny, endearing and courageous all at once. The romance between her and Hermes is passionate, sweet and utterly engrossing. This is a must read!” –RT Book Reviews

  What if all the legends you’ve learned were wrong?

  Brutally attacked by one god and unfairly cursed by another she faithfully served, Medusa has spent the last two thousand years living out her punishment on an enchanted isle in the Aegean Sea. A far cry from the monster legends depict, she’s spent her time educating herself, gardening, and desperately trying to frighten away adventure seekers who occasionally end up, much to her dismay, as statues when they manage to catch her off guard. As time marches on without her, Medusa wishes for nothing more than to be given a second chance at a life stolen away at far too young an age.

  But then comes a day when Hermes, one of the few friends she still has and the only deity she trusts, petitions the rest of the gods and goddesses to reverse the curse. Thus begins a journey toward healing and redemption, of reclaiming a life after tragedy, and of just how powerful friendship and love can be—because sometimes, you have to sink in the deep end of the sea before you can rise back up again.

  The magical first book of the Fate series . . .

  “Love, love, love this book! Such a fun and exciting premise. Full of teenage angst and heartache with a big helping of magic and enchantment. Can’t wait to read the rest of this awesome series! Not to mention. . . TWO hot boys to swoon over.” —Elizabeth Lee, author of Where There’s Smoke

  Chloe Lilywhite struggles with all the normal problems of a typical seventeen-year-old high school student. Only, Chloe isn’t a normal teenage girl. She’s a Magical, part of a secret race of beings who influence the universe. More importantly, she’s a Creator, which means Fate mapped out her destiny long ago, from her college choice, to where she will live, to even her job. While her friends and relatives relish their future roles, Chloe resents the lack of say in her life, especially when she learns she’s to be guarded against a vengeful group of beings bent on wiping out her kind. Their number one target? Chloe, of course.

  That’s nothing compared to the boy trouble she’s gotten herself into. Because a guy she’s literally dreamed of and loved her entire life, one she never knew truly existed, shows up in her math class, and with him comes a twin brother she finds herself inexplicably drawn to.

  Chloe’s once unyielding path now has a lot more choices than she ever thought possible.

  Follow Chloe’s story in the rest of the Fate series books . . .

  “Heather Lyons’ writing is an addiction. . .and like all addictions. I. Need. More.”

  —#1 New York Times Best Selling Author Rachel Van Dyken

  “Enthralling fantasy with romance that will leave you breathless, the Fate Series is a must read!” —Alyssa Rose Ivy, author of the Crescent Chronicles

  Fans of The Royal We will not want to miss this epic love story!

  “The perfect royal romance.” —Nichole Chase, NYT bestselling author

  “Heather Lyons has officially charmed me. Royal Marriage Market is an

  indulgent read that will have you flipping pages until the very end.”

  —R.S. Grey, USA TODAY best-selling author

  Every decade, the world’s monarchs and their heirs secretly convene to discuss global politics and social issues—and arrange marriages between kingdoms.

  Elsa may be the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia, but she finds the entire situation archaic and unsavory. While she wants what’s best for her country, she isn’t about to jump into an unwanted relationship—let alone a marriage—with a virtual stranger. Of course, her feelings matter little to her parents, whose wheeling and dealings over trade pacts and alliances achieved at her expense begin the moment they set foot in California for the Summit. So when a blindingly handsome royal runs into her, she doesn’t hesitate to tell him there’s no way she’s marrying him.

  Christian is all too happy to agree: no marriage. As the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland, his main goal is to get through the summit without a bride being foisted on him. Which is why he suggests they help each other field potential intendeds. As Christian slowly gets to know Elsa, though, he realizes they have a lot more in common than just their feelings about the Royal Marriage Market. Only he can’t fall for her, because royal or not, they’re not meant for each other.

  Elsa and Christian will have to evaluate matters of the heart verses those of state and crown, and decide whether or not tradition trumps love.

  Read on for a sneak peak of the first chapter of Royal Marriage Market!

  WHENEVER I AM FACED with my full name in print, strung out in letters and words like clothes whipping on a line, my visceral reaction is the same had somebody raked rusty nails down a dusty chalkboard. Years of careful practice were cultivated in order to prevent me from physically recoiling at the sight or sound of Elsa Victoria Evelyn Sofia Marie.

  Most girls are given a first and a middle name—two middle names, perhaps, if the parents are feisty or bound by family tradition. Or even a hyphenated first name, such as Lily-Anne or Ella-Mae. My name, the one my parents bestowed upon me, the one that informs the world who and what I am, is three bloody names too long and hangs around me like a noose rather than the garland surely envisioned. “You are a princess,” my mother rationalized when I queried as to why she and my father went vindictively bonkers come naming time.

  Fair enough, but my sister (also a princess) has only three names: Isabelle Madeleine Rose. Still lengthy, but far more tolerable. Even my father, the illustrious Prince Gustav IV of Vattenguldia, does not lay claim to so many names; his tops out at four. Indeed, no one in my acquaintance—royal or no—possesses such a lengthy appellation.

  Just me.

  “You are the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia,” my mother clarified when pressed further. “Someday, you’ll be sovereign over our great land.”

  Sovereigns apparently have hideously long names, even in tiny principalities like ours that rest in relative, yet fairly wealthy, obscurity in the Northern Baltic Sea. I often wonder if I will be as cruel when I have my own children, if I will saddle them with a name so convoluted and extensive that air must be drawn in between syllables. I like to think not, but the truth is, I’m partial to tradition, especially when it pertains to the throne in Vattenguldia.

  Correction: most traditions. Because I am most certainly not in favor of the one my father’s private secretary is delivering to me.

  By letter from the Secretary of the Monarchs’ Council to allow a formal invitation to be extended to Her Royal Highness The Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia Elsa Victoria Evelyn Sofia Marie.

  Sighing, I extract the surprisingly heavy missive from Bittner’s age-spotted hands, like a bomb expert under the gun to sever the correct wire or risk the entire building disintegrating around them. Which, considering what waits within, might be a preferable situation. “Gee, thanks.”

  His
smile would be best described as a shit-eating smirk, only that would make me sound uncouth and not very princess-like, or so my parents claim. They’ve taken it upon themselves to attempt to rein in my so-called foul and inappropriate language as “sovereigns, let alone Hereditary Princesses, do not speak like common sailors.” It ought to be mentioned they do not personally know any sailors; the ones I have met working in our shipping industry are quite articulate.

  An audible thunk sounds when the envelope hits my writing desk. “Has my father seen this yet?”

  “I delivered His Serene Highness’s shortly before I came up here.” That’s to be expected. “Upon viewing it, did he uncork a bottle of his finest champagne?”Bittner’s exceedingly perfect manners prohibit him from acknowledging this was most likely the case, so he instead says in the crisp, cool, yet distinctive voice of his that would render him perfect to narrate movie trailers, “Prince Gustav was most amenable to receiving his invitation.”

  I can only imagine. A whole week set aside for hobnobbing with his peers? He’s probably frothing at the mouth over the prospect of getting the hell out of the country and away from my mother.

  I eye the envelope on my desk, envisioning a baby asp inside, ready to strike the moment I release its apocalyptical contents. “I suppose he will insist upon us attending.” Which is inane of me to say, because there is no doubt my father’s orders for packing and travel have already been issued. Whether or not we attend has never been up for question, because royals never decline attendance to this particular event.

  I wait until Bittner departs before I pick the invitation back up. I have an appointment at a favorite local children’s hospital within the hour, so it is now or never. As my silver letter opener hisses quietly through the paper, I remind myself that none of this would be a problem right now if I were already married. Still single at twenty-eight years old, I am considered one of the most eligible women in the world. Being the next in line to a throne, even an insignificant one, will do that to a lady. It’s not so much that I despise the thought of marriage, because I do not. Done right, it is an alluring temptation that could provide comfort and companionship in a life such as mine, only none of my experiences so far have led to anything close to persuading me to join my monstrosity of a name and family baggage to another’s. Finding the right person to share my life is no easy task; my last few efforts at romantic entanglements all blew up in my face.

  Most recently, I made the mistake of fancying decided to sex up a former schoolmate—in public, no less. The press had a field day when Nils and Trinnie were photographed groping one another upon the slopes while I was skiing elsewhere. Much to my chagrin, Popular Swedish Count Cheats On Vattenguldian Princess—Will They Weather This Storm? ran in local newspapers, glossies, and on television for weeks. Pre-Nils, there was Theo and his fervent yet wholly unexpected decision that the church was a better fit for him than a palace. Pre- Theo, there was my teenage crush Casper, who wasn’t even an option. None of the other gents in my history are worth a mention.

  Why do you have to be so picky? my mother often laments. And that amuses and disheartens all at once, because one would assume Her Serene Highness would wish the Hereditary Princess to marry a man of upstanding character. Personally, I would never term a lady who found her arsehole of a boyfriend en flagrante with her so-called friend and summarily dumped their cheating arses from her inner circle picky, though. That was pure practicality.

  Although I am sincerely grateful—perhaps relieved is a better word—over extracting myself from such relationships before serious damage could occur, part of me rues not getting engaged (even temporarily) to some nice local before the madhouse of horrors known as the Decennial Summit were to commence. I naively assumed I had time. Time to fall in love. Time to find somebody on my own. Time to grow into my role in the principality.

  Yet, time is nearly at an end, because the Royal Marriage Market (or as the unfortunately unattached like myself often refer to it, the RMM) is close at hand.

  Irritability skitters down my spine when I finally rip the papers out of the envelope.

  Lord Shrewsbury,

  on behalf of

  the Monarch Council,

  requests the pleasure of your company

  at the Decennial Summit

  at Hearst Castle, beginning 23rd of April

  I lean back in my chair, staring at the words in front of me until they fully sink in. Three days? THREE BLOODY DAYS before His Serene Highness and fellow royal cronies go hard-core, full-press in their quest to ensure my ilk and I are popping out sanctioned heirs in the very foreseeable future?

  An inner Doomsday clock roars to life, each second a searing reminder of the utter tragedy that lies ahead. A mild panic attack settles into my lungs and chest, and I am gasping like a dying fish as I claw hungrily for air.

  Calm down, Elsa. You are a Hereditary Princess. You will act like a Hereditary Princess. You do not let anything touch you. Not even this.

  I focus on the details of the missive, ones to bottleneck my fears escaping in wide berths down to a manageable load. I breathe in and out. Fine-tune my focus until it is honed laser sharp upon the silver words clutched within my hands. Deep breath in. Twenty-third of April. Deep breath out. Hearst Castle. Deep breath—

  Hearst Castle?

  I mentally flip through the names of palaces and castles inhabited by fellow royals throughout Europe. Maybe it’s . . . no. Maybe . . . not that one, either. I move on to various seats of nobility, combing through name after name, but none match. In a fit of annoyance, I relent and open my laptop.

  The results come in fast. Hearst Castle is not a real castle. At least, not a European one and certainly never inhabited by royalty. Technically, it is a mansion in California, surrounded by several guesthouses.

  Sonofabitch.

  I click on one of the links and read up on the location. It was previously owned by someone in the newspaper business, a rich and influential man, which I suppose makes him the equivalent of American royalty. Currently, the building is a United States Historical Landmark and open to the public on a daily basis.

  I nearly shred the invitation as I grapple to take all this in. The Monarch Council wishes to send the entirety of the world’s reigning sovereigns and many of their heirs to a popular tourist destination in California?

  Has the MC gone insane?

  I storm out of my suite in a righteous fit of indignation, gripping the linen in my fist. Propriety dictates I call ahead, or knock at the very least, but as there are precious few days between the Decennial Summit and my freedom, I bypass manners and decorum and wrench the door to my father’s office open. Bittner is in there with His Serene Highness, but that matters little. He has worked for the House of Vasa long enough to know just about everything there is to our quirks, including my occasional warm-to-the-touch temperament that flares to life during the most inconvenient times. Like right now, when I am so upset I can barely unfurl my fingers from the invitation to shake it properly in my father’s face.

  “My word, Elsa. You appear quite vexed.” My father is smooth as butter as he smiles faintly up at me. “Bittner, I wonder what in the world could inspire Her Highness to lose sight of her manners.”

  Before Bittner can respond (not that I think he would), I slap the paper down onto the antique desk that dominates the room. “Is this a joke?”

  Although I guarantee he already knows what I have brought to him, His Serene Highness slides on his reading spectacles and peers downward. “I hoped you’d finally gotten over your . . .” His lips purse as he most likely attempts to assign the most diplomatic phrasing he can to what he considers my ravings. “Hesitancy over the Summit. You knew that it was coming at some point this year.”

  Not only The Prince of Vattenguldia, but the Prince of Tact—because I’ll admit to offering (behind closed doors, of course) my sincere feelings concerning the Decennial Summit on more than one occasion. I must clarify that it is not the Summit that
has me in fits, it is the infamous RMM. Because, for nearly five hundred years now, alliances forged through arranged marriages concocted at a Summit hosted every decade have often overshadowed legitimate diplomatic work achieved. In essence, single heirs older than twenty-five rarely depart the Summit unattached. Both male and female are lambs to the slaughter.

  It is a tradition I desire no part of, one I cannot find it in my heart to embrace.

  But that terrifying, archaic possibility is neither here nor there at the moment. The Prince knows my view on this, and, as he sharply pointed out the last time I attempted a debate, I’ve had my say. Currently, I have other battles to fight. Calming oxygen floods my lungs while I slip on a cool smile. “Not that.” I tap on the paper. “This.”

  Dark blue eyes, so much like my own, squint behind his reading spectacles. “I’m afraid I’m not—”

  “Do you know where Hearst Castle is?”

  His bushy eyebrows rise ever so slightly, aging caterpillars whose micro- movements illustrate volumes of emotion.

  Shite. I barked at him; father or no, he is still my sovereign and deserves my respect. Another deep breath is required for me to continue. “My apologies.” I assume a more respective, ladylike stance, one hand folded over the other in front of me. “I simply wish to know if you are aware of pertinent details of the location?”

  As he leans back, the creaking of a chair sounds in the surprisingly modest yet elegant personal office.