Poison and Potions: a Limited Edition Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by Erin Hayes

  Useless, right now, though: she was entirely naked.

  Blanche did the one thing anyone in her shoes would have done.

  Alessandro Primerius wasn’t used to finding himself speechless, yet here he was, completely lost for words. When he heard the singing, he’d headed right towards the direction of the voice, desperate to get out of that big-ass, endless, confusing forest.

  He was pretty sure he’d gone around in circles for a good two hours so that voice had represented freedom. At the back of his mind, he acknowledged that it sounded too enchanting, almost eerie, but it was only when he saw her that he understood why.

  That she was of fay blood was obvious; his main question was, was she even a little bit human? Because Sandro knew human girls, in every sense of the word, and they didn’t look anything like that.

  The woman emerging from the river was a light in the darkening evening, her pale skin shone like moonstone, completely bare, and the raven black mane plastered to her curves failed to conceal her utter perfection. Looking at her was physically painful.

  Long legs, with soft, feminine thighs. Sandro followed the trail of dips and curves to her breasts; they were heavy, large, but stood up, firm and tempting.

  The punch in the gut was her face. Whomever had come up with the particular shade of lipstick she wore ought to be shot: developing weapons of mass destruction was still outlawed.

  Shit, hot didn’t even begin to describe her. She could only be referred to with terms such as exquisite, magnificent and admittedly, intimidating.

  There was no way she was a simple mortal. Attesting to this, there was a magpie flying around her, without garnering any notice; she was used to the bird, that much was obvious. Crows were smart, cautious birds, which meant that they gave humans a wide berth.

  A shame, really; a few centuries back, when they’d been at the brink of extinction, fays had been ready enough to open their delightful legs to humans but not so much, these days.

  Sandro was reluctantly resolving to be on his way – knowing that the creature was more likely to curse him than to give him directions to the Nordeen Castle – when the rev of his engine caught her attention.

  She lifted that dark, tantalizing gaze on him and he froze, wondering what she’d do with him, now he was completely, utterly under her power.

  That’s when the woman yelled and ran for it, shooting straight through the woods.

  Sandro stared at her back as she retreated; he was smiling like a fool, and not just because the view was delectable.

  For all her unbelievable beauty, this definitely was nothing more than a human girl; fays just didn’t have it in them to react quite so dramatically.

  Smile never slipping, he followed her, expecting to catch up anytime – he was on a motorbike and her, on foot – but there was no trace of the girl anywhere.

  Soon though, Sandro found himself in front of an old, majestic edifice nestled at the foot of a high mount, covered in ivy and surrounded by nature. Damn, it looked cool, in a medieval sort of way; he wouldn’t have been surprised if a dragon had suddenly burst out of the fiery clouds and settled on the green roof of one of the two high towers.

  Everyone knew the Woodlands was the most beautiful kingdom in Gaia, and the Nordeen Castle was their pride and joy, so he’d expected the raw magnificence. What he hadn’t expected was the sadness.

  He wasn’t exactly sure how or why, but it felt like the gardens, the large corridors should be full of light and laughter. After passing the dreary, heavily armed guards at the door, he didn’t meet anyone, save for one small group of servants who whispered amongst themselves, hurrying across the halls.

  Something was wrong here, polluting the very air he breathed. There was too much magic in his blood to ignore his gut feelings.

  Ten minutes later, when he was shown to the royal dining room, he was quite certain he could pinpoint what the problem of the old kingdom was.

  An Offer

  The Queen received him while she was having her supper. Dinner had been served for two, although her own table set was grand – golden goblet, artfully carved silverware, the best china – while the one to her right was the exact opposite: a wooden plate, cheap cutlery, a mug.

  Her tone chilled his bones when she addressed him thus, “Finally, you little piece of…”

  Then, her gaze lifted and took him in. She shut her mouth, swallowed, before morphing her sour expression to a smile.

  “Oh, dear. Alessandro Primerius,” she purred, breathlessly. “But why, you weren’t expected ‘til morning! What a pleasure.”

  It all sounded perfectly friendly, but the complete one-eighty from her previous persona hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Sandro recalled hearing when someone shows you who they are the first time, believe them. He smiled back at Queen Ilda of the Woodlands, all the while saving her hateful, threatening tone somewhere at the back of his mind.

  “The traffic was amenable. I hope I’m not disturbing anything of importance,” he added, gesturing to the empty plate.

  “Not at all. I’d invited a lowly servant who didn’t even bother turning up, could you believe it!”

  A throat cleared, and Sandro’s head snapped up, realizing that there was a man standing just next to the queen, in a red and gold uniform so similar to the curtains that he hadn’t even seen him.

  “Your grace will recall that Blanche was working, today. I do believe you were to have tea with her tomorrow, according to the shift.”

  The Queen didn’t like that – she didn’t like that one bit. She might have managed to keep her fake smile on, but Sandro read ire in her pale eyes.

  “So it is, I’m sure. But it’s all for the better, as it seems we have company, tonight. Foot, call for a place, would you?” Then, she turned to Sandro, pouting and using a sweet, almost child-like voice, “You will join me for dinner, won’t you?”

  Yeah, about that…

  Ilda was as hot as he remembered her to be, from her last visit to Alenia. Long strawberry blond hair, a firm little body and clothes definitely designed to show it off.

  She also made him want to retch and scrape his skin clean, by looking at him like he was a lollipop. Damn, never again would he objectify any hot woman because that didn’t feel nice at all. So no, he wouldn’t join her for a one-on-one dinner, probably not even if his life depended on it.

  He was here to obtain her support, but thankfully, it wasn’t really her he needed to convince; there was a Council and a House of Lords. Her approval would help, but he wasn’t letting her anywhere near him to gain it.

  Sandro was no saint. Actually, as a rule, he slept with as many political connections as possible; that meant they tended to be amenable when they could, in hopes of a repeat performance.

  If he’d been King, it would be a different matter altogether, but he was exactly where he wished to be: in the shadows.

  As the King of Alenia’s unknown bastard of a brother, he reaped every benefit from being a member of the royal family, without having to deal with the drawbacks. He needn’t think about what the public thought of him, for example – and no one cared about his escapades, while Dane’s actions were examined under a microscope.

  A few months ago, Daniel had announced he was to take a wife amongst his people, but the idiot fell in love with his childhood sweetheart all over again and went back on his word when she left, unable to bring himself to marry someone else.

  A good half of the subjects of Alenia found the whole affair terribly romantic – needless to say, the half who possessed two X chromosomes. Everyone else was either taking the piss out of his brother or questioning his judgement…

  Meanwhile, Sandro had had a foursome a couple of weeks back; with three girls from the pool of potential wives his brother had brought to the palace for the weekend. No one blinked. It didn’t matter, because he didn’t matter.

  In any case, he hadn’t mattered. Now, things were different – and not for the better.

  Daniel
had recently gone ahead and announced to the world that Sandro was his brother. He’d also thrown their baby sister under the bus, but Sylvia didn’t have an issue: she always acted like Ms. Perfect in any case.

  Sandro had been quite eloquent about what he thought of his new station, but now, he grabbed it with both hands like a lifeline; acting like an official meant he could politely rebuff the Queen’s veiled attentions without having to reject her outright. Sometimes, being a professional rocked.

  “Thank you, ma’am, I’ve eaten. I’ll look forward to dining with you and your council on the morrow, though.”

  Preferably if he happened to be placed on the other side of the room.

  “Very well. Foot will take you to your room, unless you find anything here to tempt you – anything at all,” she said; her sultry voice was worse than nails on a board.

  Her open arms were indicating the feast displayed in front of her – a hell of a lot of food, for one person – but the whole show was meant to reveal what she had to offer. Very perky, very inflated breasts that definitely were store-bought.

  Sandro was proud of himself; he didn’t openly grimace.

  He had to wonder why he was so repulsed by her; it wasn’t exactly like him, he liked women of every kind, every shape… but there just was something in him that balked at her entire persona.

  And all things considered, he found that he was actually a brunette kinda guy; the memory of the dark haired girl in the woods was enough to awaken the dormant appendage between his legs.

  “I couldn’t possibly ingest anything after my meal, your highness,” he lied, with his best smile and a wink, for good measure.

  Her uncharacteristic giggle followed him out of door; thankfully, he managed to get out before his stomach started to grumble, betraying his ruse.

  The dignified servant the Queen had called Foot didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, but although no expression had marred his features, Sandro would have sworn that the guy was rather amused.

  “Any chance of getting some food?”

  “Certainly, sir. May I recommend our traditional broth? You seem to be a man of impeccable taste.”

  Sandro had to laugh out loud at that.

  “What’s your name, mate?”

  “Denis, sir. Denis Wild. My family has served the crown for generations.”

  Interesting; Sandro knew servants of that kind – they were fiercely protective of him, his brother, and even Sylvia. The man clearly didn’t approve of his Queen, though.

  “Well, Mr. Wild, watch my back, will you? I kinda feel like I should have brought reinforcement.”

  Sandro didn’t expect him to answer, but after a long sigh, the man nodded and said: “You have no idea.”

  Duty

  It didn’t matter how late she might go to sleep, Blanche always awoke at dawn, yet every day without fail, there was a tray waiting for her, just in front of her room.

  Strange as it sounded, Ilda had allowed her to remain in the room she’d grown up in, on the third floor, reserved to royals and their most intimate acquaintances.

  The room was vast, with high a ceiling, delicate carvings, exquisite sculptures. Blanche and the rest of the servants knew better than to attempt to decorate, refurbish, or otherwise improve her space – the only luxury she had left – so it was exactly like it had been when her mother passed away fifteen years ago, baby pink frills and all.

  It amused her to wake up in the splendid room, and eat the most decadent breakfast that cook insisted on sending up, ignoring the risks, only to put on one of her many plain brown dresses and an apron; if anyone looked at the first hour of her day, they’d think that she was still Blanche Neige Wood, heir to the throne of the Woodlands, yet in a few hours, she would be found beating carpets or perhaps scrubbing piss from the men’s toilet.

  Blanche had never found any of the jobs she was given beneath her; if it was good enough for the kind, respectable, friendly, loyal people who surrounded her, it was good enough for her, too. She genuinely believed most royals would greatly benefit from the humbling experience, every once in a while.

  Her problem was that she wanted more.

  Blanche wanted her throne like she wanted fresh air because someone needed to oversee the welfare of the poor, create jobs, see that fair taxes were applied, and generally care for her people. That someone was her.

  Right now, no one in power gave a damn. Ilda Wood only cared for one person: Ilda Wood. From what Blanche knew, she’d used up most of the crown’s coffer, and was now maintaining her decadent lifestyle by overtaxing their subjects. The Queen was as far from a sovereign as anyone could be, reigning by fear and intimidation rather than by what the Woods had valued and implemented for the last three thousand years: amor et curam. Love and care.

  Ok, it sounded cheesy, but it totally made sense to Blanche. Her father had taught her that concept early and often. The blood running through her veins had given her power over her subjects, and in return her one responsibility was to use it wisely.

  One might think that over a dozen years of servitude would have changed her views, but on the contrary: it had only reinforced her conviction, because despite her clothes, despite her occupation, she still had that power.

  Ten minutes later, the way she was greeted down below stairs eloquently demonstrated this point.

  Like every morning, though it was still close to dawn, things were busy in the kitchen. Mrs. Price, the terribly large tenor of a lady who ruled over the fragrant domain, barked orders that none of her staff dared ignore, while Mr. Price – the tall, thin man she’d been so good as to wed, when he’d begged her to after tasting her incomparable tarte au pommes – organized the maids and footmen.

  He’d been a huntsman, back in the day, but like many, when it had been clear that the kingdom was now in the clutches of Ilda, he’d found some sort of an excuse to leave his station, and became a butler.

  The couple who flawlessly ruled over castle Nordeen stood a little stiffer when Blanche entered. They both stopped speaking, and everyone turned.

  First, there were the smiles – sad, melancholic, but conveying their support, their love – and then, as one, the ladies curtsied, the men bobbed.

  Later, they would let her work just as hard as anyone, because they knew that Ilda would make her pay otherwise, but not one day passed without her people reminding her who she was to them.

  “Tea, Miss Blanche?”

  They’d called her “your highness,” “princess,” and such nonsense at first, but now she was just Miss Blanche. Frankly, she preferred it.

  “If you would.”

  “With biscuits?”

  Blanche stared, confused, trying to work out whether there was any other way to drink tea.

  “Or with muffins,” Mrs. Price added. “I made a new kind, apple and cinnamon.”

  Blanche had to smile; since she’d divulged that above all the fruits their kingdom grew, she favored the red apples grown on the palace grounds, Mrs. Price had stuffed them in just about anything. Which she was not complaining about. The incredible cook somehow could coax medicinal roots into tasting like candies; whatever she did with the royal apples made her toes tingle and her tastebuds dance on her tongue.

  “Muffins, then.”

  She drank her tea quickly, before taking her orders from Betsy, the head housemaid.

  Today, Blanche was to take care of the guest rooms – not her favorite thing.

  One might have thought that guests invited to a royal palace would behave respectfully, and some did, but there also were the others; generally, Ilda’s friends, rather than political connections.

  After the Queen’s infamous gatherings, Blanche couldn’t recount how many times she’d needed to wash the stain of dubious body fluids from beddings, curtains, carpets and sometimes, inside plant pots.

  Why the hell where people cumming in plant pots? Blanche wasn’t so innocent as to be ignorant of what happened behind closed doors, but her understanding of the m
atter did not compute the involvement of innocent by-standing dracaena.

  Today, it was no ordeal. From the talk around the palace, there was an important emissary from Alenia expected sometime in the morning, which meant that Ilda had wisely cleared house, removing all of her friends of the fairer sex, and most of the men, too.

  Good news.

  Many things could be told about the lot who practically lived at the palace, but they weren’t exactly the kind of folks one would want to introduce to a man of importance.

  The women wore expensive clothes, now, and they called the best stylists to do their hair every day; but despite all their polish, it was easy to see what they had been.

  They wore too much make up, too little clothing, and made use of their bodies with more ease than their brains. The most polite term Blanche could find was common, but she frowned at it; it was an insult to common folks. If only to herself, Blanche called them sluts. The one asset they valued was between their legs; it was as simple as that.

  The men were worse; sluts, too, but it wouldn’t have been an issue if their attention had been directed towards the females who begged for their notice. However, Ilda’s friends were too easy, not enough of a challenge, so they chased the maids, instead.

  There hadn’t been any incidents in a while. They had a code no one had really acknowledged; never did any female maid walk by herself at night, their rooms were bolted shut, and when the worst of the predators were about, they ensured that trustworthy huntsmen were close.

  What a sad excuse for a kingdom her poor land had become, where a simple maid couldn’t roam free under the royal roof.

  Blanche was quite surprised that they were tasked with re-opening the Mahogany room upstairs, just a few feet away from hers. Ilda didn’t make a habit of inviting anyone in their space, for whatever reason; she kept her friends and her lovers down on the second floor.