Prince by Blood and Bone: A Fantasy Romance of the Black Court (Tales of the Black Court)

by Jessica Aspen

  “Hold tight girls, and pray it works. It’s really only meant for one.”

  Bryanna firmed up her grip on her sister, swallowed at the rank smell of Cassie’s breath, and shielded her from the chunks of old plaster raining down from above. Her mother wrapped her arms around them both, pressing the tingle of the globe between them. The glow grew bigger, enveloping them in a sphere of golden light. There was a slight dizzy feeling and the quiet pop of a bursting bubble.

  Then the falling ceiling, the old kitchen, and the bulbous nose of the ogre crashing through the window, disappeared.

  Prince Kian, only son of the Faery Queen of the Black Court, and her seemingly eternal prisoner, pawed at the book on the long wooden table. His talons cut deeply into the old vellum, shredding the page and digging into the binding.

  “I don’t understand why it’s not working!” he growled, and yanked his claws out.

  The book hit the floor hard, smacking down into a puddle of ash and liquid that was all that remained from Kian’s failed attempt at a witch’s retrieval spell. The crowd of rubbery white hobgoblins at his feet chittered their distress, fleeing into the shadows to bob and lurk amid the ruins of the wallpaper. Kian pushed away from the table, brushing past the hovering grey gnome at his side, and flipping off the hobgoblins with his middle claw.

  Beezel flinched.

  Kian breathed through his nose and struggled for control. He paced the perimeter of the chamber he’d designated his work space, the claws on his misshapen toes clicking on the marble floor.

  Just because his ever-loving mother had forced him into this distorted shape did not mean he had to succumb to the animal instincts threatening to overwhelm him. Even if it would feel good, oh-so-good, to take out his frustrations on Beezel and the hobgoblins, he would resist.

  “I followed the spell exactly. This should be easy for me. Not only am I a lord of the fae, I am a prince of the Tuathan, damn her!” He leaned in close and waggled his blade-like digits inches from Beezel’s cringing face. “I can’t bring light and fire—children’s magics learnt at my nurse’s knee. I can’t grip a sword, nor ride a horse, and I can’t free myself from this hell hole…yet.” He stood up as straight as his current shape would allow him. “But I am determined to make this stupid spell work and fetch someone here who can play chess!”

  The shaking gnome leaned away from his caustic glare. “Maybe, the trouble is, you aren’t being specific enough.” Beezel’s voice was small and hesitant.

  Kian turned away, his muscles straining from the effort of not beating the gnome senseless.

  As far as gnomes went, Beezel was a waste. He lacked the tall stature of the Galentian Gnomes and the book-smarts of the Scalian Gnomes. He was a whining, cringing, ignorant common cave gnome, with bulging eyes and grey scaly skin. And he was the queen’s spy.

  He was all Kian had in the way of companionship. Or was likely to get, given how this particular experiment had failed. But maybe the gnome was onto something.

  “Explain.” Inches from the gnome’s perspiring face Kian let his large, hairy jaws gape open, revealing his ivory fangs, and uttered a low growl.

  “I m-m-mean, Sire, you’re asking for a chess companion, but that’s all you’ve asked for. There m…m…may be m-m-many to pick from.” The gnome quivered in front of him. “Be more narrow in your request, and maybe the spell will be able to ac-c-commodate you.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” He backed up a little. “I thought if I left it open, the spell would have an easier time choosing. Maybe it cannot make up its mind.” He resumed his pacing. “It’s witch magic after all. Witches use spells and cantrips, maybe some visualization is what’s missing.”

  “You’ve been able to work some of the witch spells, sir.”

  Kian growled. “Yes. Small, pathetic things, like making glass glow.” He resumed his pacing, trying to get his bestial anger under control so he could think. He’d struggled to do anything in the witch’s book. Even small child’s magics like calling fire required verbal spells with the correct intonation, and something called centering that he didn’t understand. The fae didn’t need to center.

  “Beezel, maybe the witches need more than the words, maybe they need focus. I’ve been treating these spells like things to recite—get the pronunciation right and it should work——but that’s not how fae magic works.” He swept the little gnome off his feet and spun him around in the air. Beezel clutched his spectacles, his face turning an even paler shade of grey.

  “Yes, sir. Maybe, sir. I don’t know, sir. Gnomes don’t do magic.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Kian stopped spinning. “Fae magic is like blood pumping, like moving a hand. I don’t have to think about it, it just happens. But things feed it, like food, sleep, and emotions. I’ve got the food.” He swung the gnome upside down to look at all the beakers and jars on the work table. “I’ve got the means.” He plunked the gnome down. “Maybe what I’ve lacked was the intention.” He scraped the book off the floor with his talons, dropping it on the table where its savaged pages splayed out from its broken spine.

  If he had to be specific, he would ask for a woman. An, intelligent, attractive sort of woman. Someone curved and sexy and real. The idea of smelling, touching, tasting the soft, scented skin of a woman…

  His mouth filled with saliva and his paw-like hands shook.

  “Beezel!” The gnome jumped. Kian coughed and got his voice back under control. “Get it ready. We’ll try again.”

  He hardly noticed Beezel’s sigh of relief as the gnome readied the powders and beakers and flipped to the right page in the shabby book. This time, Kian pictured exactly what he desired. A slender, shapely, blond maid with chess playing abilities. One who smelled good enough to eat.

  And, though he hardly dared even think it, banishing the thought before it had time to appear, he asked for one with the ability to free him from his prison.

  This time, the potion developed a rosy pink glow, which crept slowly out of the glass and became a small pink cloud. The mist coalesced and grew larger, filling the room with the rich scent of spun sugar.

  Kian’s pulse beat hard in his throat. This was better than the last time. Much better.

  The cloud expanded, tendrils of mist stretched out into the edges of the room. Goblins shrieked and screamed, climbing over each other and racing from the chamber.

  Beezel squeezed into a corner. Kian himself moved back from the now sparkling puffy wisps. No sense in getting caught in his own spell—he didn’t want to accidentally turn into a woman. Especially in his current state.

  He snorted, thinking about being stuck between a woman and this mashed version of man and animal his mother had stuck him with. If he’d been forced to deal with female hormones as well as his bestial rage for the last fifteen years, he likely would have given in to his mother’s demands.

  The glow grew until it filled most of the large chamber, his tension growing along with it. This was the best spell he’d attempted since he’d been imprisoned and his hopes soared.

  The puffy high pink cloud shivered. The mist retracted from the corners, speeding into the center of the room until the cloud was a globular, gelatinous mass about five feet around, crouching on the floor.

  He waited. Nothing happened. The hobgoblins snuck closer.

  He sagged. “Fuck me.”

  It wasn’t going to work. He, Prince Kian, master of the hunt, superior swordsman, and wooer of women, was a failure at simple witch magic.

  Kian peered into the mass, but it had a thick, spongy quality that defied examination. Beezel crept out of his corner and huddled next to him. Together, they waited for something to happen, afraid to disturb it.

  “It’s worse than before. Nothing is happening, but we’re going to be stuck cleaning up this gunk.” Kian eyed the pile morosely and mourned his blond vision. “I’m going to bed.” He turned his back on the mess. Beezel and the hobgoblins would clean it up. He trudged toward the door.

&
nbsp; He was never getting out of here. His mother would let him rot until he died.

  Beezel grunted. “Sire!”

  Kian spun around.

  The mass quivered and shook. It began to emit a low whine, the pink gelatin texture reflecting the lantern light on its now shiny surface. The shaking increased. The floor vibrated. Beezel ducked under the table and hung onto a leg, but Kian couldn’t take his eyes off of his creation.

  The whine increased in pitch. Kian covered his still pointed ears, crouching in pain as the pink glob exploded in a burst of light. Twinkling sludge spattered everywhere, on the table, on the book, in Kian’s face.

  He wiped off the gunk and stared at the tangle of long limbs and golden hair.

  Beezel’s mouth fell open. “Sire, what have you done?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bryanna opened her eyes. Her head ached. Something wasn’t right. The strange room was dark, its shadows lit only by a distant, flickering glow. The heavy damp air made her bare arms cold and, instead of holding on to the familiar warmth of her mother and sister, she was alone.

  She pushed her hair out of her face and blinked, trying to focus her bleary vision. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the low light. She lay on a long, narrow sofa with a high back, upholstered in some dark, slippery fabric that stank of rot.

  Repressing a cough, she leaned up on her elbows to peek over the single, curved arm of the sofa. Out of the side of her eye, she caught a movement. She whipped her head around, pain throbbing deep into her nerves as something white tittered, and flew into the shadows.

  Resisting the urge to hold on to her aching head and curl back up into a ball, she leaned over the side of the narrow sofa and peered into the ill-lit corner. But whatever had been there was gone.

  The familiar scent of pine smoke cleared the mold from her nose. She blinked, and realized that the flickering firelight came from across a room the size of a banquet hall. There was no sign of her mother, or Cassie, or anything familiar. Her skin prickled cold with unease.

  Swallowing past the dryness in her throat, she braced her hands and eased up to sitting, letting her bare feet skim the icy, stone floor. Her vision swam, and she swayed on her perch. This must be how Cassie felt after a bad migraine. No wonder her sister just wanted to stay in bed for days after a vision. But there was no bed here and no respite for the weary.

  She used her technique of pushing pain from her head and out her upper chakras. The pounding in her head reduced, giving her vision a chance to clear up. This side of the room contained nothing but shadowed, empty stone corners and the old-fashioned fainting couch she sat on. Across the bare expanse of stone floor, a huge marble fireplace dominated the opposite wall. In front of the fireplace, blocking most of the light and heat of the leaping flames, sat a large misshapen silhouette.

  Something slithered and scratched the floor behind her. Bryanna jumped, nearly slipping off the smooth surface of the couch. Her heart pounded hard, blood rushing and pulsing in her ears. She looked away from the fire, and its ominous shape, and searched the dark corner. But she couldn’t make out anything hiding in the shadows where the bare stone floor met the rough-cut walls. She turned back around to face the fire.

  Inches away from her face, something ghostly white, the size of a small child, smirked at her.

  Cold grave breath skimmed her cheeks. She screamed, scrambling to her feet and balancing precariously on the slick fabric of the sofa. The sound ricocheted off the walls, bouncing back to pierce her aching head before echoing off into the silence. Slick, rubbery lips curved up into a grotesque, gleeful grin.

  Balanced on the couch, she gripped the narrow wooden rim of the upholstered back and braced her feet on the slippery seat. The thing shrieked, leering close to her face, its breath raising goose bumps on her bare legs and arms. She shrieked back, and it pulled its thick lips wide, giving her a good look into the black maw of its mouth.

  Across the room, the contorted figure leapt out of the chair and lumbered toward them, growing larger and darker until it towered over her and the creature.

  Her scream died burbling in her throat.

  The white thing wailed, dropped low, and slunk under the couch, and Bryanna huddled as far away as she could. The huge, cloaked figure leaned down and roared, the enormous sound shaking the couch. A flood of the hideous, white, malleable things flowed from under her, shrieking as they fled.

  Bryanna’s feet slid. She struggled to keep her perch. The things pressed against the seams of the rock walls, shrinking and disappearing into impossibly small cracks and leaving an empty silence filled only by the sound of Bryanna, gasping for breath.

  A log fell in the fireplace, the pop and crackle of the embers sounded loud.

  “I’m sorry. They’re out of control.” The dark figure’s low, rumbling voice sounded upscale, his accent reminiscent of Scotland, or Wales, or somewhere she’d never even heard of. It was strangely reassuring, as if it were an everyday occurrence to be threatened by creatures out of a Japanese horror film and comforted by a shadow.

  “What were those?” Bryanna leaned in to get a look, but the firelight was behind him, and she couldn’t see much beyond his enormous size.

  “Hobgoblins. Nasty, infiltrating buggers.”

  From under his cloak rose a delicious, warm, musky scent. The smell reminded her of gingerbread, cozy fires, and a cabin they’d stayed in when she was small. Despite his contorted shape and immense size, she relaxed. “Hobgoblins,” she said. “I’ve heard of them, but never seen one before.” Never seen one before because lore said they didn’t exist outside of Underhill. If they were here, she wasn’t anywhere close to New Mexico. “Where am I?” she asked.

  “This is Cairngloss, abandoned palace of the Galentian Gnomes and my current place of residence.” He swept into a low bow, coming up with a wide sweep of his arm under his cloak. “Welcome to my home.”

  She ignored the sarcastic cut that lay under the word home. “Cairngloss? Where is that?”

  “It used to be the northern-most tip of the country of Walst and the domain of the Gnomes, but all but a few hardy folk left when the White Queen moved in.”

  “The White Queen? I’ve never heard of a White Queen. Do you mean the Queen of the Fae?” Had she landed in Underhill, the middle of enemy territory?

  His dry laugh echoed in the near-empty room. “Wherever did you come from that you know so little?”

  She flushed, grateful for the distance of the firelight that masked her embarrassment. “This is Underhill, isn’t it?” She hoped he didn’t notice the slight quaver in her voice. If she was Underhill, then she was in big trouble. She only hoped her mother and sister had ended up nearby. If the queen’s minions found any of them alone, it would be bad. Without Trina, they’d lost their best defense against the vindictive queen.

  “Yes, we’re Underhill. I’ve answered your questions, answer one in return. What’s your name, my lovely?”

  She hesitated. Her mother had always cautioned about giving too much information to the fae, and she couldn’t even see this man’s face. If he was a man. She had only the warm sound of his voice to go by, and now she knew she was Underhill, where magic and the evil queen reigned.

  “Show me your face,” she demanded and reached for the edge of his cloak.

  He moved fast, the dark fabric billowing out around him, creating the illusion he’d grown even larger than his already towering height. “You’re in no place to make demands,” he hissed.

  Danger was suddenly back in the room and her heartbeat drummed in her ears. She shrank against the couch’s slippery back. Gathering her scant courage, she spoke, “I’ve no idea who or what you are. Why should I tell you my name?”

  “You ask many questions for one who is at my mercy.” From under the cloak his breathing sounded fast and hard, and her dry tongue and throat convulsed as she tried to swallow.

  She shivered and rubbed her hands up and down the prickling hair on her forearms. “My name is Bryann
a.” And, because she needed something to defend herself in this cold, threatening place, she tilted her chin up and asked, “And yours?”

  “Ha!” The hunched mass that she thought was his shoulders quaked, and his voice turned amused. “Cheeky, that’s what you are.”

  Across the room, a door tucked into a hidden corner swung wide and banged against the wall.

  “Your Highness!” Small and pasty, at first glance, she could have mistaken the creature for a slim, seven-year-old. Thin bandy legs moved fast under a loose, belted tunic, propelling him across the room and over to their location. His round, protruding eyes were a pale grey, so pale as to be almost clear, and his nostrils seemed to be nothing more than slits on his rather flat face. “Sire, her room is ready.”

  Bryanna eyed the cloaked figure. “Are you a king?”

  His empty laugh boomed off the walls of the wide room. At his feet, the misshapen forms of the hobgoblins shuddered. She hadn’t even noticed them creeping back. All her attention had been riveted to the dark figure leaning over her.

  “Did you hear that, Beezel? She thinks I’m a king!” His cutting laughter echoed out, and the slight form of his servant hunched over, seemingly afraid to move.

  He straightened, and his shadow on the back wall of the room elongated. For a moment, it formed an illusion of the lean, elegant silhouette of a man. Bryanna blinked, and the shadow reformed into a dark blob more reflective of his massive shape.

  “See my kingdom.” He swept his arm wide, his voice ringing out into the large crumbling hall. “See my subjects.” He swept it low. Puddles of rubbery, white hobgoblins cowered at his feet.

  “I am a king, lovely Bryanna. I am, Kian, King of the Goblins.” His mocking laugh rose, growing louder and louder until Bryanna cringed at the hysteria under the broken, golden sound.