King of Midnight: Rosethorn Valley Fae #1

by Tasha Black

  The Martins had chosen to put in an offer on a sturdy and charming Arts & Crafts cottage in Rosethorn Valley, not too far from the old mansion where they’d started their day. It was just the right kind of house for the downsizing former hippies - close to the Art Center and the Quaker retreat.

  With any luck, Sara would be attending a home inspection with them a few days from now.

  She realized she’d better set a reminder in her phone to connect the Martins with some local inspection companies so they could call ahead to see about holding a spot.

  She grabbed her bag and rummaged around in it for her phone but came up empty-handed.

  No…

  She popped out to check her car, but the charger was empty.

  She sighed and headed back into the office. Had she left in on a desk? She had been using the office computer and the land line while they were writing up the offer. She couldn’t remember having her phone in there at all today.

  It was fine. She would just perform a quick find-my-phone from her laptop. Hopefully, the thing was somewhere in the building.

  But when she told it to play a sound, there was no ping that she could hear.

  She checked the laptop screen again. The blip that appeared on the map wasn’t in Tarker’s Hollow at all.

  It was back in Rosethorn Valley, but not on Rabbit Lane.

  It was at the top of the ridge, in the big mansion.

  Sara ran a hand through her hair and sighed.

  It was late, well after eleven. And as much as she loved the old place, there was something creepy about the idea of going back there alone in the middle of the night - particularly when she didn’t have her phone.

  But she had an offer submitted. If the other agent called late tonight or early tomorrow, she needed to be available.

  And if someone else showed the house before she made it back there, they might take the phone.

  She grabbed her things and hastily locked up the office.

  Park Avenue was dark, the pale circles from the streetlamps the only breaks in the velvet darkness.

  She started her car and couldn’t help but think of the music she thought she’d heard earlier.

  “You’re going crazy from too much work,” she said aloud, wondering if talking to herself was just more damning evidence.

  Things always got like this in early summer. Real estate was hectic in the first half of the year. By June, she was always exhausted and prone to misplacing things, and staying up a little too late watching TV and eating ice cream straight out of the container to de-stress.

  “Here we go,” she told herself, the tree canopy of Tarker’s Hollow parting as she crossed the bridge over the creek.

  It was a mild night - at least there was that. Her trek took her past tree-lined streets and then deep into the hilly wooded town of Rosethorn Valley.

  She sighed longingly as she passed her own house. It was a lovely, lumpy stone and stucco townhouse from the 1830s, one of half a dozen attached homes originally built for the workers at the Old Mill. It had steep stairs, small rooms, and low, beamed ceilings and she loved it irrationally.

  On clear nights, she could even see the mansion from her bedroom window, something that had captured her imagination when she first moved into the house.

  “You’re going to see the mansion tonight,” she muttered to herself. “Whether you want to or not.”

  The engine of her little Saab whined a little as she set off up the private drive that led to the mansion.

  The property was one of a handful in the area that still owned its original acreage. The drive led through a dark expanse of trees and foliage that was decidedly unkempt.

  Sara kept her eyes on the drive, uninterested in any unseen eyes shining out at her from the trees. She knew there was plenty of wildlife in the woods all around the property. It was beautiful in the daytime, but it could be a little unsettling at night.

  Alone.

  With no one else in sight in any direction.

  “Don’t let your imagination get away from you,” she advised herself.

  But it was easier said than done. The darkness was growing palpable, and she swore she sensed movement where she knew there was none.

  At last she reached the peak of the ridge and pulled into the circular drive.

  She climbed out, wishing she had her phone so she could at least use the flashlight mode.

  The massive house loomed over her, but somehow instead of being frightened, she was absolutely compelled to go in.

  She jogged up the stone steps to the covered porch and felt around in the darkness of the doorway for the lockbox that hung around the brass knob.

  Her fingers slid over the buttons and she tried entering the combo blind.

  The box clicked and released.

  She snatched the keys before they could fall out.

  The right one slid into the lock seemingly of its own accord.

  Not for the first time, Sara wondered vaguely if this house was meant to be hers.

  But that was a ridiculous idea. She couldn’t afford it even at the listed price, let alone with the cost of repairs and upkeep. Buying it was just a pipe dream.

  The door opened for her, silently this time, and she stepped into the foyer.

  The clouds outside parted. A splash of moonlight glowed on the black and white tiles - just enough to light her way to the dining room.

  Her phone wasn’t on the mantel where she’d thought it might be.

  She turned toward the conservatory, retracing her steps from earlier.

  An unexpected sound broke the silence, startling her.

  It echoed off the walls of the mostly empty house. Not exactly a bang or a crash.

  It was a more of a tick.

  She froze in place, listening. There was no way anyone else could be showing the house this late.

  There was another tick and it occurred to her that there was a grandfather clock in the center hall. Of course, those hands had been stilled ever since her first visit to the house.

  She tiptoed back to the entry, the ticking growing louder and faster.

  Sure enough, the old clock had come to life. The hands spun around and around the face as the pendulum swung wildly.

  A chime rang out as hour began to sound.

  Sara’s heart slammed in her chest as the sound of the clock reverberated through her.

  It rang again.

  She ran for the conservatory, remembering at last that her phone must still be on the windowsill from when she had removed the drop cloth from the piano.

  The clock kept sounding, each ring impossibly louder than the last as she moved away from it.

  She found her phone, exactly where she’d suspected.

  She grabbed it, slipping it into her jacket pocket, and spun around to head back to the front door.

  Her own movement in the floor to ceiling mirror caught her eye.

  No.

  It wasn’t her own movement.

  The clock chimed for the tenth time, the eleventh?

  Sara froze, gazing into the mirror.

  She was standing on the opposite wall of an empty room.

  But the room reflected in the mirror wasn’t empty.

  In the reflection, much brighter than the darkened mansion around her, misty figures danced and whirled. They all wore ancient-looking ballgowns and suits with stiff, frilled collars.

  And although they wore masks, Sara could see that there was something off about the figures, but she couldn’t quite place it - almost like they weren’t really human at all.

  But what, then?

  She moved closer, trying to get a better view, but realized that her own reflection was missing from the glass.

  Obviously, it wasn’t a mirror after all. Her first thought was that must be some sort of screen or monitor.

  But there was no other technology like that anywhere in the house, and it looked so real.

  As the clock rang out the final chime of midnight, Sara reached o
ut her hand to touch the surface.

  It was cold and solid, like normal glass.

  But she swore she could hear the laughter, taste the scent of strange spices and overripe fruit.

  Her own reflection appeared in the glass now, with the dancers behind her.

  She gasped and slowly, slowly turned around to face the room where she stood.

  The lights flickered to life, and the mysterious dancers whirled all around her, close enough to touch.

  It was real.

  It was all real.

  4

  Sara

  Sara stepped backward and bumped into the mirror, now on the wall behind her.

  Dancers swirled all around the room. A couple brushed against her on their way past, scraping her cheek with a jewel-encrusted sleeve.

  She put a hand to her face, but they didn’t stop to apologize. They didn’t even slow from the mesmerizing cadence of the dance.

  The room was warm from the press of bodies, and the scent of sweet perfume grew stronger by the moment.

  Someone was playing the old piano, accompanied by a harp and a small wooden instrument Sara had never seen before. Only the notes were bright and clear, as if the instrument had been meticulously repaired and retuned.

  Something very strange was going on, but this was definitely the same room she had stood in just a moment before.

  She turned back, intending to look in the mirror, but instead found herself face to face with a tall woman wearing a bird mask with a wicked-looking beak.

  “Fresh blood,” the woman squawked, her slender body bent in laughter. “Come on then. He’ll want to get a look at you.”

  “I don’t know—” Sara began.

  But the woman wasn’t interested in what Sara did or didn’t know. Her hand, hard and claw-like, gripped Sara’s elbow and pulled her along with incredible strength for someone so thin.

  “What have we here?” a man’s voice drawled with obvious interest. “Delicious.”

  He held a stick with a lion mask in front of his face, but Sara could still feel his leer.

  “Not for you,” the bird-woman snapped and gave Sara’s arm a terrific jerk, pulling her deeper into the fray.

  As they pushed through, the bodies became less human. A man whose head was level with Sara’s waist looked up at her through a mask with only one eyehole.

  A woman with purplish skin spun, her dress lifting slightly. Sara wasn’t sure if she had a half-transparent scarf around her neck or if what she was seeing was really a pair of limp wings.

  “Hurry up,” the bird woman shouted to her over the music.

  Sara obeyed automatically.

  They pushed their way past more dancers, nearly upsetting a woman in a deer mask holding two steaming mugs of something that smelled like cardamom and old pennies.

  The bird woman stopped so suddenly that Sara nearly fell over.

  She turned and found herself at the foot of a large throne, staring at a pair of black leather boots.

  “What’s this?” a masculine voice asked from above.

  “See for yourself, your majesty,” the bird woman cried triumphantly, pinching Sara’s chin in her sharp hands and tilting her face up so the man on the throne could observe her.

  Sara was too shocked to struggle.

  Instead, she gazed up into the face of the man the bird woman had called your majesty.

  The chandelier above made a halo around a head of dark hair that brushed his shoulders. He gazed down at her with pale gray eyes and a look of recognition, as if he had been expecting her.

  But that was impossible.

  Sara had certainly never seen him before. She would have remembered the imposing form of his well-muscled body, the beauty of his jaw, and those hypnotic gray eyes, half-hidden behind a wave of hair as dark as the feathers of a raven.

  She was sure they had never met, yet something about him was familiar.

  “You returned,” he said, leaping down from the throne with cat-like grace that was surprising for his size.

  The dancers parted like a herd of prey animals before an apex predator.

  “I found her, your majesty,” the bird woman simpered. “Not any of the others. Me.”

  “Enough, Golda,” he snapped.

  The pinch of the woman’s hand around Sara’s arm vanished instantly. The man stood before her, his presence looming as large and dark as the house itself.

  “Do we know each other?” Sara heard herself ask.

  “Let’s dance, and see if you remember,” he suggested, a hint of a smile lifting one side of his beautiful mouth.

  When he put his arms around her, she realized she was wearing a full ball gown. She didn’t remember getting changed. Everything was unfolding before her like she was watching herself in a movie, or a play. But it was all so surreal, like some kind of fever dream.

  But this isn’t a dream. It can’t be.

  Everything is so solid, so real.

  “Don’t overthink it,” he said, as if he could hear her thoughts.

  He swept them off, spinning her until the ballroom around them was a blur.

  Sara’s heart pounded. Though he held her at a modest distance, his form perfectly elegant, there was something wild about the way he looked at her, something that felt almost indecent.

  She had never really believed in love at first sight, and she still didn’t.

  But a sort of gravity seemed to pull her toward him, an ache in her chest making her mourn something she wasn’t aware she had lost until that very moment.

  “Do you remember me now?” he asked, his voice huskier than before.

  She shook her head.

  “Listen,” he suggested.

  She tried to stop thinking of his arms around her and closed her eyes.

  The melody reached her mind, and something clicked.

  The music that filled the air - it was the song she had sung to the roses when she was a little girl. The song she had hummed today at the house.

  This had to be a dream.

  She was sure she would open her eyes to the sight of her own small room, the texture of the wooden beams overhead, the comforting warmth of her favorite quilt wrapped around her instead of his strong arms.

  But when she opened her eyes, she was still in the ballroom, and he was gazing down at her, pale gray eyes searching hers.

  “It-it’s… my song,” she said in wonder.

  He smiled and warmth spread in her chest at having pleased him.

  She smiled back, filled with joy.

  The music swelled and she found herself humming along, the song in her mind joining with the real one in the ballroom.

  She felt the same shiver of magic she swore she’d felt as a little kid every time she sang - as if she could move a mountain with the power of the music.

  When was the last time she’d felt that way?

  As a small child? A teenager, maybe?

  But she knew that was the way of the world - magic always faded as you grew up.

  A loud pop from above caused squeals of surprise and fear among the dancers.

  She looked up to see broken crystals raining down from the chandelier.

  “Get her out of here,” the king called out.

  He let go of her and she felt a rush of cold air around her where his warmth had been.

  The bird woman reappeared at her side.

  “What’s happening?” Sara asked.

  “Go, and never return,” the man said coldly. “Golda, take her now.”

  “What did I do?” Sara began.

  But she already was being dragged into the crowd, which closed around her once more.

  “No,” she murmured. “No, let me go.”

  Golda kept her cruel hold on her arm as they sped toward the mirror, faster and faster.

  “Please,” Sara gasped.

  The woman merely smiled at her from under her mask, a beautiful and wicked smile, and dragged her on.

  “Why do I have to go?” Sara asked.


  Suddenly, Golda stopped and looked at her appraisingly.

  “He’s trapped here,” Golda said. “He was being punished, but he’s paid his penance now. If you don’t go, you might suffer the same fate.”

  “Who’s trapped?” Sara asked, though she knew the answer.

  “Why the king, of course,” Golda replied.

  The King.

  Sara looked back over her shoulder, but the crowd of panicked dancers blocked her view.

  “If only someone could break the mirror,” Golda said wistfully, “he would be freed. But no one can do that.”

  Sara opened her mouth to ask the woman what was so hard about breaking a mirror.

  But before she could say anything, Golda shoved her hard.

  Sara stumbled into an empty void of space, landing hard on her hip.

  She scrambled to her feet.

  Something was strange, something was wrong.

  She was alone again, in the empty house.

  In the mirror, the dancers were already fading back into mist.

  She couldn’t explain it, but she was desperate to not lose her connection with them.

  With him.

  Sara ran to the dining room, grabbed one of the huge walnut chairs, and dragged it back to the mirror.

  She could hardly see the figures in the glass anymore.

  With all her strength she hurled the chair at the mirror, practically dislocating her shoulder from the force of it.

  It slammed into the wall and bounced back, the mirror somehow unharmed.

  In desperation, Sara placed her hands flat against the glass, willing it open for her again.

  But it was solid.

  She stood panting as the dancers in the ballroom disappeared completely, leaving her standing in front of an ordinary mirror again, watching her own disheveled figure stare back at her with an expression of sadness and awe.

  5

  Sara

  The next morning, Sara hopped out of her car and headed into the café.

  She felt like she hadn’t slept a wink last night. The daylight seemed harsh to her eyes and the whole world felt a little off, as if nothing was in its usual place.

  But she was determined to go through her day as she always did. Maybe she could force things to feel more normal if she really tried.