Footwear and Fantasy

by J. J. Lore

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 J.J. Lore

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-311-4

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Jessica Ruth

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To all the heroines of fairy tales. You might have to clean the kitchen, be locked in a tower, or get lost in the woods, but you always manage to find a happy ending.

  FOOTWEAR AND FANTASY

  Naughty Fairy Tales

  J.J. Lore

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  The irony of a cobbler with a hole in her shoe wasn’t lost on Hanna Bregot. She tried to keep her steps confined to the cleanest cobblestones, but Arlentown had suffered from a recent spate of rains and the footing was as fouled with mud as it was treacherous. A hail made her look up from the street and her foot slid off into a cold puddle. A quiver of uncertainty fluttered in her belly as she saw Madame Constant gliding her way, the older woman’s tread not betraying so much as an instant of hesitation or concern for her shoes. She probably owned a closetful and could afford to toss any as soon as they were sullied.

  “Hanna, dear, how is your father?”

  “The last letter indicated he was faring the same as ever.” Hanna hoped her tone didn’t reveal her sadness. She missed her sweet, doddering father and hoped the warm clime he’d moved to would cure the cough that seized his chest every winter.

  Madame Constant screwed up her plump face in faux concern, the movement leaving creases in her thick face powder. “So sad. Well, I hear the sandy coast is quite pleasant, though how you can afford such accommodation is beyond me.”

  Hanna held her face still, her foot and stocking growing increasingly cold and wet as water wicked up from the puddle. Just thinking about the lack of coin in the pouch hidden under her bed made her shiver with anxiety. “We are managing.”

  “Wonderful to hear, wonderful. How are you getting on making the shoes yourself? Are people willing to buy your wares? The very idea of a girl cobbler is passing strange.” The older woman’s disdain slipped through the cracks in her pleasant manner.

  Hanna nodded and smiled, asserting with as much confidence as she could muster that her shoes were equal in measure to her father’s wares. Madame Constant’s eyebrows rose in a fair approximation of disbelief. Hanna then made her excuses to escape and retreat to her shop on the corner. It was wedged in between a publican house and a busy inn that brought in many passersby, though the building was so narrow the only window she could use for display was quite small. Her wares were nearly obscured when her neighbors threw open their shutters. That was the only way she could account for her slow business lately, though it had never seemed to hamper when her father was in charge.

  Pushing down a sigh, she opened the shop’s small front door, startling her father’s black-and-white cat, Phoebus. The big tom had never liked her, and spared her a hiss as he slinked away into the back room. Hopefully the ungrateful creature would catch the mouse that had been nesting in her glazed leathers. She surveyed the shop, making sure the ready-made boots and shoes were visible from the street, her tools were still neatly stored over and under the small workbench, and that her current project, a heavy pair of hobnails for the miller, were in place on the lasts. Something caught her eye and she regarded the boots more closely. A line of punctures decorated each shaft. The damned cat had chewed them while she’d been out running errands. Grabbing one up to inspect it, she rubbed at the holes, hoping she could work the leather enough to obscure them.

  “Phoebus, bad cat!” She took a deep breath and made an effort to lessen her temper. “I know you miss Father, and I am a poor substitute.”

  The cat didn’t listen to her. In fact, he’d probably snuck through the kitchen and out to the alley already. Glancing through the open door, she wondered what food was left in the cupboard. Perhaps some bread and a little cheese. How she longed for a piece of fruit, something fresh and decadent. Maybe a juicy apple or pear. Even a bunch of tart grapes would do. But she needed supplies for the business more; her lantern oil was low, and yes, she’d have to buy another piece of stiff leather for the miller’s hobnails. There was no way to erase Phoebus’ sabotage. The weight of her precarious situation pressed on her shoulders like a yoke burdened with lead.

  ****

  As Lear Seleph made his way down the dark streets of Arlentown, he reminded himself to walk slower and act as if it was difficult to see. He squinted and stumbled like the humans he impersonated, who strained to make out the ill-lit buildings on either side. The lamplighter hadn’t yet made his rounds and so the way was quite dim, but nothing an elf such as himself would be put off by. His mate, Garrin, ambled by his side, his human veil firmly in place. Unlike many of their fellows, he and Garrin enjoyed human company and would often venture into town to partake of the revelries, either festivals and fairs. Even the bawdy company of a tavern would suffice to entertain.

  Their destination tonight was the public house of Tobias Melton, where the previous evening he’d listened, entranced, to a skilled fiddler. They shared hopes the woman would return and repeat her rousing performance. Elvish music tended to the mystical, and sometimes a rollicking human tune was exactly what he desired. As the Elf Queen’s troubadour, he felt it served him well to experience a broad range of song.

  Turning the corner, they spotted the tavern ahead, light cascading through the louvered shutters at the windows, the wide red door ajar to welcome patrons in to the hospitable interior. As he and Garrin approached, his ears twitched and he halted. His mate stopped at the same moment and they stared at each other, their elvish senses on alert.

  “What is bothering you?”

  “I’m not sure, does something—” Another tickle of awareness, like a feather drawn across the skin on the back of his neck. Seeking like a hound on the scent of a fat rabbit, he veered to the side and approached an ill-lit window, nearly hidden in the narrow shop front. A selection of shoes crowded the foreground, but what captured his attention was further back, nearly hidden in the shadows. A young woman sat at a small bench, her head lying on the surface, red-brown hair trailing from the thick plait along her back. Her shoulders shook and she suddenly raised her head, wiping furiously at tears smeared along her flushed cheeks. Lear went still, transfixed by her wide blue eyes and the shadow of sadness clouding them.

  Garrin crowded close to his shoulder and drew in a breath. “Poor lass, so upset.”

  “What ails her, do you think?” Lear watched as she reached down and removed one shoe, then the other. Each was well worn with wrinkles permanently pinched in the scuffed leather. One of her thin fingertips protruded from a hole in the sole. She slapped the slippers on the table top and frowned, then rubbed her hands over her face as if to banish the sight of them. Her narrow shoulders slumped and she reached out to the lantern over the bench, turning down the wick with slim finger and leaving her shop in near darkness. They watched silently as she retrieved a short, lit candle and slowly climbed up a line of steps to finally disappear in what was presumably the sleeping chamber above the shop.

  Drawing in a breath in what seemed like the first moment in several days, Lear grasped at Garrin’s arm. “My love, did you…”

  �
�Sense her? Of course. Her distress was almost tangible.” Garrin sighed and leaned his head close to the window, his nose nearly touching the small panes of glass. “I feel a strong urge to meddle.”

  Lear found himself nodding agreement. Humans were simply too interesting to resist. Most of his kind avoided them, disliking their squabbling ways and greedy natures. However, certain elves found themselves drawn to their human cousins. Some were mischievous and liked to cause trouble for ill-behaved people, but he and his mate were more benevolent, taking great pleasure in leaving surprises for those good folk who caught their attention. Like the lovely young woman in the shop. The call to assist her in some way was too strong to resist. “It’s been a while since we’ve indulged and intervened. Let us return later, when we’re sure she’s asleep, and see what assistance we might render.”

  Excitement prickled along his nerves as he contemplated the evening ahead. First some bitter brew and cheerful music in convivial surroundings, then a midnight excursion into the lady’s workshop. What more could an elf desire?

  ****

  Hanna rose from a long night of restless sleep to a niggling sense of disquiet. She sat up in her thin feather bed and glanced around the sleeping chamber, taking in her few furnishing and finding nothing amiss. Early morning light filtered through the window coverings and she reluctantly swung her legs over the side of the sleeping alcove, her bare feet making contact with the threadbare wool rug. Her linen shift fell around her ankles as she stood and stretched, her back and fingers already aching with the thought of a long day spent hunched over lasts while tugging on stiff leather.

  The trip down the steep stairs resulted in nothing more than a close call with Phoebus’ tail. As the tomcat grumbled at her when she reached the shop floor, she cast her gaze around to see if something had fallen in the night and disturbed her slumber. Nothing—but there, on the workbench, instead of her hole-riddled slippers, was a pair of the most beautiful shoes she’d ever seen. Soft gold leather curved around a tiny, stacked heel of lacquered red while scarlet laces crossed the instep. Holding her breath as if she might dispel some vision, she reached for the closest and gingerly lifted it from the table top. It was light as dandelion puff and glowed in the light. Swirls of tiny, perfect stitches ran along the leather, outlining curls and points in a random, exuberant pattern. She’d never seen a shoe so perfect, so beautiful. A smile curved her lips and a giggle worked its way free of her throat. The happy sound startled her and she paused, wondering when she’d last laughed.

  Succumbing to temptation, she lowered the shoe to her foot, hesitating a second before inserting her toes. As she pulled smooth leather lining over her heel, something tingled along her skin and she shivered. With no effort, the shoe slid on and cradled her foot, the thick leather of the sole aligned exactly with her bare flesh. It felt so good she quickly slipped the other on, then stood up straight and looked down at them. The gleaming toes peeped out from under the frayed hem of her gown, absurdly cheery and fresh.

  She let out a breathless little huff of excitement. Phoebus wandered over and sniffed curiously at her feet, then let out a little mew before winding his way between her ankles, his soft fur tickling her skin. He twined around her several times before making his way to the kitchen, likely to stare at the cupboard and hope she had some dried fish to share. The cat’s unexpected display of affection made her throat swell as she remembered how fond her father was of his pet.

  A rattle at the door jolted her from her spell and she gathered up a nearby blanket to cover her shoulders as she shuffled to the window. A glance outside revealed Burgher Hollman, and her stomach sank. With great reluctance she unfastened the bolt to face her landlord.

  “I’m here to see about the rent,” Pitir Hollman stated with a sour whine. The large man, flushed and squeezed into an embroidered coat a few measures too small for his burgeoning belly, leaned his thick head her way and stared as if he could see through her sleeping attire. Swallowing and forcing herself not to step back and slam the door closed as a barricade, Hanna collected her wits.

  “It’s due five days hence, is it not?” That was the absolute fact of it, but she put on a slightly confused tone, hoping to placate the man. He leered.

  “Just in the neighborhood and thought I’d take the chance you had it ready early. Eight ducats due.”

  “In five days,” she repeated, lowering her chin.

  “If you’re short, we could work out some arrangement to satisfy me.” The burgher raised a grizzled eyebrow and Hanna had to suppress a shudder of revulsion. No sense letting the foul man know how repulsed she was; he’d either be offended or determined to crowd even closer.

  “I won’t be short.” With that statement, she shut the door and pressed her back to it, willing Hollman to walk away and leave her in peace. Her toes curled and she again looked down at her new shoes, thoughts of impending eviction fleeing before the wonder of who had made them and how they had done it. She should probably be afraid that someone had snuck into her home last night, but somehow, no sense of peril arose within her.

  ****

  Garrin Eandru arose from slumber to find Lear rummaging about in their largest oaken chest. He took the opportunity to gaze upon his mate’s sleek form as he searched for something buried deep inside the container. The familiar surroundings of their bedroom soothed him. It was amusing to visit the human world, but he always appreciated it when they returned to the magical realm and his beloved forest. The colors were brighter, the flavors were sweeter, and the air smelled of peaches.

  “What are you seeking?”

  Lear started, and stood abruptly. “Have you seen that old tome about humans? It’s the one written by that gnome with the incredibly long name.”

  “Ah, yes, Grigglesbootham’s Guide to Man. It’s on the shelf along with our other books.” He hadn’t meant to sound quite so superior, and Lear’s downcast look made him rise from the bed and wrap his arms around his mate’s shoulders. He offered a few comforting pats and Lear circled his arms around his waist. “I’m sorry to speak so. Blame the fact that I just woke.”

  “I do. You are a grumpy badger when you get up.” Lear pressed his mouth to the soft skin under Garrin’s ear and he shivered, his prong, already firm with morning life, throbbing even more.

  “Why do you wish to review this book so early?” Garrin returned the kiss and stroked his palm down Lear’s muscled back to cup his ass. Returning to the bed was an attractive proposition this fine morn. “We should try to sleep a bit longer.”

  With a chuckle, Lear extricated himself and walked to the shelf where he studied the titles. “Sleep? You merely wish to tumble with me. Your burgeoning prong betrays your intentions. You would have me sucking and stroking in half a moment if I tumbled back to the sheets.”

  “Is it my fault I’m irresistible?” Garrin decided to recline against the pillows, allowing his prong to stand upright and perhaps tempt Lear to attend to it. His mate soon pulled the chosen volume from the shelf and returned to the bed, taking his place at Garrin’s side even as he flicked through the illustrated vellum pages. Slightly annoyed that the dusty book was more interesting to Lear than a good, hard prong, he tried to make light. “Is there some test we forgot to study for?”

  “Perhaps,” Lear said absently as he ran his finger along a long list printed on the page. “I merely wish to review human social customs. Our interactions with them are usually superficial and the subtleties might escape me.”

  Garrin stroked up and down his mate’s broad back, appreciating the way his skin and muscles felt under his fingers, liking the way Lear pressed back into his hand, asking for more. “Why do we need to know more? We mingle at their celebrations and tip our hats as we pass them in the street. That suffices.”

  “I wish to understand, to be able to…ah, there it is.” Lear hunched over the book, and Garrin couldn’t help but follow his attention. The Guide to Man lay open on the rumpled blankets to an annotated illustration of a nake
d woman opposite a page of dense text. “See, they are fundamentally similar to elvish women.”

  “I assumed so.” Despite his desire for affection from Lear, Garrin couldn’t help but be intrigued by the picture. The etching was quite detailed and he could see full breasts topped with tight nipples and a sweet little cleft nearly hidden by full thighs. Constructed just as the elf women they’d bedded in the past. It was always very nice to have a soft and fragrant female pressed between them. What the illustrator had missed was the fire and emotional depth he’d glimpsed the night before when they’d spied the sad shoemaker. “Why the sudden curiosity?”

  “Our little cobbler intrigues me. I find I wish to make her happy again.” Lear looked up from the book, his fingers pressed to the sketched feet of the female. “Does she not appeal to you?”

  “Visiting her shop in the night and performing some task to ease her burdens doesn’t require us to review her anatomy, does it?” He watched his mate carefully, an inkling of what Lear was after beginning to form. A smile quirked his mate’s full lips and Garrin succumbed to temptation and kissed him. He received an enthusiastic response and the possibility of a morning frolic returned to his thoughts. Yes, a quick and satisfying tumble, then he’d be off to make his patrol of the northern border of the kingdom while his mate went to court to make music. Just like any other morning.

  Lear broke away from his embrace. “I fear you’ve found me out. I’m inclined to become intimate with her, if you are willing.”

  Garrin shook his head from side to side, the negation automatic. “I thought we were in agreement not to involve ourselves with humans? The queen demands her subjects keep their distance, to lessen the chance they discover our realm and wage war upon us. Legend says the punishment for intimacies can be death.”