Black Sheep of Faery: Books 1-2

by Harley Gordon

  There are priceless treasures in here needing protection, though Hatter and I are relieving them of one of the more dangerous ones. One with no place in human grasp. One Hatter has been after since I knew him before.

  The Vorpal sword holds great power. It’s edge never dulls, sharp enough to slice a head off with barely a nick. It’s also said to bring truth to the wielder. And not the good kind of truth, the ugly kind you’d prefer remain buried. The kind of truth that breaks you.

  The guards finally clamber back to their feet, cursing and sweating as I send the animals circling and herding the two men over to one of the corners. Hatter whistles out his signal, sounding exactly like a shrill tea kettle. With one last push from me, the animals swarm over the guards, biting their ankles, climbing up their pants.

  The men shriek and spin, trying desperately to shake the animals off of them. Hatter slips right by without them noticing, the sword nowhere in sight. I fall into step behind him, not releasing my hold on the animals until we’re on the next street.

  Hatter reaches out for my hand as we hurry through the Parisian night, pulses racing, excitement coursing through our veins. I’d forgotten how fun this is — the rush of pulling off a heist, completing a mission, taking down the villain, being the hero.

  It’s addicting, and I’m thrilled to be back in it.

  When we reach the Montmartre, Hatter pulls me deeper into the shadows, pressing me up against the side of a building. I grin against his mouth as he presses his into mine. Stone digs into my back and Hatter sinks into my front. I wrap my arms around his neck, wanting to be closer, desperate for his touch. He nips kisses across my jaw and down my neck, my gasps pushing out vapor in the frigid air as my head falls back against the building. Adrenaline still pulses through me, making my heart pound hard, making my head spin.

  Or maybe it’s Hatter.

  His hands run down my sides to my hips, down to my thighs. He lifts me up, stepping into the V of my legs which I wrap around his waist. It’s so easy to lose myself in him, forgetting everything—where I am, what I’m doing, sometimes even who I am.

  This feeling is why I ran so far and so long and so hard fifty years ago.

  It still scares me, but I crave it too much to give it up now. I crave him too much.

  It was never like this with Fitz. It’s not better, but it’s different. And that helps. I don’t think about Fitz as much as I used to. Part of me still misses him, but I shove it away. I chose Hatter.

  He brings his lips back to mine, ravaging me with a possessive and starving heat. I shiver, matching his intensity with my own. My fingers dig into the back of his neck, thread in his now-blue hair. He growls and nibbles my bottom lip.

  He releases me and I slide down his body until my feet are back on the ground. We pull away from each other, breathing hard, caught in each other’s eyes.

  The cold rushes in without his body and mouth keeping me warm, the wind slicing through my coat. Without a word, he leads me back to the street, me almost skipping at his side.

  From Oblivion Resurrected

  I unlock my shop, falling inside with Hatter at my heels, laughing when he trips over me in exuberance to get in out of the cold. In the last month since Pan, the winter has come rolling in with brutal vengeance.

  The warmth of my shop welcomes us as we shed our layers. Hatter tastes like frost when he plants a quick kiss to my lips. He pulls the sword out from his suit jacket, wrapped in a purple scarf. Careful not to touch the blade or handle, he sets it on one of my tables.

  We stare down at the weapon for a moment. Part of the hilt pokes from the fabric. It’s a plain sword, nothing fancy on the outside, seems almost boring. Hard to believe it holds such power.

  I shake myself. “I have to get things ready for tomorrow. Frankie is opening up for me, but I still need to have things ready for baking.”

  “Want some help?”

  I raise a skeptical brow. “You want to help me bake?”

  Hatter balls his hands on his hips. “What? You know I own a string of tea shops throughout England. I do know how to cook.”

  “It’s nice to know after so many years you can still surprise me.”

  A wicked grin spreads across his lips. “Oh, love, you have no idea how many surprises are in store for you.” He takes a step closer, but I skitter back with a laugh.

  “I have to get to work. And we need to get that blade to the library.”

  “The morning is soon enough for that.”

  I point at the lightening sky outside. “It already is morning.”

  He watches me move behind the counter, pulling out flour and milk. “You hired on a partner to help run this place so you’d have more time to work with the FTA. Why are you working so late?”

  “I love my job here. I’m not ready to give it up. Especially baking which is the best part. If I’d needed her, I’d have called her in. Do you miss London?”

  He shakes his head and joins me behind the counter. “No. I’m not a micro-manager. I’m very good at delegating. Besides, my new club keeps me busy.”

  “Nothing else keeping you here?” I shoot him a teasing smile over my shoulder as I roll out the dough, batting my lashes.

  Hatter shrugs with his mouth. “Well, I’ve enjoyed being more active in the FTA.”

  “Right. Of course.” I cut circles out of the dough, placing the discs onto a baking sheet.

  “And Paris is such a beautiful city.” He steps closer to me and the heat from his body sinks into my back.

  I fight the laughter bubbling up in my chest, trying to sound nonchalant. “It is indeed.” I punch the remainder of the dough back down, rolling it out, cutting more circles.

  “And if you think I’m going anywhere now that I have you again, you are sorely mistaken.” He wraps his arms around me from behind, burying his cold nose into my neck. “Now I know why you always smell of frosting and cookies. It must sink into your pores.”

  I stiffen, a sharp breath hissing through my nose, then sink back into him. “We both smell and taste like baked goods. We must be a good match.”

  “Oh, that I’ve always known, love.” He reaches up and wipes flour from my jaw.

  I groan. “I did not miss your cockiness.”

  “Yes, you did. You missed every dashing and perfect inch of me.” He presses himself harder against me.

  I suppress a shiver, focusing on my dough — punch, roll, cut. “Not even a little. You never crossed my mind.”

  He kisses the spot on the back of my neck. “Never?”

  “Nope.”

  Another kiss, this one on the side of my jaw. “Not even once a decade?”

  I refuse to melt. “Maybe once a decade.”

  “You didn’t read all those sexy books written about me?” A kiss on my shoulder.

  “I never read any of your retellings.”

  “Liar.” He nips the side of my neck.

  I plop the last disc onto the sheet, then turn in his arms to face him. “Maybe.”

  His eyes crinkle with jubilation. “You did read them.”

  “Of course I’ve read some of the retellings. They’re hilarious because of how wrong they are. And by the way you’re always paired with Alice.”

  His humor vanishes, and I cringe having brought up such a sore point. “Yeah, that part is rather disturbing, isn’t it? We better get back to work so we get at least an hour of sleep.”

  I step close into him and smear a line of flour down his cheek. “It’s only fair I should confess something to you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “About two years ago, I went on a Hatter binge. I read and watched everything I could get my hands on.” My face flames at the admission, part of me wanting to grab the words and shove them back down my throat. But Hatter sad and vulnerable is a weakness of mine. I’m willing to do anything to bring back his happiness.

  “Oh, really?” His expression clears of pain, replaced with amused delight.

  “Johnny Dep
p really didn’t do you justice. But he sure brought you a surge of popularity.” I clear my throat and try to turn around.

  Hatter tightens his arms, trapping me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “There’s still work to do.”

  He looks adorable with flour dusting his face, his eyes boring into mine, reading my soul.

  “I thought I should confess something myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was hoping you’d be willing to serve me.”

  “Serve you?” I try to pull away, disbelief filling me.

  “Yes. It’s a fantasy of mine.” He bursts into merriment at my raised brow and stiff face. “Someone to bring me breakfast in bed.”

  I snort, shaking my head. “Keep dreaming, handsome.”

  Hatter fakes a wounded expression. “I can’t believe you don’t love me enough to bring me those delicious scones I inspired.”

  My cheeks flush with heat at the reminder. He was never supposed to know. No one was supposed to know. I’m not ready for a deep conversation with him. Things are wonderful right now, light and fun; I want to keep it that way. I ignore the L word he just threw out for the first time.

  “I believe I’m the one who should be treated to breakfast in bed. I’m the one who’s always cooking.”

  He kisses the tip of my nose before he releases me so I can finish up. “You’re so good at it. You’d think your rhyme would be Miss Muffet instead of Bo Peep.”

  I scoff as I cover the sheets in plastic wrap, sliding them into the fridge. “You know damn well Miss Muffet can’t boil an egg.” Miss Muffet is a vegan and only eats raw foods and owns her own yoga studio. She’s probably never set foot in a bakery. Or a kitchen.

  She’s an excellent gardener, though, and a badass FTA agent with powers similar to Spiderman — she can climb anything with no gear. She’s been working with Marguerite in the US, according to Belle. Dangerous job. One I do not envy.

  “She makes really tasty granola.”

  I spin around at the strange note in his voice. “When did you taste her granola?” I don’t mean for it to sound like an innuendo, jealousy spiking through me.

  “A few years ago. We partnered up for a while.”

  “I see. And were you partners like we used to be?”

  “Oh, pet, no one has ever been partners like the two of us.”

  Suspicion flows up my spine. “You aren’t answering the question.” I cringe at the strident tone of my voice. What right do I have to care if they were a thing? Hatter and I lasted six months fifty years ago. “Never mind. Sorry. I don’t want or need to know.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but is cut short by his ringing phone. It’s my bleeding rhyme. He set my rhyme as his ring tone. “It’s Jackie.” He answers it on speaker. “Jackie? I’m here with Bo. What’s going on?”

  “Have either of you heard from Belle in the last couple days?”

  Hatter and I exchange puzzled frowns. “No, I tried calling her this morning, but she didn’t answer. Why?”

  “Because I’ve tried calling her thirty times and she isn’t answering.” Jackie’s voice is rough with stress.

  “Have you gone by there?” Hatter asks.

  “I’m not in Paris. I was sent on a mission in Spain. I should be back by tomorrow.”

  Worry creeps through me. “So, you want us to go check on her?”

  “Yes. She always answers her phone. Hell, she’s always on her phone. She’s a total tech head.”

  She really isn’t, but compared to stuck in the past Jackie the Giant Slayer, Belle probably seems that way. But Jackie also has a point. Belle does always answer her phone.

  I grab my jacket. “We’ll head over there right away.”

  Champions in their Rest Ejected

  Belle’s shop is dark when Hatter and I arrive. We exchange a frown. It’s almost eight. She’s always bustling around in there an hour before she opens. Hatter tries the door and it swings open. A stone settles in my stomach as we enter. I clutch the pale blue box of unicorn macaroons so tight the edges crumple.

  Is it Pan? Did he come back for more. or did someone find out about the Library hidden below her shop?

  I set the box on one of her shelves, reaching for the gun I’ve kept on me lately. Hatter and I move through her shop on silent feet, using hand signals to communicate.

  It’s been a few days since I’ve been here, too focused on my bakery and band along with helping Hatter get the sword. What has happened here?

  If Belle has gone down, we’re in deep shit.

  We move through the darkened store to the door to the basement in the back. I raise my brows at Hatter, and he nods. He opens the door and I go down first, squinting against the dim shadows. The stairs are creaky, signaling our descent. I cringe with each step.

  The familiar scent of parchment and bound leather greets me with its loving arms. Somehow, every Library smells the same. It’s comforting in an odd sort of way.

  We reach the bottom, and with a last glance at each other, split up to check the stacks. Some of the relics on the shelves call to me as I pass, vibrating or glimmering in the darkness. They want to be used, to return to their owners, to be free.

  I know how they feel. All Fae have something inside calling them home. It’s something I fought for decades until I realized Faery is home. My lips twist when I catch sight of a shelf of rhymes. There’s my pathetic excuse of a story. I stumble to a halt, heart thudding, gun almost slipping from my hands.

  No.

  It was supposed to be lost. It was supposed to be firewood. It was the first thing I threw away when I came to life.

  My staff.

  With a shaking hand, I reach out, stopping a millimeter away from touching it. No. I don’t need it. I’ve never needed it. It’s the last thing I want in my life.

  Fury and desire wage a war inside my belly as I force myself to walk past the staff. Right now, I need to find Belle. So I can kill her. Then, kill her again in a hundred years when she comes back.

  A growl rumbles up my throat. There she is. Bloody fine and buried beneath a stack of books.

  “Belle.”

  She shrieks and jumps, dumping half her pile on the floor. I take mean pleasure in it. “Bo? What are you doing here?”

  “What the hell?” I slide my gun back into the holster inside my jacket.

  “What?” She scurries to gather her fallen books.

  I ignore her. “Hatter. She’s in the back corner.”

  He whistles to let me know he heard. I turn back to Belle. “It’s after eight and your shop is dark and closed. You haven’t been answering calls. Jackie called us from Spain. We brought macaroons and a very dangerous sword. And you have a little explaining to do.”

  “About what?” Belle rubs at her eyes, exhaustion sagging her face.

  I push aside the worry, wanting answers. “First, about what you’re doing down here. Second, and most importantly, what the bloody hell are you doing with my staff? I have a very distinct memory of burning it.”

  Belle bites her lip, avoiding my eyes. “You burned a fake.”

  “What?” My shriek bounces off the walls of the Library.

  She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I switched the real one for a replica when you went searching for matches.”

  How could she do that? “Why?”

  “My job was and still is to keep relics safe. And you were in a strange place. New to the world, terrified, angry, hating your story.” Her voice goes cold.

  I throw up my hands in frustration. “I didn’t have a damn story. All I had was a stupid little rhyme.”

  “Exactly. You were incredibly bitter about it. No fellow characters. No real characterization. What you didn’t realize is you were freer than the rest of us. We’re tied to our characters and stories, often ending up acting out the same shit our authors put us through. You got to choose. You got to leave. The rest of us haven’t been so fortunate.”

  I slump into
a chair across from her, some of the anger leaking out of me. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you kept it?”

  “I always planned to. But the longer I waited, the harder it was. I guess I was waiting for you to want it again.” She gives me an apologetic smile.

  I clutch my hands together between my knees. “I still don’t want it.” Even though every fiber of my being cries out to hold it in my hands once more. That’s the way it is with relics and the characters they belong to.

  “Why?”

  “I…” With a blown out breath, I shrug. “I don’t know. Part of me longs for it. And that’s terrifying.”

  “I thought you were back with us. Why would having your staff matter?”

  I jump at Hatter’s voice behind me. I didn’t notice him join us. “I don’t know. I just know I’m not ready for it yet.”

  Belle nods. “Let me know when you are. It’ll be here for you.”

  Hatter’s face is set, like he’s upset, but I don’t understand why. “Do you have a safe place for this monstrosity?” He pulls the wrapped sword from inside of his jacket.

  Belle takes it from him with reverent hands, her eyes caressing the blade while she keeps her hands safe. “I have just the place for it. I’m impressed you tracked it down. I’ve tried a few times over the years, but never could get a lead.”

  “You’re trying to track down innumerable items. I’ve just been after the one.”

  Belle snorts. “Just the one?”

  Hatter scuffs the floor with his periwinkle shoe, looking abashed. “Well, maybe one or two more, but not nearly the amount you’ve had to find.”

  “What else have you been after?” I ask.

  He tips his fedora at me. “My hat of course. And a couple other small things.”

  I nudge his shoe with my boot. “Like what?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about, pet. We all have our secrets.” He winks.

  I frown, trying to read the meaning behind his words, but come up empty. Shaking it off, I return my focus to Belle. “So what’s the deal? Why is your shop closed and why are you buried back here?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure out where the Wild Hunt will be this year. It’ll begin tomorrow night and I’ve had a harder time reading the astrological signs. My star charts kept failing me. It’s like something’s different.”