by Angie Bee
Table of Contents
Stolen Heart
Book Details
The King is Dead; Long Live the Queen
To Rule Requires Heart
Beware of Unexpected Gifts
Clandestine Correspondence
Derringer on Her Thigh, Heart in Her Throat
A Sister's Suspicions
The Throne
Poison and Honey
Someday We Will See a Woman King
About the Author
Stolen Heart
A Sapphic Snow White Noir
ANGIE BEE
Snow White is the heir to a vast business empire. In the wake of the sudden death of her father, Arthur "King" White, she finds herself grappling with newfound responsibilities—and a mysterious admirer. After a scandalous series of correspondence, Snow finally meets the person behind the pen: the queen of the criminal underworld, Regine.
Secret meetings in smoky bars. A dangerously violent femme fatale. And several sordid details are revealed before the queens can truly claim their thrones.
Stolen Heart
By Angie Bee
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Keith Kaczmarek
Cover designed by Natasha Snow
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition April 2017
Copyright © 2017 by Angie Bee
Printed in the United States of America
Digital ISBN 9781620049846
THE KING IS DEAD
LONG LIVE THE QUEEN
It was sleeting the day they buried the King.
Hundreds came out to gawp and stare—and some to even sincerely mourn. The board of directors. Lifelong employees. The household staff. Ordinary people with too much time to waste. Journalists with flashbulbs and yellow notepads. They jostled and murmured in hushed tones that could not entirely mask their curiosity as the pallbearers lowered the black and gold coffin into the cold, hard earth.
But their eyes were not on the coffin, not on the mortal shell of what had been the most powerful man in the city, the man many said had built the city, had made it the metropolis it was. Arthur "King" White was gone, and had been for some days. And with the King dead, the spotlight was now on the new Queen. The daughter left behind to fill the sudden vacuum, very young and very unprepared.
Or so the analysts, the stockbrokers, the cabbies, the waiters, the hairdressers said.
Fresh from boarding school, she had only been home for a few scant weeks. Had barely had any time to reconnect with her absent, powerful father. Stood now all in black, hand-in-hand beside the sister who was only spoken of in whispers, porcelain and ebony next to cream and cherries.
An unlikely pair. Snow: so quiet and unknown. Rose: sharp as a razor's edge and twice as cutting. The first a mystery, the latter a scandal.
One raised in her father's image, carefully tutored and bred for leadership, fully aware of the weight being placed on her shoulders, the responsibilities that would be hers in time. The heir, the chosen one, the prodigal.
And the other an acknowledged mistake, unintended. A bastard in the traditional sense, lately come to the fold following her mother's long illness and decline. Known to be wild and more than a little mad. Violent with words and looks and deeds. And yet utterly devoted to the King and his princess, the sister who had always been better loved and better favored.
There had been stories not so long ago of a young man who had presumed to impose on Snow White's company. And of how he had later been found, not wholly a man and long past caring about it. Blood in the water and sand in his mouth; and a dainty dagger fit for a lady fitted neatly in the grooves between his ribs.
And that was why there was only whispering. It didn't do to attract the attention of Rose Red.
The priest finished his prayer. Stepped back with a polite nod to the pair standing closest to the grave. Snow took a deep, visible breath and leaned forward, her free hand stretching out to drop a single red rose onto the coffin. And with that, as if it had been previously agreed upon as the signal, the long line of mourners began to file past. Other flowers joined the first. Hands reached out to clasp shoulders, pat arms, squeeze fingers in gentle reassurance. The parade of apologies and condolences and solemn well wishes became an almost soothing susurration in the ears, blending together into a vast sea of murmurs. The newly-crowned queen nodded and smiled blankly, her eyes skittering across earnest and masked faces alike.
"Everything has its time," a voice said, the tone cutting through the white noise. Snow White's gaze focused on a sharp face framing dark eyes. They were not kind eyes, too hard and unapologetic with their interest. But the light in them was magnetic. Undeniable. She felt her breath catch in the curve of her throat. "Pain is a momentary thing—you should relish it, while it lasts. Pain brings truth and knowledge with it."
The black dress was perfectly tailored to fit the curves and slopes of her body. The veil of her hat did not hide those striking eyes, nor the dusky brown complexion of her skin. A red carnation at the buttonhole of her jacket was almost too bright, too vivid, against the otherwise unrelieved black of her clothes and the gray of the chilled sky.
Snow had never met this woman, but she felt as if she already knew her in some vital way. She recognized wealth and power when she saw it, the confidence that came with control and respect. The large men standing behind each shoulder could have worn labels reading BODYGUARD, with their posture, jutting brows, and jackets that strained at the seams. This woman was like the Seven who sat on the board of directors—but with a whisper of something else around her, invisible yet very present. Snow could not place it…
"You have a strange way of offering condolences, Miss…"
"My name is Regine. I knew your father, well enough to know he was a hard man. Hard to love as well, I suspect. And I am sorry," she said in a quieter voice, tilting her head and leaning closer. "Sorry that you must throw away your roses on a corpse."
She felt the heat rush up her neck, through her cheeks, and she bit the inside of her cheek sharply. "I loved my father dearly," she said, swallowing blood. "My heart broke the night he died."
"A shame and a pity. We must find a way to stitch that heart back together."
And she was gone, slipping through the tombstones on elegant legs smooth as satin in the splintered light.
TO RULE REQUIRES HEART
"King's empire was built on blood. His own and the blood of others. It is now tied to that blood, embodied in the form of that green, untested daughter."
"What are you saying, Mirror? Speak plainly with me."
"Only that to have his kingdom, you will have to make a choice between thefts. You cannot have the world without the girl. Her heart. Possess it, and you will have the keys to the golden gates in your palm."
Regine tapped a thoughtful finger against the smooth table, the half-moon curve of her black nail clicking like staccato insect wings. It was not often that her smooth face creased with emotion; today there was the faintest of lines across her brow that spoke of concentration.
"It was easy enough to topple the King," the man in the pinstriped suit to her left said. "This girl could be handled tomorrow. Jimmy could take care of it."
"What of Rose Red? They say she never leaves her side. That she sleeps beside her with a switchblade under her pillow. I have seen her handiwork—I am not eager to rush into a confrontation with her," countered the man to her right, hair slicked back w
ith dark pomade.
"The Seven will have taken every precaution with her," the man in the gray fedora said. "Tripled the security. Wrapped her in cotton gauze. That high-rise will be like a fortress now. Better to grab her somewhere public, but not too public. A bar. A bathroom."
"How can you be sure eliminating the dame will be enough?" the man with the diamond stickpin interjected.
The empire would fall to the Seven then, wouldn't it? Broken down and parceled out, without another legitimate heir to seize control?"
Regine heard all and said nothing, her glittering amber eyes fixed on the small dark man who sat at the far end of the table, his chair pulled back into a pool of shadow. No one knew where the Queen had found him. His creaking voice had the swamps of the bayou in it, the rasping sing-song cadence of cypress trees and cicadas. His skin was leathered ebony, pockmarked and wrinkled into hundreds of folds. And his eyes were a gleaming milky white that sometimes seemed to swirl and undulate like smoke through water, giving off a luminous radiance that was anything but natural. He was the Mirror, her oldest and most trusted advisor, the one who could see through any murky tangle and find the single thread to pull—or cut. He reflected truth back at the only woman who was brave enough to meet those inhuman eyes unblinking. He was the secret of her power, the reason she had risen so far and so fast in a cutthroat Underworld of snakes and ruthless wolves.
What the Mirror said, the Queen did.
"You said there would be a choice between thefts," she said softly, the arguments of the men around her falling silent as if knives had been pressed to their throats.
"Of a life, or of a heart. My lady is fair—but Snow White is fairer still. Your beauty rules the night; hers is welcomed in the day. A formidable pair."
Regine nodded, ruby lips curving in a feline smile. She understood. And she thought of the ice-touched skin that was almost translucent, so that a light seemed to shine from her bones. Of the dark hair falling over elegant shoulders. Crimson, generous lips and cheeks brushed by a first blush. Pale eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea. The cushioned curves of a woman just past girlhood. There was much there to admire, to covet, to please.
"I will not bother with knives," Regine said, quiet voice carrying across the room with all the weight of a hammer. "There are other ways to cut out a girl's heart."
BEWARE OF UNEXPECTED GIFTS
The first box came a week after the funeral.
Plain black, with only a simple red ribbon fastening the lid. No address, no name for the sender. It arrived via personal delivery from a man in a black suit and leather gloves. He simply stepped into the lobby, handed it to the concierge, and said, "For the lady. From an admirer."
Inside was a book of poetry, bound in red velvet. Snow took it to her window seat, mug of hot tea in hand, to examine it. Curiosity quickly turned to shock and the tea sat cold and forgotten when she realized it was no simple book of poetry—inside were the details of love at its most passionate, most violent, most intoxicating. There were photos and drawings to accompany the wild prose, indistinct in particulars but vivid in implication, and she felt herself flush and stiffen as she read. A detached, shameful guilt burned in her throat, yet still she read on, unable to tear away from the indecent but thrilling words. Rarely had she felt like this; only in the darkest and coldest hours of the night.
When Rose Red came to bring her to dinner, she startled from the heated spell and pressed the book beneath a pillow, unwilling to share her scandalous gift. She barely answered her sister's questions as they sat before the fine china plates and crystal wine glasses, half of her mind on darker, secret things.
Three days later the mysterious man returned with a second, longer box. The concierge had a small vanilla envelope waiting in exchange. Inside was a single sheet of paper folded three times, with only three words scrawled across it in black ink: Who are you?
The man took the envelope, unopened, and merely said: "Please tell the lady I am only the messenger."
There were roses in the box. Two dozen that were the color of fresh blood, just bloomed and heady with fragrance. A small square of cardboard rested atop the stems. In a dramatic, elegant hand were the words: Flowers carry meanings.
She found a chart in the back of a dusty encyclopedia, on a remote shelf in her father's old office. Red roses represented passionate love, courage, and respect. When her sister stepped into the room later, to ask if she wished to go to the theatre that evening, Snow told her the bouquet had been a gesture of condolence from a friend of their father's.
Two days after that, the man in the black suit came with another package.
In it was a smaller jewelry box, made of black jade fitted together with golden hinges. Inside this was a necklace, the silver chain impossibly delicate and the locket finely engraved with twining rose stems around a bold 'S'. And inside the locket was a tiny scrap of red paper, bearing the message: Write to me your heart's desires.
She sat in her room, at her marble vanity, holding the locket up to her throat and staring into the eyes of her reflection. What do I do? her mirror-self mouthed. She shook her head slightly, not so much a 'no' as a question in itself.
There had been heated fumblings in a darkened hallway. The back seat of a cab on a stormy night. Fingers under her skirt, mouth at her neck back against the wall in a bar thick with smoke. She was not as pure and innocent as the world believed. Not a girl—a woman. She knew what it was to burn and yield and taste and hold.
But this? This felt forbidden. Dangerous. A secret that made her skin too tight, made her itch and sleep uneasily. She found herself pacing the room, staring out of the vaulted windows down at the gleaming, teeming city below and wondering just who it was, down there, who had sent these things to tempt and tease her.
She should put the locket back in the box. Throw the book of poetry into the fireplace. Dump the still vibrant roses in the trash. Refuse to accept any further mysterious packages. Put this admirer out of her mind. Focus on the running of her new empire. And tell Rose to be diligent, to discourage anyone who tried to get closer. She needed to have her full concentration on the business at hand, lest her father's empire crumble and fall. She could not let his legacy become tarnished through simple mistakes and carelessness.
Instead, she fastened the clasp around her neck. Tucked the locket beneath her dress, into the hollow between her breasts, and savored the chill of the silver as it slowly warmed against her skin.
CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE
Did you enjoy my gifts?
…Yes. Please, tell me: who are you?
…I was the eldest of five children. My father died when I was ten. I've always had to fight for everything we had, by tooth and by nail. And when you live that sort of life, you realize quickly that there is very little in the world that is truly right or truly wrong. Everything is in degrees. And in desperation, when cornered, you sometimes have to do something others would see as evil—if you want to survive. But there is a difference between necessity and enjoyment. I have done hard things in my life, but I have enjoyed very little of it. And even I have lines I refuse to cross…
…If you are trying to instill trust, you are going about it badly. When that book arrived, I knew you were not decent. Not respectable. Hardly the sort I could show off in polite society…
…I care very little about 'polite' society. I never have. Doubt I ever will. That same society would call me trash without hesitation—so why should I put any stock in their labels or opinions? I know my own worth. And I wager that you will not condemn me, once you've heard all. Your opinion I will value. Your judgment I will trust…
…Why me? Why such faith in me? Why such… gifts for me? Have we met face-to-face? Have we ever spoken in the flesh? And if so, why this subterfuge? Why not step forward and court me openly? If you fancy yourself in love with me, but know me only through the newspapers and gossip, I'm afraid I shall have to disappoint you—I am no paragon. No porcelain princess to be placed on a pede
stal. I am a living, breathing woman with a personality that may be very ill-suited to yours. I will not be a doll, to be posed and played with, then put away when the interest wanes…
…We have met—briefly. But it was enough for me to know that there was something about you that I was drawn to. Even in a single glance, can't the obvious be made plain? As for this arrangement… I find it more freeing. In this fashion, I can be wholly open with you in a way that would be uncomfortable in typical conversation. Some are more eloquent through written word than spoken. Besides: is this not more exciting? Doesn't this lend an air of mystery to the chase? I enjoy games, especially those with high stakes. And, as perhaps you have realized, this levels the odds. We both have equal power this way—the right to stop or continue when we wish. If I do not receive another letter from you, I will not pester you with more; and vice versa. You needn't reveal more than you wish. You may hold back or give freely: the choice is yours…
…What do you do to pass the hours? I prefer reading and conversation, though my sister would rather be out of doors and active. My favorite author is…
…Is the best place for dancing. The band is superb and the crowds never overwhelming…
...I dream sometimes that I am frozen, paralyzed, lying in a block of ice while the world peers in at me like I'm a strange piece of art. I've had the dream for years…
…A tiny restaurant on 52nd Street. The chef has a signature dessert made with apples and brandy, so delicious you would almost be content to die after sampling it…
…I know my father meant well when he sent me away to school, but I cannot help but feel that he has handicapped me. I am so unused to life in such a big city—so out of touch with the average person on the street. How am I to be prudent and understanding without such common knowledge? It's as if I've been kept inside a tower all of my life, and now that I have been let out I am almost blinded by the world outside…