The Golden Harp

By A. Faris

Fee fi fo fum!
Here's a story rewritten in fun
Where the hen runs away
The harp is content to stay
Tisn't just ogres Jack will slay

Callie Harper chafes under the rule of the ogre, Alfred. Her shot at freedom? Retrieving the runaway hen from the clutches of Jack Spriggins, the arrogant upstart looking to undermine Alfred's rule of the criminal world. Her way to her own happily ever after is complicated by the feelings she has for Jack. Will she choose her freedom or her heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decadent Publishing
• Release date: Feb 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781613332320

Book preview

The Golden Harp

by

A. Faris

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by A. Faris

ISBN: 978-1-61333-232-0

Cover art by LFD Designs

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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www.decadentpublishing.com

Also by A. Faris

Out of Joint

Wings of a Butterfly

A 1Night Stand Story

Last Christmas

~Dedication~

For Rehan Faris

Chapter One

There was once upon a time a poor widower, Harper, who had an only daughter, Callie. Harper was not poor because of any disability, physical or mental. He could work, but being a shiftless, feckless creature, he preferred to find ways to make a quick buck. Only fools and horses—he would nod sagely to his young six-year old—work for a living.

So it was that the two would get by on the erratic payoff from Harper’s schemes. Mostly, though, they subsisted on the charity of others, for the young girl had a fragility which lent well to beggary.

As time went by, the girl lost the innocent look that garnered sympathy so well and grew into the full bloom of womanhood. With hair richly red and a figure with the promise of lushness, the girl gained the attentions of lechers and opportunists, the biggest opportunist being her own father.

So, at thirteen, she ran away to seek a new life, a new way of being, only to fall into the clutches of the evil ogre, Alfred.

There, in the ogre’s keep, Callie Harper sat, watching the newcomer enter. She could not help her spine stiffening; he had the easy charm and grace so like her father’s. Callie realized she could not service this particular man if called upon to do so, despite being inured after these long years to disgust. Why the man produced such a visceral reaction in her, she could only guess, but Callie supposed it was his resemblance in manner and looks to her father, of whom she was, needless to say, not fond of.

Callie!

The ogre’s voice was no threatening rumble, but Callie had been conditioned to respond immediately to the command. She unfolded her long legs and slid off the duck-egg, antique chaise lounge. Like many things in the keep, it was beautiful and useful, the two criteria Alfred had for his acquisitions. As one of his many belongings, she was both. Her beauty was undeniable. The use to which the ogre had put her was objectionable, but being a mere possession, she had no right to refuse.

Yes, master? She kept her tone even, hoping he would not order her to attend to the man standing next to the ogre. He had eyes that suggested laughter, as if he did not take life quite so seriously. Her father had those eyes, although his had been gray like hers, not the blue-green of the sea this man had.

This here’s Jack Spriggins.

Alfred slapped the man in the back. To the human’s credit, his feet remained planted firmly on the marble floor. Although by no means short, he looked positively tiny next to Alfred. Behind the rectangular lenses of his rimless glasses, his blue-green eyes crinkled at the corners. Spectacles were not something many could afford in Midgard. Jack, then, had money. He was no desperate hanger-on, waiting for crumbs from Alfred’s plate.

Guardedly, she nodded an acknowledgement.

Lovely to meet you.

His common accent was a surprise. She had pegged him for a toff, out for a night slumming it with Midgard’s criminal elements. From his crisp cream shirt to his loosely knotted pink and black-checked tie, his sedate attire screamed old money. The nouveau riche dressed in a more flamboyant manner than their aristocratic counterparts. The only thing the two classes had in common, other than having lots of money, was the way they kept making it, which was with no morals or scruples.

"Please to meet you,