Her Unwelcome Inheritance

By J. Aleksandr Wootton

Fayborn, #1

Sometimes fairies believe in you... and it’s not always pretty.

When Oberon needs to sacrifice her family to restore his shattered kingdom, Petra will fight for their freedom and sanity as the world she knows and the people she trusts are transformed by supernatural invasion.

Petra is supposed to be starting college, but these fairies are real and they need her help. There’s just one catch: they want her to become a desperate tyrant’s sworn servant. Forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Aleksandr Wootton
• Release date: Aug 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301949687

J. Aleksandr Wootton

J. Aleksandr Wootton is a Virginian and a bookworm, if by "worm" you mean "dragon" - he hoards books in shelves and spare rooms and likes to sleep surrounded by them.In his spare time he chairs the folklore department at Lightfoot College. His research focus is on post-war Faerie.

Book preview

Of the various writing and literature teachers I have had so far, a few merit special recognition:

My mother, not only for teaching me how to read and write, but for imparting her love of both;

Dr. Jeremy Lopez, who made me (at last) understand poetry;

Dr. Laura Casal, who conveys more inspiration in a single English class than many professors manage in a whole semester;

Ian Caldwell, who schooled me in the technique and value of outlining;

Dr. Patrick Crotty, who showed me poetry’s harrowing beauty.

I owe tremendous debts to Bradley Birzer and Michael Ward for their respective elucidations of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, whom I regard as my masters. Besides these I should also name Ursula K. Le Guin and Neil Gaiman, whose works evince profound understanding of story, as well as Peter S. Beagle, of whose writing I am most jealous.

I owe a debt still greater to my friends, who – for many years longer than most people are privileged to claim – have read, laughed, and mused with me, supported and encouraged my writing habit, critiqued my efforts (and, when needed, my lack of effort), and honed me through endless ideas and years of conversations. They have been my education and my inspiration, and my most frequent cause for gratitude to God.

Special thanks to Patrick, who allowed me to convert his original short story into chapters 23 through 25, and to Melissa, for a very detailed edit indeed.

Still round the corner there may wait

A new road or a secret gate,

And though I oft have passed them by,

A day will come at last when I

Shall take the hidden paths that run

West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

—J. R. R. Tolkien

Once, there was war in Faerie:

Puck and his Hobgoblins broke peace and fought against Oberon

and all his Court.

Shattered was the three-fold alliance between Oberon, the rule of Order, his Lady, Queen of Grace, and Puck, lord of Mirth; ended were the treaties which had founded Faerie.

Neither side could prevail, nor escape the other, and the realm quaked beneath the tramp of their armies, and broke into pieces, so that in all Faerie no place was found that would anymore shelter

the Fay.

And so they fled

Across the skein of worldroots they made their way

Many fell

Many lost their way, and maybe wander still

Many despaired

But some found their way to the Brink,

and carved doors by magic,

and crossed the thresholds

unto Earth.

They took on guises as men and women and children, as creatures of land and sea, as birds of the air and trees of the forests,

Accepting our mortality as the price of their exile, as the cost of their refuge from the war which shattered their world.

But war followed them, for they brought it with them;

Oberon spent his days pursuing Puck throughout the earth,

As did his sons, as did their sons, and their sons’ sons’ sons.

For it was in their minds that if the ancient triumvirate which had once bound Faerie together was again reunited,

Faerie itself might be restored.

So the Court of Oberon resolved throughout all their generations that Puck, or one of his descendants, should be convinced or coerced to swear fealty once again to the King of the Fay...

Editor’s Note

Very probably nothing of what you are about to read happened as it is told in this book. The magic that prevents any accurate record of Faerie or the Fayborn from being preserved in the mortal realm is very ancient, beyond even the most Puckish of Mischief to undo.

Nevertheless, Petra Godfellow desired that a history be kept of her deeds and those of her allies and foes during the events that follow, judging that even a darkened glimmer of truth is better than no truth at all.

In some respects, the spell’s obfuscation is quite fortunate, since the task of penning the tale has fallen to me: perfect lucidity is more than I could manage to write, and perhaps, in this case, more than you could bear to read.

J. Aleksandr Wootton

Tod’s Hollow, Virginia

20--

Part One

REVELATION AND CONSEQUENCE

1

"Petra, what’s the earliest thing you can remember?"

"Burning our house in Carlisle."

You’ve got her buckled into it? Christina called as she hurried up the gravel driveway. Good, then leave her on the stoop. Help me with these.

Penny set the brakes on the stroller as Christina turned back to her station wagon. In its trunk were two long bundles wrapped in plastic.

The dates with morgue-boy paid off, eh? Penny grunted, hefting one of the cadavers by its legs and sliding it towards the rear of the hatchback.

Poor puppy, Christina answered, taking hold of the cadaver’s shoulders. He even helped me load them.

For a few moments, their straining muscles and clenched teeth allowed the two women no room for words.

How much did you have to tell him? Penny asked when they had unwrapped the plastic sheet in the living room.

Not much, Christina admitted, swapping the cadaver’s hospital gown for one of her own blouses. He doesn’t even know my real name. I convinced him I was in trouble, that was enough.

They finished clothing the cadaver and propped it up as best they could against the kitchen counter, then went back out to the car for the other. Petra was sitting bolt upright in the stroller, facing the blank wall of the house so she couldn’t see what her mother and aunt were doing, wide-eyed and silent, having been solemnly cautioned not to fuss or ask questions.

This is really elaborate, Penny said, zipping an old pair of her mechanic’s coveralls onto the second cadaver. Christina set their emergency oil lantern in the center of the table and lit it, leaving the hurricane glass to the side, and returned the matches to its customary drawer. It better work, she answered. We won’t be able to try a stunt like this again.

Penny glanced around the kitchen/dining/living space. The old orange-brown couch, small TV, oval coffee table, garage sale scavengings all… but they were familiar, symbols of family. Should we set the table?

Christina wavered, indecisive. Yeah, let’s.

Ceramic and silverware clinked hastily against one another, against the table. What else?

The two women split up, Christina checking Petra’s little room off the kitchen while Penny headed down the short hallway to poke her head into the bathroom and two small bedrooms there. The beds and mattresses remained, Christina’s carefully made up, her own unmade, as was usual. Half their clothes were left in the closets or on the floor, the lamps on bedside tables, the little bookshelf and most of its books. Their toiletries, easily replaceable, were still in the bathroom.

It kills me to leave Petra’s bed, Christina said when they reconvened in the living room a minute later.

We’ll find another one. Penny reached to give Christina’s shoulder a squeeze. Her friend’s muscles were taut with stress.

Another moment passed as they stood in the living room beside the open front door. Night had pushed the sun fully below its horizon. A deep pink stripe at the world’s edge emphasized the sky’s darkness.

Abruptly Christina moved towards the kitchen, setting a pot of water onto a burner and flipping its gas on without lighting it. An open box of pasta waited on the counter nearby.

Penny walked out the door and pushed Petra in her stroller out to their car. Christina joined them outside.

We need to swap positions in the driveway, she said, helping Penny detach Petra’s carseat and buckle it into the beat-up old Volvo Penny had brought home yesterday from her shop. Its owner had walked out on the bill several months before, and Penny’s boss had been happy to see it disappear from his lot for a few hundred in cash. So I can leave my keys.

Backing her station wagon a short way off the gravel into the yard, Christina made room for the Volvo then accelerated up to the top of the driveway. Threw her car into park, cut the engine, removed the key. Ran up to the front door, stepped inside just far enough to set the keys on the coffee table, listening to the quiet hiss of gas dispersing itself steadily closer to the burning oil lamp. Locked the doorknob from the inside and pulled it closed behind her; ran to the thrumming car waiting halfway down the driveway.

Christina pulled the passenger door shut and Penny cautiously gunned the motor to the end of the drive. Bright orange flashed across the house’s front windows in the rearview mirror.

Go! Christina ordered unnecessarily. The battered Volvo turned onto the road and picked up speed, heading for the interstate.

2

Fourteen years passed.

On the opposite edge of the world, on a bit of land that was not quite Croatia, nor exactly Slovenia, but anchored in-between as if riding on the earth’s coattails, stood a stately, rambling, old stone house. A mesh of ivy and a sense of broken grandeur clung to its walls. In some of the house’s least-used sections the ivy had pushed through its failing masonry.

It was, Doctor Strontian had thought many times, a perfect physical metaphor for the failing aristocracy that called it home: the few surviving members of an old-world family whose relevance had begun to decline some centuries before. Towards the middle of its warren of dim chambers he was just stepping out of the bedroom of its youngest son.

When he pulled the boy’s door shut behind him, the click of the latch roused the boy’s father, whose weary face appeared out of the gloom on the far side of the hallway. He had been dozing on a wooden stool, overcome by the late-night vigil.

Well, Doctor?

Strontian’s expression was grim. Not well, I’m afraid. This seems to have been the worst episode yet. It is as though– he broke off as an oily-smoky swirl of sharp-edged garments appeared around the corner. The old man had an uncanny knack for appearing when Strontian and James were conferring.

Grandfather, James said, rising to his feet and inclining his head slightly.

James, Ivan answered, returning the gesture, the sureness of his stride belying his title and the lines on his own face. Doctor Strontian, how is Quinn?

We were just discussing that, Grandfather, James’ tone hinted at sleep-deprived impatience. Please continue, Doctor.

Quinn is asleep, more deeply than I’d like but not dangerously so, at present. Strontian directed his words firmly at James, the boy’s father. But his anemic episodes are getting worse. Without a thorough diagnosis in a fully equipped medical facility– in the corner of his eye he could see Ivan’s face twist at the suggestion, –if we don’t identify the cause of his condition, Quinn could suffer brain damage, inhibited organ development, even a coma. He took a half-step closer. James. Make an appointment through my colleague at Zagreb – I gave you his card.

Thank you, Doctor, Ivan broke in. That will be our decision.

"It is James’ decision, Strontian forced out quietly, turning towards the old man. Ivan bowed slightly in response, mouth parted in sneer. Strontian’s whole body was shaking with the energy of defying the old man; he had wanted to say more, but the sight of Ivan’s blanched face caused him to stammer instead, if Wormsworth would show me to the door–?"

Certainly, Doctor, James said. He is waiting at the end of the corridor, mercifully gesturing in the direction opposite Ivan. Thank you so much for coming.

Strontian’s knees trembled as he walked, imagining Ivan’s flat gaze following his departure.

* * *

Local doctors have always sufficed for our family. Ivan’s voice crackled in the corridor, snapping James’s head up from where it had bowed in thought. Local doctors, with local... understandings. To avoid drawing attention.

This is different, James answered tonelessly. This concerns more than our immediate needs, but the future – the fate of our exile.

Very dramatic, Ivan sneered, gave an exaggerated shrug. His pale hands appeared in a palms-up gesture of supplication. Quinn is but one heir, and you are not so old: if he lacks the strength to bear the legacy forward–

You forget yourself! James’s eyes blazed, and behind him a lamp sputtered to angrier life as if in sympathy. If the blood of kin were not sacred, you yourself might have no shelter in this house.

The lateness of the hour has caused you to mistake my meaning, Grandson, Ivan answered softly. I do not suggest that Quinn be allowed to die. I merely meant that if we could be sure of the line’s continuance, and his condition proved fatal, I could lend Quinn such life as I–

That, James interrupted wearily, is neither a choice I can rightly make for him, nor one the boy is old enough to make for himself. As for producing another heir: you know as well as I the difficulty of finding an acceptable consort. No; we must work with things as they stand. If the Restoration– Ivan smirked –is not achieved soon, then Quinn may have to be treated at a hospital.

Masters, interjected a heavy, thick voice belonging to a stoop-shouldered, rotund little man clad in a double-breasted suit, who had come beside them unnoticed.

What is it, Wormsworth?

We have located a medium.

James paled. Lead on to my study. Grandfather, I take my leave for the present... Wormsworth. This medium – what do you know about it?

It is a witch, sir, Wormsworth answered, preceding James through two corridors and three half-vacant antechambers. Shelves of antique trinkets and an odd staircase rising to a trapdoor hove into view in one; an ornate dining set beside an interior window of darkened glass, preferred by an earlier generation, marked the next. Each piece of furniture had been in the family so long the old rooms communicated jumbled personalities, arranged or neglected by ancestral whims. She isn’t from this world, though I have reason to think she visited London once and may remember. My source was rather obscure – at first it appeared she had been destroyed during another venture–

But she wasn’t? James broke in, walking quickly to keep up with his manservant’s strangely swift waddle. Out of the corner of his eye Wormsworth almost seemed to flow over the stone floor, or perhaps to slither.

"Apparently not. We won’t know with absolute certainty until someone actually goes to her world–"

Get everything ready. I’ll go tonight, now, once I’ve reviewed your research.

Putting on another, equally unaccountable burst of duck-footed speed, Wormsworth vanished obediently into the gloom of the house ahead.

What do you hope to accomplish by this? Ivan demanded, materializing from a side passageway. James scarcely turned his head at his predecessor’s sudden appearance.

I have to find out whether Christina Godfellow had siblings, any surviving family. It’s crucial I learn their names.

There are other descendants of Puck in the world. Risking your own person on otherworldly travel–

Others, yes, there are. A few; none of so direct a descent. They are being pursued. But our servants, our resources, even our own blood, are beginning to run thin. James paused with his hand on the knob of his study door and faced Ivan squarely. And you are not exactly a paragon of caution.

Ivan recoiled as if he’d walked into an unseen spider web. Insolence–! Mine was a necessary gamble.

So is mine, James returned. And I risk less than you think. Goodnight, Grandfather.

He entered his study and shut the door firmly in Ivan’s face.

3

Burning our house in Carlisle, Petra answered. Why? What does it have to do with this?

Between them, the answering machine finished rolling through its tape. END OF MESSAGES, it declared with a beep. Penny shoved it aside with a sweep of a hand not yet scrubbed clean of engine grease from her shift.

I’m surprised you remember that, you were so little. And we never talk about it.

Petra shrugged. I guess because it was sudden and weird, and you and Mom were both so tense. I’ve never told anyone else about it. Anyway: so?

Penny drew out a chair from the table and sank into it, propping her elbows on the table and dipping her head into her hands. So, haven’t you ever wondered why we did that?

Yeah, all the time! Petra rolled her eyes as she dropped into a chair of her own. How come you didn’t go to jail for that?

Because it worked! Penny’s mouth flirted with a grin. She raised her eyes to Petra’s. Everyone must’ve thought we died in that fire.

Petra frowned, disturbed. You wanted people to think we were all dead? Is that why Mom’s always so cautious and scared about everything? She thought guiltily of the various social media accounts she’d created without her mom’s or aunt’s knowledge. She could only check them when she was at school or the library, because her mom refused to allow them to have smart phones or even internet access here at home. Not having them had been bad enough in middle school, but if she hadn’t taken matters into her own hands by high school it would have been, as her friend Jamie had put it, social suicide.

Her aunt nodded. Yeah, that’s why.

Who? What did they do? Or what did we do?

Penny sighed. "In grad school, before your