Tangled in Thorns: Thornwood Fae, #2

By nicolette andrews

The first time Catherine got mixed up with the fae, it cost her dearly. This time they will take it all.

Magic is dangerous no one knows that better than Catherine. She thought she would be content with her garden and a quiet life. But she longs for connection. When she tries to reach out to others, disaster strikes. Creeping vines emerge from Faery choking the gardens of Thornwood, corrupting the minds of those who encounter it and turning them into raving zombies. Among those infected is Catherine's niece. And her only hope at a cure is Ray.
After the accident, she swore never to speak to Ray again. But with three days until the plant kills, she must put aside her vow to save the village. To stop the spread, they must find the plant's origin and destroy it. Catherine's magic can do that if she can learn from Ray. As her magic flourishes beneath his tutelage, so do her feelings, that she's tried to deny, grow.
Embracing her magic, means luring in the fae and losing a piece of her humanity. Caught like a fly in a web of intrigue, Catherine struggles to find a balance between her desire to be human, the threats that lurk in shadows, and the ancient songs of Faery calling her home…
Get lost in the magic of  TANGLED THORNS, the second in this gothic romantic fantasy trilogy. Fans of UPROOTED  and DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST will not want to miss this tale steeped in fae intrigue, romance, and mystery. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: nicolette andrews
• Release date: Jan 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781386598565

Book preview

Prologue

Greasy bodies pressed together in the dance hall. The rancid stench of sweat and stale booze hung on the air. Here many a harlot crooked her finger at rotten-teethed patrons. They’d never take a second look at another. And if a grime-covered drunkard was found dead in the gutter the next morning. No one would bother to ask questions. Death’s cold grip choked hold of these poor districts. And it made for the ideal hunting ground for Isobel. It had been decades since she had to resort to such unsavory methods of survival. But as weak as Edward’s newborn body was, they didn’t have a choice. She’d brought him back from death, but that sort of magic came at a cost. A heavy cost. A necessary cost.

Not much longer now. It had taken near a year, but Edward was strong enough now to return to Thornwood. Only one piece was left: her lion. Once she had him, they could return home at last. Soon. He was here. She could feel it.

Harlots with sagging breasts spilling out of their loosely tied laced stays bounced on the laps of patrons. The riffraff who pawed at women with dirt ingrained in their hands were like feral cats. Enough to sate her hunger for a time but never enough. Deep in the bowels of the city of iron and stone, she was free of the fae’s interference, but her magic was weaker and the craving keener. Strains of fae blood were best, but those were most often found near gateways, in forests and moors, and the wild places where the fae still kept a toe hold on this world. Spend too long close to one of them, and she ran the risk of being discovered. What she did was forbidden; few humans even knew the secrets of the oldest magic. And they were all dead. That was the problem with blood magic: use it once, and you needed twice as much the next time. You could try to stop. But then it gnawed at you like a dog with an old bone.

If she didn’t close the gateways, it would whittle her down to nothing eventually. There were reasons the fae had forbidden the ancient blood magics. But they had forced her hand. She never wanted to do it. All she had wanted was to leave Faery behind for the sake of her daughter. She should have known they wouldn’t let her. Once the gateways were closed, she would be safe. Until then, she dared not think her name or imagine her face for fear the beast inside her would turn its eyes upon her own daughter and destroy her as if she were prey. She must find the lion; that was the only way she could return to Thornwood.

Heads turned as she wended her way through the crowd. The glamour she wore had been woven with an allure; it drew men to her like a moth to a flame. She did not pause for any of them. Her lion was close; she could feel it. She squeezed between two men arguing, flashing them a flirtatious smile that left them gaping and slack-jawed. Fools. Pigs. Men were no different than before she had gone into Faery. As she turned away from them, her smile dropped.

A group of the usual drunkards had gathered around a table for a game of cards. At the far end. A young gentleman ran a hand through his tousled golden locks. The lion at last. He’d pulled loose his silk cravat, exposing the pale skin of his throat. His tailored jacket with golden buttons was slung over the back of the dingy chair, and he’d rolled up the fine cotton shirt sleeves. He stood out like a gem in a gutter. The lion grinned behind his cards, casting sideways glances at the other players at the table. Though he exuded an air of rich man’s arrogance, a single bead of sweat dotted his brow. She’d talked to a fair number of creditors and pub owners in search of him. It seemed the rumors were true. The lion had a habit of gambling. Whether poor sense or just misfortune, his once lucky streak had dried up, they said, and he’d been kicked out of the more reputable gambling houses, and here he landed.

Isobel sauntered over toward him, swinging her hips as she walked. His attention was focused on his opponents. Up close, she could sense the fae blood in him. Just as strong as his sisters had been. She nearly moaned in anticipation. It had been too long. She craned her neck to peek at his cards. Not good. He had nothing left, and there was a pair of gold plated cuff-links in the pot at the table’s center. His luck hadn’t improved, it would seem.

Someone grasped her rear and squeezed. The beast in her roared, ready to tear out the throat of the man who’d dare. But outwardly, she gave a coy smile to the man sitting to the right of the lion.

If you’re looking for a good time, I’ll let you go for a ride. After I win the rest of this fop’s money, he said; his front right tooth was entirely brown.

Disgusting human filth.

I wouldn’t be so confident, she looked down at his cards, and her gaze flickered up to the other man. She brushed a hand against the lion’s shoulder, and he shivered.

Another man across the table squinted at her with suspicion, but she only smiled in reply. Her glamour had been woven well. None of these simpletons would be able to resist her words.

I fold. The second man set his cards down on the table.

The lion sat up a bit straighter, looking at the others at the table. But they weren’t looking at him; they were watching her over his shoulder. She cast her spell over them; they’d already been ensnared by her lure. All it took was eye contact to topple them over. One by one, they set down their cards.

The lion whooped and laid his cards on the table, revealing his terrible hand. The men grumbled and cursed their misfortune as the lion dragged his winnings toward him.

What do you say, boys, want to play another round? He stacked up his winnings with a smug grin.

They rose up from the table like puppets on a marionette’s string. He didn’t seem to notice; he was too busy counting his winnings. Until only she and the lion remained. Now hopefully, they would have no more distractions. Isobel slid into one of the newly vacated seats next to him. He glanced up at her, taking her in fully for the first time. Her magic entangled him before he knew what was happening. He had the blood of the fae, but he was completely oblivious to it. He really had been the perfect prey. He leaned toward her, his eyes half lidded.

Aren’t you a rare flower in this piss hole, he said.

Charming. She tossed her dark curls over her shoulders as she laughed. Rather crude for one of the gentry. But that didn’t matter; she didn’t need him for his manners.

Buy me a drink? Isobel asked as she pressed her palm to the back of his hand.

He waved to an overworked barmaid serving at a nearby table. Her clothes were stained, and her hair hung limply at her shoulders as she carried over a tray of pewter tankards. She set one down for each of them. Before she could walk away, Isobel stole a coin from his pile and pressed it into the women’s hand. Her eyes widened, but she said not a word before making her way across the room.

The lion gulped down his tankard in one go. The flush of victory on his face. After how long she’d spent searching for him, it felt nearly anticlimactic at how easy it had gone. Not that she had any reason to complain; the sooner she was out of this dump, the better.

I haven’t even gotten your name, miss?

Maryanne. Shall we dance? she prompted. The sooner she got him on his feet, the sooner she could lure him up to the room she’d rented.

He licked his lips and looked her up and down. It made her skin crawl, but she kept her fake smile plastered on her face. He stood as she did, and when she grasped his hand, he didn’t pull away. Skin to skin, she could better feel the power that coiled within him. She ached with hunger as the heat of him nearly drove her mad. She lured him onto the dance floor. Patrons writhed to the jaunty tune played by a small band. They were all nothing but shades of dingy gray and brown, grasping and grunting. It was a mockery of the cultured dances of the gentry but in spirit more like the animalistic dances in Faery.

A century had passed, and yet the memories were as fresh as if they’d been seared into her mind. The lion grasped her roughly, pressing her hard against him. When she’d danced with the Thorn King in Faery, his merest touch had heated her to her core. Faery had been a glittering dream then. Her golden lion wasn’t the same, his footsteps were heavy, and he kept stepping on her feet as he grasped her closer, pressing his firmness against her thigh.

This dance was merely a formality, the first step, a taste. Bodies pressed against her helped form connections and let the magic flow between the two. The lion’s was a candle compared to the brilliant sunlight of the Thorn King. At best, the lion was likely three generations removed. He shoved his thick tongue into her mouth and then grasped her by the hair. He tasted sour, and his kiss was more an invasion than anything else. She pulled back, but the bitterness of old memories lingered still. She twirled away from the lion, leading him to the edge of the dance floor. And he followed after her like an obedient puppy.

Up the stairs, she ran, and he laughed as he pursued her. At her room door, she paused and spun around, allowing him to catch her. Chest heaving, she let him shove his tongue into her mouth again, let him grasp at her breast and squeeze. They broke apart, panting.

How much? he asked, staring at her like a man starved.

For you, nothing. They all loved to hear that.

A pleased smile spread across his face. She twisted the doorknob, and they tumbled inside. One hand grasped at his belt buckle, the other pawing at her breast. She stepped out of his grip; she’d had more than enough of his mauling hands.

Take off your pants, she commanded with a playful wave of her hand.

He smirked. I love a woman who takes control. His belt buckle clinked as he did as he was told. Then his pants fell to the ground.

Isobel bit back her smile; the rush of command was intoxicating. It was her favorite part of the hunt. Men had controlled her once but never again. She held all the power now.

Someone knocked at the door. His gaze flickered in that direction only for a moment as he continued to unbutton his shirt.

She tutted as she waggled her finger. I didn’t say to do that yet.

The knocking persisted.

Do you mind we’re occupied in here, The lion shouted at the door.

Isobel flitted past him and dodging his grasping hands that tried to stop her. She flung open the door as he scrambled to cover his exposed manhood.

What is—Edward? But I thought you were dead, the lion said.

Edward strolled into the room. The color had returned to his cheeks, and he was stronger than before, his shoulders broader. No one would mistake him for a walking corpse now.

Good to see you, Ashton, Edward said as he stalked closer to him.

The lion scrambled backward, pulling at his fallen pants. How is this possible? Everyone has been talking about your death, about how your widow killed you.

Edward crossed the room and grasped Mr. Ashton by the throat as he slammed him against the wall. Mr. Ashton’s blue eyes bulged.

Do not speak of my wife that way, Edward said, his front canines elongating.

Mr. Ashton’s face was turning purple. Edward’s temper was something she’d been trying to reign in, but the wolf had grown stronger since his rebirth. They couldn’t waste this opportunity to rage. Not when they were so close. She put a hand on Edward’s shoulder.

Enough, she said, infusing her word with glamour to soothe him.

Edward unclenched his hand, and Mr. Ashton slid into a heap on the ground.

What is this? Edward, we were friends. Why are you doing this? Mr. Ashton looked between the two of them, eyes wide, as he rubbed his bruised throat.

Isobel chuckled and stalked closer. She brushed his cheek, and for a moment, fear melted beneath her touch. Just long enough to shove a sock in his mouth and silence any screams. The last thing she wanted was an interruption in the middle of the ceremony.

Mmmm mmmi mii, he said through the sock.

Edward grabbed his shoulder and pulled out the knife as Mr. Ashton squirmed in his grip.

Don’t wriggle; it will only make this more painful, she cooed as Edward plunged the knife into his arm, dragging it along the vein. He didn’t listen to advice and continued to thrash as Edward cut the other arm. The blood ran down his wrist. She opened the locket around her neck and dumped its contents into her palm. A tiny shriveled seed. She dipped it into his blood, and the seed drank it up. It swelled up to five times the size and filled the basin of her palm. All while Mr. Ashton withered. His skin turned gray and his hair white and brittle.

Now we can return? Edward asked, his gaze skimming over the husk that was Mr. Ashton.

Yes. But there is still more work to do. She closed her hand around the seed.

1

Catherine buried her fingers into the damp earth. It yielded easily to her touch, softened by the previous night’s rain. Using her flattened hand like a shovel, she pulled back small mounds of dirt. It would have been faster with a trowel. Even if it were slower, she preferred to use her hands. There was something gratifying about the feel of dirt between her fingers. When she’d dug a hole to her satisfaction, she sat back on her heels. She raised up an arm and stretched as she leaned to the side. The sun was high in the sky, and a single rivulet of sweat rolled down her spine. Winter had come and gone in the blink of an eye, and the first touches of spring were warming the garden.

A flash of red darted past the corner