Once Upon a Faerie

By Shelby Kent-Stewart

Classical violinist Ashling Michaels has her hands full. It's one thing to discover she's not who she thinks she is, but when she learns she's mated to the men of her dreams, a wizard, a vampire and a wolf shifter, what's a girl to do? Add to the mix an ancient prophecy which foretells her fate as humankind's best hope for su

• Language: English
• Publisher: Honeysuckle House Press
• Release date: Feb 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781941142745

Book preview

Prologue

That’s it for today, guys. We’ll take it from the bridge in the morning. Blaine, you know I love you, man, but bring some energy with you tomorrow. We’re recording a rock album here, not Gregorian chants. Ashling, awesome as always.

Gregorian chants? Good one. Ashling covered her snort with a cough as the lights in the control booth dimmed. Blaine picked a lousy day to be off his game. What should have been an easy session turned into a marathon. She still had one more gig, a biggie that could easily last past midnight. After tucking her violin in its case, she freed her mass of wavy hair from the scrunchie and was preparing to book it out the door when a pair of masculine arms lassoed her from behind.

Blaine Carlisle nuzzled his nose in her neck and took a long drawn-out breath. Every time you do that thing with your hair, I get a hard-on. Bloody hell, Ash. It’s just one date. What’s the big deal?

The big deal was she had less than an hour to cab it uptown, grab her clothes and make it back to the theatre for dress rehearsal. Twisting from his hold, she gripped his biceps. "Blaine, you have seven Grammies, you’ve just been named People’s Sexiest Man Alive, and there isn’t a woman in Manhattan who wouldn’t sell her soul to go out with you. I love you like a brother. Isn’t that enough? Guess not. He grimaced like she’d kneed him in the groin. If she had any hope of getting out of there and salvaging his ego in the process, she had to steer the conversation to safer ground. What’s with all the black leather? You going Goth on us?"

I overheard you telling someone you had dreams about men in black leather.

She opened her mouth and promptly clamped it closed. What was the point? It was simply the latest in a string of odd occurrences. The one and only time she’d mentioned black leather was a week ago in the office of her therapist, the last person in the world who would rat her out. Exhausted by the daily dose of drama, she made a point of looking over his shoulder at the clock above the control booth. Gosh, is that the right time?

Carlisle lifted her wrist and smoothed his thumb across the pulse point. Where’s the Rolex I gave you for Christmas? Don’t you like it?

I love it, I really do, but I’m death on timepieces. They sort of … stop when I put them on.

Then how about a car instead, some zippy little roadster?

Rising on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. You’re sweet, but you have to stop this.

Look, Ash, guys talk, especially in our business. I know how many of them have asked you out and you’ve turned them all down. You’re not gay and you don’t have a boyfriend, so what gives?

Blaine, we’ve talked about this. I don’t date. It’s just the way it is.

He pulled out the big guns in the form of his infamous bad-boy pout. But why?

She wished she knew. It was one of the myriad reasons she was seeing a therapist. Blaine was handsome, talented and generous, a really nice guy, the antithesis of the holy terror he projected to the world, yet she felt nothing. Less than nothing. And it wasn’t just him. Evidently when God was handing out hormones, she’d forgotten to queue up. It’s complicated, and I have to run. I’m due at Radio City in less than an hour.

Then meet me for a drink. You name the time and place. I leave for London Sunday to spend a few days with the family before I go on tour for six months. Just talk, luv, nothing else.

She made a hasty decision, one she was likely to regret. I play with a string quartet at Café Pinot in the Village, nine to midnight on Fridays. We could go for coffee after that.

After weeks of rejecting his invitations, she expected at least a smile but he looked miserable, like he was in pain. Pulling her into his arms, he whispered something so softly, the words so strange she was sure she’d imagined them. I’m sorry, Ash.

Fifteen minutes later, alone in the cavernous studio, Carlisle paced, an internal debate raging until he punched in the numbers on his cell phone. The call was answered after one ring, but instead of the heavily-accented voice, he heard only dead air. Swallowing his disgust, he uttered the unthinkable. Café Pinot, midnight tomorrow.

And you are certain she will be there?

She’ll be there but—

But what, Mr. Carlisle?

I want your word that it will be quick, that she won’t suffer.

After that, he heard only laughter.

Chapter 1

There’s no such thing as a bad blowjob.

Ethan Sinclair begged to differ. For the last thirty blocks, the brunette beneath his Wall Street Journal had been sucking his cock with all the finesse of a Hoover. A little moisture would have gone a long way, some enthusiasm even further. Not that it surprised him. While not the worst sex he’d ever had, their previous night’s romp was a serious contender, and for one approaching the eight-hundred-year mark, that was saying something.

With age came wisdom, another bromide shot to shit. Or perhaps there was hope. His penchant for supermodels was shrinking almost as fast as his dick. That they were beautiful was not in contention, nor was the fact that they knew it. In their glittery, rarefied world, they were creatures to be worshipped. And therein lay the problem. He wanted to fuck them, not deify them.

Another wave of melancholy rolled through him, his third or fourth that morning. Strange. He hadn’t thought of her in weeks, which might explain this latest fuck-fest, the seemingly endless gaggle of statuesque lovelies he welcomed to his bed.

He rubbed his temples. What began only moments before as a dull throb was now a full-blown headache. His skin tingled, as if it were too tight for his six-foot-four frame. There were other signs too, ones he couldn’t or shouldn’t ignore. Unless he missed his guess, he had less than three minutes to dislodge the woman and remove her from the limo before he dematerialized. The incantation to reverse the phenomenon was simple enough but he needed absolute quiet and privacy. What he did not need was the vacuous Veronique running to the media with claims that Ethan Sinclair was a freak.

With perfect calm, he pressed the button to lower the limo’s privacy window. Max, problem here.

On it, boss, but traffic’s a sonofabitch. Looks like they’ve got the street in front of Radio City cordoned off. Hang tight.

Hang tight? He had no doubt Max was on it, but unless he was on it with all due haste, they were screwed.

In one capacity or another, the shifter had been with him for centuries. Ethan trusted him implicitly. Majordomo, bodyguard, friend, whoever or whatever was needed, Max was there. In return for his loyalty and uncanny ability to anticipate his needs, he had gifted him with many things, among them eternal life, a gift he would consider rescinding if he didn’t find a place to pull over. It was a Wizard thing.

Executing a flawless maneuver between two New York City taxicabs, Max pulled the limo to the curb. Extracting the brunette was problematic. Determined to make a scene, she whined and wiggled until a sleep-spell put her lights out.

Ethan watched as Max slipped her into a taxi and gave the cabbie her address. Guilt was not something he carried with him on a daily basis. With close to a thousand years of transgressions under his belt, the weight would be more than he could bear. Still, this was not his finest hour. He’d used the girl and then dismissed her. The fact that she was human wouldn’t win him any gold stars either.

He spoke the incantation, the words barely leaving his lips when the jarring ringtone of Who Let the Dogs Out blared from his cell phone. With a mild curse, he answered it to quiet the damn thing. I’m a little busy at the moment, Cade. Can it wait?

No, it can’t freaking wait! I was five minutes into a board meeting and I started to shift. If you had something to do with this, I’m going to rip your heart out, put it in my Cuisinart and serve it on toast points to my pack.

Ethan rolled his eyes. It was a joke, Cade, and it was a century ago. Get over it. He phrased his next comment casually, almost as an afterthought. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Marius.

Yeah, I heard from him right before I called you. His butler tackled him as he was going out the door to sunbathe.

Ouch.

What the fuck’s going on, Ethan?

I’m not sure, but I’ve spent the last few minutes dealing with my own situation, if you get my drift.

Damn, you too? What are the odds that the three of us, thousands of miles apart, are having … situations at the same time?

Astronomical. Ethan didn’t believe in coincidence. Had it been only two of them experiencing bizarre manifestations, it would be enough to make him wary, but all three?

I was going to call you anyway. I’m taking a mate, Ethan. It’s time.

He waited a beat too long, his response a bit less enthusiastic than was called for. Congratulations.

That’s about the reaction I expected. Look, I run the third largest pack in the country and I have to do whatever it takes to hold things together. A mated Alpha will have a more stabilizing effect. The next few months are crucial, you know that.

He did know that, all too well. Who’s the lucky girl?

Magda Van Vliet.

His headache was back, but this time it would take more than a few whispered words to rid him of it. You’re out of your mind. Gustav Van Vliet is a monster. Illinois, Indiana and Ohio have the highest number of human disappearances in the lower forty-eight and rumor has it that all those humans have wound up as dinner for his packs. You don’t seriously believe he or any of his minions will stand with us, do you? I don’t care how happy you keep his daughter in bed. He’ll crush you, Cade.

Thanks for the vote of confidence, but for the record, Magda approached me. She thinks there may be a way to turn his key players and bring them around.

It’s a trap.

I don’t have a choice, Ethan. If there’s even a remote chance—

There isn’t. I’ve met your intended and she’s as crazy as her father.

Christ, you sound like Marius.

You’ve discussed this with him?

If you can call what we had a discussion. He said I was crazier than a June bug in December, that I should get the hell out of Austin, find one of those whorehouses Texas is famous for and have some nice round woman suck my dick until I come to my senses.

With vamps, it always comes down to their dicks. Are you in love with her? An uncomfortable silence ensued as Ethan waited for the inevitable fallout.

Are you in love with any of those stick-figures I see you with in the society pages? I know you’re not! I’m in love with a ghost, the same as you, the same as Marius. I’m in love with a woman who’s been dead for twenty years, a woman I never even knew as an adult. I’m in love with a fucking fairy tale, and if I could reach inside my brain and pull out every memory, every thought of what might have been, I’d do it in a heartbeat. So no, I’m not in love with Magda. I don’t even like the bitch, but I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it. But I’ll tell you this much, Magic Man. Regardless of which way things go on December 21st, the very next day I’m joining Sophie in whatever realm she’s in. Anything’s better than this.

Sophie. Her name landed like a punch to his solar plexus. They’d gone years without speaking her name. Consigning it to an off-limits list wasn’t something they planned. It just happened.

It was her birthday last week. She’d be twenty-six.

The conversation ended, and Ethan closed his eyes. It was one lousy day out of a year, and he hadn’t taken five bloody seconds to remember her birthday. Preoccupied with Council affairs, with building his empire and screwing his way through every bedroom in Manhattan, he’d hit rock bottom.

Where to, boss?

I need some air, Max. I’ll walk the rest of the way and meet you back at the office.

You want me to park the car and come with you? There’s a thing on the radio about some big-deal concert at Radio City tonight. They’ve got film crews there and probably press. You could be walking into a hornet’s nest, boss.

I’ll manage. And Max?

Yeah?

"I appreciate all you do but lose the boss bullshit. I’m not Tony Soprano."

Chapter 2

She expected things to be crazy. Backstage before a performance was always chaotic but this was light-years past chaos. This was bedlam. There were bodies everywhere. In various stages of undress and insanity, they clogged the halls. And she was late. Very late.

A garment bag flung over her shoulder, Ashling clutched her violin case and shimmied down the hall toward the dressing rooms. Finding a spot to drop her things turned out to be the easy part. The challenge was keeping her friend and fellow musician from going ballistic.

Ash, where the frick have you been? Dress rehearsal is in ten minutes and you’re still in jeans. The stage manager has been looking for you. He’s called your name at least three times. And when the hell are you going to get a cell phone? You have to be the only person in New York City—

Stop it, Jenna. Cutting her off mid-rant, Ashling stepped out of her jeans. Take a breath and give me a break. I’ll answer all your questions if you’ll help me instead of yelling at me. Stripped down to an innocuous white bra and thong, she pulled a pair of thigh-high stockings from the pocket of the garment bag. I’m late because after the recording session from hell, I stopped at my apartment and took a shower. I’ll admit it wasn’t the brightest thing I’ve ever done, but it was either that or collapse on stage. I don’t own a cell phone because as bad as I am with watches, I’m even worse with electronics. In the past year, I’ve purchased a computer, two cell phones and an e-reader, and I can’t make any of them work.

The blouse went on next. It was white, lightweight cotton with long-sleeves and a stand-up collar trimmed in lace. Jenna zipped up the straight black skirt as Ashling slipped her stocking feet into four-inch black heels. After an exaggerated curtsy, she smiled. Happy?

Jenna crossed her arms and cocked her head. Nice try. You’re still having those nightmares, aren’t you?

She was but she didn’t want to talk about them, not now, not ever. It was bad enough she had to discuss them with her therapist. They were getting worse, more vivid and infinitely more real. Last night’s was particularly bad. She dreamed she was buried alive. By the time she was able to pull herself back, she was shaking so badly that it took her hours to settle down, and she never did fall back to sleep. Stop worrying about me, Jen. I’m fine.

Sure you are, but you’d better find the stage manager and let him know you’re here. He’s probably got you down as a no-show.

Maybe you heard him wrong. Have you seen the program? If this building goes up in flames, the music industry goes with it. I just passed Katy Perry and Pitbull. I seriously doubt anyone is looking for me.

Ashling Michaels?

Jenna arched a brow as Ashling spun toward the voice. I’m Ashling Michaels.

The man hesitated, looked down at his clipboard and then back at her. Brooks wants to see you. Take the elevator to the third floor, last office all the way down on the left. Break a leg, sweetheart.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask a question, technically several questions, but he was gone before she had the chance. Jenna’s face turned a deathly shade of pale and Ashling touched her shoulder. Jen, are you okay?

I’m not sure but please don’t go up there alone. There’s something off about him. I don’t care how handsome and brilliant he is. I don’t trust him. He’s creepy.

"Creepy? He’s Nicholas Brooks, the Nicholas Brooks. In case you’ve forgotten, he’s the director and I’m a second-chair violinist. I have to go. If I don’t, I may as well kiss my so-called career good-bye."

Taking her arm, Jenna pulled her a few feet away where there was a modicum of privacy and lowered her voice. "You know my friend Aaron, the writer for Rolling Stone, the guy who writes all those juicy exposés on celebrities. He’s been with the magazine for three years and not once has he had a story shot down that he wanted to write. Two days ago, he pitched a piece on Nicholas Brooks and it was rejected."

Ashling shrugged her shoulders. So? Brooks is hot right now. He won an Oscar last year and he’s directing a revival of something or other on Broadway next season. Maybe the magazine didn’t want to lose potential advertising revenue or maybe someone on the editorial board is a fan, who knows?

He isn’t who he says he is, Ash. Aaron did his homework. According to Brooks’ bio, his father was with the State Department and his family lived all over Europe. He claims he went to Eton and on to the American University of Paris where he got a degree in Theatre and Performing Arts. Neither of those schools has ever heard of him. His bio also states he was born in a small town right outside of Omaha, a town that was leveled by a tornado in 1913 and never rebuilt. Think about it. The guy shows up out of nowhere and five years later he’s the hottest thing on two coasts.

Come on, Jen, I’m sure celebrities put out false information for any number of reasons. She chose her next words carefully. This wouldn’t have anything to do with those articles you want me to read, would it?

Ashling, I know you think I’m some kind of whacko conspiracy theorist, and after the whole Mayan calendar debacle that didn’t happen, I lost my credibility. I get it, but that doesn’t mean we’re wrong about everything. I know you don’t want to hear this, but there are things going on beyond our understanding, people who aren’t who they say they are, inexplicable phenomena that makes no rational sense. Okay, maybe now isn’t the best time to go into this again but just be careful, okay?

I’m always careful, too careful, that’s my problem. The whole thing’s probably a mistake anyway. There’s a dancer named Ashley Morris in the troupe performing tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has confused our names. Or maybe Brooks is bored and found out I was late and wants to chew my butt.

Jenna forced a smile. That’s what I’m afraid of.

In contrast to the mayhem below her, the third floor looked deserted. It was quiet as a tomb and almost as dark. For whatever reason, all the overhead lighting was off. What little light there was came from Art Deco sconces strategically placed along the walls. If this were a movie, there would be creatures lurking in the corners, some silly female just moments away from screaming her lungs out. Not that she watched that kind of film. Horror flicks weren’t her thing, not even the romantic ones currently in vogue. Her nightmares were bad enough without manufactured monsters, werewolves and vampires and all the other things that went bump in the night. Squaring her shoulders and staying well in the center of the carpeted corridor, she made the long walk to the end.

A nice-looking man she recognized as the producer opened the door. Mid to late forties and expensively-dressed, Leonard Dawson eyed her up and down. I hope to hell you’re Ashling Michaels.

Several minutes later, introductions dispensed with, she stood in front of a large desk as the two men stared at her in silence. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Nicholas Brooks sat forward in his chair. Jacob Ruhlman is stuck in Chicago and can’t make the performance tonight. O’Hare is buried under three feet of snow. You’re standing in for him.

Her first instinct was to laugh, but if this was a joke, it wasn’t funny. With all due respect, Mr. Brooks, no one stands in for Jacob Ruhlman.

I happen to agree with you but apparently Ruhlman doesn’t. When he knew he wasn’t going to make the performance tonight and we would have to consider pulling the piece from the program, he came up with a name. Your name. Imagine my surprise. The man who is arguably the finest violinist in the world thinks you are the one musician in New York City capable of doing justice to Mendelssohn’s ‘Violin Concerto.’

That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even know me.

He seems to think he does, interjected Dawson. "During your final year at Juilliard, he was in the audience when you performed the theme from Schindler’s List. He said you were magical and he couldn’t have played it better. He claims there wasn’t a dry eye in the house."

That piece of music is a gift to anyone who plays the violin. My five-year-old nephew could play that piece and reduce you both to tears.

Clearly in charge, Brooks glanced at Dawson. Give us a few minutes, will you, Len?

The producer appeared ready to object, then nodded and left the office, closing the door behind him. Brooks rose, walked around the desk