Towers and Tithes: Fairy Tales of the Magicorum, #8

By Christina Bauer

Rapunzel Meets Jane Eyre in this fairy tale romance!

"I am absolutely loving Grayson and Dex" – Westveil Publishing

I'm a Tower Tithe with a Rapunzel problem. That's not as weird as it sounds.

Ever wonder how Rapunzel survives without leaving her home? After all, someone must stock groceries, buy hair products and fix the plumbing. Witches don't wield toilet brushes, so "Rapunzel care" becomes the job of Tower Tithes like me. Not that we choose this gig. We're just unlucky elves who get magically chucked into servitude. Since our kind live for ages, being a Tower Tithe can drag on for thousands of years… and I'm seventeen. Yipes.

That said, it wouldn't be too awful if I had a cool Rapunzel. No such luck.
 

"My favorite installment thus far!" – Chrissie, Goodreads

I serve none other than Lady R, the social media sensation and sadist who lives in Manhattan's famous Apex Towers. With the help of her manager—a witch named Jocasta—Lady R releases daily gossip videos while assigning me "torture chores." Many tasks are designed to remind me how Lady R is the gorgeous variety of elf, while I'm beyond plain. I spend a lot of time scheming my escape. And dreaming about Dex, the hot prince who is Lady R's promised happily ever after.

My name is Grayson Eyre, and this is my story.

 

"This is the first Christina Bauer book I've read, but it won't be my last!" – Michelle, NetGalley

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monster House Books
• Release date: Nov 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781946677624

Christina Bauer

Christina Bauer thinks that fantasy books are like bacon: they just make life better. All of which is why she writes romance novels that feature demons, dragons, wizards, witches, elves, elementals, and a bunch of random stuff that she brainstorms while riding the Boston T. Oh, and she includes lots of humor and kick-ass chicks, too. Christina lives in Newton, MA with her husband, son, and semi-insane golden retriever, Ruby. She loves to connect with her fans at BauersBooks.com.

Book preview

Towers and Tithes

TOWERS AND TITHES

BOOK 8 OF THE FAIRY TALES OF THE MAGICORUM

CHRISTINA BAUER

Monster House Books

COPYRIGHT

Newton, MA 02464

www.monsterhousebooks.com

ISBN 9781946677624

First Edition

Copyright © 2021 by Monster House Books LLC

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

DEDICATION

For All Those Who Kick Ass, Take Names,

and Read Books

CONTENTS

Author Note

TOWERS AND TITHES

1. Grayson

2. Grayson

3. Dex

4. Grayson

5. Dex

6. Grayson

7. Dex

8. Dex

9. Dex

10. Grayson

11. Dex

12. Grayson

13. Dex

14. Grayson

15. Dex

16. Grayson

17. Dex

18. Dex

19. Grayson

20. Grayson

21. Dex

22. Grayson

23. Dex

24. Grayson

25. Dex

26. Grayson

27. Grayson

28. Dex

29. Grayson

Description - MIRRORS AND MYSTERIES

Also By Christina Bauer

MIRRORS AND MYSTERIES

ANGELBOUND

PIXIELAND DIARIES

DIMENSION DRIFT

BEHOLDER

Appendix

If You Enjoyed This Book…

Collected Works

Acknowledgments

About Christina Bauer

Complimentary Book

AUTHOR NOTE

Dear Reader,

My stuff rarely ends with cliffhangers.

Except now.

In this book, the cliff doth hang until the next installment, Mirrors and Mysteries.

Here’s what’s up. Towers and Tithes combines Rapunzel by the Brothers Grimm with Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. The latter novel is arguably three books, beginning with Jane’s childhood under her abusive Aunt Reed… moving to her Lowood boarding school days… and ending with her nannying for the mysterious Mr. Rochester.

To combine the fantasy elements of Rapunzel with the already-complex tale of Jane Eyre, I decided to break the joined story into three books. That’s a simple sentence to write. Behind the scenes, that statement represents a long and drawn-out decision. We authors can take ourselves rather seriously, and I really lost sleep over this one! In the end, I firmly believe this approach will deliver the best experience for you, the reader.

I hope you enjoy the adventure!

CB

TOWERS AND TITHES

IMAGE: The Bartlebee

1

GRAYSON

AGE SEVENTEEN

Bonk, scrrrrrratch.

Bonk, scrrrrrratch.

I awaken to the unmistakable noise of a forest harpy knocking at my window. Again. That’s the third time this week.

And it’s the single best part of my day.

Yawning, I slide out of bed, cross the room, and open my curtains. Sure enough, a four-foot-tall creature hovers on the other side of the glass. She has the head of a woman and the body of a hawk. Classic forest harpy.

I wave. Are you here about a wolf pup? Harpies act tough, but they have a soft spot for a certain baby animal. So do I, for that matter.

She caws. Yes, I seek a healer.

That would be me. My pulse speeds. I love holding and healing new pups. Meet you by the front door.

The harpy frowns, a movement that shifts all the dainty feathers covering her face. "You’re an elf healer?"

Here we go.

This happens all the time. Harpies are overprotective, especially when it concerns a baby version of their fave animal.

And honestly, this chick should wonder about me.

Even in the Faerie Realm, I’m considered odd. At seventeen, I’m too young to be a healer. Plus, I’m hella plain for an elf. That’s because I have a lanky frame, red hair, flat face, and loads of freckles. Also, my ears stick out more than point upward. Elves are supposed to dazzle. That’s not me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m fine with my looks, but I get how the harpy would wonder. Fae love to trick and entrap. I could be the equivalent of the evil witch in Hansel and Gretel, only I offer wolf healing services instead of free candy.

Look, I explain. There’s only one Bartlebee cottage in Faerie. I’m the elf girl who lives here and heals wolf pups.

But you don’t look like an elf.

I’m Osmos. We’re a mix of elf and troll. A distant combination, but try telling anyone that. And to head off your next question: yes, I’m only seventeen. Most healers are over a thousand.

The harpy tilts her head, as if seeing me for the first time. Osmos. The disgust in her tone is normally saved for terms like anal plague.

Shame and rage churn through me. Elves are supposed to be perfect. Osmos aren’t. That alone makes my people a target. Plus, every elf clan has a special magic. Osmos don’t wield any supernatural power… unless you count mindless servitude.

For a second, I think the harpy’s done asking questions. Come on, pup time!

No such luck.

What’s your fairy tale life template? she asks.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. How I hate answering this.

Come on, she urges. Are you a sorcerer’s apprentice or a Rapunzel?

All magical creatures are driven by a fairy tale life template. Osmos have a limited range of options: we can assist a witch or wizard (that’s the sorcerer’s apprentice story) or enslave ourselves to a chick with long hair (hello, Rapunzel).

I’m the second thing.

A Rapunzel? She cackle-laughs. No, you’re not. Rapunzels are gorgeous.

"I’m a Rapunzel life template. One day, I’ll serve a long-haired elf as her tower tithe. In the meantime, I’m trapped in this cottage. I lower my voice. And you’ve got a baby wolf that needs my help. Let’s meet at the front door."

In reply, the harpy merely keeps hover-flying before my window. Not okay.

Dealing with harpies is an art form. Over the years, I’ve learned to balance their desire for questions with my need to get on with it already.

I set my fist on my hip. Look, I respect that you’re cautious, but there’s a pup to consider. See you at the front door. Pronto. I make a point of yanking the curtains over the window once more.

Conversation over.

That’s right. The harpy’s voice still carries into my bedroom. They told me you were willful. Fine. Let’s see what you can do.

The sound of wings-a-flapping follows. Good. The harpy must be heading for the front entrance. I live in a place called the Bartlebee, which is a wooden cottage on stilts.

Yes, stilts. It’s that cool.

An enchanted river flows right under the cottage floor. Lush forests touch the shoreline. At this time of day, night is just turning over to dawn. Gentle sunbeams color the trees. Will-o-the wisps bob above the water. My home becomes the loveliest spot in all of Faerie.

It’s too bad the Bartlebee is also my prison. Otherwise, the place would be perfect.

After pulling on my robe, I cross the cottage and open the front door. Outside, a long wooden gangplank connects my home to the shore. The harpy lands about halfway along the path. Excitement zings through my limbs. A single thought ricochets through my mind.

Pup time!

What are you waiting for? asks the harpy. You better come out here.

Your sisters should have told you. I’m trapped in the cottage. To demonstrate, I reach past the threshold.

Whoosh!

A magical wall of yellow flame erupts before me, creating a barrier between me and the walkway. My arm now sits halfway into the fire. Pain shoots across my skin. I pull back my hand quickly.

See? I can’t get to you. Please, bring the pup closer. The fire won’t burn either of you.

Beside the front door, I always keep a net on a long stick. It’s a little something-something for situations just like this one. I now pull out the rod and shake it gently. Get in grabbing range and I’ll take it from there.

My pulse beats with extra force. I’ve wasted too long talking with the harpy. What’s wrong with this pup?

The harpy extends her wings and glides to the very edge of the walk. She then heaves like a cat who’s coughing up a fur ball. It’s not pretty, but it is rather handy. Harpies have magical throat pockets which they use for storing all kinds of things. In this case, what comes out is a fully alive—but rather injured—lupine pup.

I scoop the animal into my net and pull it inside. Every ounce of me focuses on the baby wolf. What’s the injury? Can I heal it fast enough?

With gentle movements, I lift the tiny pup from the netting. It’s the size of a kitten and has downy fur. As I set the pup on my lap, I sense its heart beating at double speed. As I scan the animal, a weight of sorrow settles onto my shoulders. The poor thing’s front leg is covered in blood. Someone set a snare by a mother wolf’s den. The metal loop cut deeply into the pup’s limb.

Anger rises within me. No real hunter would set a trap near pups. There’s no sport in catching helpless babies. Plus, if you really need a meal, there’s much better game to stalk.

The harpy’s hawk-feet clack as she paces outside the open door. Can you heal the little lupine?

I nibble my lower lip. I think so.

If this pup were a shifter, then it could heal itself. But this is a lupine—a non-magical animal whose ancestors originally came from the human world. It needs my help.

While the pup shivers in my lap, I pull on my inner magic. Power always whirls inside me. Now, I focus the energy down my arms and into my hands.

Whoosh!

Green flames appear between my palms. Unlike the fire by my front door, this little blaze doesn’t burn or hurt. I set my hands on the pup’s front leg. Magic flows out of me and into the injured animal. My head gets a little woozy, but the pup’s leg knits back together. Muscles heal. Fur reappears. Blood burns away. My soul soars.

The healing works.

The pup hops from my lap, shakes out its fur, and skips back toward the harpy. I smile my face off. Such a lovely sight. I’m a little drained after the casting, but that’s a small price to pay.

Once the pup is close, the harpy scoops the animal back into her mouth. Not for the first time, I’m beyond happy that harpies have a soft spot for lupines. Otherwise, I’d never get any visitors.

Complaints? Sure.

Actual conversation? Not so much.

The harpy stares at me again, a new look of interest in her brown eyes. Where’d you get…

I brace my shoulders. Here it comes, part two. Now, she’ll ask about my magic.

…those clothes? finishes the harpy.

Oh, my outfit? I get packages from Earth sometimes. Other harpies deliver things as thanks for my work. I gesture to the different parts of my ensemble. These are what humans call fuzzy bunny slippers. I point to my flannel top and pants. And these are pajamas with dancing piggies all over them.

Ah. The harpy nods. Then, where’d you get—

The robe? I turn around to show off the item in question. It’s a hot pink number that reads FBI Secret Mission on the back. It’s also from Earth. Isn’t it great?

"No, I meant something else. What’s up with your magic?"

My stomach sinks. This is the question I was dreading. Answering it never ends well.

Oh, gee. Look at the time. Must run! You better take the lupine back to its mother. Grabbing the handle, I begin to close the door.

Tell me the truth and I’ll keep your secret.

That stops me in place. Your sisters know the rules. They shouldn’t have sent you here unless you swore to never speak about me.

"They didn’t make me promise a thing. I’m under no vow to hide what you do. Yet,