Of Beast and Burden

By Kelsey Kicklighter

For fans of SARAH J. MAAS, ELISE KOVA, and HOLLY BLACK comes an exciting new fantasy-romance based on Celtic lore. A fae girl with a human heart. A Seelie Queen with a penchant for stealing mortals. And an Unseelie King who must surrender his throne. On the coast of Georgia rests a small town where faeries still take changelings. Faye lost her mother to the Folk but has spent her whole life longing for a glimpse behind the veil.
When Faye finally finds her way in, she also discovers why the dark and alluring world of the Folk has always called to her: she's half faerie, and heiress to the Dark Court's throne.
When the rival court steals her best friend, Faye must claim the crown to save her. That means learning how to use her glamour so she can face three deadly trials and ensuring she doesn’t fall for the dark. brooding king she's meant to replace...or the nymph-turned-knight teaching her to fight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781953539953

Kelsey Kicklighter

Kelsey Kicklighter grew up in libraries. She built forts in the only section of her mother’s college library that was even vaguely set up for children: Non-fiction section 398.2. Fairy tales. She was raised in a small southern town on the coast of Georgia with an absurd amount of sisters, and misses midnight trips to the beach. She has an excessive amount of tattoos with plans for more and has never met a hair color she doesn’t like. She loves to read, grow things, and eats an unreasonable amount of jalapeños. She is a librarian living in another small town with the love of her life, their abnormally cute kid, two cats, and one three-legged dog. She writes stories for anyone who still believes in 398.2.

Book preview

Chapter One

There are three imperatives even the least superstitious among us follow: lock the doors on solstice nights, never give your full name to strangers, and don’t walk through the woods after dark.

Though I guess technically, we weren’t walking.

Only Delia would dare turn her nose up at the warnings our ancestors have been passing down since stars above knew when. And where Delia goes, the crowd follows. The Folk only take what they can catch. But here we are, practically served up on a platter for them. Gran would kill us if she knew.

The bonfire casts flickering lights on faces I’ve known my whole life—our high school’s small cast of characters—distorting them in the dark. We’re scattered around the limited seating the woods provides, some of us on stumps or boulders with a few of the latecomers relegated to the ground. Their voices rise and fall, fading into the cadence of the woods like the chittering of cicadas. The thick summer heat makes the waves of hot air wafting off the fire almost unbearable, but none of us are willing to be without the semblance of safety its light provides. Even between fits of raucous laughter, our eyes flit to the shadows dancing at the edge of the firelight. The smell of jasmine—the scent of magic—is heavy on the air tonight. I remember it clinging to my mother’s skin no matter how much she scrubbed.

Delia and I have ignored the rules since we were girls. We’ve stepped in toadstool rings, left milk and honey out at the edge of the woods, tied ribbons to hawthorn trees. We have dared the Folk to take us.

Either the Folk don’t exist, or they are quailed by our audaciousness. As far as Delia is concerned, at least.

The difference between us is that I’ve seen it. I know it happens with more certainty than probably anyone else in this town. That firsthand knowledge gives me pause but doesn’t quell that longing like it should. I’m almost as bad as she is. The problem with Delia, though, is that she only half-believes in the Folk. Half-believing is what gets you in trouble. Those who don’t believe don’t bother poking around, and those that do, like me, obsess over all the rules you’re supposed to follow. Half-believing fills you with all the boldness of a dream and none of the benefits of knowing the cautionary tales by heart.

Delia glides around the fire, her umber skin burnished gold in its light. My cousin, Ellie, huffs on the rock beside me. Look at her, the perfect hostess. What does she think this is, a block party? she says as Delia maneuvers through the crowd towards us, chatting as she goes and sporting a pageant perfect smile.

I elbow Ellie as subtly as I can. Play nice, I try to convey without words. Ellie barely tolerates Delia—says she doesn’t have time for that much passive-aggressive hostility masquerading as southern charm. Sometimes I can’t blame her. Delia can be a little much. She’s the one who ran off most of my ex’s—male or female—though that had less to do with them and everything to do with her being possessive of my time. She doesn’t care that I’m bi, which is more than I can say for most of the people in Stillwater. Delia isn’t exactly a good friend, but she’s not a bad one either. It’s a small town. When you only have a few options, you learn not to be too picky.

I tug on my faded Ziggy Stardust shirt, which feels suddenly inadequate as Delia glides over in her summery green midi dress, effortlessly charming as always. She looks me up and down once, her focus zeroing in on my unruly mess of curls with a slight frown. She hates it when I put my hair in a bun, though she won’t mention it outright. Of course not; that would be rude. Delia could never be rude. Her momma raised her right, she’d say, then pat my hand with a measure of pity. Her momma taught her just the right casserole to bring a neighbor and how to behave at social gatherings, and mine wasn’t even around to show me how to do my hair. She’s said as much before, usually tacking on a bless your heart for good measure.

But even if social niceties stop her from saying anything about our appearances, Delia does raise one disdainful brow at Ellie’s spiky black tutu and strategically slashed shirt as she hands me the unopened Smirnoff Ice she brought over from the communal cooler. Ellie is entirely herself in her clunky combat boots, the only real staple in her wardrobe. She doesn’t dress like anyone, and Delia isn’t the type to appreciate that much aggressive self-ownership.

Ellie smirks at the scrutiny her look receives. Hey there, Cordy, she says, hauling herself up to go find people she likes at least marginally better than Delia. I want to tell her to be careful, but she’d hate that. She’s never delved as deeply into the lore as I have, but she knows the basic rules, at least. And she saw what had happened to my mother. She doesn’t need the reminder.

Delia sighs and extends a hand to me, her smile looking a little frosty at the edges. I hate that nickname, she whispers, her lips pinched slightly.

I offer her a commiserating look as I get up on my own, not bothering with the proffered hand. I know the difference between her polite gestures and actual offerings of assistance. She loops her arm through mine without skipping a beat, drawing me on a lap around the fire.

Where have you been, Faye? she pouts, poking a bony finger into my side so hard that I wince.

I rub at the spot before answering her. Just trying to get ready for our big move. Big move, my ass. Those are her words. We’re only going about an hour away—north up the Georgia coast to a town barely bigger than Stillwater. Its only redeeming quality is that there’s both a community college and a movie theater. Our hometown has neither.

She nods, and I can tell by the look on her face that she isn’t really listening, just waiting for me to be done talking so she can start again. Her eyes are trained on the edge of the party, right where the shadows start to encroach on the figures lingering there. She tugs us steadfastly in that direction.

Normally, if I mention college, Delia’s whole face lights up. Bradenton College is her top choice. She’s thrilled about where we’re going and that we’ll be roommates. I think she’s already pledged us to the sorority her mother pledged. I wish I were as enthusiastic about it as she is. If I’d had it my way, I’d have been long gone after graduation, to whatever college was furthest. The NYU acceptance letter shoved into the back of my top dresser drawer still calls like a siren song. But between raising Ellie and me on her own, our Gran doesn’t have much in the way of a college fund for either of us. It’s not her fault, we just don’t have the kind of money I need to go there.

I roll my tense shoulders. I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. My skin feels too tight, like my whole self is pulling at the seams. The feeling lingers, beading up under my skin in an ever-pressing awareness.

We pass a trio of football players swigging warm beer that they pull out of a backpack. Cal, the running back prick who spent most of our high school careers telling me to ‘pick a side,’ ogles Delia openly. It gives me a kind of smug satisfaction that he is beneath her notice tonight.

It doesn’t take me long to realize what’s got Delia’s attention instead of taking this opportunity to coordinate what furniture we’re bringing. The figures lurking at the edge of the firelight’s glow are strangers, and Delia is guiding us straight for them. The shadows dance across their bodies, obscuring their faces. The two figures are definitely male, and the smile on Delia’s is predatory in a way I don’t think even she understands.

Strangers should give her pause, should send all her warning bells clanging. It should do the same to me too. Admittedly, somewhere in my skull, my mother’s sunken face flashes like a warning, but I’ve lived just on this side of the veil my whole life and never even seen a faerie. And something about Delia gives me permission to be as reckless as I want to be. Maybe that’s why she and I have never let go of each other. In a town of people who know the Folk exist and turn a blind eye to it, she and I have always been the ones who wanted to do something different, to find a story worthy of telling, of living.

She sidles up to them, her hips swaying. I don’t pull away. I am tense all over, but it’s not like she was tying those ribbons to trees by herself. Someone had to Google what hawthorns look like.

She adjusts her push-up bra. Do I look okay?

You always look good, and you know it, I say. High cheekbones, gracefully slim body, legs for days. Delia is a pageant mother’s dream.

Well, hey there, she says, her face all southern charm. I let her arm drift from mine as she crosses into the shadows to stand next to them, a fleeting moment of hesitation locking up my steps. Delia turns to me with a pout on her deep red lips, and it’s enough to shake my uncertainty and make me take that last step into the dark. It’s not like after all this time, the Folk would come waltzing into a high school party and—

My heart crashes around in my chest as their faces finally come into focus in the dim light.

It’s not just that they’re beautiful. But oh stars, they are. The one beside Delia is all but a Greek god come to earth. His golden skin and bronze hair gives off a soft glow even in the dark, and an inviting smile plays across his full, curving lips. But there is a hint of mocking in his cornflower-blue eyes.

His companion, nearly a head taller, glares in a way that tells me he is less than thrilled to be here. He’s the dangerous kind of alluring, the kind that’s all sharp angles and weighted glances. Handsome as sin, Gran would say.

No, they aren’t just beautiful. They are monstrously so. I can feel the magic leaking from them in waves. That floral scent is heavy on the air, a clear warning. The hair at the back of my neck prickles.

Delia runs a teasing finger up the arm of the golden one’s white sleeve. Haven’t seen you boys around, she says, trying to dazzle them with her Junior Miss Stillwater smile. Sweat slicks down my back as I try to judge her reaction. Does she not realize what they are? Can’t she feel it? This is real. They are real. The exhilaration is intoxicating, more potent than any drink in Delia’s cooler. We did it. We finally found them. Or…they found us, I guess.

It’s the second stranger who responds, his dark hair falling into his eyes as they track up and down me. You look familiar, he bites out. My excitement falters a moment at his caustic tone.

Um, I hesitate, unsure what to say. I’m not exactly used to chatting with ethereal creatures, particularly ones who already seem annoyed by my presence. I’m not sure what I could have done to piss off this gorgeous creature, especially when it’s my mouth that usually gets me in trouble. Lived here my whole life. Though I’m sure I’d remember seeing you before.

The golden one’s grin widens. We’ve been...around. He elbows his companion. I track the movement and the look they share. Don’t mind Gage. Maybe it’s your parents we know.

My parents? My mother. Horror creates a cold pit in my stomach. It’s a cruel reminder that the magic we’ve found always comes at a cost. The last of my lingering excitement evaporates. I never thought we’d get this close, and one glance at Delia tells me she has no clue. Hell, with the obsessive way she’s staring at them, she might even be glamoured. Shit. Shit. I want to shake her by the shoulders. Abort mission, moron!

I need to get us out of here. I tug on Delia’s arm, but she shrugs me off.

The golden one notices. Something about the feral look on his face reminds me that certain animals can scent fear. I wipe my palms on my jeans.

What did you say your name was? he asks.

I didn’t, I answer, though I have to swallow my name back. Names hold power. Giving them your name is like relinquishing all control. At least I can protect myself that much.

But I didn’t count for southern graces. "Fayelynn, Delia admonishes. I swear I can’t take her anywhere," she says to them, laughing like she doesn’t at least know better than to give your name away. I could yank her perfect waves right off her head. Despite the heat, a shiver of genuine fear spider-walks up my spine. For the love of God, Delia, stop batting your eyes and pay attention.

The golden one holds out his hand to me. You can call me Kellan. It doesn’t drop, and I reluctantly shake it. A series of static shocks jolt my fingers as they brush his, and my thoughts jam in my head. Through a fog, I see him shoot a victorious glance towards his Gage, who looks at me like I have just grown an extra limb.

I can’t even pretend to be surprised when Delia offers her hand, almost queen-like, while giving them her full first name. Cordelia.

Cordelia, Kellan drawls. Charmed.

He bows and kisses the back of her hand. And doesn’t let it go as he raises his eyes to me. Cordelia, he says again. Fayelynn, won’t you—

Faye, I blurt. Just Faye. And Delia, shouldn’t we get back to everyone else?

Her face, turned wholly on Kellan, looks blurred somehow. Whatever for? she asks, her voice husky, her accent thickening.

Exactly, Cordelia, Kellan beams at her like a prize pupil before turning back to me. Wouldn’t you like to come with us?

I almost laugh. Wouldn’t I like to? That’s the trouble. I want it too much, and I know what that much wanting gets you.

But looking into those periwinkle eyes, I can’t lie.

Yes, I whisper, even my breath betraying me. No, I should scream. I should find Ellie and get the hell out of here, dragging Delia with me if I have to.

Gage eyes me one more time, then disappears down a dark trail through the trees. Kellan tugs Delia’s hand as he starts after him. She follows without protest, pine straw crunching softly under her ballet flats. I glance back to see the party in full swing, the faces of the crowd faced almost deliberately away from us. Either no one sees, or no one is willing to interfere with the Folk’s chosen playthings. If I don’t follow her now, she could slip away to the velvety darkness forever.

I could let her go, knowing I’d never see her again, the way everyone else in this town would. I could stay here, where it’s safe, and forever wonder what I missed behind the veil. I’d be…jealous. As horrible as it makes me, it’s that last selfish thought that unsticks my feet. I know the rules, I reason with myself. I can get us out. With that thought trailing me, I do the only thing I can—I follow.

Everyone hears stories growing up, but I imagine they aren’t quite like the ones we hear in Stillwater. Stories about creatures that make bargains and howl in the dark and dance and steal your entire youth away in one night. Stories about changelings, about stolen ones. Stories that have warped over the years, so you have to know where to look for the right information. The roots of those myths stretch deep, through more cultures than I can count. Stillwater isn’t where they started, but it is where they live on.

Everyone’s second cousin or great-grandmother or (in the southern tradition of claiming relatives that have no blood ties to you whatsoever) eccentric Aunt Beatrice knows someone who knows someone who was taken by the fae. Sometimes they come back. Sometimes, you wish they hadn’t. Yeats got it wrong—he would have us fixated on our world full of weeping without acknowledging the horrors hidden within the beauty behind those veils and mists. I’ve seen what happens to those who get out.

Sometimes they replace a newborn with one of their own, but more often than not, they just...take. The stories resound within us all, laced with warnings, with rules of what not to do. How not to be taken. How to make it back if the worst were to happen.

We’re supposed to keep out of the woods at dusk and midnight and dawn. The Folk gravitate toward those magical hours and are prone to wandering on this side of the veil, looking for mischief. Some of our ancestors even said to keep iron in your shoe, to stay grounded to this plane.

If you do cross the veil, keep your mouth shut. Nothing in or out. Words have binding consequences with the Folk, and any food or drink that passes your lips could leave you spending what little remains of your life wasting away, pining for whatever tastes you found over the veil.

Never talk with strangers. Never follow them. Keep to the paths you know.

We are far, far from the paths I know.

Delia, I whisper, no louder than the sound of crushed pine straw.

Hush, she answers, her voice harsh in the dark. Harsh, and not altogether hers. I clench my teeth against my nerves. Gran always told me Delia would get me in trouble one day. I just don’t think even she counted on my apparent lack of self-preservation. I know better than this, so why in all the stars am I still following? I should go back, get help. Even if these creatures were mortal men, they’d still be men we don’t know taking us away through the dark. But—I know it in my bones.

The trees around us get stranger and stranger as we pass deeper into the woods. Their limbs reach out like crooked fingers, impossibly massive and somehow sentient as if they are aware of our passage. They hold a stillness between them that is entirely unnatural. I’ve never seen the woods like this, not in all my years exploring with Delia. There’s something in that stillness, some feeling I can’t quite explain, but I know with utter certainty: they’re taking us to the veil. The veil. That secret place in my heart that has been quietly burning with longing my whole life whispers, finally. I can’t find it in me to pull away. My limbs don’t quite feel like they belong to me, but I’m not fighting it. The promise of magic on the horizon rings louder than all my warning bells, a clarion call that I can’t ignore.

Guilt prickles in the back of my throat. I had a living, breathing lesson in my mother about why you can’t trust the Folk. We had a handful of years together before she completely faded. Living ghosts are worse than the dead ones, of that I am certain. The rare moments she was lucid were always used up in warnings. What would she have thought of me, traipsing after the Folk fully knowing what they put her through?

By the time we lost her, she was a hollow scrap of the woman that faerie had spit back out after they had used her up for whatever purpose they’d had. She shrank in on herself my whole life ‘til there was nothing left. I shudder. That might be us. That could happen to us.

It’s enough to make me dig my heels in.

It’s the darker one, Gage, who notices I’ve stopped. Kellan, he drawls. One of your playthings is coming to her senses. He tugs absentmindedly at the sleeve of his shirt, the black lines of a tattoo disappearing under the fabric.

Kellan pauses on whatever path he’s following and turns back to me. His hand casually rests on Delia’s waist. "Fayelynn," he says sweetly, in a mocking imitation of Delia.

Let her go, Gage tells him quietly, but not without some measure of power.

Kellan shoots him an incredulous look. Don’t you have any idea who she could be?

I have every idea. You don’t know what you’re playing at, Princeling.

I’m staging a coup, obviously, Kellan answers him, his grin lopsided and wolfish. Gage’s only answer is to keep moving through the dark. As he passes him, he cocks his head to the side.

Let her go back if she wants to, Kellan. And with that, he disappears through the trees.

Kellan brings Delia back to my side. She looks vacantly miffed. He studies me a moment, eyes intent and searching. I can’t imagine what he could possibly see with such little moonlight making it through the looming branches overhead. Unless his eyes are different than mine—than other mortals. I shudder again.

You know what we are, he says. It’s not a question.

I have an inkling, I say, Gran’s words replacing my own.

She doesn’t. Or at least, he allows, doesn’t believe it. He tilts his head at Delia.

She is stubborn to a fault. Delia seems to understand vaguely that we’re discussing her and that my tone is less than positive. She frowns at me, though it doesn’t have the standard chill.

But you’re coming willingly. He traces a hand down my cheek, his skin almost too hot against mine.

I inhale sharply through my nose and pull back. He’s all but said that I’m right, that he and Gage are part of the Folk. I can’t just let you take Delia.

His eyes glint again with mischief. Tell me that you don’t want to come with us. Tell me that you don’t want to know what you’ll see. That you’re not longing for a glimpse behind the veil. If you can say those things, say them truly, I’ll leave fair Cordelia alone, and you can both go home.

I open my mouth to do just that. And close it again when the words refuse to form.

There is no more room for lies here, to the beautiful and wicked creature before me, or to myself. It’s not that I’m not scared. I’ve grown up knowing what the Folk could do to a person. I’m terrified, but I want to see it. I want to know what happens when you cross that line.

He grins, fully delighted that his guess was right. Then take my hand, love, and follow.

Chapter Two

Idon’t take his hand. Everything with the Folk has layered meanings, underlying promises you don’t realize you’re making until it’s too late. I could take his hand and wind-up handfasted for all I know, and I’ve at least got enough sense left to avoid an accidental marriage to a fae. Delia, however, seems to not quite know where she is. She glances around at the strange trees around us, her face almost perfectly blank. My stomach clenches. I hope he didn’t slip her a bite of some faerie fruit while I wasn’t looking. Or maybe she was too stubborn to set up guards around herself. Her stubbornness is somehow her best and worst quality. And tonight, it’s the one that’s gotten her in trouble.

Though I guess I have my fair share of blame in that, too.

There is a fog leaking through the woods towards us, glinting silver in the moonlight. Gran says that the veil picks and chooses who it lets find it. If the Folk turn you out, it usually won’t let you back in again. The doors to their world can look like anything: a crack in a craggy rock face, an archway made of twining limbs, rings of mushrooms, deep caves, a mist rising on its own. Anything can be a door if you know where to look and if the glamour is there to meet you.

The trees seem to know that magic is near. Their limbs slump heavy with anticipation, weighed down with Spanish moss and secrets of their own. But I have always thought that all oak trees look at least a little magical, a little secretive. I let my hand brush against the bark of a twisted

Reviews for Of Beast and Burden

[dievute · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed it. Sadly there is not another part.