Fairy Godmurder: Fractured Fae, #1

By Sarah J. Sover

Gwendolyn Evenshine thought being a fairy godmother would be cut and dried—take on a charge, solve a royal problem, and return to the Academy for her next assignment. But she got too close. When the beloved Princess Francesca is brutally murdered on her watch, Gwen refuses to resume her fairy godmother duties. Instead, she laces her docs and hits the streets of Boston in search of the bastard who took Frankie from her, a serial killer who operates in lunar cycles. But Gwen's magic is on the fritz, and bodies are piling up.

Gwen enlists the talents of Chessa Moon, an upbeat pixie crime blogger who will do anything for a scoop. Together, they open new leads as they race against the hunter's moon. As the killer hits closer and closer to home, Gwen is forced to confront her past and nail the killer, or she'll lose more than just her shot at vengeance—she'll lose the only person in her life worth a damn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Falstaff Books
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223586586

Book preview

1

19 September 2020

42 Days until the Hunter’s Moon

Gwen’s black leather jacket and Doc Martens served as her armor, deflecting glares and insults as she strode past the reception desk of the Korranthia Police Department. The bullpen was littered with officers, mostly uniforms, but only half the desks were occupied. Heads turned to watch Gwen’s determined march through the precinct or ducked to whisper in the eager ears of others. The pen might not have been at full capacity, but the scrutiny was enough to rattle anyone else. It might have bothered her in the early days, but not now. Let them gossip. Their words couldn’t be worse than the ones flooding her head every time she closed her eyes. Besides, she couldn’t spare a thought for the opinions of a bunch of paper-pushers, not a week before the Brain Scraper was due to kill again.

Hey Evenshine, long time no see, shouted a goblin with a long, pointed nose separating two beady orange eyes. You here to put your hands all over a corpse? I’ve got a stiff right here for ya.

His partner, a humanoid with a golden shimmery undertone to her brown skin, gaped before smacking him with the back of her hand as chuckles and banter erupted from various parts of the pen.

Gwen gave herself an internal kick for coming here in large form. Being a fairy godmother meant she could switch between natural size, under a foot tall, and a height more relatable to larger fae and mortals, which in Gwen’s case was around five foot nothing. She preferred large form these days—it gave her a sense of control—but damn if it didn’t draw unwanted attention.

Between her height, shoulder-length dark hair, and leather jacket pinning her wings to her back, the only thing that marked Gwen as fae was the golden ring around her dark brown irises. She cast a deadly glare in the goblin’s direction but didn’t break stride.

Gwen climbed the cement stairs and followed the hall, stopping just before an office bearing a name plaque for Sergeant Detective Samson Wayne.

It had been eleven months since she’d walked through that door.

She hesitated as her stomach flipped over on itself. This was different than her monthly visits with Samson over a cup of joe—this was business. Maybe coming here before she was summoned was a mistake. Gwen was steeling her nerves when voices floating from beneath the large, griffin-sized door caught her attention.

You’ve got to cut her loose. She’s a menace.

Gwen knew the angry timbre belonging to Captain O’Toole all too well, and only one fairy in Korranthia could get his blood pressure this high. Her. Gwen paused. When she’d made the decision to turn her little blue Subaru down Chestnut toward the precinct, she knew running into O’Toole was a possibility, but she hadn’t expected him to be holding court in Samson’s office.

Things had been different back when the captain was just a sloppy detective chasing down leads, but power does funny things to little men. O’Toole, a sorcerer, had gained his position through dirty politics and mortal appearance, a trait that was helpful when dealing with cases that crossed boundaries. While technically human, sorcerers, witches, and the like straddled the line into fae territory, so most identified with the more peaceful Seelie Court, overseen by Gwen’s extended family. That didn’t make O’Toole any more tolerable. Gwen would much prefer the company of the Unseelie, even if they did occasionally burn down a shopping mall or two.

Samson answered. You know I can’t do that, Captain. I need her. She’s a good cop. She got us the chloroform lead, didn’t she? That’s got to rate.

Where did it get us? Here we are, four years later, with bodies piling up every autumn and every lead exhausted.

O’Toole wasn’t wrong. A lump formed in Gwen’s throat. So much for steel resolve.

But Samson kept pushing. The next scene might be the one that breaks the case wide open. I know she can be a pill, but I need her skills on this case.

That’s what you said last year. And the year before. I’m still waiting, Wayne. The fairy’s magic is failing. You know it and so do I. The equinox is a few days out—I’ve still got time to petition Matron Celeste for a replacement before the Scraper strikes if you really want the crime scenes read. There’s got to be another fairy in that school who can pick up a few sensory clues here and there. One who gives respect where it’s due.

You know there’s not. Gwen’s raw talent is the real deal. It’s why Captain Doyle made her a consultant in the first place. Samson paused before tacking on, and her magic isn’t failing, it’s stunted. She’s been through too much.

Gwen took a deep breath. She’d spent all year trying to get her empathic touch to work between shifts of her pay-the-bills gig with the Glamour Squadron, but disguising the fae realm from humanity was an all-hours job, and her supervisor didn’t give a shit about her life’s purpose. Besides, with the Brain Scraper dormant, she couldn’t find the right triggers for her rarer talent. The equinox would set off another killing cycle, and each victim offered up another chance to nail the Scraper. Samson had the right of it. She just needed a scene to click, one element of a crime to resonate with her magic and dislodge the right lead. If only that didn’t mean more dead fae.

The captain didn’t relent, but Gwen thought she detected a hint of hesitation in his voice. The girl’s trauma is not my problem, and it sure as hell isn’t the KPD’s. If she’s so good, why is she useless to every case but this one?

Gwen heard Samson sigh and pictured him running his talon through the feathers of his opposite wrist, a nervous habit she found endearing, not that she’d ever tell him so. She made a mental note to send him a box of Griffin Tasties later.

She has no interest or investment in other cases. She’s tied to the Scraper somehow. When Princess Francesca was killed—

Okay, that was it. Gwen had heard enough. She shoved the door open, causing Samson to jump and drop a pen. It clattered across the wooden floor.

Captain O’Toole, decked in a navy-blue suit that made his bright blue sorcerer’s eyes pop against his full head of white hair, was standing in the corner of the windowless office. While Samson ducked beneath the desk to retrieve his rogue pen, Gwen nodded to the captain.

Heya, Tool. You really should remove the panties from your crack before it chafes.

O’Toole’s face and neck went red, and a flame ignited at the tip of his pointer finger. Gwen couldn’t keep herself from goading him, even if he did eventually decide to incinerate her—sorcerers were so easy to rattle. As O’Toole regained his composure, the tiny flame was extinguished, leaving the barest whisper of smoke swirling upward from his now clenched fist. Sorcerers may be easy to taunt, but they could be dangerous, too. Aside from wielding elemental magic, they had keen intuition and an innate sense of how to wound.

Don't you have some distraught princess to save?

O’Toole's sparkling eyes signaled that he knew he’d struck true. Gwen was a failure, a disgrace to the Academy, to her family, to Frankie. First, she failed to save the princess, and now here she was, shirking her fairy godmother responsibilities by hunting down the Brain Scraper, a fool's pursuit spanning years of her life.

After Frankie’s death, she’d refused to take a new assignment. She couldn't bear the thought of adopting another charge, listening to the inane troubles of some kid, earning trust, then tapping into her magic to make everything all right. Nothing would ever be all right again, not while Frankie’s killer was still at large, laughing somewhere in the shadows at the incompetent KPD and the bumbling fairy godmother. Fairy godmother—magical protector, confidant, and supporter of people with powerful destinies. Some protector she'd turned out to be. Where was her first charge? That beautiful light in a cold, dark world? Rotting in the ground. She couldn't resume her duties. She wouldn't.

Gwen's jaw muscle worked as she fought to keep her face stoic, and she absently raised her hand to the locket around her neck. She hated giving O’Toole the satisfaction of knowing he got to her.

Samson must have noticed, because he pushed his round, red glasses to the top of his beak. Hello, Gwen. We’re just getting some prep work done. Care to take a load off?

Sergeant Detective Samson Wayne was just a junior detective looking to make his career when Gwen met him on the scene of Princess Francesca’s murder four years back, but he’d traded his uniform for a suit by closing every case that came across his desk. Well, almost every case. The griffin sat in a chair specially made to handle lion haunches behind a desk that managed to make him look small despite his larger-than-human size. His huge, yellow eyes narrowed as if he could read Gwen’s thoughts. Or maybe it was because she was still hovering in the doorway reeling from the captain’s comment.

O’Toole forced a smile. Yes, welcome, Miss Evenshine. But what are you doing snooping around the precinct? I don’t remember signing off on your paperwork this year.

Gwen plopped into the chair opposite Samson, but she kept her attention on O’Toole. We’re three days out from the equinox. I want to know what the fuck you’re doing to prepare. From the look of the bullpen, you’re not even running with a full department, and in case you missed the memo, there’s a serial killer at large.

"I have other pressing responsibilities. In case you haven’t noticed, the humans are having a hell of a year with the pandemic, protests, and other mortal concerns. I lent some officers to the Boston PD. The royals ordered us to send in a little fae reinforcement to be neighborly." The smirk on O’Toole’s face wasn’t lost on Gwen, but she didn’t know how to interpret it. His feelings on the matter were irrelevant, anyhow.

Gwen’s jaw dropped momentarily while she processed his words. Then, she erupted.

You’ve got to be shitting me! This is exactly why you haven’t caught the Scraper—all you do is react. A body drops, you run interviews and evidence and then sit on your asses until it happens again! A serial killer will ravage Korranthia in three days, and the officers in charge of keeping our community safe are off helping humans? You’ve got an entire kingdom to protect. Doyle would never have stood for this.

O’Toole moved toward the door. Doyle’s the one who created our protocols, remember? She had her shot at the Scraper, and she failed. This is my precinct now, and I’m not going to justify my actions to some low-level consultant who’s not even on the clock. I’ve got other fish to fry. And Miss Evenshine, you will show me some respect if you want to continue working with the KPD. You keep clear of crime scenes until forensics is through, or I’ll pull your papers.

So you do have my papers ready? Here, I thought you were useless.

O’Toole glowered. "Play by the rules, Evenshine. This is my case, my killer."

Gwen felt the corner of her mouth raise into a half smile, half sneer. One can only hope. See ya, Captain.

O’Toole shook his head. Come brief me later, Eagle-eye.

When the door closed, Samson ran a talon over his rust and cream-colored head. I wish you wouldn’t pluck his feathers. One of these days, he’s going to incinerate you.

He doesn’t have feathers, Sam, replied Gwen.

Figure of speech.

But it’s so much fun.

Samson shook his head. For you maybe.

And he still calls you Eagle-eye? I thought that name died when Hoit left. Jym Hoit had been Samson’s partner when Gwen first came on board, but he’d left or been reassigned shortly after. Thankfully. He had taken pleasure in making Samson’s life harder. Speaking of Hoit, what ever happened to good old Jym Douchebag?

Somebody else’s problem, replied Samson.

Gwen broke into a smile. Samson Wayne might be wound tighter than a brownie on a bender, but she missed him on the off-season. Their monthly coffee date wasn’t the same as working side-by-side in pursuit of a killer, even if she did have to put up with his ridiculous turns of phrase. She knew he only talked like that to put on a front. It’s good to see you.

Yeah, you too, kid. How’s the Glamour Squadron?

I quit yesterday.

Gwen didn’t need to explain why. It was the same every year. She didn’t want to be distracted with glamour casting while the killer was active. Turnover with the Squad was so high, there was likely to be a new supervisor by the end of the year, and she could get hired back on without a problem, but for now, she had a single focus—the Brain Scraper.

Look, kid, I just got my hide beat with my own tail. O’Toole means business this time. He’s insisting I keep you off scenes until forensics is through.

Gwen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her empathic magic was weakened as it was, and adding time might mean losing critical sensory data. Forensics could take hours. Why? They’ve got my prints on file, and I’m always careful to avoid contamination. I’m a shit-ton more careful than the goons he has bagging evidence. Hell, if I wait for them to finish, I’ll probably only be able to pick up what Fred Hutchins ate for lunch before he wiped his greasy mitts all over the scene!

Samson blinked, his lower eyelid rising to meet the upper, and tipped his head to the side. Our CSIs aren’t that bad, Gwen. If you gave them a little respect, they might even be willing to help you. Besides, these orders come from O’Toole. You’ve got me behind the eight ball. My talons are tied.

Wishing, not for the first time, that Samson would lay off the police procedurals, Gwen leaned in. You can’t cut me off. I’ve been honing my magic all year long. I’ve even started picking up sensory data outside the killing cycle, just some flashes, mind you, but it’s better than it was. When I touch your desk, I get…frustration and…the scent of coffee.

That’s not magic, kid. That’s basic observation.

Damn. The griffin could see through any lie.

I know, but I have to get on scene as soon as possible. Sammy, you know how important it is to catch the Scraper. I’m your best shot, and I need this. She made eye contact with Samson.

It worked like a charm. Samson pushed his glasses back to the top of his beak again, a diversion to keep Gwen from noticing the mistiness in his yellow eyes. The reason he spent his evenings engrossed in mortal detective shows was to learn to hide his big heart. He might be half eagle, but the lion part was all fuzzy and warm. Gwen was one of a handful who knew the real Sammy, though—she should after the past four years spent putting their heads together.

He relented, just like she knew he would. Fine. But you have to stop carving the captain’s runes. Why don’t you go home and rest up? There’s nothing to do here until our first vic drops.

He was right. Gwen wasn’t sure what she’d expected to gain here today, but she was wasting her time. Just like last year and every other since Frankie’s death, there was no plan to protect the community of Korranthia. If anything, the KPD was less prepared, having sent reinforcements to the Boston PD. Gwen didn’t keep tabs on the happenings of humans, but even she’d seen the masked protests and marches. Still, there was no reason to leave the fae community vulnerable. The humans had their ways to keep the peace, but the variety of fae and assortment of different kinds of magic prohibited enforcement of measures like a curfew, and public statements flew in the face of the hush-hush handling the case had received since day one. The only viable protection measures involved simply removing the threat, and fewer bodies searching for the killer meant more dead fae before he was caught.

Let the mortals deal with their own shit, she thought as she stood, but a stab of guilt pierced her gut. Some Seelie royal she turned out to be. The Seelie lived and died by a creed of peaceful coexistence with humanity. Pissed at herself for her errant thoughts and for expecting more from the KPD, she promised Samson she’d respect, or at least avoid, the captain. O’Toole wasn't the problem. He never had been.

Gwen left the precinct the same way she’d come, in her old blue Subaru. She pressed down on the accelerator, and the little engine responded with a satisfying hum. Flying was faster, but driving was much more cathartic. She kept the radio off as she made her way back to her apartment to wait for somebody to die.

2

22 September 2020

Autumnal equinox, 39 days until the Hunter’s Moon

Samson’s text came after dark on the evening of the equinox. Gwen had been ready to bolt out the door since early that morning, and she didn’t bother with the car. After a short flight, she’d changed sizes in a building’s dark entryway, choosing caution over relying on the Glamour Squad to cover her magical footprint—she didn’t want to draw attention to herself after ditching out on her last shift—before jogging a block and a half to the crime scene.

Gwen tugged at the collar of her restrictive button-up shirt, soaked through with rain. Beneath it, her wet wings clung to her back like limp cellophane as water smacked the cobblestone street, flowed through the cracks, and settled into pools reflecting the streetlights above. It leeched up the pants of the officers sweeping the cordoned-off thoroughfare. At least she’d chosen the pinstriped pencil skirt instead of slacks that would cling to her legs with every step, though she didn’t know why she bothered to look official for a department that would rather she didn’t show up at all. She supposed it was her way of proving to Samson she was making an effort. Her Docs splashed through the gathering puddles, and her hair was tucked up beneath a broad hat. Droplets fell from the brim, cutting the image before her. Another dreary night, another murder.

Briefly wondering why the first murder of the year always seemed to happen during the worst weather, Gwen blocked out her thoughts and the flurry of activity. She had a single focus: the body. O’Toole would arrive soon, and she knew he’d waste no time kicking her outside the yellow tape, consultant or not. She had to get her hands on the corpse before that happened.

The victim was splayed out in the street, barely visible through the crowd of detectives and reporters. Gwen covered her Docs with plastic booties then shoved her way through the black suit molasses until she was shoulder to wing with Samson. She didn’t bother to acknowledge him—she needed to control the chaos around her if she was going to get a good read on the scene.

Everyone back! Now! Her voice cut through the din of chatter and speculation. The suits shifted to clear her path. The goblin from the precinct raised a lip to show a fang, but his partner dragged him out of the way. Gwen knew she held no real power here, but as long as Sergeant Detective Samson Wayne brought her in to consult, the rest of the department tolerated her presence—well, mostly. She used that. This was her crime scene just like the others, at least, until it wasn't. She squatted next to the body.

A brownie, a foot and a half tall with a wrinkled, gaping mouth and pruned skin, lay face-up on the cobblestone, his head bent at an unnatural angle and glassy eyes gazing at nothing. Twin streams of blood originating from his wide nostrils mixed with rain in his wiry hair and in the wrinkles of skin at the base of his pointed ears. One brown, wrinkled arm stuck straight up in the air as if he were hailing a cab. Cause of death would be no surprise: exsanguination caused by brain puncture through the nasal passages. Gwen had known COD before she’d arrived on site, when she was settled into her chair for the evening, phone in hand. Seeing the body merely confirmed it. There would be no obvious motive, she was sure of that too.

Brownies were the most mischievous fae in the Seelie Court, always pulling some stunt or other. There were many legitimate reasons to kill a brownie, but this was the work of the Brain Scraper.

Locations and victims may be random, but the Scraper’s timing was clockwork. Gwen never much cared for astronomy, but these days, she could feel the cycle of the moon ebb and wane in the flow of blood through her veins. In two days, there would be a waxing crescent moon, and that meant another victim.

One thing was certain, if she didn't nail the Scraper by the time the Hunter's Moon rose a month from now, she'd have to wait yet another year, and that would be seven more bodies to bury, seven more families to grieve, and one more year with no justice for Frankie. She reached down and touched the cold, leathery skin on the brownie's arm. Make that six more bodies.

Sick bastard, she muttered as she awaited the onslaught of sensory data from the touch, dreading where it would inevitably lead. Samson was right when he told O’Toole that Gwen’s empathic magic was stunted. It only sparked to life with the first Scraper killing of the year, and when it did, she had precious moments before the scene slipped away, eclipsed by the past. She was forced to relive the days leading up to the biggest failure of her life year after year. But she couldn’t worry about that now. She was the only fairy born in the past one hundred years, other than Matron Celeste, to have such a powerful empathic touch. That’s why the KPD brought her in—the Scraper didn’t leave clues, and her talent was the department’s only shot at a lead. She had to pick up whatever senses she could from the victim and his surroundings before O’Toole showed to ensure yet another failure with talk of paperwork and protocols.

She closed her eyes, and the magic sparked to life beneath the skin of her fingertips. The rush of the power igniting was unlike anything in the world. This made glamour casting feel like a parlor trick. She reached deep inside and focused her energies on letting down her defenses and merging into her surroundings until she wasn’t sure where she ended and the night began. There it was.

The smell of chloroform, the feel of cobblestone scraping knees, a wave of adrenaline, blinding pain behind the eyes. Palpable fear, heart hammering, mouth going dry. Then, the sensation of falling.

No, not yet, she whispered. She fought to stay with the brownie, to keep the body in her mind, but he faded away, leaving only blackness and the empty feeling of failure in her gut. She could no longer feel leathery skin beneath her hands; instead, she felt something else, something solid. A wall. The blackness was shattered by a blinding light.

Images began to take shape. A ballroom, lavishly adorned and filled with revelers, many feet below where she hovered near the crown molding, her hands pressed against the wall behind her, and at the center of the ballroom, a princess.

22 September 2016

The Palace of Korranthia

The princess was sixteen. In any room, she shone, and not by some trickery of money, marketing, or magic. Her light was something pure. It was love, hope, or some other such intangible. The first time Gwen laid eyes on Princess Francesca, she despised her.

The palace, alight with candles and floating orbs, was a beacon in a dark clearing, glowing with the promise of warmth. At least that’s how it had seemed to Gwen when she’d flown over the trees and through the arched window of the opulent ballroom. Light from within illuminated expansive marble balconies and gardens filled with statuary and fountains, but she hadn’t cared to take in the sights. She was here with a single purpose. She hovered in the corner, watching the girl who was to be her first charge.

The bright lights seemed to blur, and the music muffled as if far away. Gwen blinked and tried to focus harder.

Something tugged at the corner of her consciousness, a voice urging her to fight back the images. Shit. This wasn’t real—not in the traditional sense.

She’d known the past would flood in when she opened herself to read the crime scene, but she didn’t have time to dwell, missing vital clues in the present. Not with the Brain Scraper active again. She focused on her breathing and clung to Samson’s voice, the rope he threw to guide her back. This may be the first killing in the cycle, but it wasn’t the first murder scene for either of them, not by a long shot.

Kid, can you hear me? I’m right here. You’re on the street, standing over a DB, the first vic of 2020. Francesca is gone. He murmured the mantra she hadn’t heard in nearly a year, but the familiarity grounded her. He was perched on the curb behind her, speaking just loud enough for her to hear. The detectives milled around the scene, either callous or oblivious.

Gwen's temples throbbed as she was thrust back into the present, but she kept it together.

I’m back. I’m here.

You okay?

She nodded. They both knew it wasn’t the sensory data that hurt. She was accustomed to experiencing the sensations of the victims as if they were her own, and this one was just like the others. Flashes of death with very little evidence and no tangible leads. And then the slip into her own past. The first one of the year was always the worst. After spending eleven months all but cut off from her magic, having it ignite only to turn on her left her feeling hollow and numb. Reliving the past was a real bitch.

The most jarring part of it all was slipping back into a version of herself she’d left behind years ago. Young Gwen had been so naïve, so vulnerable. Turning back into that