At the sound of a knock on the wooden door, I lifted my gaze from the parchment in front of me where I’d scribbled my journal entry. I laid my pen on the oak desktop and stood up, catching a glance at my outfit as I did so, and I had to laugh.
One fact about the fae and fae communities in general was that magic ruled. When you were in a fae village, and if you happened to be female, fae magic dictated you be dressed in what looked like Renaissance garb. My dress had an empire waist and was so long that it skimmed the ground. The material was light and gauzy, off-white, and bedecked with pink ribbon piping around the waist, the bust, and the wrist-length sleeves. I didn’t even have to look at my hair to know it was three times its usual length, now grazing my butt in a mass of golden sausage curls, kissed by pink cherry blossoms.
I’d gone into battle dressed in stretch pants and come out of it looking like Rapunzel.
I pulled open the door and found Rand standing before me. His chest was bare, revealing ripples of sinuous muscle. Rand’s physique is nothing short of awe inspiring, but his muscles aren’t the type you’d find in the gym. He’s not into lifting five hundred pounds and grunting as loud as he can to make sure everyone knows he’s lifting five hundred pounds. No, Rand’s physique was sculpted from hard work and training with werewolves, master vampires, and fae kings.
I couldn’t help but stare as my eyes trailed his beautiful upper body and rested on his blue-and-green-tartan kilt. While fae magic bedecked women in gowns, the same magic endowed men with kilts. It was like living in the book covers of every Highlander romance in existence.
Rand still wore the filth and misery of the war—blood and dirt staining a face that surpassed all others in its beauty. Well, maybe the master vampire Sinjin Sinclair (who just happened to be Rand’s detested ally—long story) could compete with Rand’s good looks, but at the moment I wasn’t thinking about vampires. No, instead, I was getting drunk on the beauty of a warlock.
Rand is tall enough, maybe six-two or six-three, but he appears even taller by the proud way that he carries himself. He has chocolate-brown hair, cropped short. If you took that same chocolate, melted it, and added just a touch of cream, you’d have the color of his eyes. His complexion is what could only be called sun-kissed, without interruption by freckle or mole. And his face is pretty angular—a strong jaw, cleft chin, and high, sharp cheekbones. The beauty of his lips—full and plump under his strong nose—is on par with his gorgeous eyes. When he smiles, his dimples light up his entire face until you would swear you were beholding someone heaven-sent.
Neither of us said anything for a second or two. We just stood there, staring at each other as if we were from different planets and unable to communicate. And it made sense because, although we definitely loved each other, the best way to describe our relationship was as an emotional roller coaster. As such, I still didn’t know where we stood—whether we were together as in boyfriend–girlfriend or … not.
Jolie.
It was Rand’s voice in my head—complete with his thick English accent—a form of communication he and I have shared ever since we first met at my shop in Los Angeles two years ago.
“Rand.” I said his name out loud and suddenly his arms were around me, holding me tightly. I felt the heat of his skin against my cheek as he pulled me close. He smelled like spice and sweat, the scent of masculinity, the embodiment of Rand. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, wanting nothing more than to fill myself with his very essence.
“I lost you,” he whispered with a strained voice. He was referring to my death, when Gwynn’s blade had pierced my stomach. He pulled away from me, and his eyes were glassy. “I will never forget the pain of watching you die. It will stay with me forever.”
I didn’t want to think about pain. I’d known my fair share but I also couldn’t deny him the ache in his eyes. I wanted nothing more than to soothe him, to promise we would never be apart again. “Mercedes brought me back,” I began. I’d only really been dead for a second or two, so did it really even count?
He crushed me against him, almost as if he was trying to remind himself I was truly flesh and blood, and not some figment of his imagination. He held me incredibly tightly, as if he could erase the past twenty-four hours by smothering me.
“I don’t know whether to be indebted to Mercedes or furious with her,” he said. I wasn’t sure where my feelings leaned on the subject either. I had a damn good hunch that Mercedes knew beforehand that I was going to die—there didn’t seem to be much of anything she didn’t know. But at the same time, she was the one who brought me back to life, so how mad could I be?
“Let’s put it behind us now,” I whispered.
“You said Mercedes was the prophetess,” Rand continued. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. If I was sure of anything, it was that Mercedes was the prophetess—the fabled and legendary witch to end all witches. The prophetess was rumored to be able to change history, something Mercedes had artfully demonstrated by pulling me back to 1878. Her magic was so potent, it was scary.
“Yes, I’m positive.” The image of her manipulating the sky came to mind. “Didn’t you see how she ended the battle?” I mean, hello, if that wasn’t proof I didn’t know what was.
He nodded but didn’t say anything else, just continued to hold me, stroking my head like I was a child. Finally he spoke, and his voice was soft.
“And what is this about you being Queen?”
That was a tough subject, and I could read lots more into Rand’s question than the mere fact that he asked it. Rand wasn’t crazy about any form of monarchy, no offense to the Queen Mum. He’d rebelled against Bella’s plans to become Queen of the Underworld, and even though he and I were allies and I was as different from Bella as day is from night, I couldn’t imagine he’d be any more eager to see me ascend to the throne. No, Rand believed in the ideals of democracy and justice. Even though he was as English as tea and crumpets, he could easily have been an American revolutionary from the eighteenth century based on his feelings about equality, liberty, and freedom. And he did make a mean apple pie.
“I don’t know,” I answered, which was sort of the truth. I mean, I didn’t know what Mercedes had in mind for me, and although Rand had been there to witness everything she had to say about me becoming Queen, there hadn’t been much. In fact, as I recall, she said I’d become Queen and it was my destiny to unite the creatures of the Underworld, and that had been that.
“Mercedes made it sound like prophecy,” Rand continued, eyeing me as if he thought I knew more than I was letting on.
“You heard everything I did,” I answered simply. “I don’t know what to make of it or what it means, but I imagine Mercedes will fill me in at some point.”
“You have freedom of choice, Jolie. If you don’t want to be Queen, you don’t have to.”
How ironic—this was the first time “freedom of choice” had ever been mentioned with regard to the Underworld. Freedom really wasn’t something that came easily to Underworld creatures. Their society wasn’t structured like ours—a lesson I’d learned the hard way.
“Mercedes assumes I have no choice in the matter.” I sighed, not really wanting to shatter the beauty of the moment with thoughts of my new career path. “She said it was my destiny to unite the creatures. And if it is my true destiny, how can I avoid it?”
Rand was quiet for a second or two before he shook his head. “Let’s not think about it right now,” he said, pulling me closer. “We can figure out all of the details later.” He kissed the top of my head. I closed my eyes as I held him, but it was a false sense of security. As if foreseeing my own future, I realized Rand would most likely oppose me if I chose to follow my destiny to become Queen. It wasn’t a reality I wanted to face.
The sound of cheering and laughter broke my reverie. I was suddenly aware that our alone time was nearing its end.
“What’s going on out there?” I asked, although I wasn’t really all that interested. Instead my
mind was teeming with all the discussions I needed to have with Rand—centering on a turn of events in 1878. So much had happened, and unfortunately what happened in 1878 couldn’t stay in 1878.
“A celebration, Jolie. That’s why I came to get you—to escort you to the festivities,” Rand answered absentmindedly, as if the last thing he was interested in was celebrating. He and I were on the same page.
A celebration. I hadn’t even considered it. The overall tone after the gruesome battle was one of mourning and charity as our soldiers cared for their fallen, separating our dead from the maimed and injured and bringing them to this fae village.
One of the benefits to having me on Rand’s side was the fact that I could reanimate all of Rand’s deceased soldiers. It was going to be a long and arduous job, but I had promised I would do it, to myself as well as to our legion—those soldiers who had stood beside us from the beginning and vowed their loyalty to Rand. And it was something I wanted to do—something I needed to do. As far as I was concerned, death was no longer permanent; it was merely an inconvenience to be overcome.
“How many are dead?” I asked in a hollow voice.
“No final count yet,” Rand responded in the same barren tone. He secured a stray tendril of hair behind my ear and grazed my cheek with his fingers. “Everyone is asking after you—apparently word of your death spread, causing quite a bit of anxiety. I want to prove to everyone there isn’t anything to be worried about.” He paused, and a sweet smile lit his face. “I know you’re exhausted, but it is important for both of us to make an appearance. Will you oblige me?”
I really had no choice but to oblige him. Rand was the captain of our legion and as such, he had to be there, congratulate his men, and play his role as their leader. And so would I. I needed to promise the family members of the fallen that I would bring back their dead. I’d have to hobnob with Mercedes and introduce her to everyone as the prophetess, the highest of all witches. Most suspected she was only a legend. Little did they know.
“Yes, of course,” I answered with as sincere a smile as I could muster. The truth of it was that I was beyond exhausted, physically and emotionally. And times like this called for nothing more than an amaretto sour and an early night.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
H. P. MALLORY is the author of the Jolie Wilkins series as well as the Dulcie O’Neil series. She began her writing career as a self-published author and after achieving a tremendous amount of success, decided to become a traditionally published author and hasn’t looked back since.
H. P. lives in Southern California with her husband and son, where she is at work on her next book.
H. P. Mallory, Be Witched (Novella): A Jolie Wilkins/Rand Balfour Novella
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