Page 1 of Blood & Roses

Prologue

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” the queen said, canting her head to gaze into the shimmering glass of her truest friend. Her confidante. Her protector and defender. “Who must I kill to conquer all?”

The mirror did not speak, not with words. It made its will known through the images reflected in its glass. Through the notions that it poured into the queen’s mind, so soft and malleable and far too easy to corrupt.

The queen smiled at the faces she saw and went to work.

Chapter 1

The apple was obviously poisoned.

It was too red. Too juicy. It was like one of the wax apples that Victor Gold, our former employer, used to keep on his desk in the back of his antique shop.

Itlookedlike the most delicious thing in the world.

But it wouldtaste like death.

I didn’t normally wander around Mysthaven with poisoned apples, but this job was worth the trip and the curious glances, despite the fact that it paid nothing.

The small village close to our isolated cottage was rife with poverty and desperation, children growing ever more hungry and scrawny as the endless winter of the last twelve years dragged on.

Desperation made monsters of men, and this apple had been crafted for one very particular monster.

The adolescent girl, terrified and malnourished enough to visit our cottage two days ago, had prompted me to craft the apple. She was either half or quarter-elven, based on her ears, but it was impossible to tell for sure.

“I could put up with it, miss, if it was just me,” she said, wringing her hands as she tried to explain her predicament to me over the kitchen table. “It’s my younger sisters. Last week, he broke Dacey’s arm, and I think he could kill little Sophie if he comes home in a rage again.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with anything of the sort,” I said, giving the girl what I hoped was a kind smile over the mixing bowl as I baked an apple pie for after dinner–notpoisoned. “Tell me where he can usually be found. At home? At a tavern? It’s probably best that I make the delivery.”

“The tavern, miss,” the girl said, wringing her hands. “How much—”

“No money,” I said, waving the girl’s question away. We had just been paid handsomely for helping Lis’ new mate retrieve a stolen item from Gold’s offices—also resulting in his downfall and imprisonment—and my sisters and I didn’t need the money as much as this girl and her sisters clearly did. She moved as if nursing several bruised ribs, and I had to carefully contain my rage as I added, “This one’s on the house.”

“I can help around the cottage, miss,” she pushed, looking nervously around the kitchen where the smells of baking pie mixed strangely with poisons and potions and tinctures. “I can cook and clean. I’m not a bad person, miss, I swear.”

The poor girl looked like she might cry, from terror or guilt or desperation. Maybe all three. I wiped my floury hands on my apron, trying not to worry about the messy kitchen and the baking I was behind on, and put a comforting arm around her.

I was used to being needed and acting as a mother for my sisters. This was no different.

“You don’t have to explain to me,” I said gently, offering the girl an understanding smile. “I have sisters too. You’re the eldest?”

“Yes, miss,” she said, so quietly I almost missed it.

“Well, we older sisters have to take care of our younger ones,” I insisted, guiding her toward the door. “You just take care of them, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

Which is how I found myself in Mysthaven entering the most seedy-looking tavern I could imagine. I frowned at the sign. Weknew most of Mysthaven’s small number of inhabitants, as many came to us for magical help, and we offered many more our assistance freely. They kept our secrets, and we kept theirs. No doubt, someone in the tavern would recognize me. I only hoped that they knew enough about the odious father not to interrupt my work.

I quickly adjusted my bodice to make my breasts a bit more prominent and pushed through the tavern door. It was late morning, and only a few patrons were present, most skulking over their drinks in dark corners. One man sat at the bar, and the barkeep stood behind him. He cast me a wide-eyed look as I entered.

“You looking for a good time, darlin’?” came a drawl from the beefy half-elven male at the bar. I recognized him as my target from the girl’s description. His face was ruddy from drink, and his eyes settled predatorily between my breasts.

The barkeep blinked. I couldn’t recall his name, but I was certain we’d done work for him retrieving some debts from a few errant customers. He gave me a subtle nod and returned to polishing the glasses.

“That depends,” I replied, turning my attention back to my target. I batted my eyelashes and practically fell into his lap, giggling as if already very drunk. My target, whose last name was Birchwood, according to his daughter, chuckled, his hands roving too far south for comfort.

“I’m looking for someone,” I slurred, trying to ignore his roaming fingers. “Last name of Birchwood. Been told he’squitethe ride. Are you him?”

The bartender caught my eye again and quickly looked away. He knew I was out for blood.