Faerie Tale Read online

  The Tamar Black Saga - Book Five

  FAERIE TALE

  By Nicola Rhodes

  Faerie Tale

  © copyright 2010 Nicola Rhodes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  Makerofmagic.co.uk

  In the same series

  Djinnx’d

  Reality Bites

  Tempus Fugitive

  The Day Before Tomorrow

  Faerie Tale

  Anything But Ordinary

  Rise of the Nephilim

  Pantheon

  Author’s Introduction

  I had fully intended to end the Tamar Black series with “The Day Before Tomorrow” and move on. So much so, that another series was begun and the first part completed before I was persuaded to return to Tamar, Denny and the rest. It is a decision that I have not regretted. There was clearly more to say and I have had a great deal of fun in saying it.

  So, with that in mind, this book is dedicated to my daughter Claudia, without whose influence, it would never have existed.

  The shortest of the Tamar books, Faerie Tale takes Tamar and the gang in another direction and may be quite properly regarded in some ways as not the fifth book of the series, but rather the first book of the second part of the series. Introducing, as it does, new themes and ideas, not to mention new villains, and appearing, as it does to me anyway, as a new beginning for my old acquaintances.

  Note to readers

  The original printed text of this book contained many footnotes throughout, as comments or asides from the main text, but, since the ebook format does not support these, they have been added to the main text in this fashion* since they are meant to be read during the story, and not, as many footnotes or endnotes are, after the story.

  *[footnote text here]

  ~Prologue ~

  A very long time ago…

  A snowy hillside under a bright moon.

  The witches gather.

  A ring of standing stones.

  A low chanting.

  The glint of a blade in the starlight.

  A slash, a stab, a scream.

  Blood splashes on the stones

  The witches leave.

  Much more recently…

  A snowy hillside under a bright moon.

  The witches gather.

  A ring of standing stones

  A low chanting.

  The glint of a blade in the firelight.

  A slash, a stab, a scream

  The blood splashes on the stones.

  The witches dance.

  The fog gathers.

  Figures appear through the mist.

  There is laughter.

  The witches scream.

  The fog clears, the figures have gone.

  The witches lie dead under the shadow of the stones.

  And this is only the beginning …

  ~ Chapter One ~

  The man up ahead in the queue for the cinema was loud, obnoxious and openly and unashamedly sexist. He passed comment, either cruel or lecherous, on every woman who came within his view. It was a situation that was fraught with tension for Denny.

  Eventually, as he had known would happen, Tamar could take no more of it.

  She poked the man hard in the back to get his attention. ‘Do you really think that it’s acceptable to talk about women like that?’ she queried.

  The man just gaped at her. Denny hid his face in his jacket, whether from embarrassment or to hide laughter, it was difficult to say.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re still alive,’ commented Tamar, ignoring Denny’s shaking shoulders (laughing – definitely)

  ‘’Ere,’ blustered the man – a large bearded rugby playing type with several tasteless tattoos.

  Tamar fixed him with a steely eye, but as it happened, he was not addressing her.

  ‘Are you goin’ to let your woman talk to me like that?’ he demanded of Denny.

  Denny composed his features, looked up (a long way up) at this bellicose giant, and said calmly. ‘She isn’t my woman.’

  A hurt look passed momentarily over Tamar’s face at this disclaimer, but it passed into a smile as Denny continued smoothly.

  ‘She’s her own woman.’

  The man’s face relaxed into a knowing sneer. ‘First date is it?’ he said with deliberate condescension.

  Denny turned to Tamar. ‘Is this a date?’ he asked her.

  Tamar pretended to consider. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’re paying,’

  ‘Ah,’ said Denny with mock sententiousness, ‘then it is a date.’

  His face clouded and he looked troubled. ‘Does that mean that I have to hit him then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Denny sighed. ‘Can’t you do it?’ he said, to several shocked gasps from the other cinema goers (well, how were they to know that she was really a Djinn – Genie to you and me – with phenomenal cosmic powers. The result of an ill-advised wish 5000 years previously – oh yes, and immortal too)*

  * [See “Djinnx’d” for the full story. ]

  ‘I really can’t just go around picking fights with every no-brain who doesn’t like the shape of your nose, you know.’ Denny added.

  ‘Hah!’ she said. ‘It isn’t the shape of my nose he doesn’t like. It’s the cast of my opinions.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Are you going to hit him or not?’

  The large man’s hearty laughter at this exchange – inspired no doubt at the idea that Denny, who was not exactly an impressive figure to say the least of it, was going to hit him – was cut off abruptly as he sailed away on an unscheduled trip to dreamland on the end of an expertly thrown right hook.

  ‘Happy now?’ said Denny wringing his hand.

  ‘Don’t overdo it,’ hissed Tamar at Denny’s grimacing expression. ‘It wouldn’t have hurt that much.’

  (It hadn’t actually hurt at all)

  ‘That’s all you know,’ said Denny sotto voce.

  ‘I used to be this weedy bloke you see before you.’ He reviewed this sentence in his head and added, ‘if you see what I mean?’

  ‘And it did hurt this much.’

  Tamar shrugged. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘all this has put me in the mood for some violence.’

  Denny indicated the large cinema poster depicting a picture of “The Rock” looking exceedingly ferocious and waving a bloodstained sword beneath the legend “Cannibal City”.

  Tamar huffed contemptuously. ‘I mean some real violence,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and hunt some werewolves.’

  ‘I just wanted a nice, normal evening for once,’ thought Denny. ‘Why does it always have to end up like this?’

  He shrugged helplessly. There was no point swimming against the tide. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘why not?’

  ‘Well if you don’t want to …’

  Denny grinned suddenly. ‘Nah, it’s okay,’ he said. ‘We should get out of here anyway,’ and he indicated the growing throng of people, staring at the scene she had created.

  ‘Yes, just look at the mess you made,’ said Tamar. ‘I can’t take you anywhere!’

  * * *

  ‘I just can’t take you anywhere!’ Cindy snapped, and gave the small boy a sharp smack on the legs and dragged him unceremoniously from the supermarket. She strapped him protesting into the car seat as he kept up a steady howl.

  ‘How does he not run out of breath?’ she marvelled as his little face turned slowly purple with the exertion, and yet he never stopped.

  She drove furiously home, sent him straight to bed, and then began wearily picking up toys that
were scattered all over the living room floor.

  She had only just sat down to a cup of coffee when a small voice was heard over the banisters.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ it said.

  Cindy sighed with relief. ‘That’s all right darling,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come downstairs then?’

  Small footsteps padded down the staircase. He crawled into her lap resting his tiny tear stained face against her blouse. She cuddled him for a moment then he pulled away and looked at her, smiling.

  ‘Will you read me a story?’ he asked. The little prince – so secure in his right to be forgiven.

  ‘Of course sweetheart,’ said Cindy.

  ‘The one about the fairies,’ he demanded.

  Cindy nodded and reached for the book. ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ she read out.

  The boy nodded happily. ‘I love you mummy,’ he told her.

  She hadn’t planned on a child. She did not even know for sure where little Jacky’s father was now. She had a vague idea that he was in heaven, not dead, but among the angels all the same. Of course, although Eugene had been in mortal form at the time the seed was planted, he had not been exactly human. She wondered what she would tell the child when he was old enough to understand. So far at least, he had not shown any signs of inheriting his father’s shape shifting abilities, but perhaps he never would, since those abilities had not been innate to Eugene but rather had been foisted upon him when he had been cast out of heaven. Perhaps Jacky was just what he seemed to be – a normal human little boy. Well, almost …

  Her own magical abilities were not natural to her either but the result of decades of hard work and perseverance in learning her craft, a gift of the goddess Hecaté for her dedication.

  Hecaté herself now came gracefully into the room and looked wistfully at Cindy and her son sleeping peacefully on the couch together. She still grieved that she had had to give up her own son soon after his birth to a high and lonely destiny, and she, therefore, had been prepared to lavish all the love and attention her thwarted motherhood could muster on this child. But he shunned her and indeed everyone else except his mother. He especially seemed to hate Tamar and, even at two, regarded her with a wary suspiciousness that was altogether unnervingly un-childlike. Jack Stiles (Hecaté’s mortal husband) and Denny, he tolerated, but he could not be said to be fond of any of them. And, as he grew older, Hecaté began to feel apprehensive toward him – an unusual emotion for a god.

  ‘How’s “The Demon Child”?’ said Tamar appearing behind her.

  Hecaté jumped and smothered a nervous laugh. ‘Do not call him that,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ said Tamar giving the child a look of dislike. ‘He is, isn’t he?’

  Hecaté shrugged. It was difficult to argue with really.

  ‘I don’t believe for a minute that kid is really Eugene’s,’ continued Tamar. ‘He was such a nice feller.’

  Hecaté looked shocked.

  * * *

  Tamar threw herself discontentedly into a large armchair. ‘I’m so bored!’ she moaned theatrically.

  Denny raised a weary eyebrow – the werewolf hunt had been a disappointment and he was anticipating yet another of her “Sherlock Holmes” type diatribes, bemoaning the serious lack of cunning super-villainy in the world ever since they had buttonholed Askphrit the evil Djinn into his own little pocket universe, where he could do no more harm.

  ‘I mean what’s the point?’ she said. ‘What is the point of being a super-hero without a super-villain?’

  Denny nodded automatically. He had been down this road with her before.

  There had been the sorcerer Thespis, who had been a real let down. Denny had defeated him easily with a length of two by four – hardly a challenge!

  They – or rather she – had had high hopes, however, of Smiling Larry Simple who talked to God on a big red telephone and had had big plans to end the world (which unfortunately, had relied on a, somewhat erroneously, predicted Second Coming)

  And sundry others of course – none of whom had turned out to have the essential combination of insanity, genius and unlimited ambition that go to make up a true super-villain. (Although Thespis had had the maniacal laughter down a treat)

  It was not as though she missed Askphrit always trying to kill them – she said – but wouldn’t it be nice if someone out there would at least present a challenge! All she wanted – she said – was a villain with a bit of originality. A proper super- villain. ‘I should say the world is lucky that I don’t turn to crime!’ she added.

  ‘I should say so,’ said Denny emphatically.

  But Denny disagreed with the general thrust of Tamar’s desire to find a replacement maniac for the not-at-all lamented Askphrit.

  ‘I hardly think you would find many decent citizens to agree with you,’ he ventured mildly, unconsciously echoing that other famous sidekick – Dr Watson.

  ‘Well, I suppose I ought not to be selfish,’ admitted Tamar reluctantly. ‘I guess the world’s better off for it and it’s only the poor unemployed super-hero who’s out of luck.’

  ‘Natural disasters?’ offered Denny.

  ‘Snah!’ snorted Tamar. ‘Too easy.’

  ‘Easy!’ said Denny. But he let it go. He had had this argument too often lately, and there was no reasoning with her when she was in this mood.

  It had never occurred to Denny that Tamar’s obsessive behaviour might have its roots in something else – like their now more or less indefinitely postponed wedding. Which had been cancelled the first time due to unforeseen circumstances, i.e. Tamar being kidnapped by a crazed collector *, and had never really been rearranged. ‘It’s always going to be something’ they had realised.

  *[These terms are often synonymous]

  Of course, it might have had nothing to do with it. Tamar was not really the settling down type and, had the wedding gone ahead, (and it was not as if she did not want it to – after all, she loved him) it probably would not have changed her very much. Tamar was a natural fighter and likely to remain so.

  Denny himself was all for a quiet life – if at all possible. But the chances were slim to none really. Even without the advent of some maniac trying to take over the world, there were plenty of other, less adventurous, maniacs out there to be dealt with. And on top of them were the aforementioned werewolves, not to mention wizards, witches (the bad kind at least) politicians, gangsters, and the remaining Djinn still to be hunted up. It was not as if Tamar was going to let it go. She never let anything go.

  Like that guy in the cinema queue. It was funny really, but Denny thought that kind of thing seemed to be happening more often lately (or was it his imagination?) A definite upsurge in obnoxious behaviour. Nothing dangerous really, nor criminal exactly, just … cruel or mean conduct, like the way school kids could be.

  Because of her already low opinion of humanity in general (she conscientiously excepted Denny, Stiles and even Cindy from “humanity” in general) Tamar had not really noticed anything, but Denny’s radar was definitely twitching. Something was going on, he thought – or might be anyway. At least it was worth keeping an eye on.

  * * *

  Jack Stiles P. P. I. (Private Paranormal Investigator) London, NY, LA, Aberdeen, (often all at the same time) formerly of Scotland Yard – until he was kidnapped by vampires and lost his job – was noticing a sinister new trend of his own. A larger than normal number of child abductions and all occurring under extremely bizarre circumstances.

  Why else, he supposed, would the frantic parents be coming to him and not the ?

  Many of the parents reported seeing their baby turning into a bizarre creature before their very eyes and then vanishing. Not the sort of thing you want to report to the police.

  Descriptions of these creatures varied immensely, but all the reports had one thing in common. The people who saw the creatures universally agreed that what they saw was evil and was definitely not their baby, arguing that the real children had already been taken awa
y some time before these creatures were discovered. And who could tell just how long before?

  Stiles was, for once, completely stumped. He had no idea what could possibly be going on. He decided to ask Tamar what she thought about it.

  * * *

  Tamar turned a dull crimson as Stiles related his tale, but, she had to admit, that she had no more idea than he did about what might be going on. Research was more in Denny’s line; Tamar was all about the action.

  But just let Denny find out who was behind this and point her at them.

  ‘There’ll be nothing left but scraps,’ she asserted angrily.

  Stiles filled them in on the details – such as they were. Only very young children, less than a year old were affected by the phenomenon. Any older siblings seemed to be left severely alone, although many of them were exhibiting strange behaviour. However, this, Stiles thought, could quite reasonably be attributed to trauma caused by the horror of the situation in which they found themselves.

  Tamar agreed, ‘I think we can dismiss that,’ she said.

  But Denny was not so sure. ‘What kind of strange behaviour?’ he wanted to know.

  Stiles shrugged. ‘I could find out,’ he said. ‘Do you think it’s important?’

  ‘It might be,’ said Denny. ‘I just don’t know. I never heard of anything like this before,’ he added.

  ‘Sketches of these creatures might be helpful,’ he said now, ‘if you can get them. They don’t have to be Rembrandts, just a general idea you know.’

  Stiles nodded. ‘I’ll get right on it,’ he promised.

  Somehow, he felt better now. Tamar and Denny would sort this out. He had never yet seen them fail.

  Suddenly a horrible wailing and shrieking was heard from above. Stiles jumped up startled.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Tamar. ‘It’s only Cindy,’

  Stiles listened, and the sound resolved itself. She was singing what was, apparently, a lullaby, in a voice more suited to the luring of crows than the lulling of byes.