Title: Portraits of a Faerie Queen
Series: The Faerie Court
Chronicles, Book 1
Author: Tay LaRoi
Publisher: NineStar
Press
Release Date: July 3, 2017
Heat Level: 1 - No Sex
Pairing: Female/Female
Length: 83500
Genre: Fantasy, fantasy, urban
fantasy, action, lesbian, cisgender, artist, faeries, magic users, mythical
creatures, college
Synopsis
In
the midst of a summer storm, seventeen-year-old Jocelyn Lennox swerves to miss
a strange creature in the road. The resulting accident leaves her mother in a
coma with doctors skeptical about her recovery. Desperate for answers, Jocelyn
returns to the scene of the accident to discover that the creature was one of
the good folk—a faerie. Not only that, but the queen of Faerie herself is
willing to listen to Jocelyn’s story and offer her help.
For
a price, of course.
The
two strike a deal: Jocelyn will paint the queen seven portraits and, in
exchange, the queen will heal Jocelyn’s mother. Unfortunately, nothing in the
faerie realm is ever that simple. The closer Jocelyn comes to finishing the
paintings, the harder malicious magical forces try to ensnare her. If she isn’t
careful or can’t complete the portraits by October 31st, the day of the
Hallowed Offering, her mother’s life won’t be the only one in jeopardy.
Excerpt
Portraits
of a Faerie Queen
Tay
LaRoi © 2017
All
Rights Reserved
Chapter
One
I
don’t breathe.
The
slightest nudge could ruin the brush stroke, destroying the entire effect I
want. According to the Faerie Queen, I have yet to properly capture what she
calls her “unique blend of splendor, grace, and power.” She rejected the first
two attempts in mere seconds. She’s a picky one, Her Majesty.
On
the canvas, she looks over the wild fields outside as if she has just conquered
them. Wreaths of roses surround her in honor of the fallen. An auburn waterfall
of braids frames her heart-shaped face, tumbling over her bare shoulders and
brushing against her elegant gown. It’s a funeral shroud that silhouettes her
curvaceous body. She could be wearing it in memory of any number of the
dismembered skeletons beneath her feet.
Or
is it to honor her next victim? It’s a toss-up.
All
those details were a cakewalk this time around, compared to the depths of her
green eyes. Those eyes are always the hardest part. It’s nearly impossible to
mimic the way they trap you. The way they sparkle as you pour out your heart
and plead for a miracle. The way they coldly calculate whether you’re worthy.
I
lift the brush from the canvas, leaving all of her mystery and seduction
embodied in oil paint. My body and soul alike give a relieved sigh.
Six
paintings down. One to go.
One
more painting and Mom will wake up.
Thanks
to my housemate, I don’t get to savor the moment.
Faeries
like him have this power about them. They heighten your senses, bringing the
world to life and sharpening everything in it. He thinks I spend too much time
in my head and the only suitable remedy is spontaneous guerilla attacks,
apparently.
I
take a breath, then tumble out of my chair and fling a clean paintbrush at him,
letting loose a war cry like the world has never known.
The
kitchen broom comes down and raps against the back of my chair. The brush sails
past my housemate’s face and he watches it land in the hallway.
“Better,
Jocelyn,” he concludes, “but now you’re defenseless. And what exactly was that
god-awful noise?”
“My
war cry,” I answer, propping myself up on my elbows. “It was supposed to either
startle or confuse you. Judging by your expression, it worked.”
He
smirks, drops the broom, and offers me his hand. “Oh, I’m confused, all right.
Confused as to why you thought it would startle me.”
I
take his hand, stand up, and point a paint-covered brush at him. “Keep it up,
and I’ll give you whiskers while you sleep.”
“Do
so and I’ll steal your firstborn child.”
I
study him and wonder if he’s serious. He can’t be. Can he? He can’t.
The
day we first met, the day I made the deal with the Faerie Queen, he asked me to
call him Dominic, but I doubt that’s his real name. Faeries aren’t keen on
giving them out, especially to the lowly humans they’re supposed to babysit.
Lucky for me, he doesn’t take his job seriously. Given his disheveled clothes
and messy pine-green hair, he’s literally been sleeping on the job.
“You
feeling okay?” I ask, retrieving the clean paintbrush.
“Right
as rain.” He yawns, itching a pointed ear. “Just needed a nap before I meet a
friend.” His yawn closes to a grin when his obsidian gaze falls on the
painting. “You finished it?”
“Sure
did,” I reply as I begin to wash the paint-covered brushes. “Come have a look.”
Dominic
sets his hands on his hips and studies the canvas. “To be fair, ruining this
would have been a pity. This is stunning, Jocelyn.”
“It
better be.” I sigh. “That’s my third attempt.”
“I’m
sure Her Majesty will love it.” Patting me on the shoulder, Dominic adds, “You
deserve a break. Could you take something to Iver for me?”
“Running
errands counts as a break?” I tease.
Dominic
digs in his pocket and pulls out a small wrapped package. “Well, you don’t know
how to relax, and it’s pitiful for a seventeen-year-old to stay home on a
Friday night. Maybe you’ll find inspiration for your last painting.”
I
take the parcel. “How is a nightclub going to inspire me to paint the Queen of
Faerie?”
Dominic
shrugs. “You tell me. You’re the artist.” He points to my shirt. “Change first,
please. You know how we folk are about appearances.”
“Paint-spatter
and turpentine aren’t all the rage in the Faerie Realm?”
“Not
at the moment, no,” Dominic replies crisply.
I
quickly change into clean jeans and a black T-shirt, barely noticing the large
scar on my chest shaped like deadly nightshade; its badass aura wore off a
while ago. It’s the only real noticeable mark left on my body. The scars from
last summer’s car accident, the beginning of all this faerie craziness, have
mostly faded.
After
my mother and I swerved to miss a small figure in the road early last spring,
everyone told me it was a fawn, or maybe a lost bear cub. Neither of those walk
upright on twig-like legs with a hunched back, so I went looking for answers
shortly after being released from the hospital. Imagine my surprise when I
stumbled onto a whole hidden world of strange creatures, including the Queen of
Faerie herself. And, lucky me, she was in a bargain-making mood. Unlucky me,
she likes to physically mark those she makes a deal with. Apparently a simple
signature isn’t binding enough.
A
metal cross hangs around my neck. My sister, Annalise, gave it to me before I
moved to Grand Harbor, supposedly to enroll in an intensive art program for
high school seniors. In reality I’m here under the queen’s orders since it’s
the closest human town to the Faerie Court. I’m only an hour away from them,
but they feel a world away sometimes. It’s better than Her Majesty’s original
idea of making me live with her at court, I guess. Dominic stepped up and
offered to look after me, thank God. I don’t like to think about the kind of
life I’d be living now if he hadn’t. All I know is that it would be the
farthest thing from a fairy tale.
I
look in the bathroom mirror long enough to rake a comb through my hair. Light
blue eyes that match my dad’s stare back. I’ve got his thin Anglo features too,
but with a softer jaw, longer lashes, and a slender figure. Mom always said he
was good looking and I guess I am too, except in a girlish sort of way.
Emphasis on the “ish.” My shaggy pixie cut, lack of makeup and simple wardrobe
prevent me from being labeled anything close to “girly.” That’s okay, though.
I’ve also got my dad’s killer sense of humor to help me get the ladies.
I
mean, it hasn’t helped me lately, but it will one day. Mark my words.
Downstairs,
Dominic skims his vast collection of herbs and spices. There are so many jars,
bags, and boxes that I hardly remember what the counter looks like. “Care for
some tea?” he asks.
“No,
thanks,” I reply, hunting for my tiny leather satchel and keys. They’re on the
table. The only photos in the house catch my eye as I slip them into my pocket.
Nine-year-old
me took the first, so it’s crooked. I took it in our backyard. Annalise stands
behind my mother in a bright yellow dress and weaves flowers into Mom’s hair. A
temporary unicorn tattoo glitters on her chubby cheek. My mom kneels in a
matching dress with her crow’s feet revealing how often she used to laugh. I
hope she still laughs like that once she wakes up .
The
other photo is of my dad. He sits at a picnic table wearing flannel and denim,
warming his hands by a campfire as he grins at the camera. Our hair even seems
to fall in our faces the same way.
He
died of leukemia shortly after I turned thirteen. Annalise was ten.
He
would never let us know how much the disease ate at him. Even toward the end,
when he couldn’t even sit up, he’d crack jokes and tell stories. He only got
serious when we were leaving the hospital. He would always say, “You’re in
charge till I get back, Jocelyn. Take good care of your mom and sister for me.”
Safe
to say I wasn’t the best woman for the job.
Dominic
breaks through my thoughts. “Are you sure? I need a taste tester.”
“Save
me some. I’ll drink it when I get back.”
Dominic
frowns but doesn’t argue. “If you insist.”
I
grab my jacket and head out the door.
The
crisp evening air blows through the woods surrounding the old farmhouse where
we live, carrying the smell of fall leaves. Even on gloomy days, the
surrounding trees glow with bright reds, shining yellows, and warm oranges. I
imagine it’s because we’re so close to the Faerie Court.
That’s
probably why the shadows look so sinister after dark too.
My
old green Volkswagen coughs to life and sputters down the dusty driveway. One
thing I didn’t inherit from my father was his knack for cars. At this point,
I’m pretty sure it runs more on prayers than gas.
The
worn brown “Welcome to Grand Harbor” sign flies by as the town springs up from
the northern Michigan forest. Tall old houses with wraparound porches line the
street. Smaller brick homes and tiny shops sit in the mix. All of them hold
their own against the newer seasonal cabins and retreats.
Two
of the main reasons people come to Grand Harbor pan out on either side of Main
Street: Lake Michigan on my left and James-Child College on my right. It’s a
small private college with a tiny student population and little athletic merit
but nationally renowned academics. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I never
had the grades to even sneeze near the place.
The
town passes by in a flash, and I cross the railroad tracks into the old
run-down industrial area. Most of the buildings are tombs of abandoned outdated
manufacturing practices and home to a plethora of supposed hauntings and
campfire stories. It’s probably the work of faerie troublemakers–imps and
pixies and such–but I’m not stupid enough to go investigating.
Besides,
I already know exactly where to find said troublemakers.
The
Time Between is a refurbished factory-turned-nightclub packed with local fae
who live in or near the Human Realm. Many come wanting to escape the watchful
eye of the Faerie Court. Others find humans fascinating. Some see us as easy
pickings.
They
all stop by the club to purchase spells and charms to ward off the effects of
iron, which saturates the human world. For faeries, iron is like an allergy
with a license to kill.
The
burn on my chest grants me protection and entrance. No faerie in their right
mind would touch someone wearing the queen’s mark, human or not. The bouncer
gives me a nod, and I sink into the sea of music, magic, deception, and
alcohol.
Iver,
the elven bartender, spots me, pours me a cola, and waits.
I
yell over the pounding music, “Hey, where’s the rum?”
Iver
lets out a booming laugh far bigger and deeper than one would expect from his
slender frame. “I think not, young one,” he chortles in his Scandinavian
accent. “Human Realm, human rules.”
“Since
when do faeries care about human rules?” I ask, taking a sip. Drinks with
blood, poisonous plants, and insects are on the menu, but serving a minor
alcohol is not allowed? How is that fair?
“Since
you’re an important human,” he answers, tightening his long pale-blond
ponytail. “How are the paintings coming along?”
I
sit up a little straighter with pride. “I finished number six. Just gotta paint
one more, and I’m done. In the meantime—” I pull the package from my pocket.
“—Dominic has me running errands.”
Iver’s
expression hardens as he takes the delivery. He looks it over and puts it into
his apron. “Thank you, Jocelyn. The drink’s on the house.”
He
goes back to serving patrons with a new smile on his face, leaving me to survey
the crowd for a bit.
The
flashing lights from the dance floor and the shadows around the bar make it
hard to tell who’s what in here. A lot of them are probably wearing glamours, a
disguise woven of magic. Most of the faeries appear humanoid with a hodgepodge
of deviations: translucent wings, the occasional pair of goat legs, deer noses,
stonelike skin, long floppy ears, and eyes that resemble the cosmos. I wish
they’d stay still enough for me to sketch them.
Someone
bumps into me and plops down on the next stool. He takes off his bright crimson
beanie and runs a hand over his spiky black hair. The smell of blood on him is
impossible to ignore.
The
smell and the beanie tell me that he’s a redcap. Dominic once told me they have
to dye their hats with blood on a regular basis to stay alive. The universe
must have been in a pretty bad mood when it made these guys.
“Give
me the strongest thing you’ve got,” he barks at Iver. “No ice.”
“Bad
day?” I ask.
“Terrible,”
the redcap grumbles. “Source fell through. Had to get my own damned fix. One of
the queen’s knights spotted me and asked all sorts of unpleasant questions. Had
to think fast.”
Iver
sets a glass of clear liquor in front of him and the redcap takes a sip.
“And
I thought life was rough under Queen Titania—she was an angel next to her
sister. At least she left us solitary folk in peace.”
From
my understanding, solitary fae are the vagabonds of their realm. They normally
live outside the queen’s lands and do as they please but behave themselves in
her territory for their own sake. That’s how it’s supposed to work, anyway.
Grand
Harbor is close enough to the queen’s borders that one would think she’d do
more to stop her subjects preying on humans, but no. Such stories are
commonplace. How they stay clear of human suspicion is even more baffling.
Magic and all that jazz, I suppose.
The
redcap twirls his beanie in one hand, looking at it with disdain. “I was nearly
out of juice, too.” With a sigh, he puts it down and nurses his liquor. “And I
had to settle for A-positive again. I’m damn near sick of A-positive.”
Well,
there goes my quitter’s streak.
Shortly
after moving to Grand Harbor, I started smoking. It’s not exactly legal, given
my age, but after the first month of this madness, Dominic’s teas stopped being
sufficient stress relief. Lucky for me, Dominic is the worst babysitter ever. I
collect plants from the woods around the farmhouse for him and he buys me
cigarettes. I’m trying to quit, but this conversation is kicking my craving
into overdrive. The idea that someone is out there, possibly bleeding to death,
while this asshat is complaining about what kind of blood he had is stressing
me out. I can’t do anything for him, and that gets under my skin. That’s
probably exactly what this jerk wants.
“You
humans aren’t easy to nab these days,” the redcap continues. “You’re all so
suspicious. Greedy, too. Want to keep all your blood to yourself.”
“Gee,
can’t imagine why,” I mutter, fishing in my jacket for my pack and lighter.
Guess I “forgot” to check it when Dominic and I purged the house.
The
redcap gulps down the rest of his drink and motions to Iver for a refill. “It’s
not like I killed the guy. A few transfusions and he’ll be fine.” A
sharp-toothed smirk creeps onto his face. “If they find him in time.”
He
should know better than to mess with my head. I’ve been around his kind too
long to take such obvious bait. I light my cigarette and take a long drag
instead to calm my nerves.
The
redcap finishes his second drink and says, “You’re the painter girl, right? You
go to the court a lot? Any juicy gossip you’d like to share?”
“I
actually haven’t been there in a while.” I take another drag to replace the
redcap’s toxicity with something less poisonous. “You?”
“Nah.
They don’t like my kind poking around. I hear tell that the queen’s changeling
daughter is getting popular, though. Her Majesty must be slacking if her
thrown-away kid has more fans than her.” The redcap orders yet another drink,
even though his speech has started to slur.
Fun
fact: faeries are lightweights.
“No
idea why she keeps her,” he continues. “Most monarchs would have slaughtered a
changeling that came crawling back. The queen’s losing her marbles.”
I
just want to finish my rum-less cola in peace. Is that too much to ask?
Since
there are no more empty seats, I chug it and get ready to leave. My gaze falls
on the exit as I search for Iver to say goodbye.
Five
human girls walk in and catch my eye.
Five
very lost, very oblivious, and very vulnerable human girls.
Purchase
Links
NineStar Press: https://ninestarpress.com/product/portraits-of-a-faerie-queen/
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/731141
Where did the characters come from?
"Then upspoke the Fairy Queen, 'Tam Lin, if I had know,
I would have pulled out both your eyes to give you eyes of stone.'"
I hadn't been paying much mind to the Mediaeval Baebes'
rendition of "The Ballad of Tam Lin" before I heard that line. It was
just some nice background music to study to, but that line made me sit up
straight and replay the track over, then a few more times for good measure, and
then look up where the song originally came from, studying to do or no.
The more that I learned about the original story, the more I
wanted to try and do something new with it. Who was this malicious fairy queen
who went around threatening to pull people's eyes out? She certainly wasn't in
any of my storybooks growing up. And why were the fairies offering people to
Hell? What on earth was that all about?
Most importantly, what was going through Tam Lin's head
while all this was going on?
I put off working with the story for quite a while. One of
my favorite authors, Holly Black, had done a retelling of the ballad some years
earlier in her novel, "Tithe," and it was absolutely brilliant. I
didn't know it was a retelling until I started my research of the original
"Tam Lin," and the realization left me feeling skeptical that I could
pull off my own. How could I possibly take this story and make something as
original, creative, whimsical, and dark as she had while still making it
completely my own?
I didn't have time to find an answer. The final project for
my creative writing class was coming due and inspiration had decided to take
the weak off, so I sat down and did my best to write a short story and prayed
the whole time that my professor wouldn't detect the novel lurking underneath.
I thought maybe being at a Christian college would give my
prayer an extra boost, but no. I went unanswered.
On the day I went to pick up the short story from my
professor's office so that I could edit it and turn it back in for a final
grade, his door happened to be open. The second he saw me and beckoned me in, I
knew I was busted. He knew that I knew this I hadn't written a short story. I
had slapped the ending on haphazardly hoping he wouldn't know.
I thought for sure he'd want me to start all over and write
an ACTUAL short story, but instead he praised it. He encouraged me to turn the
story into the first chapter we both knew it was meant it to be.
Three years, countless hours reading faerie lore, and at
least three or four drafts later, it's become so much more than a first
chapter.
I say all this to tell young and new writers to listen when
someone you respect says they see something in your work. Whoever it is,
they're encouraging you because they see something in your work and they want you
and your story to grow. Take that encouragement and run with it. You owe it to
yourself and your story. :)
Meet
the Author
Tay grew up reading too many fairy tales and watching too many movies,
which is probably why she writes fantasy now. When she’s not at her day job or
writing, she can be found taking spontaneous drives to new places, and drinking
way too much coffee. Her first book, “Portraits of a Faerie Queen,” is set to
be released in 2017.
Author
Links
Website: http://www.taylaroi.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TayLaRoi
Twitter: https://twitter.com/TayLaroi
Tour
Schedule
7/3 A
Book Lover's Dream Book Blog abookloversdreambookblog.com
7/4 Love
Bytes www.lovebytesreviews.com
7/4 My
Fiction Nook http://myfictionnook.com
7/5 Boy
Meets Boy reviews Boymeetsboyreviews.blogspot.com
7/5 Happily
Ever Chapter https://www.facebook.com/happilyeverchapter
7/6 Wicked
Faerie's Tales and Reviews http://wickedfaeriesreviews.blogspot.com
7/6 Divine
Magazine https://www.divinemagazine.biz/
7/7 Dean
Frech http://deanfrech.blogspot.com/
7/7 MM
Good Book Reviews https://mmgoodbookreviews.wordpress.com/
Giveaway
One lucky winner will receive an ebook
of their choice from NineStar Press
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