Amazing cover and series design by Marisa covermedarling
Stock photos from depositphotos and pixabay
Professional editing by the incomparable M. E. Weglarz of megedits, a woman with a true gift for spotting plot holes, character anomalies, black holes, and other potential WTFs. Thank you, Meg, from the bottom of my heart.
And special thanks to some very special ladies – Anjee Zable, Heather Black, Kasey Belle, Tonya Baker, Maddie Wade, and C.E. Black (and a few of you who prefer to remain unnamed – you know who you are) - for agreeing to beta read this book and providing such wonderful feedback. This is a better story because of them!
... and THANK YOU to all of you for selecting this book. You didn’t have to, but you did.
Before You Begin
Faerie Godmother is the first book in my Mythic series. Each story is a full book in and of itself, a standalone story of paranormal romance with plenty of humor and emotion.
Within the pages, you will encounter vampires, shifters, angels, demons, fae, witches, mages, goddesses... just to name a few. It is only recently that these Extraordinaries, as they call themselves, coexist peacefully in the idyllic community of Mythic. Very few know of their existence; understandably, they prefer to keep to themselves. However, you’ve been granted a special look into the world of these amazing being. But be warned -—once you visit Mythic, you might not want to leave.
WARNING: This book contains some adult language and situations, and is intended for mature (18+) readers only.
Chapter 1 – Something’s Different
“There he is! Quick, grab his arms and help me drag him into the shade.”
Vlane heard the voices, but they were oddly muted and far away, as if someone had left that infernal box squawking in the other room again. He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t. Nor, it seemed, could he roll over. The previous night’s party event must have gone much better than expected if he was in this poor condition. He had no conscious memory of imbibing so heavily. Actually, he had no conscious memory of anything, really.
He felt an odd sensation, a stretching kind of pressure in his arms and legs. Was he on a rack, then? In the earlier days of his conversion, it had been one of his favorites. There was nothing quite like having your extremities pulled tight while an entire village doused you with holy water and tried to drive a stake into your heart, mistakenly believing piercing an already-dormant object would matter. Idiots.
Ah, he did miss the Middle Ages. A simpler time, really. Fewer choices. People weren’t as educated. Bloodline determined everything, but even across social barriers, there were some universal truths when it came to the undead. Topping that list: Vampires were immortal, barring beheading and being subsequently burned to ash, of course. Only a phoenix could survive that.
Another: Vampires were neither damned nor soulless. Many, in fact, were quite pious. They were simply a highly evolved form of a basic human, possessing greater strength, speed, and superior intelligence.
And, after hundreds of years of existence, even vampires could succumb to the inevitable drain of ennui.
It was the last that had begun to overshadow the benefits of the first two these past hundred years or so. Vlane’s life had become so predictable, so monotonous, even this slight variation (uncomfortable as it was) was welcome. A bit of pain always enhanced the mundane, as did anything that caused his quiescent neurons to start firing again. Pain, sex, strong emotions — all things Vlane had not personally experienced in a very long time.
Yes, he realized sadly, even this slight discomfort was welcome. If it had been an option, he might have preferred some rather vigorous sex. Though, after several centuries, even that had become rote and bromidic. Women – especially human women – were predictable, and often too frail to sate his carnal hungers adequately. He could follow Kristoff’s example and simply indulge in multiple women at one time, thus dividing his focus and subsequently making it easier for a human woman to tolerate, but that wasn’t really his style.
At heart, Vlane was an old-fashioned, one-woman-at-a-time kind of guy. In his romanticized ideal, it would be the same woman, over and over again, but alas, he had yet to encounter a single female he wanted to revisit once, let alone repeatedly. They were all the same — barring slight variations in physical appearance, of course. Not one had stood out, or called to him on a level deeper than his cock.
Which was rather disappointing after centuries and centuries of looking for the right one.
“Watch his head. Lift it. No, higher.”
A sharp stab of pain at the back of his head preceded a muttered curse (was that Latin?) and a sudden tug upward.
“Oh, sorry about that, Vlane.”
The jarring sensation he now felt across his buttocks was even less welcome than the stretching of his limbs. Was he being spanked? Vlane had enjoyed a good caning a time or two, but again, that was more Kristoff’s area of expertise. Of course, there was a heady rush to be found in a lush feminine behind blushing from a healthy caress. But this...this wasn’t nearly as enjoyable.
Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The air felt cooler than it had been only a few minutes ago. The warm, almost-burning sensation across his face and neck faded quickly as the pulling and jarring ceased, leaving his rather bumped and bruised body gloriously still.
“Maybe he needs blood. Open your wrist, Kristoff.”
The voice of his long-time friend and sire, Armand, was both comforting and familiar. Something pushed against Vlane’s mouth an instant before a cool, metallic liquid began dripping down his throat. At first, it pleased him, and he latched onto the source greedily. But then he was gagging on it, finding the taste wholly foul and unpalatable.
“What the...?” That was definitely Kristoff, the youngest among them at a mere seventy-five. He caught himself before spewing the vulgar modern colloquialisms eschewed by older, more refined vamps. Vlane, eyes still closed, pushed blindly at Kristoff’s arm.
“What just happened?” inquired Armand, his angelic voice soft but decidedly clear. Vlane was vaguely aware of Armand leaning over his prone figure, using one of his coveted, centuries-old silk handkerchiefs to wipe at the blood now painting Vlane’s face.
“He pushed me away.” Kristoff rocked back on his knees, the voice tinged with disbelief and a touch of panic.
Armand, with the practiced calm of the gentle monk he was, slipped an arm beneath Vlane’s shoulders and lifted him to a slightly better angle. “He is delirious. Try again.”