All’s Fae in Love and War (Fae Isle #1)

Chapter 1

PANDORA’S DIARY

I caught the final ferry of the day to Beane Isle, with a suitcase full of swimsuits, sandals, and hope. This might be my last magical visit, but I refused to let that dampen my spirits. I was going to squeeze every last ounce of pleasure out of this summer.

The ferry chugged beneath me and the island seemed to rise from the early evening waves in shades of blue and green.

My mind filled with memories of sea breezes and sunbaked beaches, of winding trails and birdsong.

As we entered the harbor the passengers gasped with pleasure at the sight of the sunset above the colorful sailboats and picturesque little village.

Beane Isle hardly needs magic to take your breath away.

I felt my soul ease as we docked. The best part about teaching music to elementary school students in Boston is having summers off to spend in Maine, where I grew up. My best friend Deja screamed when she spotted me exiting the ferry, my official welcome committee.

“Pandora!” She waved wildly. “Over here! Pandora! You’re here! You’re late!”

None of the locals were surprised by Deja’s volume. The other travelers, however, weren’t quite braced for the blast of sound.

It was still early in the season for tourists, but Mr. Kim, our one-man tourist board, is always cooking up schemes to bring more business to the island. I noticed posters on the ferry gate for art shows and an October 10k run, in a bid to extend the season.

As Deja bustled toward me, she shouted greetings to the people she knew and apologies to those she didn’t.

She marched through the crowd, wearing a white cotton sweater that bared one tan shoulder and a red skirt which slipped perfectly over her ample hips.

Her dark hair was pulled into a mass of waves on top of her head and one tendril tickled my face as she kissed my cheek and told me we were late.

“I can’t be late,” I said, dragging my suitcase after her. “I just got here.”

“Everyone’s waiting for us at the pub.”

“I look awful!” I told Deja, gesturing to my baggy jeans and cropped gardening T-shirt.

“Are you kidding? You look adorable. That T-shirt is designer, isn’t it?”

“It’s Full Bloom Gardening. I thrifted it for a buck fifty.”

“Well, you make it look designer.”

This is why we are friends.

Across the parking lot, I dumped my suitcase in the back of her golf cart.

There are no gas stations on the island, so everyone gets around by electric vehicles.

Most of the year-round residents are faerie-kin, and we aren’t great with modern engines, on account of being distantly descended from the fae.

But the Dubois family, who have a gift for what they call “little lightning” instead of “electricity,” have kept the carts going since the 1950s.

They rent them to non-faerie-kin—whom we somewhat smugly call “normals”—for tourist prices.

“Fine,” I told Deja, “the Driftwood it is. All roads lead to the D!”

She shot me a look. “Let’s never say that again.”

“All roads lead to the wood?” I asked.

“Well, Gabe is already there,” she said, knowingly. “And so is Shrig.”

I felt myself smile. “Shrig is back?”

“Finally! He’s hyped to see you, too. So is Gabe, even though you broke his heart last year.”

The four of us have been close since fifth grade, though we’d avoided any romance inside the group of friends until last summer.

Gabe and I had both been single, so we’d tried that whole “best friends who screw each other” thing.

Which would’ve been fine, except I discovered that I’m the type of woman who thinks a perfect relationship is one where you’re best friends who screw each other.

That works for me. Gabe, however, decided he wanted…

I don’t know… romance? Except he didn’t want it with me, which did not feel great.

“He broke my heart,” I told Deja.

“You have no heart,” she said.

“Just because I don’t get wide-eyed and dreamy doesn’t mean I have no heart.”

“Okay, okay! You have a heart.” She paused. “It’s just small and cold.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. Maybe I’ll work on that this summer.

When we arrived at the Driftwood, we were greeted by the low thrum of conversation and TV sports.

The pub is perched on the rocky coast just above the harbor, and the lights of the mainland glow across the sea.

On the first floor, the tables are made of salvaged timber, the walls are sea green, and the ceiling is hung with retired racing sails.

It hasn’t changed much since I was a kid, except the sails are beginning to fray and the tables are scuffed.

We ignored the crowd and pushed through a macramé curtain to the stairs leading to the second floor.

A faerie-kin with a gift for knots had made the curtain hard for normals to notice.

They know it’s there, but they just gloss over it: like most of the island magic, actually.

So the second floor is where we gather when we’re not with normal friends.

We found Shrig and Gabe sitting by a window overlooking the water, with Fae Fizzes already waiting for us.

I miss the Driftwood when I’m back in Massachusetts for the school year.

It’s the kind of place where the sexily bearish owner Dennis tends bar and sneakily adds a few extra glugs of elixir to your cocktail to encourage your magic to bloom—even after you’ve told him you don’t care.

I squealed and hugged Shrig. With his olive skin, wavy dark hair, and sexy smile, he’s sure to cut a swath through Beane Isle’s available guys, gals, and non-binary pals this summer. I’d join the line, but Deja considers us sisters so that makes Shrig my brother and out of bounds.

Shrig was just back from years teaching English in Bali. Apparently, he learned Indonesian in two days. With his gift for words, he rarely needs more than a week to learn a new language.

Deja was thrilled to have her twin back.

She’s different with him on the island. More relaxed, less striving to have a good time.

I’d missed that version of her. With all four of us together, everything clicks.

Food tastes better, jokes are funnier. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.

At least until we started our last round of elixirs and Gabe began to whine about his lack of gift.

“You’ve got plenty of time,” Deja told him, slurring her words slightly. “Shrig and I had an uncle who didn’t get his gift until the day before his thirtieth birthday.”

“What was his gift?” Gabe asked.

Shrig shot Deja a nervous look and said, “Irrelevant.”

“It’s not irrelevant!” Deja blared. “It’s magnificent!”

“He could see through the eyes of a dragonfly,” Shrig admitted. “If one was nearby.”

“Dragonfly vision.” Gabe took a steadying breath. “I’m so screwed.”

“You’re not screwed,” I told him. “Gifts are cool, but there’s no reason to put your life on hold waiting for one. Who cares?”

“Who cares?” Gabe repeated, goggling at me. “Who cares?”

“Yeah, it’s weird how many faerie-kin build their whole lives around some random gift. Oh, my gift is making sandcastles, I’m going to be a professional sandcastleist.”

“That is not a thing,” Shrig grumbled, because he is allergic to incorrect language.

“A gift for sandcastles would hardly make them an amateur sandcastleist,” Gabe told him earnestly.

Shrig groaned. “Stop, it hurts.”

“Sometimes it works the other way,” Deja slurred. “When you get a gift based on your profession.”

“I didn’t,” I said. “And here’s the thing. I don’t need one! I’ve taught music at elementary school for years and you know what’s magic?”

“Yeah. Faerie-kin gifts.”

“Finding two kids a year who have natural ears for music. Who really get it. And finding a dozen more who suck, but love it all the same. That’s magic, Gabe.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not turning thirty until November.”

“You’ve got until September,” Deja reminded him. “I’m sure something will happen soon.”

That’s the deadline. If a faerie-kin doesn’t discover their gift by the time they turn thirty, they don’t find it all.

And without a gift, they forget all magic, both present and past. So our memories of a childhood suffused with magic shift into vague recollections of a mundane, non-charmed life.

Our mind no longer recalls how one faerie-kin sculpts high-flying clouds into whatever shape he chooses—like baby hedgehogs, if I ask nicely!

Instead of remembering golden fireworks drawn in the air with gifted fingers, we’ll probably picture someone launching them from the beach; instead of thinking of that one local guy who grows antlers from his head, we’ll remember it as just a hat.

Our brains delete every bit of magic that makes no sense in the normal world.

In short, if we don’t find our gift, we lose our past. Which even I have to admit genuinely sucks. Still, don’t most people forget their childhoods? We are meant to move forward with our lives and create new memories.

At least that is what I tell myself. I have to admit that in my secret heart, I am a tiny bit terrified. Losing your memories means losing part of yourself. Still, if it is inevitable, it is important to make the best of the time you have left.

So, instead of dwelling on my magical past, I intend to create a spectacular future and have one last magical summer.

I’ve vowed to score a few Magical Moments over the next few months.

On my current list are things like Request that the clouds transform into baby hedgehogs; Make a complete loop of the island in the neighbors’ sailboat; and Avoid my ex-boyfriend Leo Carter at all costs.

I’m already taking a win on Moment Number One—Spend my last magical summer with my oldest friends.

“You all know I don’t care about gifts,” I announced. “Yes, I turn thirty this year, and even if I can’t commune with dragonflies I’ve still got my whole life ahead of me. It’s my job to make it good, to find my own success, without leaning on faerie-kin magic.”