Emmaline

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

Emmaline crouched behind the hedge, carefully arranging the spell components on a velvet cloth. The sigil shimmered, sparking faintly as her magic surged through it. Just a little nudge, she told herself. Not enough to ruin the woman’s life—just her face. Temporarily. Maybe.

The Glider slowed, its sleek obsidian frame catching the faint sparkle of the Vale’s magical currents.

No horses led the way; instead, delicate tendrils of light coiled around the wheel’s gilded spokes, drawing power from the city’s central power hub.

Carvings of blooming flowers adorned its sides, their petals glowing softly.

It was the sort of conveyance that might carry a princess to her destiny—or at least a night of debauchery with the city’s most eligible bachelor.

But Emmaline was no princess, and her destiny involved less grace and more sabotage.

She ducked lower under the bush’s branches, her heart pounding as she watched the carriage come to a stop in front of the reclusive residence.

The soft crunch of gravel under its wheels seemed impossibly loud in the still night.

Clutching the spell pouch, her fingers shook—not with nerves, of course, but with righteous indignation.

Tonight, she would put an end to this disgusting display.

It had taken weeks to discover this hidden alcove, the so-called “entertainment house” Lord Caelith used to parade his dalliances.

But she didn’t have weeks left to wait. The Summer Solstice was only two weeks away, and Lady Isolde would use her annual ball to secure his engagement.

The thought burned like poison in her veins.

The carriage door swung open, releasing a faint whisper of polished hinges and a hint of enchanted cedar.

And then, he appeared. Lord Caelith.

Her breath caught, the world narrowing at the sight of him descending the gleaming steps.

His golden hair shone under the light of the sconces, every strand falling in perfect, artful disarray.

The sharp line of his jaw, the slight curve of his lips—surely no creature alive could be so flawlessly crafted.

His polished boots barely made a sound on the stones, as though the world itself dared not disturb him.

This was her mate. Her destiny.

Emmaline bit her lip, a familiar rush of longing coursing through her. How could someone so magnificent, so clearly meant for her, waste his time with these fleeting distractions?

Tonight’s diversion followed him out of the Glider.

Between the diamond-studded hairpins and the thin silver chains that draped her gown, the woman practically glittered.

Though it wasn’t just the woman’s clearly expensive gown or perfect elfin beauty that stung, it was the effortless confidence she wore like armor.

Emmaline’s stomach twisted. She could never shine like that, no matter how hard she tried.

Her dresses came from secondhand stalls, her charm felt brittle and unpracticed, and the shadows of a life lived on the edges of society clung to her like cobwebs.

But none of that mattered. It couldn’t. Not when her entire future was riding on tonight’s plan. If she failed to make Caelith see her, truly see her, then she would lose him forever. And that...that wasn’t something she could bear.

He doesn’t actually like this brainless, self-styled princess, she reassured herself. He’s just using her to keep his mother happy.

That woman had been a thorn in Emmaline’s side from the very beginning.

With her poised demeanor and calculating smile, Lady Isolde ruled over her son’s social calendar like a tyrant.

Every time Emmaline came close to catching Caelith alone, his mother was there, orchestrating some new outing aimed at finding him a “worthy” wife.

A Lord’s luncheon here, a ball there, always ensuring her son was surrounded by suitable candidates from the most prestigious clans.

Proper matches, as Lady Isolde liked to call them.

It didn’t matter that Emmaline had uncovered their mate bond.

Lady Isolde would never entertain the thought of her golden, faultless son being tied to someone like her, a lowly clerk with no political connections or dazzling titles.

And if that conniving woman announced his engagement at the Solstice ball, Emmaline’s chance to make him see reason would be lost forever.

But it isn’t the solstice yet, she thought, her determination hardening. Once Caelith realized the depth of their bond—how flawlessly their souls aligned—not even his meddling mother would stop them from being together.

Her gaze flicked once more to the woman stepping out of the carriage, a hollow vision of glitz and glamour. She was exactly the kind of “match” Lady Isolde would adore: polished, obedient, and utterly boring.

It’s almost tragic, Emmaline mused, her lips quirking. She doesn’t even realize she’s wasting her time.

Reaching into her pouch, Emmaline pulled out the spell components: powdered starlight, a sprig of nightshade, and a lock of borrowed hair.

It was a simple thing, subtle—a tiny nudge to throw the woman off balance.

While not exactly ethical, it was enough to ruin her night and maybe bruise her pride.

And show Caelith that this Lady wasn’t worth his time or attention.

Emmaline whispered the incantation under her breath, magic sparking to life in her palms. Her Light magic wasn’t the most potent, but when it came to illusions, she was quite talented, perhaps even gifted, though modesty kept her from saying so aloud.

And, of course, she was thorough. She’d done her research.

Lord Caelith’s date, despite her impeccable exterior, was not without flaws.

For one, she had an embarrassing fear of a creature known as a plimrat.

They were small, scuttling things with too many legs and a penchant for hiding in shadowy corners.

Not a threat to anyone, they were undeniably grotesque.

As the spell took shape, an illusion took form in the center of the cobblestone path. Just as the woman lifted her slippered foot to descend from the carriage, a fat, writhing plimrat scampered into view, its bulbous eyes blinking and teeth chattering.

The effect was immediate.

The woman’s shriek pierced the night as she recoiled, her arms pinwheeling in a desperate attempt to maintain balance. Her jeweled gown caught under her heel, and she toppled forward, flailing with all the grace of a drunken sprite.

“Oh shite.” Emmaline followed the woman’s path.

Caelith, who had been gazing distractedly into the distance, turned just in time to see her careen toward the courtyard’s centerpiece: a towering statue of an elven maiden carved from enchanted crystal.

He moved to catch her, but too late. A sickening crack echoed through the courtyard as her head slammed into the pointed edge of the statue’s base.

Her body crumpled to the ground in an unceremonious heap, and for a moment, there was silence, save for the faint hum of magic in the air.

Emmaline pressed a hand to her mouth, peering through the hedge. This…wasn’t quite what she’d planned. The plimrat had vanished the moment the spell ended, but the aftermath was horrifyingly real.

Glistening under the moonlight, blood pooled beneath the woman’s head, dark and viscous.

Caelith dropped to his knees beside her, but as he leaned closer, a fresh spray of blood erupted, splattering his cream-colored jacket.

And a glistening bit of—was that brain matter? —landed squarely on his lapel.

“Goddess!” he choked, recoiling as his face drained of color.

From her hiding spot, Emmaline grimaced, but a tiny, involuntary snort escaped her.

She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling the laugh before it could escape.

It wasn’t funny, of course. Not really. But there was something about Caelith’s disgusted expression, the way he held his arms out as though afraid to touch his own clothes, that was absurdly… satisfying.

“She should’ve watched where she was going.” Emmaline bit her lip to keep from giggling outright as Caelith stood abruptly. Why did the urge to laugh always strike her at the worst possible moments?

Tugging at his stained coat with two fingers, he held it away from his body like it might bite him.

“Tink’s titties. What do I… gods, what do I do?” He took a tentative step closer, his heels catching on the edge of her gown. Grimacing, he bent down, his hand hovering uncertainly above her neck, fingers twitching.

Is he checking for a heartbeat? Emmaline leaned forward.

“Come on,” he hissed at himself. “Just… just—”

But he jerked his hand back instead, raising it to his mouth as he stumbled away.

Hidden in the bushes, Emmaline shrank further into the shadows, her own pulse pounding in her ears. She clutched the leafy branches around her like they could shield her from what she’d just done… or at least from getting caught.

She can’t be dead, the thought echoed in her mind. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. If anyone finds out…

Backing further away, Caelith fumbled in his coat pocket, pulling out a small, engraved golden disc—a Lord’s version of a speak-easy, as they were called. It was the Vale’s answer to human-made cell phones out in the mundane world.

He twisted one of the dials, the faint scrap of metal against metal slicing through the quiet, before raising the disc to his lips.

“Get out here. Now.” His voice was low and clipped.

The disc hummed as the other end connected. Whatever reply he received was too soft for Emmaline to hear, but she saw his shoulders stiffen, and his fingers tighten around the device.

“Just hurry,” he snapped before cutting the connection with another flick of the dials.

Emmaline’s chest ached as she watched him pace in small, frantic circles, his hands running through his perfect golden hair, leaving it deliciously disheveled. Even in distress, he is magnificent.

But then her eyes slid back to the unmoving figure on the ground, and the gnawing dread in her stomach deepened.

Is she… dead?

The thought hit her like a punch to the gut.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen death before.

Anyone who’d been around for the War and then the Great Move from Wales to the New World had seen more than their fair share of horrific violence.

But murder was still frowned upon, and if caught, she’d…

The air escaped her lungs in short, sharp bursts.

She didn’t know exactly what would happen to her.

A full-blood Ellyllon of the upper classes had not been murdered in hundreds of years.

They’ll take him away from me. Her heart raced faster.

Biting her lip, she began to inch backward through the hedge, her mind spinning.

Her plan might have gone a little too far, but it wasn’t her fault the woman had tripped so spectacularly.

None of this would have happened if she’d stayed home instead of trying to steal Emmaline’s Goddess-given mate.

This was just fate correcting itself. Right? Nobody could be mad about that.

She had almost reached the edge of the foliage when her speak-easy chimed from her dress pocket.

Oh shite.

Caelith froze, his head snapping toward her, eyes narrowing as his hand hovered over his belt knife.

“Who’s there?” He scanned the shadows as if he could pluck the intruder out of hiding with sheer will.

Her speak-easy—blasted thing—continued to chime softly in her pocket, the glowing runes casting soft, traitorous light onto the leaves around her.

Of course, it would go off now. Why not?

The Goddess clearly had a sense of humor, which apparently involved throwing her into increasingly absurd levels of mortal peril and embarrassment. Which was worse, she didn’t know.

Freaking Ursula, she thought, glancing at the call signature on the device. If there’s trouble, that witch always finds her way into the center of it.

“It’s all right.” His brows furrowed, expression shifting from alarmed to calculating. “Whoever you are, you don’t have to hide. Just come out, and we can talk. You saw what happened, didn’t you?”

His tone had lost any trace of tension.

He doesn’t care that his date might be dead, she thought, heart hammering. Obviously, he doesn’t care for her. Emmaline’s mind whirled. But he would care that someone might spread rumors.

“Come on,” he tried again, taking a careful step forward. “You don’t need to be afraid. We’ll sort this out together. No harm will come to you. I’m sure the Lady is fine.” He chuckled. “It takes more than a little bump on the head to hurt an elven Lady of the Vale.”

She huffed a small laugh. The crystal statue had done a bit more than a little bump to the head.

Should I stay? Her thoughts raced. Maybe I can spin this somehow. Make him see me. But what if—

The snap of a twig behind her shattered her train of thought. Before she could react, something cold and sharp pressed against her back, sending a chill down her spine.

“Run, and you’ll regret it,” came a rough voice, barely above a whisper. “Out of the hedge. Slowly.”