Facade (Gargoyle Chronicles #1)

1. Evanee

Evanee

Memories.

Everyone clung to them like treasure. Joy over naive childhoods. Tears for someone they'd lost. Anguish over a lover who moved on. So many memories—each one shaped who they became. Guiding the paths they walked to get to the present day.

I had none of that.

No childhood to remember. No sorrow over death. No lover to ache for when I lie awake at night.

No purpose.

I had no memories except three years of forced servitude under the Fae Queen at her summer castle, Castle Aurelia, in the Eastern Realm. Performing back-breaking work for beings who despise my kind—humans.

The Fae believed humans were weak creatures that leeched the resources from other beings.

They enforced a tithe most humans couldn’t afford, forcing families to repay their debts to the crown with their children.

Those children had grown up together in this harsh environment, forming bonds from a young age.

Not me.

The girls whispered my age like it was a disease when I arrived—twenty-five—treating me as if I were on death’s door. The word was that I’d been dumped at the castle gates under questionable circumstances involving my family. But what the hell would I know about that?

If my age wasn’t enough to set me apart, the mark of witchcraft on my skin does.

Thick, black ink swirled around my wrists and ankles, reflecting the proximity spell that chained me to this place.

Cross that invisible line, and the ink would burn—a flameless fire on my skin that was excruciating and made it feel as if flesh would melt straight off bone.

Another marking of ink encircled my right arm, just above my bicep. But that one was different—lighter in color, softer in the way the lines linked together. I never felt anything from it and didn’t get the sense it did anything like the darker ink.

The sun filtered through the small window, its rays highlighting the Witch’s ink, stark against my skin.

Self-pity buzzed around my head, that little voice screaming why me? What did I do to deserve such a curse that locked my memories away? Where do I come from? Useless questions invaded my mind daily. It seemed like answers would never be mine.

Bells chimed from the northernmost tower of the castle, snapping me from my thoughts.

“Shit,” I muttered, scrambling through the cramped room.

I yanked open the wardrobe, sifting through clothing stuffed haphazardly inside, and snagged something close enough to my size.

The material scraped over my skin as I slipped it on, the musty smell dragging me back to the dungeons where I first met Cressida, the Queen’s Witch.

That cell was dark, the stench of mold, blood, and death thick in the air.

Her searing red eyes had cut through the gloom, and those red painted lips seemed to always be curled into a venomous smile when she’d come to my cell.

She told me my name was Evanee—no last name, just Evanee—and that I was to serve the Fae Queen as punishment for my family’s crimes of suspected rebellion.

She laughed when she revealed they traded me as payment for their sins. Then they abandoned me.

She told me she stole my memories for her own amusement.

A curse, she’d called it. Every time she went over the marks, it felt like a branding of my very soul as the ink embedded in my skin.

A deep loathing for this realm and the beings in it had grown like a virus inside me.

It’s a torment I can’t shake, being trapped with no past and an uncertain future.

The only way I survived was by keeping my head down, mouth shut, and clinging to the thin thread of hope that someday I’ll escape this hellhole.

A glimpse in the foggy mirror made me stop—a depressing creature stared back.

The simple brown dress was a size too big, and the sickly gray apron too short.

The colors matched the mud and the stone outside so that we’d blend into the surroundings.

The Queen couldn’t have any beings beneath her stand out.

Especially humans. Blanche—our keeper—reminds us constantly, “Don’t be seen or heard.

Clean shit up and go to your next task.”

My hair had turned straw-like from the lack of care, and the black sheen had long since dulled. I blinked. Eyes of the palest green flashed back at me—too pale, most say. Unnatural for a human.

The worst part was my disproportionate body. I stood as tall as the Fae, which made my limbs look longer. Even more so from my smaller chest and the lean muscle I gained through endless chores. I looked nothing like the other human girls in this hellish shack.

Living in a small stone building just beside the castle, in equally tight, shared quarters, meant no privacy.

The room was long and narrow with ten beds lined up along the wall.

Opposite them sat two wardrobes, a single vanity with a basin for washing, and one festering chamber pot in the corner.

To share. The Queen couldn’t be bothered with something as trivial as a functioning toilet for vermin like us.

I dragged myself away from my pathetic appearance, made my bed, washed my face, and combed out my tangled hair, working the black mass into a single braid.

“Evanee!” Blanche shrieked from downstairs. I scowled and plopped onto my bed, pulling my boots on as the wooden steps groaned beneath her weight. The door slammed against the wall.

“Who do you think you are, girl?” She stomped over, smacking me with the dishrag in her hand.

I didn’t even flinch. “The sun has already risen!” Her angry, squashed face hovered above mine, the tips of her pointed ears flaming red as she looked down her sharp nose.

Typically, the Fae were beautiful with long-lasting youth. Those genes skipped right over Blanche.

“Won’t happen again,” I grumbled through gritted teeth.

She clucked her tongue as she hobbled off, grumbling that I was lucky she was in a rush, or she’d have me whipped.

Miserable old shrew. Too bad whippings didn’t bother me anymore.

The first time, I’d screamed—ten lashings for attempting to run away, followed by a visit to the dungeons with Cressida and unending pain as she worked over my marks. Weaving her spell tighter, no doubt.

By the eighth time, I was numb to it.

Turned out that when the leather bit into my skin, it eased an incessant itch in my back.

During a full moon, that itch turned into outright pain.

As if every inch of my back was being scraped raw with coarse salt, while something claws along my spine from the inside.

I’ve blacked out from the sheer agony more times than I could count.

Sometimes I found myself baiting Blanche on purpose, just to get relief without appearing even crazier than I already did. I could only imagine the look I’d get if anyone knew I wanted the lashings.

My steps echoed as I stomped down the narrow staircase to the open room below.

The table barely fit in the cramped kitchen.

We rarely sat together, though. Our chores were scattered each day, so hot meals were rare, and having everyone gathered here together was even rarer.

Not that I wanted to be around the others. I preferred solitude.

Blanche waited for me at the foot of the stairs, her chubby little foot tapping away as she pointed a finger at me.

“Don’t think for one second you have time to stop for breakfast. You were needed in the wash house early this morning, but since you felt entitled to more rest, I sent Lyra instead.” Her mouth curved deviously. “You can head to the stables.”

I fought the smile threatening to form, clamping my lips together instead.

“Don’t just stand there like an imbecile. Go!”

The dishrag whipped toward me again, but I bolted for the door before it struck, leaving Blanche ranting behind me.

Blanche thought Micah, the stable manager, was hard on us, treating us like he does his idiotic stable hand, Tristan. That Micah loaded us down with grueling work, like shoveling horse shit. A debasing punishment in her eyes.

I loved it.

Micah had always treated me with kindness—a rarity among the Fae.

One might even call him my friend. He’d give me little gifts, such as sweets, when no one was watching, and tell me stories about the horses he’d rescued throughout the realm.

Listening to his stories helped distract me from my anger and reminded me that someday I could have stories of my own.

I told myself that my imprisonment wouldn’t last forever—a beautiful lie.

Our living quarters were situated downwind of the stables, creating a persistent odor that permeated the entire building.

You get used to it after a while, but that doesn’t stop everyone else in the castle from smelling it on us as they pass by—our own little repellent.

No matter how hard we scrub our clothes or skin, the stench of hay and manure lingers.

“Morning, Evanee. How are you doing? Bit of a late start, isn’t it?” Micah smiled, deepening the creases around his kind, gray eyes. It’s the first feature that stood out when I met him. Aside from his pointed ears poking through his thick, white hair, and the tips of his fangs flashing.

“Yeah… Just one of those mornings.”

“I assume that old hag didn’t give you anything to eat?”

My bitter expression was answer enough.

“That female's going to get what’s coming to her someday.” He scowled as he grabbed an apple from his satchel and tossed it to me. I bit into it instantly, savoring the sweet, tangy juice and the crisp crunch.

“Bet she thought I’d reprimand ya too.”

I only shrugged as I bit off another chunk.

“I’ll tell you what irritates me. Blanche sending those young halfwits. Those girls lack common sense somethin’ fierce, unlike you. There’s always been somethin’ about you that seems different than the others.”

“I’m not sure how different I am, Micah,” I mumbled around a mouthful of apple. “And it’s not much of a punishment to get to spend time out here with the horses.”