Crown of Briars
Crown of Briars
(Faerie Lords, Book 2)
Isabella August
Copyright © 2019 by Isabella August
https://isabellaaugust.com
Cover by Jacqueline Sweet
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and stories are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons (living or dead), organizations, and events is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are consenting adults of ages 18 years of age or older.
This book is for adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Crown of Glass
Appendix: The Zodiac
Acknowledgments
Connect with Isabella
Also by Isabella August
Chapter 1
“You — girl!” The words were pitched in an all-too-familiar tone; just high enough to register a self-important irritation, but not quite loud enough to draw the attention of the man in the back office.
Zoe did her best to keep her face neutral. The woman in front of her was regal and domineering, and clearly used to being listened to in a hurry. Her pantsuit was expensively tailored, and her fiery red hair was styled in an elegant-looking bun. Her eyes, a matte black color, burned at the edges with unnatural danger. Her very presence set Zoe on edge… but it wasn’t her manner that was the problem. Five years working in a lawyer’s office had inured her to all sorts of bad behavior: yelling, crying, even the occasional schizophrenic looking for legal help against the government spies that had supposedly tapped their cell phone. No, she could have given any average pushy client a run for their money.
It was her Witchsight that was the problem. It was always the problem.
She’s too pale, her lips are still bloody, she smells like death and joyful cruelty—
Zoe gritted her teeth, and instinctively reached to close her Witchsight. It was a futile gesture — she couldn’t close her Witchsight — but some part of her always tried to do it anyway when she started feeling overwhelmed. There was only a ragged, painful emptiness where her psychic defences should have been, however, and she flinched at the reminder.
Sort your shit, Zoe. Vampires pounce on any sign of weakness.
The young witch forced herself to raise dark blue eyes to meet the other woman’s black gaze. It was difficult. Witchsight wasn’t tied to physical sight, exactly — you could see and hear and feel things through it even with your eyes closed — but once you focused your visual attention on something, your brain would inevitably direct your Witchsight toward it more fully as well.
There was a predatory look in the vampire’s eyes. For a moment, Zoe wondered if the woman had interpreted Zoe’s nauseated reaction as fear. That would be a problem. The supernatural world had a sometimes complicated set of manners and traditions, and Zoe knew that she needed to subtly demonstrate who was in charge here. This was her boss’s office, his domain — as Dorian Moreau’s frontline representative to both the mortal and the supernatural world, Zoe needed to show a little bit of spine.
Slowly, she straightened in the office chair behind the desk and set aside the slim novel she’d been reading. Keeping eye contact, she drawled: “What does the placard on the desk say, madame?”
The neatly-dressed vampiress narrowed her eyes. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded.
Zoe made a show of glancing at her computer. “I’m forced to assume that you are Vivienne Cloutier, seneschal to the newest seigneur of Montreal. That can’t be right, though. A politically-savvy woman like that ought to have better manners.” She flashed another calm smile. “What does the placard say, Madame Cloutier?”
Vivienne’s eyes burned — but she glanced toward the desk. Her eyes flicked over the small placard at the front. “Zoe Carter,” she read aloud, with barely-leashed fury.
“C’est ça, madame.” Zoe shot her a cool, unaffected smile. She reached up to tuck back a strand of black hair that had come loose from the messy bun at the back of her head. “That's my name. It would be polite for you to use at least part of it in order to get my attention, rather than calling me girl.”
Red-hot anger burst along the woman’s aura. The sick, tangy smell of blood overwhelmed Zoe’s Witchsight, and she clenched her jaw against the need to gag. God only knew what would happen if she threw up in front of a vampire. Besides, she’d only have to clean it up herself later.
The vampiress leaned forward, pressing her palms against the top of the desk. She bared the edges of her fangs. “Aren’t you uppity for a helpless meat-sack mortal?” she purred in a low, dangerous voice.
Zoe blinked very slowly. Mortal, she thought. That’s right, I’m mortal. Nothing to see here. Certainly no magic and no Witchsight. That would be silly. She’d gone to great lengths to make sure that no one ever connected the mystery witch that sometimes contracted for Dorian with his mousy little secretary. The element of surprise was far too valuable to just give away like that. Of course, she also had her own personal reasons for wanting to avoid her magic… but she’d never told those reasons to Dorian, and he in turn had very consciously never asked for them.
Zoe yawned pointedly, and deliberately picked back up her book. Inwardly, her stomach clenched. She’d met a few vampires by now — she wouldn’t consider many of them to be pleasant, per se, but she’d never met one so instantly aggressive. Was Vivienne really going to start a fight in this office? Didn’t she have any sense of self-preservation? Zoe didn’t know quite how many supernaturals owed favors to her boss, but she was sure that the numbers easily reached into double digits. A number of other powerful people would be concerned to hear that someone had issued physical threats in Monsieur Moreau’s office, favors or no. The information at his fingertips was very sensitive and very valuable. If someone thought to steal just a few of those darker secrets…
Sure, someone will nuke her eventually if she crosses the line, Zoe realized. Maybe even her own boss. But that’s not gonna make me any less dead after the fact, if I don’t get ready to handle her. As she turned a page in her book, she silently reached out her senses to reassure herself that the wards she’d placed on the office were still in fighting form. Sure enough, the spells responded to her touch, buzzing with barely-leashed power. It was harder to ward a public office than it was to ward a home, but Dorian had been incredibly accommodating — he hadn’t bothered asking why Zoe wanted him to tear out the old door frame and secretly line the new one with iron. The physical anchor gave Zoe’s magic something to fix upon, and ensured that she only had to renew the wards once every full moon, instead of every morning.
Most vampires had no sense for magic. The moment that Vivienne had first walked through that door, a faint red network of magical lines had settled upon her body, draping themselves across her like a spider’s web. Judging from her behavior, Vivienne had no idea that she’d made herself vulnerable.
The door to the office opened quietly. A breeze wafted in, wrenching Zoe’s attention from the delicate spell. With her Witchsight overlaid, it was a bizarre dissonance of sensations. Physically, the wind was frigid — December in Montreal meant snow on the ground and the sort of weather that bit at the inside of your lungs. But Zoe’s ever-present Witchsight felt the warmth of spring, proper spring, touched with the scent of sweet lillies and rain.
The man that had just entered was tall, and effortlessly graceful. His short, white-blond hair looked soft enough to be spun from corn silk — not that Zoe had ever imagined herself dragging her fingers through it, of course — and his vivid green eyes proved him to be unmistakably otherworldly. He’d dressed a bit overmuch for the weather, which almost spoiled his otherwise striking effect on the room; he’d pulled up the collar on his long overcoat, and tucked a bright green scarf so closely about his face that only his wireframe glasses were left visible above it. But anyone who was anyone in Montreal would be hard-pressed not to know who he was on sight… and just how deceptively dangerous he could be.
Simon.
Zoe didn’t realize she’d spoken his name out loud until he turned toward her, peeling that snow-dampened green scarf away from his face to reveal a gentle smile. A ripple of emotion overran his aura, and she felt her mind blank again pathetically. Kindness. Concern. Protectiveness. Simon’s smile was already the sort that melted your insides. The fact that his soul was so damned beautiful too was just unfair. Every time he came into view, something in Zoe’s mind just stopped working.
You’re in the middle of a spell. The belated realization made her eyes widen. Vivienne might not have much sense for magic, but Simon certainly did. Zoe released the red web in a hurry, hoping that he hadn’t noticed it.
“I seem to be early today,” Simon observed. He managed a politely apologetic look. “I’ll wait, of course.” He didn’t comment on the obviously tense scene in front of him, but Zoe noticed how quickly and subtly he stepped toward her desk, in easy reach of the vampire that currently threatened her. He’d mistaken her wide eyes for fear of Vivienne, she realized. “I hope you’re doing well, Miss Zoe?”
Well? What? What had he said? Zoe knitted her brow, struggling for words. Something about Simon’s presence had always overwhelmed her enhanced Witchsight. She’d stoically endured all kinds of horrific visions in her life by now — things that still haunted her nightmares sometimes. But somehow, it was Simon, with his flurry of sweet emotions and his too-bright summer aura, that made her head swim and her thoughts stutter. His simple presence was like a fog to her senses. Normally, when Zoe knew Simon was coming, she spent a few minutes mentally preparing herself to act like an intelligent human being around him — but she’d been so preoccupied with Vivienne this time that she hadn’t even seen him come to the door.
God damn it! Focus, Zoe!
“Miss Zoe?” Simon’s voice took on a hint of concern now. That protectiveness in his aura overtook his kindness; Zoe saw him turn that too-green gaze on Vivienne directly now. A gentle frown appeared on his face — the closest thing she’d ever seen him manage to a threatening look. Vivienne stepped back from the desk abruptly, snatching back her hands as though she’d been burned. Simon Leclair, the Wanderer of Arcadia — the personal servant of the Lady of Briars — had just openly expressed an interest in Zoe’s well-being.
Zoe sat up straighter and tried to clamp down on the dizziness that had assaulted her. “Simon. Yes.” Damn it! She’d already said his name. This was getting embarrassing. “I’m fine. Good. Very well. I didn’t realize you had an appointment today.”
No, she was sure he hadn’t had an appointment. Zoe would have noticed if he’d had an appointment on the books, damn it!
“Oh, it’s not an… appointment, exactly,” Simon admitted. “I was forced to reschedule recently, you’ll recall. Monsieur Moreau was kind enough to offer to meet me for lunch instead, since he was otherwise so busy.”
Zoe felt a curious thought try to penetrate the haze around her mind. Lunch? Dorian Moreau never did lunch. His lunch hour was sacred.
On the one hand, it was possible that Dorian simply liked Simon’s company enough to make an exception for him. Zoe’s boss had quietly expressed to her on more than one occasion that he considered Simon to be one of his most pleasant clients. But at the end of the day, Dorian was still one of the most ruthlessly mercenary men that Zoe had ever met. It was far more likely that Simon had a truly interesting secret to offer La Voûte. It wouldn’t be the first time, if so. Simon had spent years wandering the far reaches of Arcadia, ever since he’d pledged himself to the Lady of Briars. Some said that he knew the paths through the faerie realms even better than some faerie lords.
“I believe I have an appointment previous to your lunch, monsieur,” Vivienne observed. Her tone was much more polite than it had been before, as she addressed the Wanderer.
Simon turned that beautiful smile upon her. “Of course, madame,” he said. “I am in another man’s place of business. My lady would be most displeased with me if I dared to insult his clients… or one of his people.”
The rebuke was perfectly framed. Vampires like Vivienne were masters of intimidation — but no one outdid the faerie lords or their servants when it came to subtle rejoinders. What Simon said had the extra benefit of being utterly true: the faerie lords were mad, alien, and powerful — near-deities within their own domains… but they were also obsessed with propriety. There were apocryphal stories of creatures invited to dine with a faerie lord, only to be struck down in a fury when they used the wrong spoon for their soup.
Thankfully, most faerie lords rarely showed interest in anything outside of their realms. Occasionally, some truly desperate creature might summon one up with great ritual, begging for power. Even more rarely, the faerie lord in question might grant that power. The price — a warlock’s pact — was something akin to eternal servitude.
Simon Leclair had been a warlock to the Lady of Briars for years now. The significant power he had bargained away from her was admittedly less important than the understanding that her capricious wrath might fall directly upon anyone who dared to harm one of her most useful tools. Surely such a faux-pas would rate an even more terrible response than the selection of a wrong utensil at supper.
Vivienne’s flat black eyes considered Simon for a moment. She seemed to be carefully formulating a response. Before she could speak, however, the frosted glass door behind Zoe’s desk opened.
Monsieur Dorian Moreau was probably what most women would fancifully refer to as ‘tall, dark, and handsome.’ Piercing grey eyes and an uncommonly strong jawline marked him as a natural-born businessman. His straight-backed posture radiated a no-nonsense demeanor, and even his short, raven-black hair didn’t dare to fall into his face. For all of Dorian’s coldness, though, he had that slight duskiness to his skin that Zoe had found common in some francophone men… and she’d never met anyone else who could pull off a tie in quite the same way. Zoe would never be attracted to the man — he’d become far too much of a father figure for that, eww — but she could understand how a number of other women might find him attractive.
Dorian was indeed a sought-after lawyer within the environs of Montreal — but the rest of the supernatural world knew him as La Voûte, a ravenous collector of secrets both great a
nd small. Anyone with a valuable tidbit of information could offer it up to him; if he decided it was worthwhile, he would trade something he considered equally valuable in return. For smaller offerings, Dorian would often reply with common money, or with other trinkets he had received from clients. But the most valuable thing he offered back — the true prize that many sought — was other information. No one knew exactly how deep Dorian’s knowledge went… but everyone knew that witches, warlocks, and stranger things had stepped into his office at various times over the years. Zoe was personally certain that he knew at least a handful of powerful true names, useful for summoning and binding the creatures to whom they belonged. The rumors said that there was no question which La Voûte could not answer… as long as you were willing to pay the price.
There was absolutely no clue as to Dorian’s mood on his face as he considered the gathering before him. To Zoe’s enhanced, unending Witchsight, even supernatural creatures often disclosed some sense of their thoughts on the edges of their aura. But Dorian was an absolute blank slate, even to her. She had never once seen so much as a flicker of emotion escape his control. That was nice, sometimes — it meant that his presence never overwhelmed her in the same way that others did. But at times like this, she was reminded how truly unnerving his iron self-control could be.
“Madame Cloutier,” Dorian greeted Vivienne. His voice was cold but cordial. “You may come in.”
The vampiress smiled, pleased. Her previous displeasure seemed instantly forgotten, evaporated into thin air. “Monsieur Moreau,” she acknowledged sweetly. “What a pleasure. I believe we have much business ahead of us.”