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Faeries Gone
Wild
In book stores June 2009
Pixie Lust
Chapter 1
“These feet,”said Avalina, and bending, stroked the broken stems
beneath her, restoring them to full health. “They are as large as
moons. I cannot seem to bend them to my will.”
The slow-flowering sedum that covered rock and root granted
forgiveness, though it did little to hide its grumpiness. But that
was the way of groundcover, wasn’t it? Rather grasping, and
generally irritable.
Avalina glanced about. Dusk was falling soft and dreamy from the
sleepy places of the earth. Fragile, silvery mist lifted gently,
filtering over fig and fern. It was the first night of her first
visit to the Mortal Realm. Smiling a little, she lovingly folded the
knobby root of a willowherb in a length of weevil silk, then tucked
it into the little hemp bag that crisscrossed her torso and hung at
her hip.
She was strangely garbed, dressed in garments humans would not find
unusual. Or so she hoped, but the species was notoriously fickle,
prone to change fashions as easily as their moral code. Each century
brought new styles, new speech, new foolishness, while Faerie
remained the same for time immemorial. There was, after all, little
reason to change perfection. Still, Ava could not bear the thought
of losing Mortal’s lovely species to mankind’s capricious
foolishness. Thus she had come.
She had been given little enough time to study Mortal ways, however.
Her plans had been rushed, for the portal between their worlds would
not long remain open for her kind.
Gazing through the soft, descending darkness at the quiet glen,
Avalina adjusted the garment that chaffed her skin and restricted
her breathing. It was called a corset, or so she believed, and it
was horrid uncomfortable. As was the itchy dress which covered her
from throat to ankle in hot, restrictive folds. Foolish folk these
mortals. Did they know nothing of petal fabrics and corn silk gowns?
Still, it was unkind of her to mock them. They were a young race by
Fey standards. Raw, uneducated. Dangerous by many accounts.
Foolhardy by all.
Perhaps they did not deserve the mesmerizing flora with which they
had been blessed, yet here it was, springing forth like rushing
water, so lush and green with fragrant newness that she longed to
caress each leaf, to drink in every newborn scent. For a moment she
felt compelled to twirl gleefully, to feel the oddly heavy air rush
through her hair, push against her unfamiliar clothing, but she
stifled the idea and chided herself; this was no childish game she
played, no frolicsome sport, and she, no mischievous bogle. Neither
was she some impish pixie, prone to bouts of ridiculous thievery or
juvenile pranks.
Oh aye, tales of yore suggested that all the wee folk had once been
one and the same,all wild pranksters who lived for naught but strong
drink and merry-making. For decadence and foolishness and frolicking
with mortal men.
‘Twas said, in fact, that they had, long ago, all been irresistible
to humankind. But only in olden tales most forgot did a Fey find a
mate who would become her rantinn, the one soul who was willing to
give up the very essence of himself for her. Then and only then
would they be bound for eternity and travel, forever joyful, between
the realms.
But Avalina believed no such tales. For as long as she could recall
no Mortal had come to the land of the Ancients, though more than a
few sex-drunk pixies had tried to smuggle in their besotted lovers.
Ava shook her head at such idiocy, for she was not so foolhardy.
Nay, she was stalwart and steady. She had a task to fulfill and she
would see to it, no matter the circumstances.
Placing a protective hand on her pouch, she glanced about the glen
in which she stood. She would do that for which she had come and
leave post haste, though this was indeed a magical spot. Airil, they
would call it in the early tongue.
Surely even the barbaric human would recognize the beauty possessed
here, with the mercurial mists just rising from the fragrant bog and
the deep-throated frogs only now tuning up for their nocturnal
songs.
Mortal was indeed an intriguing place, a land filled with flower and
thistle, with grasses and herbs that bloomed and twined and
sprouted. But it was the ferns that fascinated her most. She was,
after all, a Fern Fey. A Learned One in her own right, descended
from the wise folk of Gelda. Not frivolous like the Flower Faeries
with whom she had arrived.
Avalina scowled a little at the memory. Silly creatures all, they
had come to
Mortal on the pretense of studying godetia, but she knew far better;
they had no wish to learn of the fragile blossoms that grew in
profusion in certain Mortal regions. Instead, they planned a week of
debauchery with any male foolhardy enough to linger with them,
which, by all accounts, were many.
Queen Barilla should have known better than to allow them to come.
Though indeed, Avalina was lucky to have the excuse to accompany
them. The portal opened only once a century, and ‘twas the flower
folk who had convinced the queen’s Chosen to permit them to come.
The flower folk with their beguiling eyes and winsome features. The
flower folk who had giggled at the sight of her heavy garments. They
had dressed in their usual gossamer gowns. But theirs was a mission
of decadence, while Avalina had come for entirely different reasons.
Indeed, hers was a rescue mission of sorts, for she had come to
retrieve the illusive Pinquil Fern which was said to have been seen
here hundreds of long years before. It was for that mission that she
had abandoned her own frolicking gardens to hear every tale told of
the revered fern--the Pinquil with its feathery foliage and reedy
roots, with its musky fragrance and potent medicinal properties.
Perhaps those properties did not pertain to humankind. Perhaps that
was why the Mortals, with their self-centered natures and enormous
appetites, felt no great need to save it. She did not know, though
she had spend some time studying their ways so that she might blend
in. Might appear as one of them to avoid interruptions by some
passing buffoon.
But perhaps ‘buffoon’ was no longer a word oft used. She scowled
into the rising mist, musing. A lazy shaft of sunlight shimmered
through the gauzy leaves, gilding thorn and berry alike, but she was
lost in thought.
What of ‘buffoonery?’ she wondered. Was that a term yet used? The
study of history had confused her no small bit, for the stories oft
differed with the teller. Faeries had no need of written records, of
course, for the Fey did not easily forget, and each tale grew in
lushness and depth when passed from mother to daughter, from queen
to princess.
But all agreed that for time beyond memory human-kind was bent on
atrocities.
The very earth upon which she stood told the tale, chanting of
battles the species had waged amongst themselves, but now the
foolish Mortal seemed determined to declare war on the ferns as
well.
Ava scowled at the thought. Off to her right, near the gnarled feet
of a reticent maple, a frond nodded in the last, slanted rays of the
vanquished sun.
She caught her breath. Could it be? Might she have found the Pinquil
already, she wondered and rushed over. But it was only a timid
leatherleaf. She touched its unfurling stem and it bobbed
gracefully, but beneath her pinching slippers, the flora complained.
She shuffled apologetically aside, restoring broken herbage with a
touch.
“How long will you be with us, Mistress?”asked a reedy sprig of
lambs quarter. It was not easy to decipher its dialect for it had
taken on a Mortal twang, but Avalina had not spent long hours in
study for naught.”“Six days yet,”she said.
There were oohs in response. “And all in Mortal body?”asked a
bending sapling.
“Nay indeed,”Avalina said. “I would spend every moment in my own
form if ever I could, but it requires a great deal of energy here in
Mortal. Still,” She glanced about again. The fireflies were just
winking to life, lighting the bog with mercurial magic.
No Mortals had passed this way for some hours. She had seen a
leather-faced fellow wandering down a meandering path while it was
yet fully light, but he had seemed intent on his own mission,
stopping now and again to gaze at some particular plant or scribble
something on his parchment.
Most probably at this late hour, the Mortal were well settled in,
having gorged themselves on the flesh of their fellow species and
content to lounge about until well past morning light. “I think it
safe to make the change now,” she said. “Full darkness is nearly
upon us, thus I must say farewell until the morrow.”
“Goodnight, Mistress,”sighed the maple.
“Goodnight,”chirped the sapling.
“Until the dawn.”
“May you sleep with the dew,”added a woody bur.
“My thanks,”she said, and closing her eyes, let her mind slip away
to her homeland. The memory ‘twas all that was needed to transform
her. Feelings swamped her, immersed her. It was warm in the land of
the Ancients, gently sultry, washed in color and light and
fragrances so rich and fresh it all but made one giddy. She filled
her lungs with her thoughts and felt the change take her, felt the
magic touch her and fill her and form her.
The flora gasped and oozed as the Mortal Realm rose and grew around
her. She felt the rush of possibilities, the bloom of everlasting
hope. With a sigh of relief, she smiled and opened her eyes. Upon
her back, glowing wings fluttered past her shoulders. With naught
but a thought, she lifted from the ground. A score of voices raised
their goodbyes as she zipped above the sleepy grasses. Then, light
as a breeze, she glided through the glen in search of the smiling
poppy she had spoken with some hours before.
Dammit! He was late again.
William Timber stood silent in the darkening woods. It was a pretty
spot. That much he could admit. His mother would have been giddy at
the sight of it. Would have probably given it some foolish name just
as that idiot Braumberg had. Would have oohed over each pointy leaf,
each scurrying bunny.
But his mother was dead. Had been for more than twenty years, in
fact. A heroine overdose, the police had said.
And they’d been right, of course. Old hippies often died that way.
Old hippies whose lovers had abandoned them to the harsh realities
of the world usually died that way. Leaving terrified little boys
trying to feign bravery and fend for themselves.
“Elder Mann?”The first officer on the scene had tried to smile when
he’d addressed William. The boy was frail, short, too small for his
age, but smart.
Certainly smart enough to know that he should not be dressed in
mismatched socks and pink pajamas. But his mother had not believed
in color-coding the
genders,as she called it. “That your name?”
The boy had managed a nod and wiped his nose with the back of his
frayed sleeve.
“You don’t look real old.”The cop’s hair had been as grey as
platinum.
William had fisted his hands, throat tight, eyes dry. There was no
time for tears. Never would be again. He had known that with a
terrible certainty. “It doesn’t pertain to age,”he said, words
perfectly enunciated, and the old man had scowled.
The boy had legally changed his name not twelve months later. Had
left the foolish given behind to become William Timber instead.
William because it was rich with traditional practicality. Timber
because it spoke of strength. He had been William Timber ever since.
William Timber, self-made millionaire.
Well,millionaire if you counted all assets, which he did. Counted
and recounted, and configured and contrived.
He would not die in some musty, run-down apartment above a
Vietnamese restaurant that reeked of burnt sauces and alloeswood
incense. He would make a name for himself. In fact, he had done just
that.
Snorting silently at his own wit or lack thereof, he moved on.
Emily was one of the few who seemed to appreciate his dubious sense
of humor.
Or maybe it was his capital gains that she found heartening. He
wasn’t, after all, foolish enough to believe that a woman such as
his fiancée would have taken notice of him if her iron-fisted
father hadn’t declared him to be an up and comer.
It was no secret that Emily Meire wanted to up and come. And
William, never one for undue passion or wayward idealism, had wanted
rather desperately to make inroads with Meire Conglomerated. It was
a match made in heaven.
Still, He glanced around the sleepy woods. Purple wildflowers
bloomed in riotous profusion. Lupine if he remembered correctly,
standing tall and proud on their spiky stalks. Fireflies flitted
amongst the greenery near the bog. His mother had said they were
sparkles of moondust come to life. She had a weakness for fireflies.
In fact, she had many weaknesses, but for one shining moment all he
could remember was her smile. It shone in his mind, the
personification of love, of adoration.
Half forgotten memories stole in, shadowed by sadness, illumined
with laughter.
But William plowed them aside, focusing of his mantra; another day
another million. And this place had tremendous monetary potential.
Within an hour’s drive of Seattle and ringed by old growth trees, it
was the perfect spot for an upper-income community. A year from now
there would be row upon row of two-story houses and brick patios. He
would keep the best of the mature trees, of course.
But the rest would be razed, plowed under, sodded over, paved, made
ready for SUVs, overworked septic systems and humming
air-conditioners.
Tonight, however, he had promised to dine with Emily, and she wasn’t
one to be kept waiting.
A tired trail wended through the woods, barely visible now in the
waning light.
It had almost certainly been made by Braumberg. Damned, dehydrated
tree-hugger. He was probably higher than a rocker ship by now. High,
and still plotting how best to save the glen from succumbing to
progress. But it didn’t matter. Meier Conglomerated had money and it
had clout. Those who couldn’t be ignored could be bullied. Those who
couldn’t be bullied could be bought. Even hippy-dippy
environmentalists had their price. They had to pay their dealers,
after all.
Off to William’s right, a poppy nodded heavily. It was tightly
closed against the oncoming night. Tiny, many-fingered leaves
cradled its sleepy head. The blossom inside would be white with the
faintest hint of lemon hues.
Emily preferred white to every other color. White on white on white.
What did that say of her?
Bending with a mental shrug, William tore off the blossom and turned
toward home.
Coming in 2009
Faeries Gone Wild
- Faery Anthology written with authors
Mary Janice Davidson, Michele Hauf, Leandra
Logan
MARYJANICE
DAVIDSON “Tall, Dark and Not So Faery”
Scarlett is not your typical pint-sized faery. At six feet, four
inches tall, she’s an unlikely candidate for a match made in heaven.
But when she ventures to Cannon Falls, Minnesota, on royal orders to
survey its extraordinary residents, she stumbles upon the one man
who just may measure up to size…
LOIS GREIMAN “Pixie Lust”
William Timber is a cutthroat developer who refuses to let a few
trees come between him and his next million. But when Avalina—a
sparkling faery charged to protect all things green—comes to town,
William is forced to choose between life as he knows it and the
unknown reaches of his heart.
MICHELE HAUF “Dust Me, Baby, One More Time”
A librarian by day and a tooth faery by night, Sidney has absolutely
no time to find Mr. Right. Until she flies smack dab into sexy,
sun-bronzed Dart Sand, a man who makes her wings a-flutter…and whose
allure could get her banished from the Mortal Realm.
LEANDRA LOGAN “A Little Bit Faery”
Tia is mystified when she strikes out on the Luna faery singles
scene, in spite of her hourglass curves and vivacious charm. Then
she takes off for Manhattan and lands on the doorstep of a steamy
firefighter who sets her soul on fire—and shares a strong connection
to her secret past.
One Hot Mess
- Chrissy McMullen's
5th adventure coming March
24th 2009
Review
“Sexy…sassy…An entertaining series.” —Mystery Scene
“For the Janet Evanovich fans who are craving a protagonist similar
to Stephanie Plum.” —CurledUp.com
In southern California it’s raining crime—and psychologist Christina
McMullen could use an umbrella. Her clients are crazy, her
on-again-off-again relationship with LAPD lieutenant Jack Rivera has
just started heating up again, and now Rivera’s womanizing dad has
come calling—asking Chrissy to investigate a mysterious death that
might haunt his next campaign: for president of the United States.
Soon Chrissy is investigating not one “accidental” death, but
two—until she stumbles on a trail of bodies littering Senator
Rivera’s distinguished career. As she untangles a web of high-stakes
lies, Chrissy believes that she’s found the secret to a serial
killer’s underground campaign. The killer has a list, a motive, and
the perfect disguise—the only question is: who’s next?
Seduced By Your Spell
- Book two in the
Witches of Mayfair trilogy coming March 2009
A Romantic Times Top Pick!!
 ˝
"Greiman grips readers with a tale of
witches caught in a maelstrom of violence and passion. The pages fly
by, sexual tension--both real and fantasized-- rises and surprise
after surprise lead to the finale.. Greiman is a storyteller
extraordinaire."
-- Kathe Robin
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