Rekindled: A Nemesis Prequel Novella Read online

  REKINDLED

  BOOK 3.5 - THE CIRCUIT FAE

  Genevieve Iseult Eldredge

  Contents

  Books in The Circuit Fae Series By Genevieve Iseult Eldredge

  Foreward

  Prologue

  1. ROUEN

  2. SYL

  3. ROUEN

  4. SYL

  5. ROUEN

  6. SYL

  7. ROUEN

  8. SYL

  9. ROUEN

  10. SYL

  11. ROUEN

  12. SYL

  13. ROUEN

  14. SYL

  15. ROUEN

  16. SYL

  17. ROUEN

  18. SYL

  19. ROUEN

  20. SYL

  21. ROUEN

  22. SYL

  23. ROUEN

  24. SYL

  25. ROUEN

  26. SYL

  Epilogue

  The Series Continues with Rekindled

  Review Request

  Moribund

  Derailed

  Ouroboros

  Dethroned

  Inimical

  Rekindled

  Nemesis

  The Girl in the Glass Box

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Newsletter Links

  Copyright © 2019 by Genevieve Iseult Eldredge

  Rights held by Firefly Hill Press, LLC

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, Subject Line: "Attention: Permissions Coordinator," at company's email address below.

  * * *

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Firefly Hill Press, LLC

  4387 W. Swamp Rd #565

  Doylestown, PA 18902

  www.fireflyhillpress.com

  [email protected]

  * * *

  Print ISBN: 9781945495212

  E-Book ISBN: 9781945723704

  Books in The Circuit Fae Series By Genevieve Iseult Eldredge

  Moribund - Book 1

  Derailed - Novella 1.5

  Ouroboros - Book 2

  Dethroned - Novella 2.5

  Inimical - Book 3

  Rekindled - Novella 3.5

  Nemesis - Book 4

  Eidolon - Book 5

  For my readers. Thank you.

  Foreward

  Faerie is a realm of paradox, where deadly seriousness exists alongside complete silliness, and nothing is as it seems. The CIRCUIT FAE novellas are a place to explore this upside-down, topsy-turvy logic of Faerie. They’re also somewhat lighter than the novels. Often, in queer literature, the focus is on the seriousness, and while I am thankful for the serious stories, I truly believe that we also need our silly rom-coms, our adventure stories, our happy-ending love stories.

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  I hope you enjoy REKINDLED, a semi-silly, sometimes-deadly-serious urban fantasy rom-com.

  Prologue

  Glamma

  You can only fight the Fae for so long before the damage catches up with you. A bum knee from chasing the Wild Hunt, two broken fingers throwing axes with redcaps, a multitude of scars from battling a dark Fae pocket púca who wants you dead as dreams. Even at my advanced age, I know she’ll eventually get me.

  It’s all about playing keep-away until then.

  Until Syl can fix what I screwed up so long ago. She’ll be the fair Fae queen soon. I’ve left her quite the mess.

  But there’s no time for regret now. She’s coming.

  The streetlights flicker against the night. A strange wind blows, a fairy wind kicking a spatter of rose petals down the Canal Walk. Nearby, a tuxedo cat yowls, eyes glowing lantern-yellow. A warning. RVA is quiet tonight. All the Faeries, dark and fair, have fled.

  They know a showdown’s coming.

  The rose scent turns spicy, and in a puff of habanero stink, she slides from the shadows, snickle-stepping from her pocket dimension in Faerie. In her pencil skirt and blazer, red hair in a bun, chunky glasses on her nose, she looks like an ordinary librarian.

  I know better. I’ve got the Sight, just like my granddaughter.

  An evil aura curls like smoke around the librarian (the tuxedo cat too), and I step onto the Walk, a gunslinger stepping onto a dusty thoroughfare. “Jessamine.” For the millionth time, I wish I knew the pocket púca’s true name, but if wishes were dragons, the whole world would fly.

  “Glamma.” On her lips, Syl’s name for me sounds a filthy curse. Her burning red eyes search me. Looking for my Grimm. She won’t find it on me. Not tonight.

  Tonight, I only need the contract up my sleeve.

  I know why she asked for this meeting—she’s stolen the two hearthstones, the sources of magic for both the Dark Faerie and Fair Faerie realms, but she can’t use them thanks to yours truly. “What do you want?”

  Her left eye twitches. Púca hate direct questions. Dark Fae given to murderous mischief, they like to play games and manipulate. But she really wants to unlock those hearthstones.

  Good thing I cast a powerful protective charm before she made off with them.

  “You tricked me, witch,” she hisses, pacing the Canal Walk, her click-clacking high heels echoing into the night. The tuxedo cat threads itself around her legs, hackles raised. “Take your barrier spell off the hearthstones.”

  “Or what?” In case you were wondering where Syl gets her sass.

  A snarl shows off her needle-sharp teeth. The rose-and-habanero scent around her intensifies. “Or Rouen Rivoche will never get her memory back.”

  Of course it comes to that. Syl’s beloved girlfriend, Rouen, the dark Fae princess. They’re supposed to be mortal enemies, Rouen and Syl, but love always wins. Jessamine cursed Rouen to make her evil, but at the last second, I muted her magic. Now, Rouen’s not evil so much as she can’t remember diddly about her life, Syl, or their love.

  If the curse isn’t broken soon, it’ll become permanent.

  “How long are you going hold this grudge, Jessamine?”

  “Until you pay for geising me, Gloriana.”

  I wince at the sound of half my truename. “You deserved to be punished for what you did.”

  “Release your spell, witch.”

  I touch the hidden contract. I won’t let Syl’s heart get broken. And I’m not going to hand over the hearthstones either—Jessamine’s long tried to usurp the Faerie thrones—I’m only going to make her think I am.

  “I could be persuaded...” I dangle the carrot. “If you agree to something for me.”

  Her eyes flare, twin furnaces. “What are you up to?”

  “See for yourself.” I pull the contract. Part parchment, part magic, it flows from my sleeve in a burst of cyan-blue butterflies. I wave them away and present the magical document. “It’s all there in black and blood. I’ll release my barrier spell on the hearthstones, and you agree to give Syl until the new moon to break your curse.”

  She edges closer, snatches the contract, and scans it while the tuxedo cat and I glare like two street samurai getting ready to mix it up.

  “I’ve never fancied familiars,” I tell the cat. “Too unpredictable.”

  She hisses at me. I resist the urge to hiss back. I could never abide cussing.

  Jessamine studies the contract, looking at m
e over her glasses. “No interference on my part? No kidnapping? No pocket dimension?” Her eyes twitches more. “You’re really sucking the fun out of this, old woman.”

  I cross my arms and give her what Syl calls the look. “I spent a lot of time trapped in a dusty old Grimmoire. It killed my sense of fun.” I sniff. “You might have a few hundred people packed in that pocket dimension, for God knows what, but you won’t do that to my Syl.”

  She snarls, but she knows I have her. Púca can’t resist a deal, even when they don’t stand to get ultimate cosmic Faerie power out of it. “Fine.” She gestures, and a wicked-looking crystal shard appears in her hand, a witch-quill.

  I pull my own from thin air and wave away a stray blue butterfly.

  We sign in heart’s blood, and I can tell by the look on her face…

  She’s going to cheat.

  That’s okay. So am I.

  1

  ROUEN

  The dreams

  Realer than real

  Realer than my real life

  Mystery girl, who are you?

  “Dreams of Her” - Euphoria

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  It’s 1 a.m. on a Saturday, the club is still packed after my killer show, and I’m utterly failing at being the spoiled, rising goth rockstar the tabloids say I am. After all, it’s my first night playing the LA club scene. By rights, I should be trashing my dressing room and making wild demands—animal-print throw rugs, thirty cases of energy drinks, sterling-silver tea service, a thousand green M&M’s in a bowl shaped like Elmo’s head.

  You get the picture.

  Instead, I’m lying on the leather dressing room couch like a dork, memories that aren’t mine—can’t be mine—streaming through my brain like a fast-forwarded movie montage: me and the redheaded girl from my dreams racing across a midnight city skyline, fighting side by side against terrifying creatures made of dark circuitry, us standing in the throne room of a strange, magical realm divided by an ancient war.

  Us, hand in hand. Mortal enemies. Girlfriends…somehow.

  I shift restlessly on the couch, the expensive leather sliding silkily beneath me. I should enjoy this, and all the other trappings of my rising fame. Like the fresh fruit buffet, the minifridge stocked with sodas, the assortment of snacks laid out. The chocolate fountain.

  But the ache in my heart only levers me open wider.

  Ignore it, Roue. Get back to being a demanding rock star.

  What were my demands again? Oh, right. A case of red-only Engine Energy drinks. Moleskine notebooks in every color of the rainbow.

  A girlfriend who sees me for who I am. Who loves and accepts me.

  Gah!

  A knock at the door saves me from myself.

  I try to make my voice sound normal. “Come in.”

  Jess, my manager, pokes her head in, glasses flashing, red ponytail swinging. “It’s almost time to head out there and meet your adoring fans.”

  “Right.” I’m not much for crowds, but these impromptu autograph/selfie sessions after every show have been a huge success. I like meeting my fans. If only I could do it without Jess and the Goon Squad (i.e., my two bodyguards) looming over me.

  “Nice digs.” Jess pushes her chunky black spectacles up on her snub nose and looks around the dressing room.

  “Yeah.” I follow her gaze, letting mine wander over the Italian leather couch, the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the bay windows that overlook the hazy LA skyline, all lit up like smoggy Christmas.

  It’s a perfect night. Perfect dressing room. Perfect gig. Perfect.

  If only I had someone to share this all with.

  You do, Roue, a tiny little voice inside whispers. That’s the trouble. You just don’t remember.

  “Euphoria?” Jess cracks the door open wider.

  Blast and bloody bones! My one-word answers have clearly tipped her off to the fact that I’m distracted tonight. “I’m fine.” I slide my long legs off the couch and stand up, but when I catch my reflection in the mirror—long black hair, sapphire-blue eyes, bronze skin, black leathers, and motorcycle boots—I see the liar I really am.

  I’m not fine. Aaaaand…something tells me that’s not my real reflection.

  In my fake memories, I’ve got pointed ears and fangs and glowing eyes. Tentatively, I run my tongue along my canine teeth. Nope. No fangs there.

  “I know that look.” Jess steps all the way into the dressing room and smooths her hands down her sporty blazer and pencil skirt. Her reddish-brown eyes narrow. “The dreams again?”

  “Yeah.” I run my hand through my dark hair and try to distract myself with the scents of the club—clove cigarettes, theatrical fog, hundreds of human bodies packed into a small space. Someone in the audience used too much body spray. Mentally, I add some rose-scented candles to my list of demands.

  Only… I don’t need them because for some reason, this place reeks of roses.

  Jess’s heels click-clack on the lacquered floor as she walks to the bank of windows to look out. She clasps her hands behind her back and toys with a charm bracelet on her left wrist. “And the fainting spells?”

  Oh. Those. “Haven’t had one in a while.” Not since that little girl at my last meet-and-greet asked if I was a fairy in disguise. I swear, she pointed right at my ears and fangs. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her how she saw the same strangeness as my dreams, but the next thing I knew—BOOM!

  I was down and out for the count.

  Not my finest moment, I tell you.

  “Hmm.” Jess’s noncommittal murmur is almost lost in the throbbing pulse of Club Abattoir’s house music, but it isn’t really an answer anyway. She studies me, the dressing room lights flashing hellishly on her glasses. The smell of roses intensifies. “Should we call it off?”

  “No.” I’m a little too quick to answer. Trying to look normal, I stride to the brightly lit vanity and grab one of the tabloids my publicist Laguna’s so fond of, the LA Tattler. “I mean, they’re just dreams.” I laugh, but it comes out, an awkward bark.

  They’re not “just dreams.” Not really. They’re memories. And my memory? It’s got a hole big enough to punch a troll through—

  A troll. Ha-ha…wheee! Officially going crazy here. I can already see the next tabloid headline: Euphoria Cracks Under Pressure of Making It Big. I crumple the Tattler in both fists as a bizarre feeling grips me. My skin tingles all over with prickles of electricity. A sudden ozone smell hits the dressing room, like burnt copper wire, and the air super-charges. My heartbeat pounds; sweat breaks across my back.

  Lightning’s about to strike. From inside me.

  That’s when a note flutters from the tabloid pages and falls at my feet. “Come to me. Let me help you remember who you are.”

  Uh-oh. I know that handwriting.

  “Look.” Jess comes click-clacking my way. “I’m sure it’s just nerves. Your popularity’s on the rise. You’ve got national gigs, appearances, the photo shoot for Teen Vogue next month…”

  Not to mention my very own personal stalker sending me notes.

  But when Jess rounds the vanity, I put my giant New Rock boot on the note, hiding it. “Yeah.”

  Suddenly, I want to be alone with my note.

  Did she write anything else? Does she want to meet up? Does it smell like her?

  Because it’s not the dreams of her that trouble me—dreams where she’s a white beacon in the darkness, red hair like flame, her grey eyes burning, cables of fire running beneath my skin at the very sight of her…

  Like something in me is awakening. Something long dead or dormant.

  Those are no trouble at all.

  It’s the reality that’s hard.

  Because the girl in my dreams? She exists.

  Come to me. A blush rises to my cheeks. She’s more than just a pretty face. She’s smart and pretty damn ingenuitive. She’s followed me across the country, even snuck backstage a few times since I left RVA on my late-summer tour. It’s probably a good thing I ordered the Goo
n Squad not to hurt her when they threw her out. Still, I get the feeling I know her.

  But I don’t remember her.

  Just the dreams.

  “So…” Jess grabs two Engine Energy drinks from the minifridge. She tosses one to me and pops the tab on hers. “Go out there and kill it.” She raises the fizzy can. “Right?”

  I clink my unopened can with hers. “Right.”

  Wrong.

  Because every morning after I dream of her, I wake with an ache knifing my heart—an ache no amount of fame or fortune could ever fill. Still, I smile and nod like a bobble-head until Jess heads to the door.

  “Five minutes,” she tells me.

  “Got it.” My heart’s racing, and it’s not from the thought of meeting a thousand crazy fans screaming my name. No. The note beneath my boot is practically burning me up. Come to me, come to me…

  Jess raises an eyebrow, her glasses giving that weird hellish flash again. “Don’t be late.”

  “Not even fashionably?”

  “No.” The door whumps shut on her.

  It’s agony, but I wait three long beats before moving my foot and snatching up the note. Instantly, the scent of vanilla and sweet summer sunshine hits me, a punch to the gut, and I’m flooded with more dream-memory flashes: her and me fighting together against some awful darkness, spell-screams, explosions, magic books and blue butterflies, an agony like my heart being torn out—