King of the Mountains

  King of the Mountains

  Seasons of Fae Book 1

  Elizabeth Frost

  Copyright © 2020 by Emma Hamm as Elizabeth Frost

  Cover by Covers by Combs

  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.

  For all those people who believed in me.

  And for everyone who’s fallen in love with the fae

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  1

  “You said she would be easy to convince!” A hissed voice drifted through her window from the garden.

  A second replied, “No, I said she would be easy to find.”

  Damned fools. Morgan put down her spoon and glared out the window to her left. The fire cracked and hurled a small ember in the direction of the speakers.

  She didn’t have guests. No one wandered into the haunted wood where the witch—as the townsfolk so lovingly called her—lived. She might turn them into a toad, or worse, make warts grow on their genitals.

  Her cauldron hung suspended over the fire. Its contents were black and oozing, popping now and then like a tar bed. She’d rather continue to watch her newest creation, so it didn’t turn into a creature of its own making.

  But now, she had to deal with these unknown callers.

  Visitors.

  She stalked through the single room cabin. Vines hung through the slats in the ceiling. They tangled in her hair and shoulders, trying to stop her from going to the door. They whispered in her ears, “No, Morgan. Just pretend you aren’t here!”

  The vines were always terrified of unfamiliar people. Probably because the last time she’d brought a stranger here was the man who worked on her roof. He’d ripped the poor dears up by their roots and tossed them into the trash.

  Of course, he’d been human and couldn’t hear them screaming.

  She passed her hammock in the corner with rainbow-colored quilts draped over the edge. A small table, beneath the only window in the entire earthbound cottage, provided a view into her garden. And a way for her to see the three people standing atop the spinach.

  They had no idea what wrath they’d brought upon themselves. That spinach was stubborn! She’d spent the better part of a month trying to convince it to grow.

  If they wanted to see her, so be it. But leave her damn garden alone.

  She threw open the door and braced herself on the frame. Her glare should have seared flesh from bone. Her snarl would have scared any human wandering where they shouldn’t.

  The people in her garden weren’t human, though. The man in front raised his hand as though he were reaching to knock on the door. His yellowed mustache drooped rather impressively toward the ground. The tips swung with his surprise the moment she appeared.

  The woman behind him had eyes bigger than teacups. She blinked the wrong way, horizontal instead of vertical. Considering her ears were pointed, Morgan could already guess she was a faerie. What kind, Morgan didn’t know. Witches stayed away from the fae.

  Far in the back, the last man shifted under the weight of her gaze. He was far too hairy. Fur poked up from his collar, smattered the backs of his hands, and even poked out underneath the fine suit he wore.

  Morgan pointed to the last. “You steal a single vegetable from my garden, werewolf, and I’ll wear your hide.”

  He held up his hands. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  She couldn’t hazard a guess why these creatures were here. She lived far away from the rest of the world. No one wandered into the forests of upper State New York, especially these woods.

  The locals spread myths about her cabin. They whispered tales of the witch who would gift love charms but steal hearts. And not in the good way. For modern day folks, they were a superstitious bunch. Far be it from Morgan to correct their claims when they were true. Their lovers came to her for charms. She gave them whatever they desired.

  It wasn’t her fault humans didn’t understand magic came with a price.

  The strangers stared at her, their eyes wide and their jaws agape.

  Morgan wasn’t a “beauty”, nor did she wish to be. Her long black hair was tangled in near dreadlocks from disregard, not intention. What little eyeliner she wore had dripped down her face from sweat and work. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bathed either, but she was busy! Who had time to bathe?

  The man with the mustache cleared his throat. “Madame Morgan Lefair, we have come seeking your help and guidance.”

  She narrowed her gaze. What was he? The other two were faerie and werewolf, but this one eluded her.

  She leaned close, still holding onto the door frame, and inhaled. The brassy punch of copper filled her nostrils, metallic and bitter. “Ah,” she murmured. “Hello, vampire.”

  If it were possible for the man to pale even further, he did. “Yes, Madame. I am a vampire, my name is Louis. The fae is Aster, and the werewolf is Russell.”

  As if she cared what their names were. She wanted them off her property. Their names didn’t matter as long as they were fast runners. Morgan continued to stare at them in silence until the three rocked back and forth on their heels like nervous children.

  Louis cleared his throat again. “Madame, we come seeking your help.”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  “Perhaps we might come in?” His gaze flicked over her shoulder and into the shadows of her home. “I’m afraid this isn’t a conversation we should have outside.”

  “Why not?” Her gruff tone should have given him a hint. She wanted them all to leave. However, their situation must be dire. None of them were budging, no matter how rude she was.

  “It’s a matter of great importance, and we cannot be certain our conversation will remain private out in the open.”

  Morgan quirked a brow. “I think you’ve got the wrong house then, vamp. I don’t do important or private.”

  “You’re the only one who can help us.” His voice took on a pleading edge.

  She hated it when they begged. Grumbling, she moved aside and pointed into the cabin. “Come on then. Make it quick, I don’t have all day.”

  The three rushed inside like she would slam the door shut on their fingers if they took too long. She didn’t crush their hands, but Morgan let it slam shut behind them just to see them jump.

  “Oh,” the faerie woman gasped. “It’s lovely in here.”

  “Did you think the witch would live in a dirt hovel?” Morgan asked, then made her way back to the cauldron. “That only happened in the old days, and only because witches were poor.”

  Her ancestors would have preferred wooden floors as well. They would have loved talking with the plants and using magic in every corner of their house. None of them wanted to live in shacks at the edge of bogs, desperately trying to make ends meet.

  Aster reac
hed up and touched a finger to one vine. The traitorous plant coiled around the tip, stroking against her for a moment before releasing.

  Plants. They always had a thing for the fae.

  Aster turned with a bright grin on her face. “You’re a green witch!”

  Morgan bared her teeth in a snarl. “Hedge witch.”

  “Forgive me.” Aster paled, her voice light but clearly terrified. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Why were faeries always so delicate? She could hurt their feelings in an instant, and they melted into the floor.

  Morgan sighed, picked up her spoon, and turned back to the cauldron. The blast of warm air from her fire made her feel more comfortable, or perhaps it was that she had turned away from the strangers invading her space. “It’s fine, faerie. Why don’t you all sit down?”

  She could almost feel their confusion. Where did she want them to sit? There was no sofa or chairs, nor was there a living room in her home.

  This was her favorite part. A wicked side of her soul grinned as she whispered a small incantation. “Vines grow and leaves bend, make a seat for my new friends.”

  All the plants in her ceiling reached down with long tendrils of vines and roots. She could hear the creaking and slithering as they coiled together to make a couch. Sometimes it was comfortable, sometimes it wasn’t. Morgan rarely sat on whatever they made, anyway. She had her hammock or soft moss outside.

  Another grinding sound suggested all three had sat down at once. They were rather obedient strangers at least.

  Giving the cauldron one last swirl, she set the spoon down on its rest and turned around. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What is it then? Do you need some kind of potion to make a child born of three, not two? I’ve done it before, but I can’t promise the babe will be normal.”

  Again, the faerie’s face turned white as snow. “No! No, please don’t do that.”

  Hm, interesting. Morgan pointed between the three of them. “Clearly there’s something happening here. Why else would you come into my wood?”

  The vampire was the one to speak again. Louis crossed his legs, placed his hands atop them and said, “We need you to save the world.”

  A lengthy pause extended between them. Morgan waited for him to continue, to say anything other than that ridiculous claim. When he didn’t say a single thing for long heartbeats, she burst into laughter.

  Deep chortles made her stomach ache and tears run down her cheeks. “Save the world?” she repeated, then erupted into hysterical laughter once more. Calming herself, she wiped a finger under her eyes and let out one last snort. “Really, that’s a good one. Tell me another, vamp.”

  No one else laughed. Instead, the strangers were watching her. Expecting… something.

  Morgan sighed, “All right. You think I can save the world. Let’s make a list of the reasons no one possibly could.” She ticked off her fingers as she went. “We’ve destroyed natural resources in favor of building concrete jungles. Our political leaders are all corrupt. People only care for themselves. Not to mention humans run the planet, not those of us with magic.”

  “We’re not asking you to help with any of those,” Louis replied.

  She waited again, but they still didn’t continue. Exasperated, she tossed her hands in the air. “Well then spit it out! In my opinion, the world doesn’t need saving. It needs a reset.”

  The werewolf—what was his name? Rudolph?—spoke next. “That’s what we believe will happen. If we don’t stop the faerie kings from ascending to their thrones, they will wipe the earth clean of everyone but the magical community.”

  “So?” She blurted the word out before she could stop herself. “Sounds like an excellent plan.”

  Louis’s foot dropped off his knee with a loud thump. “We need humans.”

  “No.” She pointed at him. “You need humans. I don’t need them at all.”

  “They run this planet. They’re an important part of how the world runs, we cannot let them all die off. It would be detrimental to the realm!”

  “I don’t eat humans.”

  His eyes bulged in surprise. “Neither do I.”

  Morgan tilted her head to the side and gave him a censoring look. “Oh I know the legends about your kind, vampire. We all know you eat animals now, but if given the chance, you’d all switch back to that warm human blood in a second. And I for one question whether you’re all actually surviving on a rather bland diet.”

  If he hadn’t wanted something from her, Morgan felt certain the vampire would have launched himself across the room. He clenched his hands into fists and his eyes glazed into a red glow. The beast he kept tamed wanted its time with her.

  She hadn’t fought a vampire in a very long time. Let him try his best to kill her. She’d show him what a witch could do.

  The werewolf was the one who interrupted their staring contest. “Stop this, please. If you would just listen to us, then perhaps we could convince you otherwise.”

  “Shut up, Randall,” she grumbled.

  “Actually, it’s Russell,” he corrected. “Madame Lefair, the faerie kings won’t just kill off the humans. They will remake the world in their own image, run by the fae and enslaving the rest of us. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the prophecy before?”

  Oh god, prophecies. She steepled her fingers and pressed them against her forehead. “Please tell me you don’t believe in some ridiculous story one of my ancestors made up.”

  “It’s not just a story,” Aster replied. The faerie woman leaned forward until her bottom was barely on the seat. “Morgana le Fay and Nimue were the first to declare what would happen if the faerie kings took their true and rightful thrones.”

  “My namesake never liked Nimue. They wouldn’t have worked together like that.” Such a prophecy would require scrying, and Morgan had talked to her greatest of grandmother’s before. Morgana would sooner have cut off Nimue’s head than stare into a looking glass with her.

  “But they did,” Aster replied. “It’s less of a prophecy and more of a warning. The faerie kings are far too dangerous to let wander and expose their magic. Nimue was the first to ensure it didn’t happen. That’s why she gave Arthur the sword.”

  A vine slid down from the ceiling and touched the top of Morgan’s head. Her anger was disturbing the plants. She reached up, touched the tendril, and gave it a single pet. “You’re speaking of my heritage, fae. Don’t try to educate me on the history of witches.”

  Rufus stood and took a couple steps toward her, only stopping when her hand twitched. “I don’t know how to explain to you what we fear will happen. But these faerie kings, they have to be controlled.”

  “And what do you think I can do?” Morgan turned back to her cauldron. “Get out of my house. I’m not interested in your theories.”

  Silence rang behind her like the ticking of a bomb. Louis was the one who finally broke the silence. “I don’t want to force you, Morgan. But we know what you did to those boys who wandered into your garden five years ago. We know where they’re buried, and we’ll call the police.”

  She stiffened. They knew? She had buried her tracks so deep with magic, not even a witch would know what she had done.

  Swallowing, she forced her shoulders to relax and reached for her spoon again. Morgan stirred the cauldron and asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

  “They meant harm, didn’t they? You wouldn’t kill teenagers unless you had to, we understand that. I could smell them underneath the hedges, Morgan. All I have to do is call the police, and they’ll put you behind bars for the rest of your life.”

  “No human prison could hold me.” Her hand shook with the next swirling stir.

  Aster hummed in the back of her throat. “No, it couldn’t. Most magical prisons could, however, and we’re more than happy to call them as well.”

  She stared down at the black liquid in her cauldron and realized there was no way for her to get out of this. They had her by the throat.

  A magi
cal prison was a death sentence.

  Her hands shook so badly she dropped her spoon into the black mire. It devoured the utensil, a spell gone wrong.

  They had her, and they knew it. She had to help them, or they would destroy her life.

  She heaved a deep sigh, turned around, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

  The three of them shared a single look before they replied in unison, “You need to kill a faerie king.”

  2

  The two men disappeared as soon as she agreed to work for them. They raced away from her property like the hounds of hell were on their tails. They might be. She still hadn’t decided if she wanted to send a few beasts after the strangers who had come in and turned her life upside down.

  She glared at the faerie who remained. Aster was by far the weakest of the three. Why would they leave the fragile, insignificant creature to Morgan’s whims?

  The faerie blushed bright pink and eyed the door. “I’m supposed to help you prepare for the king.”

  “Why am I preparing for someone you want me to kill?” Morgan didn’t need to look nice for the man. She needed him to lie down and accept her blade across his throat.

  She hadn’t killed anyone in a very long time. Five years, to be precise. And even then, it was only to keep herself safe.

  She’d always remember them, drunk and stumbling through her woods. The way the first boy had fumbled with his belt buckle because his fingers were too slow to do what his brain wanted. Five inexperienced young men against a single woman. They’d thought she would be easy prey to leave behind in the woods where no one would find her.