The Moonlight Masquerade Read online

  CITY OF WISHES

  3: The Moonlight Masquerade

  Rachel Morgan

  CITY OF WISHES

  3: THE MOONLIGHT MASQUERADE

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  Copyright © 2019 Rachel Morgan

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  Summary:

  In a world of fae, vampires and shifters, Elle is human, bound to her stepmother by a slave charm. Her only hope is to wish for her freedom. But can she pay the price the Godmother demands in exchange?

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information please contact the author.

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  v2019.05.24

  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

  Next …

  About the Author

  On a quiet street in Vale City’s Willowton borough, moonlight shone through a dusty attic window where Elle Winter stood blinking at the glamorous, white-haired fae woman perched on the end of her bed. It was surreal enough that the Godmother herself was sitting in Elle’s bedroom. Perhaps their entire conversation—and the Godmother’s presence—was actually a dream. Elle pressed her nails into her palms, and the pain felt very real. So, not a dream?

  “I’m sorry,” she said to the Godmother. “I know it’s really late, so maybe I zoned out for a second and misheard you. But it sounded like you said you want me to kill the prince?”

  “Yes. Prince Chevalier of House Belmont.”

  Elle let out a choke of a laugh. “Is—is that a joke?”

  The smallest of frowns marred the Godmother’s perfect features. “I don’t ever joke about the price of a wish.”

  “N-no!” Elle blurted out. “I won’t kill someone. You can’t ask me to do that.”

  “Elle, you just told me how important it is that you wish for your freedom. That it’s the only way you and your stepsister can run away together, and that she means more to you than anyone else. Has that changed within the last few seconds?”

  “No, of course not. But … I mean … you’re asking me to commit murder.”

  “I am,” the Godmother said, as simply as if she were asking Elle to pick up something she’d just dropped on the floor.

  “But … this … this doesn’t even make sense,” Elle said, hoping to bring some rationality to the conversation. “Why me? I’m not even allowed to go to the ball. Surely it’s far less complicated if you ask someone who’s actually going? There must be people summoning you for wishes all the time. I’m sure you’ll find someone else in the next few days.”

  “I’m not asking someone else, Elle. I’m asking you. You can get close to him.”

  “And someone else can’t? You can’t? You’re the Godmother. You can do anything.”

  “Well, I’m flattered you think so.” The Godmother smoothed one hand over her perfectly styled hair. “But there’s a limit to the extent of my reach. Prince Chevalier has certain magical wards placed around him. Wards that specifically target me. I can’t get close enough to him. It has to be you.”

  Elle shook her head. “I’m … I’m really not the right person for this job,” she insisted, her voice trembling slightly as despair began to inch its way up her chest and into her throat. “Even if I was happy to end someone’s life, I would have no idea what to do. I’d mess up the whole thing.”

  “You are exactly the right person for this job. Your talents make you uniquely equipped.”

  “My talents?”

  “I know you’re not entirely human, Estelle Winter.”

  “Excuse me? I’m definitely human. My blood is as red as any other human’s.”

  The Godmother leaned back on one hand. “Forgive me. That isn’t quite what I meant. I know you’re human, but I also know what you can do, and it isn’t something any other human can do.”

  For several moments, Elle was silent. She longed to ask when exactly she and the Godmother had met and how the Godmother knew these things about her, but the mysterious woman had already made it clear she wouldn’t answer questions about the past. About ‘someone else’s story,’ as she’d put it. “Yes, okay,” Elle said eventually. “I can remove people’s memories. I have no idea how I possess this strange magical ability while also being human, but that’s the way it is. What does that have to do with killing the prince?”

  “Your power doesn’t simply remove memories,” the Godmother said patiently. “If you take it further—if you remove all memories, if you remove the mind itself—the body cannot survive on its own.”

  Elle felt a sickening jolt in her stomach. “What? How do you know that?”

  “You’ve done it before.”

  “I most certainly have not.”

  “You don’t remember. You took the memory from yourself.”

  Elle could only stare, her heart pounding, dread building inside her. “That … can’t be true. I’ve—I’ve never used my ability on myself.” She realized the absurdity of what she was saying as the words left her mouth. If she had taken a memory from herself, then of course she wouldn’t remember doing it. Her clients had their memories of meeting with her; they knew she’d taken something, even if they didn’t know what it was. But if she had done something terrible and then immediately removed that space of time from her own mind, she would have no way of knowing it ever happened if she didn’t write herself a note or leave some other clue.

  The Godmother let out a sigh. “It honestly doesn’t matter what you believe. What you’ve done in the past isn’t relevant right now. My point is that you need no weapon. You need no killing expertise. You will simply do what you’ve been doing for years. You’ll convince the prince to accompany you to a quiet spot away from all the activity of the ball, and then you’ll take his memories and his mind, to the point where he slips away from this world.”

  Elle swallowed past the rising nausea in her throat. “And what if he doesn’t want to follow me anywhere? What if I don’t even have the chance to get near him? There’ll be hundreds of women vying for his attention.”

  “And you will be the one to capture it. I’ll make sure of that. And your hairstyle will hide the tips of your ears so he won’t know you’re human. Trust me, Elle. Prince Chevalier will follow you anywhere.”

  “But … I …” Elle trailed off. She’d run out of things to say, used every argument she could think of, but it seemed the Godmother wasn’t open to negotiating. She’d decided on her price, and now Elle had to say yes or no.

  A noise reached her ears from downstairs. Elle looked over her shoulder, terror wrapping its fingers around her heart and squeezing tight. What would Salvia do if she walked in here and found the Godmother?

  “Don’t worry,” the Godmother said. “No one can hear us while I’m in this room. Now, I need your answer, Elle. Do you accept this price or not?”

  “Oh, I, uh …” Elle’s scrambled thoughts tumbled over one another. “Can I have a day or two to think about it?”

  “Don’t you know the rules?”

  The hand of fear squeezed a little tighter. “What rules?”

  “If you sum
mon me and refuse to pay the price I set, you don’t get to summon me again. That will be it. The end of all our dealings.”

  “But—then—”

  “It’s a simple decision, Elle. This is what it comes down to: who would you rather save? Your stepsister who means the world to you, or a fae prince who is exactly like his father. You know how the royal family feels about humans. If it were solely up to them, no human would ever be free. I’m sure you’re aware of how hard King Belaric has been working to get the National Council to vote in favor of making the slave charm mandatory for all humans once more. If he succeeds, all humans will be returned to slavery. His son has been working just as hard to get this proposed change voted in. What’s wrong with removing a person like that from the world?”

  “I … I don’t …”

  “Fine.” The Godmother rose from the bed. “This meeting is over then. I don’t have time for—”

  “Wait, okay!”

  She paused. Raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

  “I’ll do it,” Elle said, her heart thumping so hard it hurt.

  “Good. I’ll see you on Saturday evening then.” She snapped her fingers, and an instant later, she vanished.

  Elle turned on the spot, just to make sure the Godmother was really gone. Then she slowly sank down and sat right there on the floor, allowing herself to breathe freely for the first time in minutes. Was this real? Had she really just done that?

  Yes. She had.

  She’d lied to the Godmother. And now she had to figure out how to pretend to kill Prince Chevalier.

  Though she wasn’t required to do household chores, Elle raised her weary, aching body from bed at the usual time the following morning. She may not have physical tasks, but her brain had work to do. It was Monday, and the ball was on Saturday. She had six days to figure out how to pretend-kill a prince who would have hundreds of women—and probably at least a dozen guards—following him around.

  She also had no idea how she was going to get past the confinement charm on the attic, or what she would wear, or how she would actually get to Belmont Palace. But she assumed the Godmother would take care of all the details. This whole go-to-the-ball-and-kill-the-prince thing was her idea, and she was well aware of Elle’s situation.

  It was still early when footsteps sounded on the stairs leading up to the attic. Sienna, Elle thought instantly. Years of practice had made Elle an expert at identifying exactly which of her three family members was climbing the stairs.

  The footsteps stopped outside her door, and she listened for the sizzle of magic as the confinement charm was temporarily lifted. The handle twisted, and the door swung open. Sienna stood on the other side, a plate of toast in one hand. At the sight of the yellowish-brown patches on her face, Elle inhaled a quiet gasp of air. How badly must Salvia have beaten her if she still had visible bruises after a night of her fae magic working its healing power?

  “Stars above,” Elle whispered. “Are you okay? What did she—”

  Sienna thrust the plate at Elle, her eyes downcast. “I’m fine. I can’t talk. Mom is—”

  “What did I tell you, Sienna?” Salvia shouted up the stairway. “You are not to speak to her. You’ve taken too long already.”

  “I’m fine, I promise,” Sienna whispered before pulling the door shut with a bang and reactivating the confinement charm.

  Elle stared at the door, her hand gripping the plate tightly as Sienna descended the stairs. If Salvia truly didn’t want the two of them conversing, she wouldn’t have allowed Sienna to come up here. She would have come herself, or sent Meredith. Or, more likely, she would have let Elle go hungry for a day or two. No, there was a reason for this. Salvia wanted Elle to see Sienna’s bruises. She wanted Elle to see what her disobedience had resulted in.

  Any remaining doubts Elle had about bargaining with the Godmother fled her mind. Whatever she had to do to convince everyone the prince was dead—for a few hours, at least—would be worth it. She needed to get Sienna away from this house before Salvia took things too far. Before she hurt her own daughter so badly she might not recover.

  Elle carried the plate to her bed, sat down, and eyed the two pieces of toast covered in honey. Anger had robbed her of her appetite, but she wouldn’t be helping anyone by not eating. Her brain needed food if it was going to function. So she nibbled on the toast as she tried to figure out how she would trick the Godmother.

  She spent most of the morning pacing the attic, ridiculous half-ideas flitting through her mind. If the Godmother couldn’t get close to the prince, how would she know if he was really dead? What if Elle gave him something to knock him out, hid him somewhere, and then started a rumor about him being killed? It would spread lightning fast among the ball’s guests. By the time Elle got away from the palace, the rumor would probably have reached the Godmother. But she would want to know for sure. She’d probably wait for an official statement from the royal family before granting Elle her wish. So that wouldn’t work.

  Elle passed her wardrobe for the hundredth time, then stopped. She stared at the closed doors, then pulled them open and dug out an old photo album from beneath her socks and underwear. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she flipped through the cardboard pages, yellow around the edges with age. She didn’t often look at this album—wandering through memories of the good old days was always bittersweet—but she felt she needed the encouragement of seeing her parents’ faces. It was hard, but it would give her strength.

  The album began with pictures from the time her parents had only just met, mostly taken while they were hanging out together with friends and family. There was one of Dad with his brother—before his brother was killed in a car accident—and one of Mom with her best friend Liana, a woman who was fae. Then a group photo with friends: a mixture of fae, humans and shifters. Elle wondered what had happened to them all. She had vague memories of Liana, and of the shifter with the beard. Eric? Merrick? Merrick, that was it. He was a wolf shifter. But Elle couldn’t remember seeing much of Liana, Merrick or the others after her mom died when she was six. Then Dad remarried soon after Elle turned seven, and she definitely didn’t remember seeing any of his friends once Salvia was in the picture.

  Elle turned the page, shoving aside all thoughts of Salvia. They didn’t belong in the same brain space that was dedicated to reliving happy memories of her parents. The following pages were filled with photos of holidays and fun dates and more hanging out with friends. Finally, she turned a page and landed on a photo from her parents’ wedding day. Just one. There had been another album dedicated entirely to their wedding, and Salvia had made sure it disappeared soon after she married Elle’s father. Elle lingered for a while on the wedding photo, smiling at her parents’ faces filled with joy, Dad’s hand around Mom, confetti raining down around them, and Mom’s free hand raised as if she were about to catch some of the falling petals.

  Elle moved on and found a few photos of herself as a baby with her grandparents—none of whom were still around by the time Dad died, or they would surely have put a stop to Salvia’s slave charm—and finally, a photo of baby Elle with both her parents. Elle traced her forefinger over her mother’s blond hair, wondering what secrets those smiling eyes hid. She tried to keep you from us. That was what Azriel had said. But why? It still made no sense to Elle that her mother was somehow involved with vampires. If anything, she would have guessed it was her father who had something to do with them, given the way he’d died …

  She tightened her hand into a fist and looked away, trying to focus on something else—the wardrobe, the window, the carpet—to blot out the heart-shattering memory of her father turning. She squeezed her eyes shut until all she could see was blackness. Then she opened them and looked down at the image of her smiling parents. That was the way she wanted to remember them. Not the pale skin and straggly hair of a woman struck by an incurable illness. Not the dull, unseeing eyes of a man who’d ended his life before the vampire transformation was complete. Elle placed her fing
ers over the photo once more. “I’ll figure this out,” she promised them. Then she stood and returned the album to her wardrobe.

  Time passed achingly slowly as she paced the attic and tried to think her way out of this kill-the-prince mess she’d landed in. Occasionally, thoughts of Dex slipped in to distract her, which were far more pleasant than thoughts of murder. The memory of sitting in a lounge at the back of Apollo’s Apothecary surrounded by colorful cushions and wild plants in mismatched pots was so vivid. If she’d had just a few more minutes with Dex, what might have happened? He’d wanted to kiss her. She had wanted to kiss him too, and if she hadn’t been so scared and silly, she would have had the chance before the stupid slave charm started burning her leg. Dex was probably immensely relieved the kiss hadn’t happened though, now that he knew the truth about her.

  She stopped at her window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. There was a dull ache in her chest at the thought of never seeing him again, but at least she knew he was okay. Thank goodness for Cress and her dragon shifter speed and her skill at potions. Elle had never heard of anything like the strange shadowy blackness that had darkened Dex’s eyes and skittered across his skin and made him pass out. But Cress had come up with something to combat this strange affliction.

  And yet … there was something about the way Cress had spoken about Dex that left concern gnawing at the back of Elle’s mind. Cress had said he was stronger than the darkness trying to eat away at him. Trying. Present tense. As if it was still happening. But hopefully, if he kept taking this potion Cress made for him, he’d be fine. Or maybe Cress could come up with something else to—