Chapter one
Buckingham Palace looks exactly the same. From the outside, at least. Truth be told, it’s a little disconcerting. These monsters have invaded our world and upended it. They claimed a prestigious landmark as their base, and it looks…fine? It doesn’t compute. It should look violated, altered, destroyed.
I step a little closer. Sweat is trickling down my back even though it’s bloody freezing. There is no need for me to be nervous. I’ve taken great pains to make sure that I look just like any of the handful of tourists milling around.
Nobody can tell a thing. Even though there are far fewer tourists here than I was expecting. Even for a Saturday in December, it is quiet. Guess I underestimated how scared people still are of the fey.
‘Carry on’, our new imposed overlords said. But that’s easier said than done. Besides, fuck the fey. They can’t just take our home and expect us all to roll over and show our bellies. Fuck that.
I step closer and brandish my camera. I’m just a tourist. Taking pictures of a famous landmark. That’s all. I’m not looking at the security and defences. Nope, not at all.
I snap away for a while with growing unease. There doesn’t seem to be any security. Nothing at all. The only thing that is here is the original huge gates and tall railings. There are no cameras. No guards. Nothing.
Which means they have to be relying on magic, and magic is so out of my wheelhouse it’s not even funny. I mean,magic.The fact it’s real, is probably more shocking than learning that fairies exist and are evil motherfuckers.
How the hell do we fight magic?
Ten months ago, I was selling fruit and veg on my market stall in Brixton. Now I’m trying to figure out how to take Buckingham Palace back from fairies. It’s a lot.
Alright. No need to freak out. All I need to do right now is get a shit ton of high quality photos and then get out of here. I can pour over my results with the rest of the Scoobies. And screw Amanda for referring to our Resistance Cell as the Scoobies so often that it has wormed its way into my brain to the extent that I can no longer call it anything else. Not even in the privacy of my own mind.
Scoobies. Seriously. My only comfort is telling myself we are named after Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s gang and not the original Scooby-Doo cartoon. Because Buffy is infinitely cooler.
Snorting to myself, I check my digital camera. Four hundred and eighty photos. Whoa! Okay, that’s enough. Nerves have made me go a little over the top. But never mind. It is always better to over deliver than to underachieve.
“What are you doing?”
The lilting voice is right beside me. My body recoils and then spins. Then I grunt and stumble a few steps backwards.
Right there, just on the other side of the railings, is a fey. I am actually face to face with a fey. In real life. This isn’t a picture or a video. It isn’t television. This is reality. And it is really happening. To me. Right now.
I try to swallow, but I can’t. So I hold up my camera instead. Just a tourist. Taking pictures. Nothing interesting to see.
The fey’s eyes narrow. They are purple and sparkling. Like jewels. Purple jewels are called amethysts, right? Yeah, amethyst eyes. Very pretty. His pupils are slitted like a cat’s. His face is all cheekbones and sharp angles. His skin is a very light shade of lavender and it shimmers slightly. Like he has rubbed glittery cocoa butter all over himself. Maybe he has.
My gaze tracks to his long violet hair and jet black horns that curl back like a ram’s. Horns. I’m talking to a person who has horns.
He is nearly as tall as me, which is shocking. But he is all a slender, willowy grace. Whereas my mum always says I’m built like a shit brickhouse. The size of an outdoor toilet. Charming reference, but that’s Cockney’s for you.
“Why are you taking photos?”
His voice is melodic and dulcet. I’ve lived in the East End of London my whole life, I’ve heard every accent there is, I swear. But his is wonderful.
“Um…because I am a tourist,” I say.
I wasn’t expecting to be confronted, but even so, there is no way I should be this flummoxed.
My gaze continues to drink in the sight of the fey. His clothes are all exotic flowing silk in various shades of purple. The robes are cinched in at the waist and I now can’t stop staring at his narrow waist.
He is beautiful. Extraordinarily stunning. I’ve never seen anyone this gorgeous. And just like every time I find myself with a pretty girl, my brain cells have all frozen and my tongue hastied itself in knots. Any minute now, I’m going to turn bright red and my palms are going to start sweating. I can recognise the warning signs.
“There are plenty of pictures on your internet,” he says.
My attention flicks up to his chest. Definitely flat. I look at his face again. Definitely male. Very, very pretty, but absolutely male. As is his voice.
I blink slowly. I’m straight. Very straight. He is simply fem and pretty enough to be confusing me. That’s what’s going on. It has to be. There is no other explanation.
“Are you stupid?” he asks.
