Page 2 of This Is Not True Love’s Kiss

Castle would find him, and then Castle would set its plan into motion.

Aoife stared at the vial and swallowed thickly. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll curse myself and trust that you will find a way to bring me back, to be your queen one day. I’ll finally be free.”

Yes, Castle agreed. Yes.

She gazed at the tonic, lifting it to eye level. “I’ll be in control of my own destiny for the first time in my life.”

Aoife uncorked the vial and drank the liquid in one swift motion, and Castle watched as the faerie queen turned to stone.

Now Castle had to get to work finding the man who would one day break Aoife’s curse.

CHAPTER 1

Aoife, Two thousand years later

Almost every day for the last two years, at least one thing made me wish I’d chosen death over being cursed. Today, it was the sentient painting, who wouldn’t stop chattering as I tried to sign all the documents piled high on my desk. Documents the king insisted I sign today despite the fact that I’d told him very clearly I’d planned to go swimming in the nearby creek.

I looked longingly out the window behind me at the forest that beckoned me, out of these dreary castle walls.

“And then,” Margaret said from where she stood inside the portrait of me holding a glowing golden sword, “I told Sir Arthur that there was no possible way your husband could beat you in a fight. Do you know what he said in return?”

My head snapped up. “Sir Arthur thinks Lor could win in a fight? Against me?” I pressed a hand to my chest. The suit of armor had been with me since Fairwitch first made me, and it was absurd that he actually thought my husband could beat me in combat. Maybe I needed to attack Lor in front of Sir Arthur so he could see just how thoroughly I beat the king.

Margaret nodded, her angular dark brown eyes gleaming now that I was actually paying attention to her. She shook her straight silky black hair behind her, so different from my coarse, thick hair that hung down my back. “I couldn’t believe it either. I told Sir Arthur you’re Aoife the Warrior Queen. You led an uprising against Fairwitch. You outwitted Fairwitch and turned yourself to stone before they could have you beheaded. You’re a legend.”

That mollified me a bit. I scrawled my signature across an edict to improve our single roadway that wound around the city of Fairwitch Isle, Lor’s signature underneath mine. I hated the way he signed his documents, so precise and neat, every letter with the perfect curve and line, every signature the same. In comparison, mine looked like a chicken got hold of the quill.

Lor just had to be perfect. In everything. In every way. It infuriated me, and I wasn’t sure why. Then again, everything about Lor tended to infuriate me from the very first moment I woke from my curse and saw his face hovering over mine, realizing what he’d done.

I signed yet another document, adding it to my “done” pile, then took a breath and stood to stretch my limbs, getting a flash of that ridiculous key tattooed on my wrist. Golden and shimmering. Every resident of Fairwitch Isle had this key, and I’d learned it was the only way to ensure entry into the city. If one didn’t have the key, they could not pass our border, but I hated it. It felt like a branding, like a way to tie me to this place permanently.

My neck cracked as I bobbed it from shoulder to shoulder. I’d been sitting in my office for far too long, and I walked behind the big wooden desk and around the small room with its maroon painted walls that matched maroon and gold stained glass windows. I trailed my fingers over the books, tomes, and scrolls stuffed in the bookshelves, full of history and manifestos. For mortals, that was. The faeries didn’t have a written history. The godwitches had ensured that.

We’d been forgotten about. It was almost like we’d forgotten ourselves as well. I hadn’t.

Just everyone else.

“Oh, and did you hear that Niamh is pregnant? Isn’t that wonderful news? We’re going to have a little Wolfgang baby.”

“Wonderful,” I murmured, not really caring.

I probably should have cared since Niamh was married to Lor’s brother, Wolfe. But the truth was I’d never gotten to know the Wolfgangs. I already couldn’t stand one of them, so no need to force myself into company with the rest. And there were so many. Lor had three brothers, all of them married, and of course, both his parents. A happy little family. The definition of picture perfect.

They wouldn’t know what to do with me, just like my husband didn’t know what to do with me: the orphan, the wild, emotional faerie queen with no idea how to be anything other than alone.

I continued my walk around the room, passing two velvet green chairs where I liked to sit at the end of the day and enjoy a brandy. I drank alone, wondering how I’d gotten here, trapped again after fighting so hard for my freedom. One enslavement traded for another. Queen of Fairwitch Isle, yet somehow still not in control of my life.

“I hope the baby has Niamh’s red hair. That would be so adorable,” Margaret said. “Just think, in less than a year, you’ll have a bouncing baby to play with.” She squealed. “Oh I can’t wait!”

The thought softened me a bit. I loved babies. Probably because the Fair Folk had so little of them. I shuddered, remembering how Fairwitch had forced us to reproduce, to make more slaves for them and the other godwitches. So many Fair Folk were either created by Fairwitch or bred by them. It was worse that we couldn’t procreate with each other—so many female slaves were raped by men to try and impregnate them. I’d been spared from that fate, but my life had still not been an easy one.

To have a baby born of love, well that was something, and I had to admit, I yearned for it.

Not that I’d ever have it, not when I was married to a man who hated me, whom I hated.

My mood turned sour.

“What do you think they’ll name it?” Margaret said. “I’m putting in a petition for Margaret if it’s a girl. I had a big influence on Wolfe and Niamh’s relationship, you know. Did you ever hear the story of how they got together? It’s quite a tale.”