1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

B uckingham 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 has tied 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.

“No?” I splutter.

“Why aren’t you talking?”

I prise my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “I…er…you surprised me.”

Not the most dazzlingly intellectual sentence ever uttered, but it will do.

Suddenly, all the hairs on the back of my neck are rising and a strange strangled yelp is twisting its way out of my throat.

This motherfucking fey just walked through the railings as if they weren’t there and now he is standing right next to me. My mind is scrambling from this blatant flaunting of physics.

“You are tall,” says the fey.

I take a step backwards, but he simply steps after me. I haven’t managed to increase the distance between us at all.

“And you have muscles,” he says as he licks his lips.

Wait. What? Does he want to eat me, or does he fancy me? My stomach is rolling at that last thought. I’m strangely and stupidly pleased that he might fancy me. But I’m straight. And a member of the Resistance. He is a fey and well, a he. What the fuck is happening to me?

He moves, far too fast. His hand rests on my left pec and squeezes. His eyes sparkle and a wicked smile curves his soft-looking lips.

“Lovely,” he sighs happily.

It takes all my effort to swallow, and then I’m done. Spent and helpless. Exhausted from the effort. Too frazzled to do anything else.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

Yes! I know this! A question I can answer. This is brilliant.

“Blake Robinson,” I supply smoothly.

Surprise flashes across his amethyst eyes and his eyebrows rise. “You are telling the truth.”

I am. Maybe I should have given an alias. Given I’m a Resistance fighter and all. But nobody knows that. I’m not on a list anywhere. I have been damn careful about that. There is no reason Blake Robinson can’t be an innocent tourist.

Besides, apparently, giving my real name was the right thing to do, since this creepy fey appears to be able to tell. A false name would have aroused suspicion. So I have stumbled into doing the right thing.

Now I just need to get the hell out of here.

“Blake,” he says, placing far too much emphasis on the K.

But I like the way he makes my name sound exotic and interesting. My name sounds good on his lips.

His striking purple eyes light up with something that can only be described as predatory. It’s making my heart race and my limbs shake. As well as stirring a heat low in my gut. There is something very wrong with me. I need to get out of here. Right now.

“Um…Is that the time? It was lovely to meet you, but I must dash!”

The fey tilts his head at me. “Oh sweetie, you are not going anywhere.”

He raises his hands and claps them. Long elegant fingers coming together to make a surprisingly loud noise. The silver bracelets on his slender wrists jangle.

I blink. Four fey guards appear. Wearing leather armour complete with swords sheathed at their hips. I gulp. Look at me. Never seen a fey in the flesh before today. Now I have seen five.

“I’m just a tourist!” I protest, but it comes out several octaves higher than my normal vocal range.

The amethyst-eyed fey gives me a smile that makes my stomach do peculiar things.

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

“I…um beg your pardon?”

He stands a little straighter. His posture flowing from at ease to something regal and imposing.

“I, Prince Mabon Y Mabonogi, claim Blake Robinson as my pet.”

His voice rings out clear and commanding. His words bounce around my mind and don’t find any purchase. They slip and slide and drift away without meaning anything at all.

Two guards step forward and stand one on each side of me. They each grab a bicep in a grip like steel. There is no way I’m getting free. No way in hell. Besides, they have flipping swords. And magic.

Prince Mabon smiles again. A dazzling smile. His dark eyelashes flutter with very naughty promise. Then he turns on his heels and heads towards the palace, flowing through the railings as if they are merely a mirage.

The guards holding me step after him, dragging me with them. We also pass through the railings. I shudder. Then a far more pressing thought takes over.

Oh shit. His words are sinking in.

He is Prince Mabon.

And he has claimed me as his pet.

Oh fuck.