The Changeling Chronicles Books 1-7 (Paperback)

When I was sixteen years old, I walked out of hell, thinking I’d finally be free of the faeries.

Ten years later, the joke was on me. Instead of spending my Saturday afternoon lazing around at home, there I was, deep in a troll’s lair with a piskie hovering over my shoulder.

“He took my friend’s charm,” whined the piskie.

“Yes, you said.” I continued sorting through the array of junk the troll had gathered, searching for the tell-tale glint of a spell. Charms were notoriously tricky to get right, but given the wad of cash on offer, I’d get a nice bonus if I returned this one to its rightful owner. 

In the suburbs, you took whatever work you could get, even skulking around a troll’s nest. I’d had to wait until the beast went off hunting before I risked sneaking in. As far as enjoyment went, I’d rank the experience somewhere up there with putting a harness on a kelpie. Though at least kelpies didn’t smell like a blocked drain. Grimacing, I shoved a heap of human clothes aside that I hoped had been acquired via theft and not as a bonus from its latest meal. Trying to make faeries obey human laws was tricky at the best of times, but I drew the line at sifting through troll dung to figure out if it had recently consumed a human being or not. Luckily, that job fell to the clean-up squad, who sat one rank below me on the less-than-impressive ladder of poor souls freelancing for Larsen Crawley.

The word “freelancer” sounded like it ought to mean something like “dragon slayer”. In my case, that was almost literally true, but there was zero glamour in kneeling in unappealing wetness to sift through contraband. Trolls had magpie-like tendencies for reasons I couldn’t fathom, and I found several charms nestled beneath a pile of old computer parts. 

“Gotcha.” I identified the small, glinting cylindrical charm from among the others. “What kind of spell is this?”

“Beautification,” said the piskie.

Figures. I slid the charm into my pocket and headed towards the exit.

A shuffling noise came from ahead and drew me to a halt as the troll’s hulking frame filled the entryway. Oh, shit. I’d planned to confront the creature later, sure, but not here in its cramped nest. Trolls were notoriously territorial. Great job there, Ivy.

I reached for the sword I kept sheathed at my waist, waving farewell to my resolution to get through this without unnecessary bloodshed. The troll bellowed, swinging a giant fist at me. I ducked, inwardly cursing the cave’s tight walls, and drew the blade from its sheath. Towering over me despite the low ceiling, the troll’s body resembled a misshapen boulder and was resilient to virtually anything. 

Except—like all faeries, with no exception—iron.

I repositioned myself, raising my sword, hoping it’d have the good sense to move before I had to use it. Unfortunately, expecting good sense from a troll was like expecting manners from a brain-eating boggart, and the blade glanced off the troll’s arm. I hadn’t put all my weight behind it, but the bright spray of blood made the troll scream in alarm and stomp its huge feet hard enough to shake the whole lair. A second swing of its fist sent me reeling sideways, my feet skidding right into a pile of… ugh. Troll dung.

“Take a hint,” I snarled, swinging the blade again. Already the iron had left a spiderweb of cracks along the troll’s massive arm, and its feet stumbled, driving me further back into the dung heap. “I’m sparing your life, boulder-brain.”

Boulder-brain aimed another punch at my head. I ducked, and the troll’s fist went straight through the wall of its own lair. The troll roared and tried to pull its hand free, sending bits of crumbling rock over my head, but its fist was well and truly stuck.

As its other hand swiped at me, I dropped to the ground, crawled between its legs and pointed my blade at its spine. The troll flailed its free arm, howling in frustration. I’d have laughed at its predicament if I wasn’t doing my absolute best to forget what I’d just crawled through. Naturally, the piskie had disappeared into thin air at the troll’s appearance, and not a soul remained in the nest except for the pair of us. Oh, and my sword, of course. Irene had been my faithful companion through ten years of fighting the evil forces of Faerie and laying down the law. The iron gleamed even through the vibrant bluish-red sheen of the troll’s blood on its tip.

“You’re lucky I only gave you a warning,” I told the troll. “I’m confiscating the charm you stole, and representatives from the city’s council will be here shortly to question you and to confiscate anything else you might have taken unlawfully.” I suspected everything here in its nest was stolen, but the interrogation wasn’t my job. I was just the sword-for-hire, the runner of dangers. Someone who played nicer with others would be in charge of trying to get a response from my adversary that didn’t consist solely of grunts. 

“Well?” I gave the troll one last warning tap on the spine with my sword. Faint red lines fanned outward, the result of faeries’ incurable allergy to iron. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” the troll whimpered. “Yes, Lady Sidhe.”

“I’m not Sidhe,” I said. “I’m human.”

The hilt of my sword struck the back of its head, and the troll crumpled, its hand still wedged in the earthen wall.

Job done. Even Larsen wouldn’t let me into the guild in this state, so I resigned myself to heading home first to pick up a cleansing spell from my flatmate, Isabel. Once I’d cleaned up, I’d collect my bounty. Troll dung aside, the faerie blood on my blade would attract all kinds of trouble. The kind worse than a pissed-off troll.

Twenty years on from the faeries’ arrival and we were still cleaning up their mess. Summer and Winter Sidhe might have supposedly come to Earth to stop humans destroying one another, but when they’d buggered off home, they’d left us saddled with their monsters squatting under our bridges and nesting in our rafters. There were no Seelie or Unseelie Courts here, and no path back to Faerie, but the fae probably fared better in our realm because there was a marginally lower chance of being flayed alive.

Isabel sometimes remarked that the faeries got the raw end of the deal. I wasn’t inclined to agree.

As I was setting up a ward outside the troll’s nest in case it woke up, the piskie reappeared at my side. “Thanks for the help,” I muttered. “Really appreciate it.” 

The piskie fluttered its tiny gossamer wings. “I am honoured, human.”

I rolled my eyes. Faeries truly were the most literal creatures in existence.

Time to go home. I didn’t have far to walk—good job, because taking the bus in this state was out of the question—but Isabel and I lived on the cusp between witch and shifter territories, and it was still light enough for me to draw revolted stares from both as I made my sorry way home. By the time I’d showered, changed and left my clothes to soak in the bath, it was early evening and I was starved, so I took a detour to grab some takeout Chinese on the way to the guild. I munched on stir-fried noodles as I walked through what had once been an ordinary suburb of south Birmingham before the faeries’ invasion had ripped it in two and the exposed supernaturals laid claim to various parts of what remained. Invariably, the influx of magic into the city brought the need for those willing to do the uncomfortable work of making sure the surviving half of the regular human population didn’t suffer too much damage as a result.

The squat red-brick construction where Larsen’s guild was located had likely been a normal office building once, but now its rooms were full of weapons and storage lockers packed with questionable junk of the sort I’d found in the troll’s lair. There was a gym and a target practise hall around the back, but I only used them when nobody else was around, for the most part. Mercs were given to indulging in nonsensical competitive stunts that usually ended with the equipment broken and someone taking a hospital trip. 

Larsen accosted me at the doors, wearing his usual scowl. His sloppy T-shirt-and-jeans getup was more suited to a seedy bar than an organised guild of professional mercenaries, but this was hardly an elite establishment. Anyone who couldn’t afford to hire a mage to solve their supernatural problems came to Larsen… as a last resort.

“There you are. I was beginning to think I’d need to send someone after you.” He looked me up and down with a mixture of suspicion and contempt, along with a not-insignificant level of annoyance that I’d come back in one piece. Why he thought being the head of what amounted to a magical lost property unit was worth lording it over everyone else was a mystery to me.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to come in here covered in blood.” I’d thoroughly scrubbed myself in the shower, yet I still felt like the stench clung to my skin. Not just the troll dung, but the faint aroma of decaying magic made my skin crawl like it wanted to leap clear of my body.

“Blood?” Larsen raised an eyebrow. “You were supposed to retrieve a stolen object, not start a fight.”

“I’m not the one who started it,” I said. “I got the charm, knocked out the troll and put a ward around its nest. When clean-up go down there later, there are a bunch of other items I’m pretty sure are stolen.”

“And just how did you take down a troll single-handedly?” 

“Take a guess.” I gestured to the sword at my waist. “Iron.”

I was hardly the only human capable of defending herself from supernatural creatures. I’d had more incentive than most, but regularly escaping intact from fights with Faerie’s biggest, ugliest denizens tended to make people ask curious questions. Mostly it was a combination of witch charms and a handy skill with a blade, and Larsen wouldn’t know I had faerie magic unless I hit him in the face with it. Humans, even witches and shifters, weren’t Sighted.

“Fine,” he growled. “Come in.”

I walked through the grimy glass doors. A gorgeous woman waited in the lobby—the unnatural kind of gorgeous that practically advertised her Summer Faerie heritage with a neon sign. Golden curls flowed to her waist, and though her ears were slightly rounded, she’d never pass as human.

“You found my charm?”

I pulled out the sparkling object. “No problem. This is a beautifying spell, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I need that.” She snatched it from my hands. 

Really? She thought she needed a beautification spell? Her face might have caused a traffic accident despite the frown pulling at her lips. Nobody pulled off melodrama quite like the faeries. She’d inherited that much from her fae side, but I’d seen her attitude a thousand times in half-faeries with parentage from the Summer or Winter Courts. They saw their human side as a curse, and though she was stunning, she couldn’t see past her own blood, which would never be good enough for Summer.

She might have sent me crawling into a troll’s nest and showed zero gratitude for it, but I knew too well how easily the words of the Sidhe could worm their way into your head. I held her gaze. “Take it from me, though—you really don’t need it.”

My good deed for the day done, I left the building before Larsen could jump on me again. I needed a stiff drink.

Stopping at my flat to change into something nice—finding a clean, bloodstain-free outfit was unsurprisingly difficult—I headed out to the local pub. The Singing Banshee was a dingy place that catered to supernaturals and humans alike, so I wouldn’t get too many stares walking in armed to the teeth. Two knives concealed up my sleeves, two at my ankles. Boots rather than strappy shoes, jeans rather than a short skirt. Long brown hair tied back, just in case. Simple, practical. The owner, Steve, gave me a nod when I perched on a stool against the bar, safely hidden beneath the low lighting that the pub employed alongside an ambient noise machine so that the local shifters’ heightened senses weren’t overwhelmed upon entering. My own magic was only visible to people with the Sight and most faeries would have more sense than to wander into an establishment like this, but I appreciated the anonymity.

Two shots later and my annoyance faded to a pleasant buzz. Nobody approached me at the bar. I’d acquired a reputation since a sleazy necromancer tried to grope me a couple of years ago and triggered the stinging spell I kept hidden on me. The story ended up being exaggerated. He’d regained the use of his hands again… eventually.

Being a weekend, the pub was more crowded than usual, with scruffy shifters hanging out near the pool table, witches sipping cocktails in groups, and even the odd necromancer sulking in a corner. I didn’t expect to see the mages until a flock of them walked in, all long coats and posh, cultured accents. This wasn’t your typical mage hangout, so it came as no surprise when they started whining loudly about the terrible lighting. I liked this old, dingy place precisely because mages didn’t come inside. Their territory was way over the other side of town, so what the hell they were doing here was anyone’s guess.

A couple of them shot cursory glances towards me, but otherwise I was as invisible as anyone not at their societal level. The word ‘necromancer’ floated my way, and I tuned in to their conversation long enough to gather they’d had a disagreement with the leader of the local Necromancer Guild again. Luckily, the necromancers usually never came in here either, and the ones present didn’t seem to have noticed the intrusion. Nothing ruined a night out quite like an oncoming undead horde.

Go away, I thought, sipping my vodka and coke. Luckily, the other patrons reflected my general attitude and the mages soon traipsed off, complaints lingering in their wake.

Steve rolled his eyes after them. “Those mages think they’re too good for everywhere.”

“About right.” I put down my empty glass. “Bet none of them has ever seen the inside of a troll’s nest.”

“Grim.” Steve reached out to refill my glass. “Tell you what, this one’s on the house.”

“Cheers,” I said. Steve had been on my side ever since I’d helped him kick out a piskie infestation a few years ago. “Believe me, troll dung is a fucking nightmare to clean out of denim.”

“You ought to ask for hazard pay,” he said. “It’s exploitation, what Larsen does.”

“It’s work.” I shrugged. “I get the benefits and accept the hazards. If I asked for a raise I’d be out on the streets.” 

I had no intention of ending up out there again. I’d signed up at the mercenary guild ten years ago when people were desperate enough to hire anyone to help with their supernatural-related issues, even a sixteen-year-old girl, and while I was a tad pickier with new cases than I’d been back then, we’d be far worse off if I gave the guild the middle finger. Yes, Isabel would accuse me of avoiding facing my problems if I told her that, but she’d never been on the receiving end of one of Larsen’s beer-soaked rants.

Besides, since most of my problems would happily eat me alive, given the chance, I saw no issue in avoiding them.

A shout rang across the pub. I snapped my head around, the back of my neck prickling. My gaze panned over the crowd until I spied a short, dishevelled man in jeans and jacket, too far away for me to make out his features.

“Not that Trevor Swanson again,” said Steve, resting his elbows on the counter.

I turned back to the bar, watching the man out of the corner of my eye. “Who?”

“Swanson. That bloke over there… his kid went missing last night.”

A chill raced down my spine. Hearing those words always sent my mind careening in directions I didn’t want it to, even though children disappearing was hardly uncommon here in the suburbs where supernaturals and humans mingled and the faeries had left irreversible damage.

Swanson rose upward, the light falling on his face and on the person he spoke to. The man, who’d been hidden in shadow until now, wore a suit entirely too well-tailored for an establishment like this. His strong-boned face, well-combed hair and smart attire would have drawn my attention even if he hadn’t pulled out the sword.

It wasn’t unheard of to see someone carrying a sword on the street. It was decidedly less common to see someone pull a hand-and-a-half sword out of thin air. 

I kept stock still, unwilling to draw attention to myself despite my curiosity. The mage held the sword in a loose grip, but from his stance, I could tell he knew how to use it, and that the first guy had picked a fight with the worst possible opponent in the room—including me.

Swanson shrank away, stark terror flitting across his expression. “Shit,” he said. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Lord Colton, the head of the mages,” said Steve from behind the bar. “Oh, boy. He’s in trouble.”

I felt the blood drain from my own face. That guy was the head of the mages? Rumour said… well, rumour said a lot of things, but everyone agreed that since he’d gained leadership, the mages had begun to implement measures that made it downright difficult for a witch to use magic professionally without being a member of a coven. While my friendship with Isabel had spared me a visit from the authorities thus far, if he happened to glance at me, and if his purportedly sharp senses picked up on the tell-tale glow of faerie magic around me, my cover would be blown. 

I ducked my head, gripping the edge of the bar between my fingertips. Few things in this world scared me, but this particular head mage had acquired a reputation and a half in the months he’d held the title. The shifters insisted he kept a bunch of troll heads hanging in his office inside the mages’ headquarters and that he could take off someone’s head without even touching them.

Yet I didn’t give a rat’s arse whether he knew about my unconventional magic—I cared more about word reaching places I didn’t want it to. 

“If you’d prefer to have a more civilised conversation, what did you wish to ask me?” The mage’s smooth, cultured voice drew my gaze against my will. I was too far away to tell what his magical abilities might be, aside from the trick with the sword, but he didn’t give off serial killer vibes. Then again, appearances could be deceptive. Anyone who’d been around faeries knew that.

The man who’d shouted at Lord Colton rocked back on his feet, ducking his head. “My… my kid,” said Swanson tremulously. “He went missing a week ago. The police haven’t done a thing to help, and we’re desperate to have him back.”

“I thought that’s what you shouted at me,” said the Mage Lord. “Missing persons aren’t my area, unless you wish to hire one of my mages. We charge reasonable rates.”

“Do you, now?” The man appeared to recover some of his confidence. “Your doorman slammed the door in my face.”

Oh, man. The mage didn’t look angry—that I could tell from this distance, anyway—but there was little doubt he could kill everyone in this room if he wanted to. Missing kid or not, threatening the head of the mages was a good way to end up with your head mounted on the wall. 

Lord Colton’s voice, however, betrayed nothing. “If you wish to hire one of my mages, please address all correspondence to my receptionist, Wanda. I don’t take bribes, and unless magic is involved in this case, it’s absolutely none of my business.”

Friendly. What a piece of work. I hadn’t met the last Mage Lord in person, but it was plain to see that they hadn’t improved their manners in the past decade. The other mages hovered in the pub’s entryway, half-hidden by the low lighting, and I found myself wondering if the entirety of their ranks consisted of clones of the same Generic Thirty-Something White Man in Suit.

Admittedly, I wouldn’t call Lord Colton generic. The light of his blade reflected in stormy grey eyes visible even in the low lighting, and the air crackled above his shoulders like a lightning storm about to break out in the middle of the pub. It was rare enough that I set eyes upon a human magic user with that much raw power that it was difficult not to stare, but I ducked my head as the Mage Lord’s gaze swept the bar one last time.

Then he left in a sweep of his long cloak. I breathed out, the tension in the room easing somewhat. The murmur of conversation resumed, though considerably muted compared to beforehand.

Mages never come in here, I heard someone say. Creepy as the necromancers, they are.

“Scary dude,” said Steve. “I didn’t even see him come in.”

“Probably blended into the crowd,” I said. Or used a mage trick. Like with the sword. What the hell kind of magic was that? Most mage magic was flashes and sparks, not screwing with the laws of physics. Magic rarely astounded me these days, but that was a hell of a party trick.

“Right, I’m off.” I hopped off my stool. I’d had entirely too much excitement for what was supposed to be a quiet night off. Isabel was at a coven meeting, so I’d stay up until she got back, and we’d have a good rant about the mages together. 

I walked down the road to the flat, scanning the shadows out of habit. We lived miles from anywhere the fae made their homes, but occasionally, nasties from work followed me to the doorstep. Wards blazed from every corner of the building to protect us from that eventuality, and an unbroken ring of magic-forged iron surrounded the fence around the front garden, too. Isabel didn’t want piskies getting into her flowerbeds, where she grew rare herbs to use in spells. The closest I’d come to telling her about Faerie was when I’d explained why I’d prefer not to have plants inside the house. The scars all over my body from a bad experience involving a faerie’s magical thorns turning me into a human pincushion spoke for themselves, but even Isabel hadn’t heard the full story.

Once over the boundary, I relaxed my guard and approached the doorstep. Then I stopped, heart sinking, as a figure stepped from the shadows.

Swanson, the guy who’d been foolish enough to pick a fight with the head of the mages himself in a desperate bid to save his child, waited outside my flat.