Page 1 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 1

G retta thanked the bartender and slid another round of shots to the gnomes beside her. The pub had grown crowded, mostly with tourists who smelled like rum punch and fried oysters, but the pair of gnomes didn’t seem to notice.

The one with mutton-chop sideburns— Faldrig, was it? —curled his stubby arm on the bar to use as a pillow. His friend, Elberdink, toasted Gretta and sloshed rum on the sticky floor.

“You’ve got a hollow leg, pixie,” Elberdink said.

If only. Her mouth tasted like acid, and her vision had started to fuzz, but the locals only talked to outsiders while the liquor flowed and the tab remained open, so she drained her glass and smacked it rim-down on the bar. Elberdink did the same.

A human couple entered the pub, letting in a blast of hot air and off-key music from the street. Gretta barely glanced at them.

“Back to the crone in the swamp,” she said. “You’re sure she’s a redhead?”

“My boy saw her hisself a couple weeks ago.” Elberdink wiped a dribble off his beard and yawned.

“How many friends were with him?”

“Dunno. Two?”

“Can you give me their names?”

Elberdink’s eyes drooped. They snapped to attention when someone started banging away on a piano.

“Their names?” Gretta repeated.

The gnome blinked hard as though noticing her for the first time. “Whose names? I don’t give out no names! What’re you asking me all this for, anyway?” He checked the miniature watch pinned to his waistcoat and shook Faldrig awake. The gnomes climbed off their barstools, muttering to each other in a language Gretta didn’t understand.

Sighing, she handed them their caps.

Elberdink slapped his on. “Didn’t know pixies was so interested in the goings-on of our swamp.”

“I guess I’m the curious type.”

“Hmph, well. We got to get home. Thanks for the drinks, I s’pose.”

Gretta gave a little wave as they tottered out. Once the door closed behind them, she pulled out her notepad and jotted down everything they’d told her.

Much of it was probably worthless since day-drinking gnomes didn’t make the finest sources. But instinct told her she was closer to finding an illusion witch than she’d been in years.

Which usually meant she wasn’t. They were the rarest caste and the hardest to hunt. The elusive hags could transform into anything they wanted or even go invisible, and tracking them had proven a total waste of time.

Unfortunately, only an illusion witch could undo the spell afflicting Gretta’s employer. Nat’s physical limitations—and his job as senator—kept him behind a desk in the capital, so he paid her to dig up rumors about mysterious crones and chase their shadows across the country. Besides being her boss, Nat was her oldest friend, so she kept searching.

At least if the witch in the swamp ended up being from the wrong caste, Gretta would collect another trophy and finally get the hell out of this muggy cesspool.

After downing Faldrig’s untouched shot, she gave up her stool to a hobgoblin wearing beaded necklaces instead of a shirt. On her way to the door, the drinks caught up with her. She reeled into a table, catching herself before she landed in a blonde man’s lap.

He put out his cigarette with a grin. “Need help, sugar?” He was human, but he had the thick neck and compact build of a cave troll.

Gretta didn’t care for his oily smile. “Nope.”

“How about company, then?”

Had that line ever worked?

Backing away, Gretta billowed her sweaty tunic, and the man’s eyes fell to her open collar. They widened when he noticed her volatus, the small, flat gland on the side of her neck. Every pixie had one; they made her wingless species fly. By the way he was staring, she’d have sworn she’d exposed a nipple.

Smile back in place, the man took Gretta’s wrist and tugged her closer. “Hang on, sugar. What’s your name?”

She growled at the ceiling without replying.

“Mine’s J,” he continued. “And I know someone who’s in the market for what you’ve got. How would you like to make some easy cash?”

“How would you like to lose a hand?”

“Calm down, I didn’t mean on your back.” He leered and added, “Unless you want to.”

Gretta unsheathed the knife he’d apparently failed to notice and pressed it to his wrist. “Decide how this ends quickly, I’m late for something.”

The man’s grin became a snarl. His meaty fingers tightened…then released her. Gretta shoved out the door, into the damp, gamey-smelling street.

Twilight had fallen, bringing out the city of Antrelle’s wilder crowd. Men sang and catcalled the half-naked women leaning over wrought-iron balconies, while street musicians tried to drown each other out. Two stumbling boys who couldn’t be older than sixteen almost knocked a lamplighter off his stilts.

Deciding she wasn’t quite too drunk to fly, Gretta unsteadily took flight, swaying alongside the rooftops. After several blocks, she turned down a quiet, shabbier side street and landed at an establishment with a sun-bleached sign squeaking on its hinges. It read: The Painted Tit—Come For a Fuck, Stay For the Food.

She climbed the rickety steps and went inside.

The place wasn’t much brighter than the dingy pub. Half the mounted gas lamps hung broken from the walls, and most of the tapers in the wagon wheel chandelier had burned to nubs. A barmaid lit candles on the wooden tables, her breasts threatening to spill from her corset when she bent over. True to advertising, they had yellow daisies painted on them.

Gretta checked her pocket watch with a guilty wince, and when she approached the bar, a golden-haired nymph set aside the glass she’d been wiping.

“Rum double,” Gretta said, slapping down a coin. The words made her stomach roll, but if she was going to be hungover anyway, she might as well get good and sauced.

As the nymph poured, Gretta leaned on the bar. “Have you seen a troll come in tonight? I was supposed to meet one here half an hour ago.”

The nymph’s button-nose puckered. “I put him in back. Didn’t want him scaring our girls. He can eat here, but you better let him know he ain’t welcome upstairs.”

Most of the people in this part of town were human and would hardly give Brand a second glance. Nymphs, however, loathed trolls.

Gretta didn’t have time to argue, so she swiped her drink off the bar and headed for the back. She found Brand on the other side of two batwing doors, tearing into a platter of boiled crayfish. Beside him sat a figure under a red hooded cloak.

Gretta stopped short and briefly closed her eyes.

Brand smiled, his smooth green skin glowing in the candlelight. His knees didn’t fit under the table, and the legs of his stool practically creaked under his weight. Gretta sat next to him and helped herself to a crayfish.

“You’re thirty-six minutes late,” Philip said from beneath the hood. “And judging by the fumes coming off you, that isn’t your first cocktail.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Phil?” Gretta asked.

She couldn’t see his face but sensed a glare coming from the hood. When he slid a newspaper across the table, she leaned in to read.

“My god,” she breathed. “The price of coal is expected to rise for the third consecutive winter.”

“The headline beneath it, smartass.”

She closed an eye to keep the tiny print in focus, and one side of her lips curled.

“ Area Witch Found Gored to Death in Cottage ,” she read dramatically. “ The Hag Hacker Strikes Again! ” She shoved the paper away, making a mental note to pick up a copy. “It didn’t even make the front page of a small-town rag. No one cares about a few dead witches.”

In fact, most people celebrated their deaths. Witches were evil, sadistic lunatics who existed on the fringes of society. While some species innately possessed magic, witches were the only ones who could wield it via spells, so the government did its best to keep tabs on them. But people still had a way of disappearing around their hovels. Whenever Gretta found one during her hunt for an illusion witch, she didn’t come bearing registration paperwork.

“This isn’t the first to make the papers,” Philip said. “And the Tribune is working on a feature-length story. I doubt the police will be so lax with national reporters sniffing around.”

“The police have better things to worry about, and I’ve been careful.”

“You’ve been reckless. Hell, you parade around wearing crime scene evidence like it’s a goddamn fashion accessory.”

Gretta ran her fingers over the braided locks of hair hanging from a ring on her belt. Each was a different color and texture, and each meant more to her than the money she’d earned hunting for Nat.

True, he’d ordered her not to kill anymore, but she always assumed it was with a wink and a nod. After all, Nat had as much reason to hate witches as Gretta did.

“I agree with Philip,” Brand said gently. “What would happen to you if you got caught?”

“What would happen to Nat ?” Philip asked. “How would it look if the voting public found out a member of his staff is a murderer? His chances of becoming chancellor would be shot.”

The word “staff” nearly brought Gretta’s liquor up. She loathed the reminder that her once revolutionary boss had traded his anti-witch uprising for an office in the capital. For all the legislative progress he’d made, his efforts remained toothless, essentially relegated to paper, and those pathetic efforts had all but ended once he’d decided to run for chancellor of Merecia.

Their country was one of few democracies in the world and the only one where someone like Nat could become head of state. To Gretta, he cared more about the fact of becoming chancellor than helping the citizens.

“Did you come all the way down here to lecture me?” she asked. “If so, you’ve wasted a trip.”

“I also came to check on your progress. You’ve been here for weeks, and our patience is wearing thin.”

Philip had no patience to begin with, but Nat’s lack of faith in her stung. She massaged her neck without responding.

“Did you learn anything new today, Gret?” Brand asked.

“Yes. A lot, actually.”

Philip crossed an ankle over his knee, his posture radiating skepticism.

“I got her physical description,” Gretta said to Brand. “Reddish hair, green cloak, and she’s old as dirt. She never comes to town, but some kids have seen her prowling around the bayou.” She stole another crayfish. “They’re lucky to be alive.”

“We already knew there was a witch living in the swamps,” Philip said. “What makes you think she’s illusion?”

Now that the conversation had landed on safer ground, Gretta kept her tone professional. “Enchanted objects have turned up on the local black market. Low-grade stuff, mostly. Magic mirrors, never-empty bottles of wine. But there’s also been a lot of beauty talismans floating around.”

“Beauty talismans,” Philip said.

“Yeah. Apparently, the mayor threw a ball for his daughter last month, and it was an absolute spectacle of feminine loveliness. There’s also been an uptick in poaching and burglaries, which means invisibility cloaks are on the market.”

“Illusion magic,” Brand said.

“Correct.” Gretta slurped the brains from her crayfish.

After contemplating a moment, Philip sighed. “That’s promising, but the Radiant Swamps are huge. Tracking her will be difficult, even for you.”

“I’ve mapped the entrance of every path and canal. I’ll find a guide, then I’ll find her.” Gretta was so close, she smelled the blood on the witch’s hands. If she could finally bring her in, Nat and Philip would have no choice but to get off her back.

“We can scrounge up a guide tomorrow,” Brand said.

Philip stuffed the newspaper in his bag. “I’m staying at the same inn as the two of you. We’ll meet out front at eight a.m. sharp.”

“Like hell,” she said. “This isn’t your job, go home.”

“ Eight , Gretta. And I don’t want to hear about your hangover in the morning.”

She’d be out the door at dawn before she let Philip tag along on a hunt. At present, though, she was too exhausted for any more verbal sparring.

Philip slung his bag over his shoulder and stood. “I’m going to get settled in. I’ll see you both in the morning.” He strode away without saying goodbye, and Gretta dropped her forehead to her palm.

Brand lightly smoothed her ponytail. “Why do you always let him get to you?”

“Why does he always have to be such an uptight prick?” Philip was everything she hated about what their anti-witchcraft movement had become. Glacial, gutless, pathetically obsessed with public relations. They used to get things done .

“Philip can be a prick,” Brand sighed. “But he has a point.”

“Oh, really.”

“You have become reckless. Speaking as your friend, though, I’m more concerned about your personal life than your professional one.”

“My personal life hasn’t changed since we met.”

“Maybe not the shape of it, but the scope has.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Brand nodded at her mostly empty glass. “You’ve been drinking too much. When you aren’t hunting, you’re hiding in your apartment. I can’t remember the last time I saw you outside work. It isn’t healthy.”

Gretta scoffed. It wasn’t as if she had a deep roster of buddies beating down her door. And so what if she preferred it that way?

“I’ve never been a social butterfly, Brand.”

“You know what I’m getting at. This obsession with witches used to focus you, but now it’s a prison you won’t even try to escape from.”

Gretta glanced away. An aggravating tightness clogged her throat, but she resisted finishing her drink.

“I’m fine.” She pushed the glass away. “We’ll grab coffee sometime when we get home. And if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll cut back on the booze.”

“That would help, but I wish you’d also find someone to talk to. Someone who understands what you’ve been through.”

Nobody can possibly understand.

Rather than giving in to rum-soaked melancholy, Gretta pasted on a smile and stood. “You’re right. Will do.”

Brand’s green hand gently squeezed hers, swallowing it whole. “Please, Gret. Think about it.”

“Absolutely.” She dropped a kiss on his cheek. “I better head back. Gotta sleep it off for our big hunt.”

“See you then.”

“Bright and early.” She gave Brand another smile and concentrated on keeping her gait steady as she left. The Painted Tit might be a dump, but they sure as hell didn’t water down their stock.

When she pushed out the front door, sultry air blasted her. The revelry around the corner to her right had grown louder, so she hung a left, carefully picking her way over tree roots that had busted through the sidewalk. She was now too tipsy to fly, but walking made her spinning head worse.

She dug her palm into her forehead, replaying the conversation.

Your personal life is fine , she reminded herself. If anything, her job was the problem. Sometimes it seemed like she was the only one who gave a shit about fighting witches anymore.

But maybe Brand had a point. She should ease up on the sauce. Starting tomorrow.

Gretta’s bladder interrupted her thoughts. An alley stood a few yards away, but full dark had fallen, and she was drunk, not stupid. Abdomen clenched, she stumbled into the closest building with light coming through the windows.

“Where’s your bathroom?” she asked the bartender. He flicked his rag toward a hallway in back.

This place was seedier than the Painted Tit, and she could only imagine the quality of its facilities. When she got there, she nearly retched from the smell, but held her breath and made quick work of it. She leapt from the foul room with a cough.

Next time, she’d take her chances in the alley. How did anyone tolerate such disgusting—

An arm snaked around Gretta’s neck, and a pungent wad of cloth cut off her scream.

Thrashing, twisting, she clawed the arm as it dragged her into the shadows.

Hot, whiskey breath tickled her ear. “Settle down, sugar.”

Gretta moaned into the cloth. Dumb with liquor and panic, she clumsily kicked and arched her back, fumbling for the knife at her belt. Before she could palm it, her double vision plunged into black nothingness.