A Bee in Her Bonnet

A Cat’s Paw Cove Story

by
Sharon Buchbinder

Reader Letter

Dear Reader,

Cat’s Paw Cove is a magical town dreamed up by Wynter Daniels and Catherine Kean, a charming seaside paradise where cats are king, and anything is possible. We are so excited to bring you not only our own stories, but also contributions from an incredibly talented group of Guest Authors. With paranormal and mystery romance, time travel, and more, there’s something for everyone.
We hope you’ll enjoy reading the series as much as we enjoy writing it. For more information about the Cat’s Paw Cove series, please visit the Cat’s Paw Cove Romance website.
We also invite you to join our fun, friendly Facebook group where we share cat pictures, you can interact with our authors, and more: https://www.facebook.com/groups/CatsPawCove/

Happy reading!

Wynter Daniels & Catherine Kean

A Bee in Her Bonnet Blurb

Not all that buzzes is a bee…

Elva Boyd, an extroverted elf, uses bees and honey to treat patients in pain. Art Klarastos, an introverted demi-god, beekeeper, and inventor is her best friend. When Elva’s beehives disappear, Art beelines to her to deliver the news. Distressed, Elva pleads for his assistance with the mystery of the missing boxes. Kit Kat, his matchmaking talking cat, makes a deal with Elva: Art will help her in exchange for a real date.

Art is mortified, but Elva agrees without hesitation. While they attempt to deduce why someone might want to steal her bees’ homes, a couple arrives and claims to be Elva’s long-lost parents. An orphan raised in Cat’s Paw Cove by her aunt and uncle, Elva is ecstatic. Suspicious of these unknown elves, Art shares his concerns—but Elva tunes out his buzzing.

When her parents declare they have come to take her home to Scotland for her contractually obligated wedding, Art is devastated. Will his best friend leave with her newfound family and soon-to-be-husband? Or will he be able to convince her that he is the beekeeper of her heart?

Copyright

Copyright © 2021 by Sharon Buchbinder

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the authors.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, scenes, plots and associated elements remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Wynter Daniels, Catherine Kean, and CPC Publishing LLC and their affiliates or licensors.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the authors or CPC Publishing LLC.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover designed by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Interior graphic © Depositphotos

Dedication

This book is dedicated with love to my first reader and husband, Dale,

and to our son, Joshua, our daughter-in-law, Elyse, and our amazing grandchildren, Dexter and Charlotte.

They remind me every day that family ties bind with love and priceless memories.

~*~

It is also dedicated to my talented editor, Catherine Kean, who keeps teaching this old author many new tricks.

~*~

And to Sharon Saracino,

my funny and fun critique partner and friend. She helps me see the humor in all things in the writing life and other parts of my sometimes crazy world.

Acknowledgments

Anyone who has read my previous novels knows that before I begin to write, I conduct extensive research and steep myself in the materials. This approach enables me to speak through the characters and narrative with rich and correct content. I also rely on subject matter experts and readers from diverse disciplines and cultural backgrounds who provide corrections and feedback to me before I submit a story for consideration for publication.

I would be remiss if I did not thank my readers here, starting with my ever patient husband, Dale Buchbinder, who read every single draft of the story. My deep gratitude goes to the following people for their expertise and feedback: Joshua and Elyse Buchbinder, Toni Chiazza DiBlasi, Deborah Leather, Sharon Saracino, and Susan Willis. Big hugs to my talented and generous editor, Catherine Kean, who shares her knowledge and expertise with kindness.

Prologue

Feline Fine Retirement Home

Cat’s Paw Cove, Florida

Twenty Years Ago

Aside from his one trip to Rome on the way to visit his grandfather in Greece, Art had never seen so many cats in one place. Before he could begin counting them, his parents dragged him through the enormous front door with the stained-glass window at the top and a cat door at the bottom. Squealing elders clustered around him, pinching his cheeks, patting his head, shaking his hand, and peppering him with so many questions his head spun.

A silver-haired woman with a big nose inspected him like he was for sale. “Small for ten years old. Eyeglasses? No one else in the family is near-sighted. You must read too much.” She glared at him. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, young man?”

“N-n-nothing.”

A chubby woman in a red and green flamingo-bedecked muumuu took his hand. “Pay no mind to her, dear. Do you like desserts?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Come with me. I made a fresh batch of baklava.”

His mother placed a hand on his shoulder. “No sweets before dinner. Go play.”

Yes!

“Okay, Mom.” Eager to escape his weird relatives, Art raced outside to the porch. Cats were everywhere. Lounging cats, stretching cats, standing cats, strolling cats, rolling cats, rubbing cats—cats, cats, cats! Two huge cats sat like Egyptian statues at the top of the banister, black tails dangling down in question marks, masked golden eyes boring holes into his forehead. Rocking chairs meant for humans seated two and three felines, in furry piles, paws splayed in all directions. All bicolor, the herd of kitties sported stripes, spots, or random patterns in an endless variation of shapes.

How many are there?

He started a mental tally, turned a corner, and immediately lost count. A girl, one foot curled under her, sat reading on a wicker bench. She pushed a strand of long blonde hair away from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Her pointed ear. Entranced at the sight of another kid at this old folks’ home—much less an elf—he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.

Without taking her eyes off her book, she said, “It’s rude to stare.”

“S-s-sorry. Y-y-your ears are pointed?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he hated himself.

Frowning, she glared at him with ice blue eyes. “You don’t like them?”

“N-n-no—I LOVE them!”

Her face reddened. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

He shook his head. “I’ve n-n-never met anyone like you.”

I’m an idiot. Why can’t I say anything right?

She stuck a piece of paper at her page and closed the book. “What’s your name?”

“Art.”

“I’m Elva. Why are you here?”

“V-v-visiting relatives.” He ventured a question. “Wh-wh-what are you doing here?”

She shrugged. “I live here.”

He gulped. “H-h-how old are you?”

She giggled. “Ten—in human years.”

“Me, too! Are there any other kids here?”

She grinned. “Nope, only me.”

“Don’t you get bored?”

“Sometimes. Living here is kind of like living with dozens of grandmothers and grandfathers—plus my Uncle Harold and Aunt Agnes.”

“Where are your parents?”

Her brightness dimmed. “They disappeared on a hike when I was a baby.”

Why didn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut?

“Hey, don’t be sad. I’m used to it.”

“Don’t you ever wonder about them?”

Suddenly, he realized he wasn’t stuttering. Did her magic heal me? Or was he just so happy to be with someone who understood him that his words had come out right for a change. Either way, she made him feel relaxed in a new place for the first time in his life.

She nodded. “When I do, my aunt and uncle sit with me and tell me how I look like my beautiful mother, that I’m as brave as my warrior father, and that they are probably searching for me right now.”

A black and white kitten with an odd pattern around his neck strolled up to Elva, sat down, and said, “Does the boy have any food? I’m hungry.”

Art gasped. “A talking cat?”

Elva laughed so hard, she nearly fell off the bench. “Oh, my goodness!”

Mouth agape, eyes as large as goose eggs behind his black-rimmed glasses, Art shook his head. “How is this possible?”

“You do know you’re in Cat’s Paw Cove, right?”

The boy closed his mouth and nodded.

“Didn’t anyone tell you? This town is full of people like your relatives and Magicals like Romeo. He’s a Sherwood cat, which is why he can talk.”

It had been so long since Elva had met someone new, she’d forgotten how extraordinary the town and its residents were. No biggie to her—but he looked spooked.

She patted the empty part of the bench next to her. “Come here. Romeo won’t bite.”

The kitten meowed. “I might nip him, I’m that hungry.”

“Be nice, Romeo. He’s new.”

Giving the kitten wide berth, Art scuttled over to the bench and plopped down. He whispered, “Are you sure he won’t hurt me?”

“He’s all talk.” She picked Romeo up and put him on her lap. “See this marking on his neck? It means he’s a healing cat. It’s perfect because I’m going to be a healing elf when I grow up.”

Art pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. “I’m going to be an inventor.”

“Cool. Have you made anything yet?

“A few things.” He reached into the side pocket of his cargo shorts. “This is my latest project.” Art leaned over and placed a ball of metal on the porch floor.

“What does it do?”

His eyes lit up with pride. “Watch.”

Elva stared at the lump that looked like it belonged in the recycling bin.

Art clapped his hands, and the sphere unfolded, layer after layer after layer, until it stood on six legs. He snapped his fingers, and the creature began to run in circles.

Romeo leaped down and chased the mechanical insect. “Stop, I say. Stop!”

Astonished, her words ran together. “How did you make it? What do you call it? Do you have more?”

Art laughed. “My father has a workshop, and he lets me mess around in it. I made this invention out of old tuna cans and a garage door opener battery.”

Growling, Romeo tackled the bug. “I got it!”

“Let it go,” Elva ordered. “You’ll break it.”

Art shook his head. “He caught it, he can keep it. Don’t let him eat the battery.”

“How long are you going to be visiting here?”

“My parents said they’re buying a house.”

“You’re moving to Cat’s Paw Cove?”

He bobbed his head and grinned. “For the summers, at least.”

Elva clapped her hands. “That’s fantastic!”

Aunt Agnes, a tiny woman dressed in a matching brown skirt and top with her name sewn on the blouse pocket, came around the corner. “There you are. Dinner’s ready.”

Elva leaped to her feet. “Aunt Agnes, this is Art.”

“Hello, young man. I’ve been hearing all about you.”

His face turned beet red. “N-n-nothing bad, I hope.”

Aunt Agnes beamed at him. “I’m so glad your parents have decided to join us in our little town for the summers.”

Elva turned to Art. “Did you bring a bike?”

“Yep. We packed it into the trailer.”

“Aunt Agnes, after dinner, is it okay if I show Art around?”

“With his parents’ permission, yes.”

Art’s smile was so big, Elva could see his back teeth. Can he see mine?

“It’s been a long time since Elva’s had someone her own age to play with,” Aunt Agnes said. “I have a feeling the two of you will be the best of friends.”

Chapter One

Cat’s Paw Cove, Florida

Present Day

Elva Boyd tore the paper off the pain clinic’s exam table, tossed it into the trash, and removed her purple nitrile gloves. “Romeo, our work is ended for the week. I owe you a reward for your excellent diagnostic input.”

The black and white cat with the pattern of a stethoscope wrapped around his neck yawned. “My dear Elva, I do believe you are correct. I happen to know where we can obtain some primo catnip.”

She laughed. “Oh, no, you don’t. Those bad boys Tom and Dick are leading you astray. I have a lovely can of Swanky Buffet Tuna waiting for you at Feline Fine Retirement Home.”

“Pfft. Spoilsport.” Romeo raised his foot in the air and licked his toes. “There is nothing wrong with occasional use of the bud. Look it up. The veterinary literature is replete with the benefits of said greenery: increased appetite, playfulness—”

“And cat scratches when you get wound up and decide my hand is a toy.”

“How many times must I apologize to you for that one incident? Seriously, you have the memory of an elephant—and you do hold grudges. So unbecoming for a healing elf. Aren’t you the meditation maven? Or have I mistaken you for another Magical?”

She stuck her tongue out at him and blew a raspberry.

He turned his back to Elva. “I can go to work at InstaCare. I don’t have to tolerate this hostile environment.”

“InstaCare? Really? As in ‘I Don’t Care’ and ‘Show Me Your Money?’”

He shrugged. “I’ve been told the pay is excellent.”

“I’ve been told they don’t hire talking cats.” She reached over and petted him exactly two, not three times—or he’d sink his sharp teeth into her hand. “Come on, let’s not do this again.”

“I’m the only feline in Cat’s Paw Cove who isn’t permitted to indulge in the recreational herb.” He turned his head and put his nose in the air. “It’s humiliating.”

“You are also the only bicolor kitty in town who is able to diagnose human ailments, with, dare I use the phrase, your CAT scans.”

“Well…”

“Brendan and I rely on your magical talents to help people at our clinic who are in pain. I happen to know you’ve been doing a little moonlighting with the veterinarian, Dr. Anderson, taking care of animals.”

Romeo gasped. “Zane said that was our little secret.”

“In Cat’s Paw Cove?” Elva guffawed. “This is a town where if I can’t remember where I was last night, other people will tell me.”

The feline hissed. “Loose lips!”

“Nope. Tessa saw you coming out of Dr. Anderson’s practice on Bent Tail Boulevard. She told Brendan, and he asked me if you were feeling okay. I had to call Zane to see what was going on.”

Romeo put his paw over his face. “I live in a fishbowl.”

“As do we all.” Elva flipped the overhead lights off. “I need to chart. I could use your help. You have an excellent memory.”

He purred.

“I see that smile.”

He pranced into the administrative office. “Check your inventory of bee venom. You used quite a bit today.”

“Thanks to our growing word-of-mouth referrals for tendonitis, fibromyositis, and rheumatoid arthritis pain.”

“Oh, and we sold quite a bit of honey,” the feline added. “Is there more in the stock room?”

Elva shook her head. “I’ll bring some from home tomorrow.” Her beehives were not only a work of love, but also formed the basis of her healing arts. The hard-working bees gave her venom, honey, immune boosting propolis, and dementia-fighting antioxidants.

After an hour of chatting and charting, Elva and Romeo agreed it was time for dinner. Feline Fine Retirement Home, or FFRH, was within walking distance of the pain clinic she and her business partner, Brendan Redbird ran. She locked the front door, took a deep breath of the unseasonably cool Florida air, and urged Romeo not to stop and smell the flowers.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Who me? I’m an innocent feline who enjoys the plantings in our lovely town.”

“Sure, and I’m the Queen of England.”

“Won’t the Queen be surprised when she hears the news!”

“You are a four-legged font of snark, my friend.”

Elva turned the corner and FFRH rose before her. It never ceased to amaze her how Aunt Agnes and Uncle Harold had transformed the neglected mansion into a stunning Supernatural Senior Home. Elva had been an infant when they’d moved to Cat’s Paw Cove, so she had no recollection of how the big house with the wrap around porch had looked thirty years ago. The before and after photographs astonished her every time she looked at them.

“Come on, Romeo, your friends are waiting for you to tell them all about your day.”

“The one where I was unable to obtain catnip? That day?”

“Wow. Talk about keeping a grudge! Go talk to your buddy, Niles, in the kitchen. Maybe he can get you out of your hissy mood with that special tuna supreme.”

Romeo huffed, bounded up the stairs, and zipped through the cat door.

Nodding at the guard cats, Elva said, “Hello boys, I trust you’ve had a good day?”

“Yes, thanks,” Cassi replied. “The Flower Girls are waiting for you inside.”

“Should I act surprised?”

Cantiaci shook his head. “No, they’re excited about beekeeping.”

“They’re buzzing my song.”

Five Flower Girls, aging tree nymphs, swarmed Elva the moment she walked through the door.

“We want to have some hives here.”

“We heard the Italian bees are the gentlest ones to work with.”

“What about mite resistant bees?”

“What is a smoker?”

“How many boxes do we need?”

Laughing, Elva put her hand up. “Ladies, I love you, but give me a moment.”

“You are our Queen Bee,” the leader of the nymphs chirped. “We know you can help us.”

“First of all, I’m nobody’s Queen,” she said. “Second, the person you really need to talk to is my friend, Art. If anyone is royalty, it’s him. He’s the King of Beekeeping. Gave me my first beehives and taught me everything I know.” She paused. “Have you gotten permission from Aunt Agnes to set up hives?”

As if a synchronized dance team, the Flower Girls stepped back and lowered their heads.

“I take it that’s a no?”

Furtive glances and mumbles ensued.

“Look, if she approves, I will be more than happy to help you get set up—with Art’s help. Come back when you have my aunt’s permission.”

“Awww. Come on,” Sunny, a nymph in a sunflower patterned dress, whined. “She’s no fun.”

“I’m sure Aunt Agnes would love to have honey for FFRH.” Elva knew she’d wind up regretting her next words. “How about if I bring it up for you?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”

“Okay, okay,” Elva headed for the kitchen. She was starving, and dinner service was over. She didn’t want to have to go all the way home to her cottage on the outskirts of town. Chef Malik and Niles, his assistant cat, would be happy to feed her. Apis mellifera hives at FFRH was actually a terrific idea. The pollinators would help with the flowers and the herb garden—and yes, there would be honey.

When Art parked in front of FFRH, he flinched at the sound of tire wheels scraping the curb. “I need to invent some curb-repelling tires.”

Kit Kat, his black and white cat with gigantic eyes that turned from side to side, covered her ears and growled. “No, you need to learn how to park.”

Art slammed his truck door shut and bounded up the steps with Kit Kat at his heels. “Cassi, Cantiaci, how are you today?”

Cassi pointed his tail at the mansion’s front door. “Elva’s in there.”

Art sighed and a bevy of butterflies took flight in his stomach. “Thank you. I’ve been looking all over Cat’s Paw Cove for her.”

Cantiaci’s tail quirked into a question mark.

“It’s important, trust me.” Art pushed the door open and found a gaggle of Flower Girls looking at him expectantly.

“There you are,” Daisy, the perky wood nymph in a daisy print dress, called. “Right on cue.”

“Elva told us you’re the King of Beekeeping.” Sunny’s name matched her disposition. “We have a lot of questions for you.”

Heat rushed to his face, his heart raced, and his tongue wrapped itself into a knot. What had Elva told him? Pick one person to make eye contact with and focus on them, not the crowd. He locked gazes with a chubby nymph named Rose, who loved to wear dresses that showed off her hips. “Happy to t-talk later. Where’s Elva?”

A bicolor cat with a black mask strolled up to him and said, “In the kitchen polishing off a large turkey sandwich.”

At last, someone he could speak to without stuttering. “Thanks, Niles.”

Art hurried down the hallway, across the empty dining room, and rushed through the swinging door, startling both Chef Malik and Elva.

The jinni chef placed a pot on the counter. “I’m going to go pick some herbs for dinner. Help yourself if you’re hungry, Art. You too, Kit Kat.” The kitchen door clicked shut behind him.

Mouth full, the blonde elf put up a dainty finger and swallowed. Over the years, he’d grown to love this little gesture of hers. “Hey, you. What’s going on?”

Now that he was here in front of his best friend and fellow honey farmer, he didn’t know what to say. He had no trouble talking to her. She made it easy. But he’d never been the bearer of bad news for her. How would she react?

“Relax, buddy. We’ve been over this a million times. It’s just you and me.” She smiled and pushed a strand of platinum blonde hair behind her pointed ear.

Those ears reminded him of seashells, rosy and pink. He had been fascinated with Elva’s ears ever since he first met her twenty years ago. Growing up, his parents had brought him to their summer house in Cat’s Paw Cove, the farm he now owned. The best thing about the annual excursion to Florida had been the time he’d spent with Elva. They’d done everything together: biking, swimming, running up and down the boardwalk, searching for pirate treasure on the beach, and the scariest of all, exploring the thickly wooded area behind FFRH. Her Aunt Agnes and Uncle Harold had nicknamed them ‘The Dangerous Duo’ because they’d gotten into so many scrapes together. Now he’d like to get into a different kind of trouble with Elva. Would she ever consider being more than just a good friend?

“Art?” She frowned at him. “Are you okay? You look like you’re miles away.”

When would he get the nerve to tell her how he felt, how his heart lifted when she smiled at him, and how he looked forward to seeing her every day? If only he could invent a mini-Art robot that would speak his feelings for him. Sadly, this was not the day for that conversation.

He shoved his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “I have some news.”

She grinned. “I’m all ears.”

Suppressing a groan, he said, “It’s about your bee colony.”

“Why didn’t you just call me?”

“They’re gone.”

“What are you talking about? I checked on the girls before I left for work. They were fine.”

“Between then and four this afternoon, something happened.”

“Art, the Puzzlers and I love a good riddle, but you’re annoying me.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Your hives are gone.”

She stood and leaned on the white table. “The girls left? They absconded?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did I do wrong?” Tears brimmed in her large blue eyes. “Why would they leave me? I did everything you taught me to do.”

“Elva, you’ve done nothing wrong. You’re an excellent beekeeper. This has nothing to do with your skills.”

“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

He shook his head. “They haven’t absconded. Your wooden hives are gone—from the screened bottom board to the two boxes to the top. Gone. Someone physically took all eight of them.”

“We need to leave.” Elva glanced around. “Where’s Romeo?”

Kit Kat lifted her head out of a bowl of kibble. “In the herb garden. Malik’s growing catnip now.”

“That cat has a one-track mind.” Elva opened the back door and called, “Romeo, if you’re not too high, I’d appreciate it if you would come with me?”

The feeling fine feline sauntered up the steps.

“Could you please move a bit faster? We need to get home. Now.”

Art placed his hand on her shoulder. One of the things he loved about her was that she was as attached to her bees as he was to his. Sure, the black and yellow striped buzzing girls weren’t cats, dogs, or even goats. But, like him, she’d formed bonds with her colonies and worried about their welfare.

“My truck’s out front. Want me to drive?”

“Yes, please.” Her lower lip trembled, and she whispered, “What kind of monster steals beehives?”

“There’s big money in renting and selling them to growers who need pollinators. We have to report this to Sheriff Higgins. Unless the thieves have taken your hives a long ways away or they’re master beekeepers, they’re going to need to put your girls under lock and key. Like dogs and cats, bees will find their way home. When they do, they’ll be vibrating with rage.”

She stopped and turned to Art. “What about yours?”

He shook his head. “All present and accounted for.”

“You’re next door to me and you have hundreds of hives. If the thief wanted truckloads of bees, why take mine—and not yours?”

Chapter Two

As the sun sank to the horizon, Elva and Art stood in her back yard and stared at where the beehives had been. They’d already searched the nearby woods—to no avail. Legs trembling with a combination of anger and anxiety, Elva paced back and forth, racking her brains for an explanation. Why my hives?

A patrol car rolled down the driveway and stopped in the shadows at the end of the driveway. Sheriff Higgins climbed out of the cruiser, removed his sunglasses, and strode to her side.

Elva extended her hand. “Thanks for meeting us here, Sheriff Higgins. I hated to bother you, but Art insisted.”

The tall, dark-haired man shook her hand and nodded at Art. “He was right. Bee rustling is big business. Even organized crime is getting in on the buzz. It’s a growing problem in big farming areas—and it’s not just the corporate bee farms that are getting hit. Mom and Pop beekeepers are being robbed, too.”

“It was only eight hives—two pallets. I can’t imagine how much good that would do a thief.”

“With a shortage of pollinators, almond and fruit farmers will pay big bucks for hives. Plus, the honey is a bonus for the thieves.”

She groaned. “They have no idea what they’ve done to me. All my healing work—gone.”

Romeo head-butted her leg and slurred, “S’okay, everything’s fine.”

“Please ignore my cat.” Elva glared at her feline companion. “He’s been nipping.”

Higgins smiled. “Lucky for him, it’s legal.”

Romeo rolled over onto his back and pawed at the air. “Butterflies. So purrdy.”

Kit Kat smacked his ear with her paw. “Sober up, Doctor Dopey!”

Higgins pulled out his cellphone. “Show me where the hives were.”

Elva and Art led the way.

“Maybe we can get photos of tire tracks,” Higgins said. “Were the boxes labeled with your name?”

“Not with my name, but stamped with my logo—the letter E and a drawing of a honeybee.” She smiled at Art. “That was his idea.”

He blushed and shrugged. “No big deal.”

“You’re too modest.” She wanted to squeeze his hand to remind him he was among friends. She restrained herself from calling unwanted attention to her shy pal. “Art taught me everything I know.”

Higgins snapped a photograph and glanced up. “What about your hives, Art? Any sign of tampering?”

Art shook his head.

“Mind if I take a look at your property after I’m done here?”

“Not at all.”

“Did you know the biggest thieves are beekeepers stealing from other beekeepers?” the sheriff said.

Pushing his black-framed glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, Art glanced at Elva and back at Higgins. “I would never steal anything.”

“I’m not accusing you, but I am wondering if either of you know other apiarists?”

Elva spoke up, trying to spare Art more discomfort. “I haven’t had time to join the county beekeepers’ association. It’s on my to-do list, although after today, why bother?”

Surprising her with his fierceness, Art grabbed her hand. “Don’t let whoever did this take away your livelihood. I have plenty of hives. We can have you back in business tonight.”

He was so kind to her, she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him, but she resisted the temptation. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“After the Sheriff’s done, I’ll put a pallet of hives on my truck and bring them here.”

Higgins put his hand up. “Slow your roll, Bee Man. All you’d be doing is giving the thieves more hives. You don’t want to do that until you get some safeguards in place.”

“You mean like a fence?” Elva’s head hurt thinking about how much that would cost and how long it would take to enclose her two-acre lot.

“Yes and no. You can GPS pallets like you can chip a pet. You can also install cameras hooked up to the cloud. You can even use invisible paint on your hives. It’s only visible with a UV light.”

Art whistled. “Wonder who came up with that idea?”

Higgins pointed at her house. “Missing anything inside?”

“My house is locked up tight and has an alarm—which reminds me. I have CCTV on the outside of my house.”

“Now we’re talking.” Higgins shoved his phone into his pocket. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“I’m not sure the cameras reach the back lot where I keep—kept—the hives.”

“Worth a try.”

Elva led Higgins back to the house. She entered the code, opened the door, and invited everyone into the cottage.

“I thought you’d never let us in. I’m starving.” Romeo ran to his half-filled food dish and began crunching.

Prancing past the peckish puss, Kit Kat retorted, “You just ate. Lay off the catnip, or you’re going to be a fat cat, and not in a good way.”

“My laptop’s right here in the kitchen. Let me log into my account.”

Kit Kat jumped up onto the table and peered over the top of the computer, her eyes rolling back and forth like a metronome.

Higgins glanced around the room. “I like the floral paintings with the butterflies and the bees. Did you do those?”

“I have zero ability in that department. We have a lot of local artists, and I like to support them.” She hit the return key. “Here.”

Higgins stood to her right, while Art stood behind her.

Art rested his long arm on the table alongside hers, and the hairs on his arm brushed against her suddenly sensitive skin. His breath tickled her ear, and her heart fluttered as fast as a honeybee’s bottom in a waggle dance. He was so close, she could turn around, reach up, and pull his face down for a kiss. She’d fantasized about his lips on hers for so long, the urge was almost irresistible. Did he feel the same way? Or would she ruin their life-long friendship?

Higgins jabbed at the screen and ripped Elva out of the moment. “There.”

She squinted. “What am I looking at?”

“Camouflage, or—” He pressed the back button on the computer and hit pause. “Magic?”

Elva stared at the screen then back at Higgins. “Are you serious?”

He nodded. “We don’t live in regular town, and this isn’t a regular robbery.”

She gasped.  “Why would a Magical do this?”

“Motive yet to be determined.” He jabbed at the still photo. “See here? It looks like a tree—but it moves fast, grabs the boxes, and poof. Gone.”

Elva’s stomach dropped. The lawman was suggesting something only the Flower Girls had believed. Their stories of a tree spirit grabbing naughty children and keeping them in his enchanted forest had scared her silly. Aunt Agnes and Uncle Harold had told her to pay no mind, because the wood nymphs were trying to protect her from swamp creatures. This was no alligator. The tree extending long scraggly branches and snatching her hives was none other than the star of her childhood nightmares: the Ghillie Dhu.

Art placed his hands on her shoulders, leaned in for a closer look, and inhaled Elva’s perfume, a combination of honey, vanilla, and rose. The combination of her scent, the warmth of her skin seeping through the fabric of her top, and the feel of her soft hair as it brushed his wrists, threatened his resolve to keep their relationship platonic. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

“I’ve never seen such a thing.” Higgins blew out a long breath. “This goes way beyond my knowledge of local flora and fauna.”

“He doesn’t belong in Florida. The Ghillie Dhu is a Scottish tree spirit. The Flower Girls used to scare the pixie dust out of us when were kids. Remember, Art?”

“How could I forget? I used to look forward to those campfire tales every summer—but I never thought they were real.”

“Odd.” She paused. “In the stories they told us, the Ghillie Dhu only came out at night.”

Art gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Maybe we should call the Flower Girls, have them come over here?”

“Are you kidding?” She chuckled. “They’re so timid, they’d leak sap everywhere. They always whispered the name Ghillie Dhu, as if saying the words would conjure him.”

Higgins tilted his head. “Is this creature a known thief?”

“The stories say he captures and enslaves anyone who walks through his woods at night.” She bit her lower lip. “Maybe he needed pollinators?”

Higgins’ phone chirped. “Hi Delores, what’s up?” Pause. “How many cars? Are Betina and Josh on the scene?” Pause. “Okay, give me a few, I’m not far away.” He hit the end button. “Five car pile-up on the highway. I’m going to have to get back to you guys later.”

“Go,” Elva said. “We’ll try to figure out how to deal with this bad tree fairy.”

As a cloud of dust followed the sheriff’s cruiser, Art took out his cell phone and scrolled through his contact list.

“Who knew our childhood boogeyman was real? I wish I knew how to deal with him.” Elva sighed. “I hate to go to the Flower Girls, but we don’t have much of a choice.”

He waved his phone at her. “My uncle might be able to help.”

“Really?”

She threw her arms around him, and heat rushed to his face—and elsewhere. Rational thoughts fled, and his body began to respond before his brain could stop it. It felt so good having her in his arms, a dream come true. The naughty part of his mind whispered, C’mon, it’s just a kiss! How bad could that be? The other part of his brain barked, Don’t be an idiot! You’ll destroy twenty years of friendship! Before he sort out the dueling duo, Elva interrupted his befuddled thoughts.

“I’d do anything to get my girls back.”

“Anything?” Kit Kat shouted. “Then go on a date with him, for goddess’ sake!”

Splayed on the floor like a boneless cat, Romeo muttered, “’Bout time someone got this snail’s-paced romance on the road.”

Elva looked up at Art, and he fell deep into her blue-eyed gaze. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but now, of all times, he was tongue-tied. He shook his head. “I’m s-sorry.”

She placed a gentle finger on his lips. “I’d love to go out with you.”

A thrill of excitement raced through him and his unruly side shouted, See, told ya so! Go for it! Reigning in his enthusiasm, he cleared his suddenly dry throat and croaked, “You sure it’s not desperation speaking?”

She laughed. “We should take the advice of our clever cats, don’t you think?”

Before he could lose his nerve, Art pulled her close, leaned down for a decades long overdue kiss—and jumped when a car horn blared.

“You expecting someone?” he whispered.

“No.” Elva pulled his head down, and the horn blasted again.

Flustered and flushed, he stepped back. “I think you’d better answer them.”

She grumbled, “Whoever they are, they have terrible timing.”

Disappointed and frustrated, Art couldn’t have agreed more.

“Hello? Anyone home?” A man’s voice. “Hello?” Pounding on the door.

Art released his hold on Elva. Dreamy-eyed, lips plump and lush, her ears a rosy pink, Elva looked like Art felt. If not for the hammering rattling the house, he would have swept her into his arms and taken her into the bedroom.

“Elva, we need to speak with ye!” Someone tapped at the window like an angry bird.

Art pulled her into the hallway. “Stay here until I figure out what this person wants. With everything that’s happened today, we can’t be too careful.”

“Elva—”

He yanked the door open and confronted his best friend’s mirror image, older, taller, but indisputably alike. She stood next to an equally imposing man with the external appendages that screamed, ‘I’m an elf!’

Swallowing his anxiety, Art straightened his shoulders and pulled himself up to his six-foot-two-inch height. “Can I help you?”

The woman regarded him with artic blue eyes and spoke in a haughty voice. “We’re looking for our daughter, Elva Boyd. Is she here?”

He whirled at the sound of steps behind him. Eyes filled with tears, a dazed expression on her face, Elva sprinted past him to the woman claiming to be her mother.

Chapter Three

Elva halted in the doorway, fearing the apparition standing before her might disappear like she always did in her dreams.

My mother is gone. Yet—here she is, alive and well.

When neither the man nor the woman shimmered away, Elva clasped her shaking hands over the heavy pendant that always lay near to her heart.

Torn between being thrilled and cautious, questions raced through her mind. Was it really them after all these years? Where had they been all this time? Why were they here now? Why didn’t they want her when she was a baby?

Art placed his arm around her shoulders and leaned his head against hers. “You okay?”

Elva’s pulse raced as she stared at the beautiful couple before her. “How am I supposed to react to someone claiming to be my dead mother?”

The man’s voice boomed, “Ye should rejoice!” He opened his arms wide. “Come, we want to hold our darlin’ girl.”

She took a half step forward, and Art pulled her back. “You guys have some ID?”

The man and woman exchanged puzzled glances.

“A driver’s license? Something official with your photo on it?”

The woman rummaged in her voluminous designer bag, produced a small red folder, and held it up. “Do ye reckon this will do?”

“I’d like a closer look.”

“’Tis me Scottish passport.” She handed it over to him. “All legal and proper.”

Art inspected it and read aloud: “Bonnie Boyd, Citizen of Scotland.”

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Elva said, “That’s my mother’s name.”

Art pointed the corner of Bonnie’s certificate at the woman’s companion. “And you?”

Shaking his head, the man pulled a matching burgundy credential out of his breast pocket and with a bow, handed it over. “Alistair Boyd at yer service.”

Bonnie smiled. “Ye’ve got yerself a good bodyguard, Elva.”

Bodyguard? What an odd word to use. She needed to set the record straight right now. Elva patted his shoulder. “He’s my best friend.”

Art blushed and shook his head, “No need—”

“And he’s a master beekeeper and cheese maker.”

Alistair frowned. “Ye’re a farmer?”

Beet red, Art nodded. “B-bees, flowers, goats.”

“A goatherder.” Bonnie’s lips thinned. “How fitting.”

“Here you go.” Art returned the documents. “Friends don’t let friends get scammed.”

The man frowned at his wife. “Do ye ken?”

Art said, “You know, your car’s warranty expired, you’re being taken to court by the IRS, and you must call this number now to avoid going to jail.”

“Ye think we are tricksters?” Alistair exploded.

Alarmed they might leave and take all the answers to her questions with them, Elva shouted, “No!” She turned to Art, pulled his head down to hers and whispered, “I know you mean well.”

“They don’t have candy, but they’re strangers. I don’t want you climbing into a white van.”

“I’ve dreamed of this day my entire life.” Elva sighed. “My aunt and uncle are wonderful, but they’re not my real parents.”

“You don’t know that these people are, either.” He leaned his forehead on hers. “Think about it. Anyone with money can buy fake documents. At least ask some basic questions.”

“Okay.” She pulled away from him and captured the older woman’s gaze. “Where have you two been for the last thirty years?”

Bonnie’s eyes filled with tears. “Searching for ye, me darlin’.”

“Everyone thought you were missing—and presumed dead.”

“Not dead. Lost, so very lost, and desperate to find ye.” Bonnie sighed. “The only thing that kept us alive was the hope of reuniting with our little girl—and here we are. At last, our dreams have come true.”

Above all other things in her life, Elva had desired this moment the most. Yet a ripple of uncertainty kept her glued at Art’s side. Why? What did she fear?

Bonnie took a step closer. “Let me look at ye, lassie.” She reached up and placed her palm on Elva’s cheek.

She closed her eyes and fell into her recurrent dreams of frigid cold, shaking terrors, and the velvet touch that soothed her fears. Blinking away tears, she gasped, “Mother?”

Bonnie pulled her into a wild-flower-scented hug. “’Tis I, my child.”

Sobbing uncontrollably, Elva could barely speak. “How? What? I don’t understand.”

The woman smoothed her hair. “Hush, all will be well. We are together again.”

Alistair opened the back seat of the silver luxury car. “Let’s be off.”

Bubbles of joy filled Elva’s heart. “Yes, Aunt Agnes and Uncle Harold will be ecstatic to see you. We must go immediately.”

Strong hands wrapped around her arms and pulled her back.

“What are you doing?” she hissed at him. “I’m a big girl. I can handle this.”

He smiled and said in a low voice. “Humor me? Please?”

Art always had her best interests in mind. He would never let her leap before she looked.

“Great idea,” Art called to her parents. “Follow me.”

Her father’s face darkened, and he growled, “I will never follow ye.”

“Elva and I will go in that.” Art pointed at his battered pick-up. “I’ll lead you to FFRH.”

Bonnie narrowed her eyes. “Our daughter will come with us.”

“No.” Art began to urge Elva toward his truck.

She dug her heels in. “We can’t go without the cats.”

Kit Kat’s head popped up over the edge of the tailgate. “We’ve been waiting for you guys.”

“Less go,” Romeo warbled. “I want more catnip.”

Speaking between gritted teeth, Bonnie said, “We can take Elva.”

Art turned to Elva. “We can call my uncle on the way to FFRH to see if he can help us with the missing girls.”

Elva smacked her forehead. “I got so excited, I lost track of things.” She waved to her parents. “It’s not far from here, but there are a few tricky turns. You’ll want to stay close.”

Putting his hands up in surrender, Alistair said, “’Tis fine. We will have plenty of time to spend with our beautiful daughter when we take her home to Scotland for the nuptials.”

Now Elva knew what it meant to be speechless.

“A w-wedding?” Art stuttered.

“Ach, yes, of course ye wouldn’t understand.” Bonnie beamed at Elva. “Our darlin’ daughter is betrothed to Prince Scott. Has been since birth.” Her mother gave Art a pointed look. “Royalty marries royalty. Always.”

Art urged Elva into the truck before she could bolt.

This is not normal.

He slammed the driver’s door and hit the gas. He glanced over at Elva, who was moaning with her face between her knees. “There’s a paper bag in the glove box if you need to throw up.”

Voice muffled, she said, “Make the world stop spinning.”

“I wish I could.” He patted her back. “You’ve had a one, two, three punch. First your hives are stolen by the Ghillie Dhu, your dead parents show up on your doorstep, and you find out you’re engaged to a prince, no less.”

She raised her head. “You forgot. They said I’m royalty and I must marry royalty.”

The truck jounced over a pothole. “Your parents seemed to be making the point that I’m not good enough for you.”

“They don’t even know you.” Elva leaned her head back. “For the record, you are my favorite goat herder.”

“Thank you. My goats thank you, too, especially Mathilda. She’s quite fond of you. She’ll follow you to the end of the world.”

Elva giggled. “She can be Maid of Honor at my Highland wedding.”

“Only if Gertrude can go, too,” he deadpanned. “You know how jealous she gets.”

“Harvey has to stay home,” she snorted. “No head butting allowed at a state event.”

Art laughed. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. I needed a reality check. I feel like I’ve fallen into an alternate universe.”

He chuckled. “That’s saying something for Cat’s Paw Cove.”

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Lest I be a fly in the honey, not all that buzzes is a bee. I recommend a healthy dose of skepticism.”

“When she touched my cheek, it felt right. I can’t explain it. I was ready to follow them anywhere. But now that we’re separated from them, I’m like a bee coming out of a cloud of smoke: Alert and vibrating with questions.”

“They’re Magicals, no doubt about it.” He checked the rear-view mirror. Their expensive car was right behind him. “But are they your magical parents? Or supernatural imposters?”

“The same day my hives are stolen by an evil forest spirit, my parents arrive. A coincidence?”

Art shook his head. “I’m not a big believer in coincidence, especially magical ones. Something’s going on, that’s for sure—but you don’t have to believe they’re your real parents. Or that you were promised to someone at birth, or that you’re royalty. Although, I could get used to calling you Princess Elva.”

“Wait.” She snapped her fingers. “If I’m a Princess, that makes my parents King and Queen of…what?”

“That is an excellent question.” He pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “What kind of kingdoms do elves have?”

“The Seelie Court and the Unseelie Court.”

“Color me confused. It sounds like you just said Silly and Unsilly Courts. They didn’t appear to be silly to me.”

“Very funny. No, it’s pronounced silly, but it’s spelled S-E-E-L-I-E. One is full of light and joy, and the other is dark. In fact, the elves of the Unseelie Court are called Dark Elves.”

“So, the Dark Elves live in an underworld place like the house of Hades?”

“Both Seelie and Unseelie Courts are hidden from humans. In hillsides, or underground, as some say.”

“Makes sense. Grandpa Zeus has his court on Mount Olympus, far away from humans.”

“Your grandfather is Zeus?”

“More like my great, great, great, many times over grandfather. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that before.”

No need to go into all that right now.

“Oh, look, there’s the sign for Cat’s Paw Cove. Let’s make a quick call to Hermes, shall we?” He pressed a number in his contact list, and the phone rang.

Astonished, Elva said, “You have the god of speed on speed dial?”

“Of course. He’s my uncle.”

The phone clicked. “You’ve reached the voicemail of the herald of the gods. Please leave a message at the tone, and I’ll get right back to you. Or maybe I won’t.”

“Hi Uncle Hermes, it’s Aristaios. I need to speak with you. Please call me as soon as you can.”

“I never heard your full name before. Why is that?”

He shrugged. “Art’s just easier to say.”

“I’m not sure looking for my missing hives counts as an Olympian emergency—”

Art pointed ahead at the well-lit grounds of the supernatural retirement home. “There are your aunt and uncle on the porch of FFRH. It’s almost like they knew we were coming—” He dropped his hand. “Who’s that?”

A young man clad in a tie-dyed T-shirt emblazoned with the words SPRING BREAK FT LAUDERDALE, cargo shorts, a backwards baseball cap, and a serious sunburn bounded down the steps.

“Elva,” the lobster-colored man shouted. “It’s me, your fine-looking husband-to-be, Prince Scott!”

The look of revulsion on Elva’s face matched Art’s feelings. He cleared his throat. “I can turn the truck around and take you home, if you’d like?”

The muscles in her jaw set, and she frowned. “No. I worked at the Daytona Beach Hospital Emergency Department for three years and put up with these frat boys all the time. I’ll deal with him—and this betrothal nonsense.”

Elva’s sunny disposition rarely clouded over, but when it did—look out. Art did not want to be on the receiving end of her thunderbolt. He was, however, happy to pull up a seat, make popcorn, and enjoy the show. He climbed out of the car and strode to Elva’s side.

Was the creep leaning in to kiss her? Art took a step forward, but she shoved the bold blond away with the truck’s door. “You reek of alcohol.”

“Lovely lassie,” Prince Scott whined. “We’re getting married in two weeks. Time to start getting to know each other—if you know what I mean.” He winked and made another attempt to lip-lock her, but bussed Art’s outstretched arm instead.

Art stared down at the little twerp. “No means no.”

The Prince got up on the balls of his feet and snarled, “Do ye know who me father is?”

“No, and I don’t care. Obviously, he never taught you any manners.” Art took Elva’s hand and led her toward the porch steps. “If you’ll excuse us, we have family business to attend to.”

“Sweet Goddess,” Elva whispered. “What on earth were my parents thinking betrothing me to that jerk?”

“Why don’t you ask your aunt and uncle?” He nodded at Agnes and Harold and opened the door to FFRH. “I’ll stay out here and keep these newcomers at bay while you get things sorted out.”

Elva glanced back at the beach bum bobbing, ducking, and throwing punches at an invisible opponent. “You’re not a boxer. How will you stop them?”

Art laughed. “I have ways of dealing with obnoxious people.”

Car doors slammed, and Alistair called out, “Prince Scott! How did ye get here?”

Art nudged Elva. “That’s your cue. Go.”

He waited until Elva was safely inside FFRH with Agnes and Harold and then crouched down to eye level with Cassi and Cantiaci. “There’s something fishy going on here, guys. We need to protect Elva from these outsiders until we get things sorted out.”

The cats exchanged glances, turned, and stared at the strangers, now engaged in a heated exchange. Art strained to hear them, but the trees surrounding FFRH suddenly began to quake and rattle their branches and leaves. Alistair glared at Art. The trio moved out of sight behind the large luxury car.

Even for Cat’s Paw Cove, things were getting strange.

Chapter Four

As dusk settled in and fireflies began to blink in the nearby woods, the three outsiders clustered in the retirement home driveway, away from prying eyes.

Scott stomped his foot, and his sunburned face glistened in the driveway lights. “How dare ye get me thrown into jail. Just wait ’til I tell me father.”

Alistair, aka Fergus, growled, “We had nae choice but to contact a friend on the police force to search for ye. Ye’ve been missing for nigh on two weeks.”

Bonnie, aka Heather, pulled Scott into a hug and grimaced at her husband over the brat’s shoulder. “We’re so glad to see ye—and that ye’re safe.”

“Such a relief,” the faux Alistair chimed in and rolled his eyes at Heather. “We were worried sick about ye.”

Prince Scott pouted. “If ye were so concerned, Fergus, why didn’t ye come looking for me in Fort Lauderdale?”

“First of all, dinnae call us by our real names in this world.” Alcohol fumes overwhelmed Heather. She released Scott and gasped for fresh air. “Second of all, we were at the baggage claim at the airport, turned our backs on ye for five minutes—and ye were gone.”

He glanced away from Heather and Fergus. “I got…distracted.”

“Ye disappeared—and ye’re not even Magical. Dinnae lie to us. What really happened?”

Scott frowned and stared at his feet. “A group of lasses was staring at me and laughing. I had to find out what was so funny.”

Fergus tapped the man-child on the chest. “And?”

Scott shrugged. “They invited me to a party.”

Heather’s stomach dropped. “Please tell me it wasn’t a wedding feast?”

The Prince pointed at his shirt. “They call it Spring Break.”

“Ah-ha.” Fergus smiled. “Rites of spring. Very nice.”

Heather smacked her husband’s arm. “Dinnae encourage him.” She turned to the errant royal. “Ye’re not to do that again, do ye hear me? Yer father entrusted us with yer life. If anything bad had happened to ye—let’s just say he’s not a forgiving Ruler.”

“It’s yer fault.” Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “Ye should have prepared me for this world. How was I to know there were so many delightful temptations?”

“Ye were supposed to stay with us.” Fergus frowned. “What happened to the police officer who was supposed to bring ye to us?”

Scott shrugged. “I dinnae ken. When they brought me into the station, a big man asked if I’d been driving. When I said no, they let me go.” He puffed his chest out. “Plus, I told them me father was the Dark Elf King. That got their attention.”

Heather scrubbed her face with her hands. Such an idiot. ’Tis a wonder he’s still alive. “I’m sure it did.”

Scott frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fergus cleared his throat. “How did ye get to Cat’s Paw Cove—and this place?”

The prince grinned. “Got a lift from a fraternity brother.”

Heather grabbed for a thread of sense in his babbling. “Are ye daft? Ye have no brothers.”

“Not anymore.” Scott peeled off his T-shirt and revealed an enormous, multi-colored chest tattoo. “I’m officially a member of Alpha Meta Beta.”

Heather attempted to decipher all the interwoven graphics—bottles, cards, poker chips, coins—and gave up. “Ye made a bet?”

“Of course. Ye have to or ye can’t join.”

“Yer father’s going to kill ye,” Fergus thundered. “He will never allow ye to keep that obscenity. He will burn it off ye himself.”

“Ye’re just jealous,” Scott taunted. “Ye didn’t even see the one on me back.”

Heather covered her mouth to stifle a shriek.

The new frat boy chortled. “Check it out.”

A huge, smiling cartoon sun, encircled by the words ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy,’ stood out on his back as if in three dimensions. Adding to the effect, the eyes of the sun followed Heather when she moved.

She clutched the side of the vehicle, leaned over, and threw up.

The Dark Elf King is going to murder me—and Fergus.

Her husband patted her on the back and yelled, “Must have been something ye ate at that diner.” He lowered his voice for her ears only. “I’m sure there’s some way out of this disaster.”

“Like what? Killing ourselves before King Thurzudh can torture us?”

Behind them Scott continued his excited monologue. “I never had such a good time in me life. Ye dinnae know what ye’re missing. Beach volleyball with girls in tiny bits of clothing, topless lassies at parties, coupling in the bathroom—”

Heather looked up at Fergus and whispered, “Did he just say—?”

The color drained out of her mate’s already pale face. “Perhaps ’twas a dream?”

“Got me best lassie’s number right here,” Scott bragged. “She loved me accent. Couldn’t get enough of me body. Said it was the best sex she’d ever had in her life.” He chuckled. “Ye know if this contract with Elva What’s-Her-Name gets broken, I could still bring home a bride. Dad would love her—and her father. She told me her father’s a powerful guy. Connections all over the world.”

Heather snapped upright. “Ye are never, ever, ever to speak or to think of such a thing again.”

The prince shrugged and held up a shiny new smart phone displaying an in-progress call. “Dinnae worry, she’s rich. Bought me this  mobile. And, she’s royalty, too! Her name is Queenie—with a K.”

Seated in the administrator’s office, away from curious FFRH residents, Agnes wrung her tiny hands and sighed.

“When she touched my cheek, I knew she was my mother.”

Agnes and Harold exchanged worried glances. “Elva, we told you these can’t be your mother and father. They’re frauds.”

Doubt fluttered in her mind. These kind brownies had raised her as their own child, gone without food to make sure she’d always had enough to eat. Even when they’d become successful, it had been their hard work, not hers, that had brought the mansion back to her glory days—and put FFRH on the Supernatural map. Not once in the thirty years as her surrogate parents had Agnes and Harold ever lied to her.

Flooded with guilt, Elva whispered, “How can you be so sure they’re not my real parents?”

Agnes choked back tears. “When Bonnie and Alistair asked us to watch over you, they told us if they didn’t return in twelve hours, it meant they were dead.”

Elva’s heart wrenched. This they had never told her. “I want the truth. I can take it.”

Voices halting, Agnes and Harold recounted the terrible events in the Cairngorm Mountains.

“’Twas an icy cold night, the kind that made you feel naked even when you’re covered in layers of clothing,” Agnes began. “We met your parents on the stone bridge crossing the raging River Feshie. The wind took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes.”

Harold chimed in. “Your mother was still weak from childbirth, could barely stand. Your father had to support her to keep her from falling.”

Agnes reached for Elva’s hand. “She insisted on giving us her woolen cape to keep you warm.”

“I wasn’t happy with their plan to walk into the Dark Elf King’s Court.” Harold shook his head. “They said they had no choice. They were going to give the evil one what he demanded: you.”

Elva put her hand up. “I don’t understand. I’m here. Not in the Unseelie Court.”

Harold said, “They gave him a basket, weighted with a stone, and covered with a blanket.”

Agnes squeezed Elva’s hand so hard, it smarted. “Your parents shielded you—and the human village under their protection—with their lives. They wanted you to make your own choices, especially in love.”

Elva’s heart hammered in her chest and her eyes filled with tears. “Did they say anything else?”

Harold nodded. “Your father’s last words to us were: ‘The tree of life will only grow when rooted in truth.’”

“What would the Dark Elf King want with me? I’m just a regular healing elf. Nothing special.”

Agnes frowned. “They were correct about one thing. You are royalty.”

“That’s ridiculous. For as long as I can recall, you’ve worked for every penny we have. You started out with an old wreck of a house—and built it up. If this is the life of a royal, I’d hate to see how peasants live.”

“There’s nothing wrong with difficult work, young woman,” Harold snapped. “We’ve given elderly Supernaturals a home where others would have set them aside.”

“I’m not saying I’m ashamed. If we’re royalty, why aren’t we living in Scotland? It seems odd that we’d be living here, so far away from—” She stopped. “Are we in hiding?”

“Yes,” Agnes said with a grim expression. “But they found us.”

Harold sighed. “We knew it would only be a matter of time. They have spies everywhere. The Ghillie Dhu is their favorite.”

Elva’s heart thudded in her throat. “The angry tree fairy?”

“Yes.” Harold pulled off his cap and rubbed the top of his bald head. “He communicates and travels throughout the world through the root system of trees. He can be anywhere.”

Elva’s thoughts churned. “Aside from spying, can he move things?”

Agnes frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“My beehives are gone. I have video of a tree grabbing them—pallets and all.”

Harold gaped. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Agnes agreed. “Sounds more like a warrior than a spy.”

Elva glanced out the window at the regal couple now engaged in a staring match with Art, Cassi, and Cantiaci. The obnoxious frat boy was out of sight, but she had the sinking feeling he was lurking about, waiting to launch his loathsome kisses at her. “What about those two? Are they warriors?”

Harold nodded. “Absolutely.”

“I’m not interested in getting married to that buffoon. Can’t I just tell them to go away?”

Agnes shook her head. “I doubt they’ll leave without a fight.”

“What are you not telling me?” Elva demanded.

“If you marry Prince Scott, they’d not only acquire you, but the Golden Scepter of the Seelie Court—and its great powers.”

“What is the Golden Scepter? What are its powers?” Elva clutched the tree of life pendant on her neck. “How is it connected to me?”

Agnes and Harold exchanged glances.

“Not now. We have more pressing matters at hand,” Harold grumbled. “We must stave off your abominable admirer.”

Elva agreed. “Maybe Art can whip up some pompous prince repellant.”

Focused on the task of keeping the strangers out of FFRH, Art nearly jumped when his phone vibrated in his back pocket. He yanked it out and glanced at the caller ID.

Thank the goddess.

“Uncle H, thanks for getting back to me.” Art walked around the corner of the cat-strewn wraparound porch. Moving a pile of snoozing bicolor kitties to the side, he took a seat on a cushioned wicker sofa. “I have a favor to ask—actually two favors.”

His uncle’s cheerful voice boomed over the phone. “That will require some more inventions from you in exchange.”

“I’ve got a great one. You’re going to love it: self-folding fitted sheets.”

“What? No, I have no need for that. What else do you have in your workshop?”

“Holographic clothing—no laundry required!”

“No.”

“Self-cleaning kitchen counters and appliances, self-cleaning microwave oven, self-loading and unloading dishwasher, self-cleaning bathtubs and toilets—”

“No, no, and no. What am I, the god of housekeeping?”

Damn. I was just about to tell him about the edible plates.

“Oh, oh, I have one you’ll love.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Shoes that track your mileage.”

“Do they come in winged sandals?”

“What color would you like?”

“Blazing red. That should get Apollo’s goat.”

“That race was eons ago.” Art shook his head. “He beat you once. Maybe it’s time you made peace with Grandpa Apollo.”

“Ages ago to you, but yesterday to me,” his uncle groused. “I want the sandals with flames licking at my heels. Can you do that?”

“Real flames? No, that’s not within my scope.”

“Well,” his uncle mused, “I suppose I could have Prometheus detail them for me. Okay, it’s a deal. What do you need?”

“I need to ask you to find my friend’s stolen beehives.”

“Consider it done. I am the god of thieves, after all.” His uncle snorted. “I was a good one myself. Stole Apollo’s cattle the day I was born.”

“Yes, we all know that story. Just so you know, we suspect the Ghillie Dhu stole them.”

“The angry tree fairy? When did he get into robbery?” The god of roads, flocks, commerce, and thieves snorted. “I thought he only imprisoned humans who walked through his precious birch woods at night. Do I have the wrong Celtic Supernatural?”

“You have the right one. We have no idea what’s going on. I mean, it’s Cat’s Paw Cove, not Olympus, so things are different here.” Art took a deep breath. “The other petition is a bit trickier.”

“I am the supreme trickster.”

Afraid he’d lose his nerve, his words tumbled out. “I need you to go to the Land of the Dead to look for a friend’s parents.”

The phone went silent. Art pulled it away and looked at the screen to see if he and his relative were still connected.

“Uncle H? You still there?”

“That is a Titan-sized ask, my dear nephew. I’m not sure I can do that.”

“You brought Persephone back from the underworld.”

“That is completely dissimilar,” his uncle roared. “Like many others, I was in love with her. Her mother, Demeter, begged me to bring Persephone back.”

Art lowered his voice. “I’m not asking you to bring them back. I need to know if they’re among the shades. Can you do that? Or are you no longer able to travel between the worlds of the living and the dead?”

“Things have changed. I’m required to get permission from Zeus.”

“Why would he say no to you? You’re his wingman.”

“There’s a lot more interest in life after death now—even greater than when the Victorians had all those seances. What with the invention of the Internet—and I don’t know whether to thank or blame you for that—dead people popping up alive tends to cause worldwide feeding frenzies.” He moaned. “I still regret bringing back the King of Rock and Roll.”

“You mean he’s really alive? I thought that whole ‘Elvis has left the building’ thing was a prank?”

“Why do you think there are so many impersonators in Las Vegas? We were forced to hide him in a crowd of look-alikes.”

“I had no idea.”

“Nor should you.” Hermes paused. “I’ll take your request up with Zeus. I’ll remind him of his promise to Cyrene.”

“What promise?”

The phone line went dead.

Chapter Five

Art wasn’t sure how much longer Cassi and Cantiaci could hold the suspicious trio at bay without moving to the ultimate weapon: the time-travel catwalk. He had to find Agnes and Harold. Now.

He entered the FFRH lobby to an overwhelming cacophony.

Madame Jinniyah zoomed around the room on her flying carpet while whipping the Decorators and Jinnis into a frenzy. “What do we want?”

“To protect our girl!”

“How will we do it?”

“By whisking these fakes to Jinnistan!”

“Then what do we do?”

“Toss them into a dungeon!”

The Puzzlers huffed, smoke curling from their noses. “We’ll make them solve riddles to prove they’re her real parents. If they fail, we become dragons and burn them to a crisp.”

“I say we use our troll powers. We’ll shift into rocks and roll over them.” The leader of the Debaters demonstrated by turning into a boulder and snapping back to his normal form. “Just like that.”

Art’s uncles, aunts, and cousins, the Players, rolled a set of dice and shouted, “Come on Prince Scott, you Meta Beta, we want a winna!”

Daisy, Rose, Sunny, Tulip, and Peony, the Flower Girls, stood in a corner wringing their hands and wailing, “Beware the Ghillie Dhu.”

Chef Malik served large tubs of butter-drizzled popcorn from an antique popcorn machine and drinks from an old-fashioned soda fountain.

Like a ballpark vendor, Niles, the kitchen cat, called, “Popcorn. Who wants popcorn?”

Rory O’Brogan, the leprechaun, wandered into the lobby. “Why does it look like an Irish wake—with no corpse?”

The lobby erupted into even more chaos with everyone talking at once. Finally, a red-faced Agnes leaped onto the reception desk and shouted, “SILENCE!”

Harold climbed up, stood beside his spouse, and took her hand in his.

Only the sound of exploding kernels filled the air.

“Look,” she continued in her normal gruff tone of voice. “I know you all mean well. You’re like Elva’s grandparents and extended family. We all want what’s good for her. But we must ask our girl what she wants.”

Art knew when her ears turned deep pink, Elva was stressed. Now her shell-pink ears were a deep crimson—and he yearned to hold her in his arms to comfort her.

“I love you all and appreciate your concern.” Elva placed her hands on her heart. “Aunt Agnes and Uncle Harold—all of you—have been my family. I need to know if these are really my missing parents. If they aren’t, then we’ve got a different matter to deal with.”

Should he say something or hold his tongue? He couldn’t bear the idea of her getting hurt and would do anything to protect her. If he spoke against these strangers and they turned out to be her real parents, not only might he lose her trust—he might lose Elva. They might take her away from Cat’s Paw Cove. Art’s latest invention wasn’t ready for the market, but it had been tested on thousands of subjects—regular and Magical.

Art raised his hand. “I have an idea.”

Agnes quirked an eyebrow. “Better than roasting our visitors?”

“Invite them to dinner.”

Agnes stomped her foot on the gleaming countertop. “Why would we invite them into FFRH? It would be like inviting a coven of vampires into our home.”

Harold’s wizened face darkened. “This is madness.”

Art put his hand up again. “Hear me out. We invite them to dinner and then when the servers clear the glasses and plates and bring them into the kitchen, we’ll compare their DNA with Elva’s.”

Agnes glowered at Malik. “I knew you had the spectrograph. I didn’t know you had DNA tests, too.”

The chef shrugged. “I don’t. Art does.”

“It’s s-something I’ve been working on.” Art faced the crowd. “Still a b-bit clumsy, the size of a suitcase, but it works. Kit Kat and Romeo were my first test subjects. They’re second cousins.”

Elva frowned. “Please tell me you’ve done tests on Magicals and humans, too, not just Sherwood cats.”

“Yes.” Blocking out all the other gazes, he focused on her sky-blue eyes. “I’ve been working with a small start-up tech company. We’ve conducted over a million tests on humans, Magicals, and animals. It’s as simple as a pregnancy test. All in-home, easy-to-read results.”

“What’s the name of the company?” the Players clamored. “We want to invest.”

Art shook his head. “I can’t divulge that to anyone—especially not to the gods and goddesses of chance.”

“Fine, be that way, nephew,” the lead Player grumbled. He turned to his fellow gamblers. “Who wants to make a wager that these are her real parents?”

Harold leaped down from the counter into the crowd.

“No, Harold,” Agnes shouted over the commotion. “He’s heading for the door! Stop him!”

A scrum of Supernaturals fell onto the floor, struggling, shouting, and seizing arms and legs—none of them belonging to the bolting brownie.

Like seas parting, the throng opened and revealed Harold, red-faced, sputtering, and pinned to the floor by Niles, Kit Kat, and Romeo.

Elva took a breath and gathered her jumbled thoughts and emotions. She stared out the window at the strangers who claimed she belonged to them. Who were they, really? Her childhood fantasies were at long last fulfilled. I should be happy—but I’m confused.

Clutching Harold’s hand, Agnes came to her side. “I know you want these people to be your parents—I would love to be wrong—but we told you. Your parents are gone. If the real Bonnie and Alistair had survived, they would have come back for you before now.”

“I don’t know what to think. They said you’ve been hiding me from them. You say my parents are dead.” Elva turned to face the woman who had raised her, the woman she loved as a mother. “I don’t believe you’re lying to me. But why would these people appear—looking just like the pictures you gave me? Every night at bedtime, you told me stories about my brave warrior parents. My heroes. You told me never to forget them. I haven’t. Right down to the touch of my mother’s hand.”

Harold growled. “Glamour!”

Elva sucked in her breath. “It can’t be. Glamour’s superficial—trickery, deception for the unwitting. All elves reflexively hide their pointed ears around Regulars. This is different. She’s real. I can feel it in my bones.”

Harold’s face contorted with anger. “We saved you, brought you to safety, raised you as our own child. Have you no gratitude for our sacrifices?”

“I never meant—”

Hurt and anger continued to rush out of him. “How dare you talk down to us just because you’re royalty. What are we? Just the house brownies, here to wait on your Highness?”

Agnes pulled him close. “Deep breaths, my love.”

He snatched his hand away from hers. “You should have let me confront those liars.”

“I didn’t want you to get hurt. Who knows what they might have done to you?”

His pain-filled voice rose in a crescendo. “Am I supposed to give up our daughter—our family—without a fight?”

“Please, my darling, don’t go full boggart on us now. We can’t have you undoing all our work here at FFRH. It won’t bring our dear relatives back to life.”

Tears sprang to Elva’s eyes. “This is all my fault. Uncle Harold, I’m so sorry—”

“We had a good life in Britain. Served a fine lord and lady who appreciated us,” he bellowed. “Came to this scorching swampland, gave up years of our lives—for this? Have you no gratitude for everything we’ve done for you?”

The little man turned on his heel and stomped toward the kitchen, a stream of curses floating behind him.

Agnes shook her head. “There go the trees in the back lot.”

Elva pressed her hands to her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him—or you, Aunt Agnes.”

Agnes hugged Elva. “He’s hurt and scared and angry. When that happens, he struggles to contain his emotions. He’s terrified, as am I. We don’t want to lose you.”

Elva wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You won’t lose me. I’ll always love you. I’m worried about Uncle Harold.”

“He’ll be okay.” Agnes patted her hand. “He lets his boggart out, tears things up for a bit, then he puts it all back to rights. Never remembers what happened, is always shocked when he comes to and sees what he’s done. Thank the goddess, he can fix most anything.”

“I’ve never seen him so worked up.”

“He’s a proud brownie, works hard, puts his heart into everything he does.” Agnes wiped a tear off her cheek. “His bad side only comes out when he feels someone’s been thankless.”

Desperate to make things right with the man who had raised her, Elva begged, “Please tell me what I can do?”

“Go outside, tell the guard cats they can relax, and invite those people—whoever they are—in. Then we will do what we always do best here at FFRH.”

Elva wiped her face with her sleeve. “Kill them with kindness?”

Agnes nodded and an enigmatic smile crossed her wizened face. “Exactly.”

Elva invited her parents and Prince Scott to dinner and to stay at FFRH.

“Are ye sure?” Bonnie asked. “We dinnae want ye going to any bother.”

“No trouble at all.” Elva pointed at their car. “Should I have one of the staff bring your bags in and unpack them for you?”

“We’ll bring them in,” Alistair snapped and then his tone softened. “We’ve brought some gifts for ye and yer aunt and uncle. We dinnae want to ruin the surprise.”

“How thoughtful.” Elva turned to Romeo. “Could you show our visitors to the guest suite, please?”

“The cats speak and do yer bidding?” Bonnie marveled.

Elva nodded. “Most of the time. Right, Romeo?”

The cat in question sniffed. “Have I ever let you down?”

Kit Kat’s eyes rolled so hard, Elva thought she heard them snap back into the feline’s head.

Elva sweet-talked her co-worker. “Romeo, you do your best work under pressure.”

Smirking, he put his nose in the air. “This way, please.”

Elva watched Romeo prance down the hallway with the Scottish entourage. Alistair and Bonnie’s heads bent toward one another. The frat boy kept looking back at her while waving and blowing kisses.

Yech.

After they turned a corner, she picked up Kit Kat. “Tell Art the game’s afoot,” she whispered in the cat’s ear.

The feline leaped out of Elva’s arms and raced out the cat door.

Now for the right dining companions.

Elva headed for the kitchen to see what the troops had devised for the evening’s entertainment.

When she walked through the swinging door, she found Agnes surrounded by all the FFRH residents. Back in fighting form, she barked orders.

“Listen up. The only way we can get their DNA is if they eat the meals and drink our wine. Insulting them will not achieve that goal.”

The Trolls groaned. “You’re always picking on us.”

“This is not a drill. We must kill them with kindness to get them to lower their guards.”

Agnes pointed at the leader of the Flower Girls. “Sunny, you and your girls will land on them like sap on a car. Stick to them from the moment they enter the dining room until the second they are seated.”

“Decorators,” the brownie ordered, “do your thing. Make the dining room festive and welcoming. Pretend we are trying to make up for our bad manners when they first arrived.”

Clapping their hands, the genie decorators disappeared.

“I suppose ye want us to stay out of sight?” Arrach, the medium-sized troll, muttered.

“Oh, no,” Agnes chirped. “You are going to make Prince Scott your new best friend. Get him to brag to you about his father. If he’s really Scottish, he should know your name—and be afraid.”

Arrach’s ferocious grin revealed huge yellow incisors. “Aye, there’s a job I can sink me teeth into.”

“Stick with him when the Players lure him into a game of dice.”

The Greek Supernaturals nodded. “Let’s prepare a special game for him.”

A big jinni dressed in a black suit folded his arms over his chest. “Do we stand guard to make sure they don’t whisk Elva away with their magic?”

“Thank you, yes.” Agnes smiled. “That’s exactly what I had in mind for your crew. Keep an eye on the doorways. Any sign of trickery and you know what to do.”

A Puzzler with a puffy red face asked, “What about us?”

“Relian,” Agnes replied, “your team’s job is to keep an eye on our guests wherever they go in FFRH. Corner them and entertain them with riddles.”

Smoke puffed out of his nose. “We can do that.”

Malik raised his hand. “What shall I do?”

“Serve your most delicious meal. Rack of lamb, perhaps? Nice and messy. End dinner with the lavender flan Ynez used to serve.”

“They won’t be able to resist those treats,” Niles squealed.

An uncharacteristically quiet Rory leaned against the kitchen door with his hands in his pockets. Agnes turned to him last.

“You and Tatesta Redbird will sit at the same table with Bonnie, Alistair, Scott, Elva, and Art. Be your charming self with your gift of gab. Play tag team with Tatesta.”

He rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to enjoy this assignment. Do ye want me to make gold coins shower the lad when he wins at dice?”

“That would be splendid.”

Rory clapped his hands and disappeared.

Elva tapped her aunt’s shoulder. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Be yourself, my darling girl. Listen for discrepancies in their stories. Trust your instincts—and the pendant your parents left for you. Remember, the tree of life will only grow when rooted in truth.”

Elva pulled the necklace out of her blouse and stared at it. Set in a circle of braided gold, the Celtic symbol sparkled with semi-precious stones. Twisted branches reached up, gnarled roots dug downward, and a bifurcated trunk anchored both sides.

What on earth could a family keepsake tell her about these people?

Chapter Six

Art strode through the FFRH lobby and headed for the dining room. The Players had set up a mini casino, and the door had been left open. The dealer seemed to be putting a special oomph into his calls.

“Hello, Little Joe from Kokomo!”

“Oh, no! Snake eyes!”

Up ahead, James, a jinni who served as the bailiff in the FFRH courtroom, stood guard at the podium to the dining room. His black suit, white shirt, black tie, and white ear buds gave him the appearance of a Secret Service Agent.

Art whistled. “You’re looking sharp, James.”

James nodded. “As are you.”

Dressed in a bespoke dark blue linen suit, a button-down white oxford shirt, and a royal blue silk tie with an imperial bee pattern, Art had assembled his attire with the lightning speed assistance of Rhapso, the goddess of tailors. “Thank you,” Art said. “I like to think I clean up pretty well.”

The dining room hostess, his cousin Meddy, agreed. “You look handsome. That Prince doesn’t know what he’s up against.”

Art’s face heated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She shook her head, and her snakes writhed. “We all know you’ve been sweet on Elva since you were kids. Everyone is rooting for you.”

“Prince Scott’s not the problem. I’m concerned she’ll do anything to please her parents—if that’s who they really are. Maybe even marry a man she doesn’t love.”

Meddy’s snakes hissed. “The FFRH residents won’t let you down. We’ve got your back.”

Art blew out a long breath, straightened his tie, and followed Meddy into the dining room. The Decorators had outdone themselves this time. A string quartet played classical music. Purple heather, pink primroses, and lavender foxgloves graced each table in sparkling crystal vases. Impeccable white linen tablecloths draped each table, and the chair coverings had been transformed to gold and silver brocade. They had even switched the chandeliers out to copies of those in the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles—or at least he thought they were copies. One never knew with those genies!

When his cousin led him to a table with the guests of honor, she had to clear a path through the bevy of giggling, autograph-seeking Flower Girls.

Art winked at Sunny who was begging for selfies with Bonnie and Alistair and doing a great imitation of a star-struck fan of royalty, curtseying with every request.

Meddy seated him next to Prince Scott who had changed out of his tie-dyed shirt into khaki slacks and a pink polo shirt with a popped collar.

As his cousin placed a napkin on Art’s lap, she tilted the back of her head toward Elva’s would-be-suitor.

Prince Scott yelped, leaped out of his chair, and pointed at Meddy as she sashayed away. “Is that servant a kelpie?”

Art feigned bewilderment. “Not sure I know what you’re talking about?”

Scott grabbed his wine glass and drained it. “Her hair. It—it hissed at me.”

Art sipped his glass of water. “Have you been drinking?”

“Ye have a problem with that?”

“Not at all, as long as it’s in moderation.”

Scott flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve onto Art. “Yeah, sure. I’m all about that.”

“I hear you’ve been enjoying the great State of Florida.” Art nodded to a server to fill his white wine glass. “What did you see—and do?”

“I went to Spring Break, joined a fraternity, and met—”

Alistair cleared his throat, and Scott fell silent. “Let’s not bore this man with yer tourist’s tales.”

Bonnie smiled. “I agree. I’d rather hear from—forgive me—what did you say yer name is?”

“Art.”

“Of course. I’d love to hear all about yer farm. It must be quite rewarding, milking the goats, making cheese, selling yer products, barely making ends meet—”

“Art is much more than a goatherder, Queen Bonnie—or should I call you Mother?”

As Elva approached the table, Art leaped to his feet, as did Alistair. Prince Scott lounged in his seat until Bonnie cuffed him on the ear. “Stand up when a lady enters the room.”

The royal frat boy stood, lurched to one side, and glanced around. “You look hot!”

Elva flinched.

While Art agreed the woman of his dreams looked magnificent in a diaphanous white gown that clung to every perfect curve of her body, his fist itched to connect with the prince’s royal cleft chin. The urge to deck the dirtball warred with his desire to grab Elva and escape with her to Mount Olympus, far away from this insanity.

Art bowed and kissed the back of her extended hand. “Princess Elva, your beauty rivals that of Aphrodite.”

She blushed. “You are too kind.”

He pulled her chair out, and she glided down like a feather.

“Ahem!” Arm draped over Rory’s, Tatesta swept into the circle of diners. She wore a black velvet gown, a diamond tiara, and matching earrings that blazed in the light of the chandeliers. In an accent suitable for a dowager in a British drama, Tatesta tapped her cane, curtsied to the royal guests, and intoned, “Good evening, everyone.”

Her escort, resplendent in a green suit and top hat so bright it hurt Art’s eyes, bowed. “Top o’ the evenin’ to ye, Queen Bonnie and King Alistair,” Rory said, exaggerating his musical brogue.

Elva glanced around the table. “Everyone, please be seated.”

The teenaged servers, dressed in black slacks, white shirts, and vests, buzzed around the table ensuring each water glass remained full and no wine glass ever emptied. All Magicals, the young attendants trained at FFRH in the hopes of earning jobs at high end restaurants in Cat’s Paw Cove like Chalet Le Chat or Medici.

As the first course appeared on the table, Bonnie turned to Elva. “Back to yer friend, Art. Why do ye say he’s more than a goatherder?”

Elva gazed across the table at Art and smiled, making his heart sing with joy. “He’s a master beekeeper and a creator of useful arts, too.”

Alistair frowned. “What an odd phrase, ‘useful arts.’ What does it mean?”

“It’s from the Constitution of the United States,” Art said. “‘Congress shall have Power to promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their respective Writings and Discoveries.’”

Elva added, “It’s the basis for the creation of the United States Patent Office.”

Prince Scott hiccupped and giggled. “Nerdy guy, are ye saying ye have inventions?”

Art smiled through gritted teeth. “Many.”

“Well, ye have to take me to yer workshop, man.” He leered at Elva. “I’m good with me hands, too.”

Art would never speak that way to her—or to anyone for that matter. He was as courteous as he was kind—and didn’t take Scott’s bait. He was more of a gentleman than this crass prince would ever be. Elva wanted to leap to Art’s defense, but she did not want to embarrass him. Instead, she tapped the side of his foot with hers and cleared her throat. “Prince Scott, what a fantastic idea for you to see his workshop. You could learn a lot from a genius like Art.”

Art slid his glasses higher up on his nose and smiled. “Elva’s right. I’d love to have you out at the farm to see my works in progress. Maybe you’ll have some ideas to make them better.”

“Like whut?” the inebriated royal slurred. “I dinnae ken.”

“I’ve been struggling with some home improvement pieces. Aside from brownies, no one likes to clean, but everyone wants a clean house. The self-driving vacuum and mop are already on the market. But what about walls and blinds? And toilets? Don’t they need to be cleaned, too?”

Prince Scott scrunched up his face. “House cleaning? I dinnae clean anything, especially not the loo.” He wobbled to his feet. “Speaking of which, I need ta pish.”

A nearby server leaped to attention. “Allow me to show you to the restroom, sir.”

“Ach, yer a pretty one. Whass yer name…?”

His voice trailed off, and Elva breathed a sigh of relief. “Al—Father, why am I betrothed to Prince Scott? Were there no other eligible royals in Scotland? Or did you lose a bet?”

Alistair offered a thin smile. “He’s of good stock, although his current behavior would indicate otherwise. The culture shock has been hard on him.”

“Culture shock?” Tatesta chortled. “He seems to have taken quite well to the alcohol in this country.”

“A little too well,” Rory agreed. “Mebbe the lad needs a bit of discipline?”

“His father would disagree,” Bonnie snapped.

“Who is his father?”

All eyes turned to see who’d spoken.

Agnes, dressed in a lavender satin gown with a white lace collar, stood beside Bonnie’s chair and curtsied. “Queen Bonnie, I beg of you to tell us. Who. Is. His. Father?”

Bonnie squirmed and cast a pleading look at Alistair, who stared up at the ceiling.

“’Tis a fair question.” Rory speared a bite of food. “Who will be receiving this fine young woman into their household?”

Alistair tossed his napkin on the table and rose to his feet. “We’ve had more than enough of yer hospitality.”

Elva stood and gripped the edge of the table so hard, her knuckles hurt. “You tell me his father’s name or this betrothal is over—and you can send that inebriated idiot home to his unnamed sire.”

Alistair crumpled to his seat and covered his face. Bonnie reached over to him and spoke to him in Scottish. At last, he looked up, his face wet with tears.

“’Tis a deal we were forced to make with the devil. Our daughter in marriage—or he’d destroy the village we protect.”

“Tell me his name,” Elva shouted. “Now.”

“Thurzudh, King of the Unseelie Court.”

“The Dark Elf King,” Agnes spat.

The room spun, and Elva sat down with a thud. “You made a deal? You gave me away—like furniture, or a cow, or a piece of chattel?”

“We had nae choice,” Bonnie cried. “Thurzudh is a murderer. ’Tis the way he’s survived for three hundred years. Your father fought him once and crushed his left hand. The Dark Elf King is vengeful. He kills for sport.”

“We tried to remain hidden in Scotland to protect ye. We knew Agnes and Harold would take good care of ye.” Alistair sniffed. “But his spies found us—and ye. This is the only way to save lives, Elva. Many, many lives.”

A server appeared. “May I clear the plates?”

Stunned into silence, Elva could only nod. She glanced up, her emotions a jumble of anger, fear, guilt, and yearning, and Art locked gazes with her. For the first time in her life, she saw exactly who he was: a man who loved her unconditionally, who gave her everything she had ever asked for, would go to the ends of the earth for her, and made no demands in return. Now it was time for her to do the same for him, to have his back the way he had always had hers.

“I need to process all of this.”

Bonnie sighed. “’Tis an awful burden we’ve given ye. The wedding isn’t for two weeks. Ye’ll get used to the idea. It’s not all bad. Ye’ll be a Princess with servants. Money is nae object for King Thurzudh. All he desires is grandchildren.”

Elva’s stomach roiled. To him, I’m nothing but a vessel to produce heirs. She swallowed her rage down and plastered a saccharine smile on her face. Time to turn the tables and find out once and for all if these people were truly her parents.

“Let’s set business aside for a moment and focus on enjoying dessert, shall we? It’s a lavender flan, the chef’s signature dessert.”

Chapter Seven

Elva eyed the empty flan dishes and thanked the servers as they cleared the dessert plates and offered tea, coffee, and port wine. Just as she was about to request chamomile tea, Romeo leaped onto her lap.

“There’s been an incident,” he whispered. “We need you in the kitchen. Now.”

Elva leaped to her feet. Were the DNA results ready? “Excuse me. Duty calls.”

Head on his crossed arms, Prince Scott mumbled, “Duty, schmooty.”

“Elva, darling,” Bonnie called. “Do ye need help?”

Romeo hissed. “This is a medical matter.”

Elva hitched up her gown and ran.

Art held the swinging door open. “He’s in a bad way.”

She opened her mouth to ask who—and then she saw him.

Eyes closed, Harold lay on the white-topped center island of the kitchen, a rolled dish towel under his head, his face neck, arms, and hands covered in lacerations and angry red, circular swellings the size of silver dollars.

Romeo jumped up and began to circle the brownie, his tail twirling in all directions, like a weathervane in a Category Five hurricane.

“He’s never been sick a day in his life. I don’t understand it.” Agnes wept.

Elva took Harold’s hand. “Pulse weak and thready. Breathing shallow and rapid. The welts make me think it’s an allergic reaction. Has he eaten anything different lately?”

Tears dripping on her satin gown, Agnes shook her head. “Haven’t seen him since he went full boggart and stormed out the back door.”

Romeo sniffed at Harold’s face and neck and cocked his head to the side. “He smells like chewing gum—and honey.”

What am I to do? This is all my fault. He’s half dead because I was an ingrate. No amount of honey remedies would fix this life-threatening situation.

“Art, do you have your epinephrine autoinjector with you?” Elva shouted.

“Always.” He whipped a clear tube out of his pocket and handed it to her.

She popped the orange top off, slid the syringe out, and jabbed Harold’s thigh. “Deep breaths, Uncle Harold.”

The brownie gasped, his eyes flew open, and his arms flailed around his head. “Get away from me!”

Agnes grabbed his hand. “Harold, it’s me. You’re safe.”

Eyes glassy, he blinked and stared at his wife. “I thought I was going to die. All I could think of was you.’

Teary-eyed, Agnes gave him a wobbly smile. “Well, here I am.”

Harold tried to sit up, and Elva gently pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere just yet.” She took his pulse again. “Strong, steady, a bit rapid, but that’s what happens with adrenaline.”

Romeo turned to Art. “Flashlight?”

Art handed her a keychain. “Small, but powerful.”

“Lights out,” the cat shouted. The kitchen darkened on command.

Elva shone the pinhole light into one, then the other of Harold’s eyes. “Pupils equal and reactive. Any headache, Uncle Harold?”

He moaned. “A thumper.”

Agnes squeezed his hand. “We’ve got lots of willow bark for that.”

Elva ordered the kitchen lights back on, and they glowed to life.

Harold dug at his hives. “The itching is as bad as the headache.”

“Malik, how much baking soda do we have?” Elva asked.

“I can conjure up as much as you need,” the chef said.

“Mix it with warm water for a thick paste,” Elva continued. “Make enough to cover his entire body.”

Niles shot to his wooden stool by the stove. “Chef and I are on it.”

Art placed a first aid kit on the counter next to Harold. “Thought you might want to clean those wounds.”

Elva smiled. “Are you taking mind-reading lessons from our friend Dexter?”

He shrugged. “Maybe?”

“This is going to sting.” She dabbed at the scratches with alcohol wipes. Harold flinched. “Sorry. Looks like you tangled with an army of mousers.”

“Not feline,” Romeo hissed. “Cats don’t dip their claws in wintergreen.”

She nodded at her partner. “Point taken.”

Malik handed Elva a small bowl of white paste and a basting brush, and she began to paint Harold’s swellings. “This should make the itching better. That plus some antihistamine.”

Art handed her a small bottle of pink liquid. “Like this?”

She smiled. “Right on cue. Yes, that’s perfect.”

Elva helped Harold sit up to take the medicine. She continued to daub the compound on his neck and arms. She hated to ask, didn’t want to embarrass him, but she needed to know in case she’d missed anything. “Uncle Harold, can you tell us what happened?”

Agnes protested. “I told you, when he goes full boggart, he can’t recall a thing.”

Sitting on the counter, his short legs dangling over the side, he shook his head. “I was fuming, that’s for sure. But I wasn’t full boggart. Not this time.” He gulped. “I went into the woods behind FFRH. That’s when I saw them.”

Elva paused in her medicinal application. “Who?”

“Not who. What. Beehives. Eight of them. With your mark on them, Elva.”

She gasped. “The girls did this to you?”

He nodded. “They were angrier than me—and that’s going some. As soon as I realized they were yours, I turned to run back here—and I tripped over a root.”

He trembled.

“I got up. The next thing I knew, I was yanked into the air and covered in tree branches. I kicked and screamed, but they held me tighter. When I bit through a branch they dropped me—and I ran for my life.” He took a shuddering breath and put his white spotted hands over his face. “The Ghillie Dhu chased me to the back stairs. He’s getting more powerful.”

Art relished watching Elva snap into action. As if she had a mental checklist, she engaged her partner’s skills, assessed Harold’s condition, ordered Malik to produce a poultice, and, Art’s favorite part, knew he was at her side to provide needed assistance. She was precise, professional, and compassionate—and she just saved Harold’s life, of that he was certain. He was so proud of her, he thought his buttons would pop off his shirt. He could do this the rest of his life—minus the terrifying supernatural tree boogeyman.

The love of his life smiled at him. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You mean my EpiPen and antihistamine, right?”

“No, silly.” She took his hand and interlaced her fingers with his. “You were cool, calm and collected.”

He placed his forehead on hers and their noses touched. A frisson of excitement raced down his back—and he parted his lips for a kiss.

“Meow!” Romeo grumbled. “What about me?”

Art pulled away from Elva. Romeo had the worst timing.

Elva stroked the cat’s head with her free hand. “You’re the consummate medical professional, accustomed to emergencies, Art isn’t.”

Romeo purred. “When you put it that way…”

She winked at Art. “Ironic, isn’t it? A beekeeper who’s allergic to bees.”

“I’m not the only one. Lots of beekeepers and their family members are allergic. That’s why I always suit up, double glove, and carry my epinephrine and liquid antihistamine—”

“And keep up your desensitization shots.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he reluctantly disentangled his fingers from Elva’s. He glanced at the caller ID and put the phone on speaker.

“Uncle Hermes, what’s the news?”

Agnes, Harold, Elva, Malik, and Romeo leaned in.

“You were right. Your beehive thief is none other than the Ghillie Dhu.”

Art pinched the bridge of his nose. “When did he join the ranks of organized crime?”

“When the angry tree fairy became supercharged by someone.”

Elva burst into the exchange. “Enchanted?”

“No, that we could deal with.” Hermes paused. “It’s more like someone fed him hormones, and the worldwide birch tree root system has become crazed.”

“Sounds like Supernatural steroid rage,” Elva mused.

Hermes laughed. “That’s one way to put it. Anyway, my informer told me it’s coming from Scotland.”

All gazes turned toward the swinging door.

“There is no such thing as a coincidence when it comes to the supernatural,” Art said.

“I agree with you there.” Hermes cleared his throat. “About your other request.”

Art took Elva’s hand. “Go on.”

“I reminded Zeus of the time Cyrene spared his life when he was disguised as a stag.”

“Why would he shape shift into a male deer—oh, never mind.” Art shook his head. “I forgot about all those women he used to chase.”

“Yeah, that he did. Hera was not pleased. Anyway, I travelled to the land of the dead and asked Hades about Elva’s parents.”

Elva gripped Art’s hand so hard it hurt.

“And?”

“Neither Hades nor any of his minions had seen them.”

Elva gasped. “Does that mean my parents could still be alive?”

Art frowned. “Are you sure?”

“My dear nephew, Hades is a most demanding ruler of the Underworld and has an exceptional bookkeeping system. Charon has a passenger manifest for every soul he ferries across the River Styx. Every week, Charon submits his records to Hades.”

“Talk about a bureaucrat,” Art muttered.

“Trust me, he’s been called that on many occasions. Elva’s parents do not appear on any of Charon’s lists. Hence they are not in the Land of the Shades. I assume that’s good news?”

“Yes,” Elva wept. “That’s the best news. Thank you!”

“Now about those sandals?”

“I’m working on them,” Art said. “Next week, I swear.”

Art ended the call and turned to face the little group. “Now what?”

“I can’t marry that ludicrous prince. There must be a way to protect that village from the Dark Elf King. Art, surely you have some kind of shield we can use?”

“Do we know where this village is?”

Agnes said, “They never told us. We have no way of finding it.”

“What about if I go and meet with the Dark Elf King, tell him I don’t want to marry Scott. Won’t he listen to reason?”

“Thurzudh respects no one,” Harold said. “He would never allow you leave.”

“These are my parents. I must respect their wishes.” Tears glittered in Elva’s eyes. “I guess it’s time for me to get to know my husband-to-be.”

Art opened his mouth to speak—and snapped it shut. All this time, he’d been hoping he had a chance with Elva. Now it was clear it was more important to her to please her mother and father than to please herself. He couldn’t compete with her long-lost parents them—and he didn’t want to force her to choose between him and them.

Agnes sobbed. “We can’t bear to lose you.”

Art couldn’t imagine his life without Elva in it. She shouldn’t have to sacrifice herself to an archaic convention. He shook his head at the idea of the idiot frat boy marrying his best friend. The jerk had the attention span of a gnat. He’d be after the next best female right after he took his vows.

A thought popped into Art’s mind.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you follow up on Scott’s idea to come out to my workshop?”

Elva stared at him. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”

“You can get to know each other without any pressure from your parents. Maybe he’s not as bad as we think.”

Elva pulled Art into a hug. “You always know the right thing to do. That’s one of the things I love about having you as my best friend.”

He wanted more—a lot more. But right now, Art would help the woman he loved the best way he knew how: be there for her.

Agnes’ heart twisted at the look of distress on Art’s face. Best friend? She had to do something before Elva ruined her life.

Harold’s polka-dotted ears drooped, and Agnes seized the moment. “Time to get you to bed, my love. You must be exhausted.”

He allowed her to help him off the center island.

“Niles,” she called, “could you come with us please?”

The three exited the kitchen through the back passage to their personal quarters. Once behind their door, she turned to the bicolor kitchen cat.

“Run and get Rory for us right now. We’re sending him on a mission.”

Chapter Eight

The next morning, Heather and Fergus woke up to a knock on the door.

“Room service,” a woman’s cheery voice called.

Heather whispered, “Did ye order breakfast?”

Fergus shook his head.

She tossed the covers off, threw on a terry cloth robe provided by FFRH, and opened the door. A table with round metal plate covers and a matching thermal pitcher sat in the hallway. A crystal vase with pink roses provided the finishing touch.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” a tall blonde said with a curtsey. “I’m Tessa, the beverage manager for FFRH. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet you last evening. Morning service in the dining room is over, so we thought you’d enjoy breakfast in your room.”

“That is lovely,” Heather said. “What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“Oh, heavens, I hope we didn’t put ye to too much trouble.”

Tessa laughed. “Not at all. We’ve prepared a continental breakfast for you, along with a pot of tea. If you want something else, just pick up the house phone and call the kitchen. Chef Malik can conjure up anything you’d like.”

Heather reached for the table. “Thank ye.”

“Oh, no.” Tessa said. “Please allow me, Queen Bonnie.”

“Who—?” Heather bit her tongue. She meant me.

Tessa rolled the table into the sitting area, lifted the side extensions, placed two chairs on either side, arranged the plates, and poured cups of tea. “Is there anything else I can do for you?’

“No, thank ye.” Heather settled into a comfy chair and sipped the tea. “Perfect.” More than perfect. Good tea was difficult to come by in the Unseelie Court.

Tessa smiled. “Remember, if you want anything else, just call.”

The door closed behind Tessa, and Fergus emerged from the bedroom, rubbing the arms of his matching snow-white robe. “Do ye think we can keep these? They’re so fluffy.” His eyes lit up at the sight of the room service table. “What have we here?”

“Tea, honey, clotted cream, black currant scones, toast, marmalade”—Heather paused and tapped an egg—“and I believe we have soft boiled eggs.”

Fergus rubbed his hands and tucked into his meal. At his first sip of tea and taste of a scone, he moaned. “Oh. My. Goddess. Why can’t we get these in the Unseelie Court?”

“Right? I wondered the same. We have weak tea and scones like rocks.” She dunked a piece of toast into yolk. “And we never get dippy eggs.”

“And the beds. Have ye ever slept in such bliss?”

She wiped yolk off her chin. “I was pure done in, and the mattress was like a cloud.”

“We need to get one for our quarters.”

Heather giggled. “She called me Queen Bonnie. At first I couldn’t figure out who she was talking to.”

“I could get used to this.” Fergus scraped the bottom of his eggshell with a tiny spoon. “Great food, great service.”

An idea popped into her mind. “Fergus.”

“Yes, m’love?”

She held his gaze. “Do ye think we could stay? Ye know, here.”

He frowned. “In FFRH?”

“We’ve done everything King Thurzudh asked and we’ve been successful.”

Fergus shuddered. “Dinnae even go there. He’d take a dim view.”

Heather was not done. “I’m sick of the bitterly cold Scottish winters. We’ve been talking about a second home in a warmer clime for a century.” She lifted her hands. “Look around. This is paradise.”

“His Highness would never allow us to stay.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve been his loyal servants from the day he was born. Three hundred years. I say we deserve some time off for bad behavior.”

Fergus wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and glanced at the material. “Even these are soft.”

“Are ye not listening to me?”

He threw his hands up in surrender. “I heard ye. We have naught to do today. Let’s take a walk around town, see the sights. Maybe look around for a rental. I saw an ad for one on Bent Tail Boulevard. Says it used to be owned by an artist.”

She leaped up, ran around the table, and pulled him into a hug. “Thank ye, thank ye. Today, we can just be ourselves—glamoured—but not play-acting.”

He pulled her down for a passionate kiss. “Ye think we have time for something else? That bed is calling us.”

Heather buried her face in his neck and whispered, “Shall we start with that fancy shower?”

Art paced the length of his workshop, tidying things up as best he could. Despite having multiple house cleaning creations, he never used them in his own space. He was, after all, an inventor. He never threw anything out on the chance that it might germinate a new idea. Well, the place was as good as it was going to get. It would have to do.

His phone rang—it was the DNA technology company. Art heart leapfrogged in his chest. “What’s the news?”

The head of the start-up company blew out a long breath at the other end of the line. “Some conclusive. Some inconclusive. I’m sorry. We’ll confirm it with an outside firm to be certain. I know this is important to you.”

“You have no idea. How long will it take to have them re-run the tests?”

“Anywhere from five to ten days, but I’ll ask them to put a rush on it. The guy who runs the lab owes me a favor.”

Art ran his fingers through his hair. “Thanks, Josh. I appreciate it.”

“Thank you for backing us. We couldn’t have gotten off the ground without you.”

Cursing in Greek, Art stabbed the off button with his fingertip. What am I going to tell Elva?

As if his thoughts had made her real, Elva tapped at the glass door, waved, and grinned. “Can we come in?”

We? The royal pain in the rear must be with her.

Art put on his game face, bowed, and swept off an imaginary hat. “Prince Scott, Princess Elva, welcome to my humble workshop.”

Scott snorted. “Humble? Ye could say that again. I hope yer house is better than this barn.”

Elva rolled her eyes. “This is a working farm, Scott, and if you’ve ever been outside of your palace, you’d know inventors need creative space.”

Art bit his lip to keep from grinning. “Would anyone like a drink?”

Scott’s eyes lit up. “Do ye have beer?”

“I have something better: Mead, nectar of the gods. Made with honey from my hives. A bit strong for humans.”

Elva’s eyebrows shot up. “In the morning?”

Scott rubbed his hands together. “Hair of the dog that bit me would do me good.”

Art reached into a nearby refrigerator. “I think you might enjoy this.”

Scott accepted the bottle. “’Tis cold. Beer should be warm.”

Art shook his head. “Light meads are like white wines and should be served chilled.”

The Prince’s face twisted in an expression of disgust. Then he took a sip. Another sip. And finished the bottle. “That tastes like more.”

“Glad you like it.” Art handed him a second bottle. “You shouldn’t do much more than two. They start sweet and end up with a kick to the head.”

“Ye reckon?” Scott chugged the bottle and put his hand out for another. “I dinnae feel a thing.”

“Take it easy,” Elva said.

His royal highness scowled at her. “Dinnae fash yerself, lass. I’ll have another.”

Art shrugged. “As you wish. Care for a tour?”

The prince held up the bottle. “As long as I get more of this, I’ll do yer bidding.”

Art nodded and began walking along benches and pointing things out. “This section is all about housekeeping: self-folding fitted sheets; dirt resistant, self-cleaning clothing; dust-free shelves; self-cleaning kitchen counters and appliances. You know about my self-cleaning toilets. Then there’s my self-loading dishwasher—but that might not sell as well as edible plates.”

Prince Scott returned to the refrigerator and grabbed another bottle of mead. “As ye were saying?”

“This one is fun.” Art pointed at a globe with a round opening. “Kit Kat, show Prince Scott how this works.”

Kit Kat hopped onto the bench and stuck her head in. Art pressed a button, and the machine played a tune about feeling pretty. “Let’s see you now.”

The cat pulled her head out. Long black eyelashes, blush, and lipstick adorned her feline face. “Let me see!”

Art held up a nearby mirror. “You’re beautiful.”

She preened. “I need jewelry.”

“Here.” Art pulled out a drawer. “Any of these necklaces interest you?”

“Meow! I’ll take that rhinestone collar, please.”

“It’s yours.” Art snapped it on her neck.

Scott stared at the cat. “Me. Do me!”

“Your wish is my command.”

Still clutching his mead, the prince shoved his face into the ball. “I can’t wait!”

Art tapped the controls. “What’s your favorite type of music?”

“Heavy metal.”

Art’s fingers danced across the keyboard, and head-banging drums and guitar riffs filled the room. “Hang on. Just a moment more.”

The music stopped, and his highness removed his head from the ball. “Well?”

Elva gasped. “Oh. My. Goddess.”

Scott’s face, painted with a large black star against a kabuki white background, was the identical image of the lead singer of a popular ’80s band. He snatched up the hand mirror, stared at his reflection, and burst out laughing. “Brilliant! The old man will have a fit when he sees me.”

Elva grabbed Art’s arm. “Please tell me this will come off with soap and water?”

He shook his head. “The machine has to remove it.”

Scott began playing air guitar and sticking out his tongue. “I’m never taking it off!”

“Now you just need the costume,” Art said. “Step over here.”

“Elva, luv, get me another mead.”

She frowned. “You’ve had enough.”

Scott stuck his tongue out at her. “Yer no fun. Hold on, I’ll get it meself.”

“Don’t you think he’s had enough?” Elva whispered.

Art shook his head. “We need to talk.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “The DNA tests?” She glanced at Scott. “Is he—?”

“One hundred percent human.” Art paused. “Your parents’ results are inconclusive.”

“I thought the results were accurate, fast, and reliable. What went wrong?”

“We don’t know if it’s the methodology—or the test subjects.”

“Redo the tests at an independent lab!”

“Yes, I’m already on it.”

Scott approached, slowed down by singing and leaping around with his invisible instrument.

Art glanced over his shoulder. “The retests could take up to ten days.”

“The wedding is in two weeks. Can’t we expedite it?”

“Working on it as we speak.”

The rocking royal sprang between Art and Elva. “Whatya doin’?”

Art grinned. “Working on your outfit. Come on.” He waved him over to a bench covered with medallions. “Put this one on.”

The prince placed the necklace over his head. “Now what?”

“Press the button and say what you want to wear.”

“Gimme the raddest rock costume ever worn.”

The air shimmered, and a heavy mist covered the prince’s body. At last, the fog dissipated. He raised his arms and admired his sleeves. “If this is who I think it is—”

Art held up a mirror.

“Awesome!” He handed Elva his phone. “Take a picture. I have to send this to my babe. She’s going to love it.”

Elva frowned and snapped photos. “Babe? Does she have a name?”

Using his bottle as a microphone, he belted out an off-key song. “Queenie, Queenie with a K! You are a babe, in every babelicious way!”

Elva lowered the phone. “Scott—wait. Is there another woman?”

“Another, like no other,” he crooned. “She’s Queenie, Queenie with a K!” Sweat pouring down his face, he handed Elva his empty. “More mead, lassie.”

She snatched the container away. “You’re done.”

“Aww, don’t be like Heather and Fergus. They’re no fun.”

Art exchanged a puzzled look with Elva. “Who?”

“Oops! I’m supposed to call them King Alistair and Queen Bonnie.” Prince Scott hiccupped and nodded at Elva. “Your parents’ names, right?”

Her lips thinned. “Yes.”

“Let’s have another mead!”

“We don’t want to get in trouble with your father,” Art said.

The royal reached for the table to steady himself. “He’s not even my real dad. He won’t care.”

“You can’t believe that!” Elva snapped. “I was adopted. Agnes and Harold loved me like their own child.”

“Nah, the Dark Elf King’s too busy fighting to spend time with me.” The prince sighed. “Not that fighting is all bad.” He took a swing at Art and fell on him instead.

Art lowered the snoring man to the floor. “Sweet dreams, Prince Not-So-Charming.”

Elva nodded. “You got that right.”

“You sure you want to spend the rest of your life with this guy?”

Elva’s lower lip trembled. “I wanted to please the people I thought were my parents. But no one who loves their child would force them into a marriage. Agnes and Harold are my real parents—and they love me.”

Nearly dizzy with relief, Art let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

She took his hand. “And I’m in love with my best friend.”

He pulled her close. “Isn’t that a coincidence? I’m in love with my best friend, too.”

He leaned down to kiss her—and tingled all over. His throat began to close, and he struggled to breathe. “Elva—help—I’ve been stung.”

Chapter Nine

Fergus stared at the phone screen and growled. “I told ye we should nae have left the royal brat on his own.”

“He was passed out when we left. When he’s like that, he never gets up before dinner.”

“Luckily for us, I packed the stinger nano drone.” He showed Heather the screen. “Knocked out the competition.”

“Yer sure the goatherder’s nae dead?”

“’Tis nothing toxic.” Fergus grinned. “But he’ll need powerful magic to wake up.”

“Can ye bring the thing back to us? No need to raise the girl’s suspicions.”

“Of course.” He tapped the keys on his phone. “Shite.”

“Now what?”

Fergus showed her the screen again. Elva had the pseudo insect between her fingers and was turning it around. She shook her head, placed it under a glass jar, and weighted it with a rock.

Heather fell onto the bed, covered her face with a pillow, and screamed.

Fergus cursed. “Self-destruct, nae other choice.”

The screen went black.

Elva held her breath as Hermes passed his caduceus over his nephew.

“Good thing I’m the god of magic, as well as the god of thieves,” Hermes said. “Looks like this potion was meant to disable him, not kill him. He’s going to have a Kraken-sized headache.”

“I can help him with that.” She turned to Romeo who hovered at her elbow. “Get my analgesic bag, please.”

“Since you said please.” The cat raced out of the barn.

“What can I do?” Kit Kat asked.

Elva said, “Tell us what you saw.”

The feline rolled her big eyes. “When you were about to kiss, I heard a buzzing sound and saw a huge black hornet fly in through the open door. I tried to smack at it, but it was too fast. Next thing I knew it was on Art—and he passed out.”

Hermes inspected his nephew’s uncovered arms and hands. “Here. See that tiny dot? Looks like a puncture wound. No stinger.”

“That thing was not an insect,” Elva said. “It didn’t fight me when I picked it up off the floor and contained it.”

Kit Kat added, “It blew up in a puff of smoke.”

Art groaned. “Wh-what happened?”

“How are you feeling?” Hermes asked.

Art covered his eyes. “The light is killing me.”

“LIGHTS OFF!” Kit Kat screamed.

The barn plunged into blackness.

Hermes sighed. “Unlike cats, I cannot see in the dark.” He flicked his wand. “Lights on level three, please.”

If we weren’t in the middle of an emergency, this would be romantic lighting, Elva thought.

Romeo trotted in the door with a small tote in his mouth. He dropped it at Elva’s feet. “Your painkillers, madame.”

She rubbed his head. “You’re the best.”

He purred. “I can’t argue with that.”

Art moaned. “Make the pounding stop.”

Elva pulled a vial out of the bag. “Can you sit up and drink some willow bark infusion?”

“I think so?”

Hermes conjured a chair pillow out of the air and placed it against a work bench. “Here.”

She placed a cold compress on Art’s forehead. “This should help.”

Art sipped the liquid with one hand and held the cloth with the other. “Tastes like coffee liqueur.”

“The caffeine helps with the blood vessel spasms, and the willow bark works on the pain. It’s like taking aspirin with caffeine—but all natural.”

“And tasty.” He glanced around. “How did Uncle Hermes get here?”

“I called him.” Elva held up Art’s cell phone. “You weren’t responding to the epinephrine and antihistamine.”

“Not a bee sting.” Hermes shook his head. “Dark magic.” He pointed at the rock star wannabe. “Did he have anything to do with it?”

Elva rolled her eyes. “Highly unlikely. He hasn’t moved in the last forty minutes.”

Hermes frowned. “Who is that motley fool?”

“Prince Scott, son of the Dark Elf King Thurzudh. Adopted human son. Not a Magical.”

“Looks like he’s been at a bacchanal.”

“He was a party of one,” Elva said. “He refused to stop drinking mead.”

“Ah.” Hermes shook his head. “Humans don’t do well on too much nectar of the gods.”

“We tried to tell him.” Art lifted the wet fabric off his eyes. “He likes his drink.”

The clown prince snored like a chain saw.

Elva grimaced. “That’s a pleasant sound.”

Art snickered. “Something to look forward to on your wedding night.”

Hermes gaped. “You’re marrying him?”

She shook her head so hard the room spun. “No, no, a million times no.”

“Phew.” Hermes waggled his winged wand. “I feared I’d have to turn him into a gecko.”

“Oh, I like that idea.” Elva giggled. “Then we could call him Little Sir Gecko.”

Art groaned. “No puns. Please, no more.”

“Or the Lizard King.”

“Stop,” Art begged. “Or I’ll be sick.”

Suddenly, Scott sat bolt upright. “Heather and Fergus said all you cared about was your bees. Wasn’t supposed to be another guy.” He stared at Hermes. “Who’s that funny looking dude with the hat, satchel, wand—and are those wings on his sandals? Where can I get a pair? They’re crazy!” His eyes rolled back in his head, and he sank down to the concrete floor with a thud.

“Romeo—”

“I know, I know, give the clown a CAT scan.” The feline scampered to the royal’s side and began walking around him. “Good news, no brain injury—because he has no brain.”

“What should we do with him?” Elva asked.

“Call Sheriff Higgins,” Art said. “Have him arrested on the grounds of being a terrible karaoke singer.”

She laughed. “We really need to get that makeup off him before we drag him back to FFRH.”

“I think we leave it on him until we get the truth out of Heather and Fergus about why they were pretending to be your parents. What’s in it for them? Plus,” Art grinned, “we should take lots of pictures.”

“What a shite show this is,” Fergus groused. “First King Thurzudh assigns us to be his idiot son’s minders. Then he orders us to impersonate the deceased King and Queen of the Seelie Court to force a lassie to marry the moron.”

“I’ve hated every moment we’ve been indentured to him,” Heather agreed. “But, this is the most despicable thing he’s ever done to us.”

“Not just us. The lassie dinnae deserve any of this. He’s a greedy goblin. Never enough gold or power for him.” Fergus pulled up to the workshop. “Let’s go get the brat. Good thing I got the GPS coordinates on the nano bug before it exploded.”

They marched into the barn, and Fergus demanded, “Where is Prince Scott?”

Elva rose to her feet. “You mean the very drunk royal pain in the neck?”

Heather sputtered, “Don’t talk about yer betrothed like that, Daughter.”

“Well, Mother, or should I call you Heather, seems you and your man, Fergus, have been trying to pull a fast one on us.”

Heather placed a hand on her chest and gasped. “How dare ye?”

“I dare a lot,” Elva said. “I dare you to prove you’re really my mother, for starters.”

“I dinnae have to do any such thing. ’Tis a fact..”

Elva grasped her tree of life pendant. “That’s not what the prince said. He said your real names were Heather and Fergus. So, who’s telling the truth?”

Heather scowled at Fergus and muttered in Scottish, “The king is not going to be happy.”

A man in a green scrub suit with a logo of flapping wings assisted Art to his feet. “Lucky I just happened to be visiting when Art collapsed. Something stung him—not a bee. Any idea how that could have happened?”

Fergus shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “Nae a clue.”

Art pointed to the black and white mess snoring between the work benches. “That boy is all yours.”

Heather waggled a finger at Art. “Ye got him drunk on purpose.”

Art shook his head. “We warned him, but he refused to stop drinking.”

Fergus crouched down next to the prince. “What is this costume?”

“He tried out my inventions.” Art pointed at the necklace. “Take that off him.”

Fergus removed the medallion, and the clothes disappeared—but the makeup remained. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, rubbed the prince’s face, and glared at the linen cloth. “How do ye get this shite off his face?”

“The same way he put it on,” Art said. “With my machine.”

“Show it to me,” Heather snapped. “For all I know, yer going to lop off his head.”

Art led her to the globe. “If you’re worried I’ll hurt him, you can test it yourself.”

She stuck her face in the round opening. “Well?”

“Hold on. Give me a minute.” He tapped at something. “What song do you like?”

Her voice echoed inside the ball. “I dinnae want music, just show me how it takes off me makeup.”

“As you wish.” The machine hummed. “Close your eyes.”

She did as instructed and felt—nothing.

“You can come out now.” Art held up a mirror. “Satisfied?”

Heather shrieked. No longer blonde, her blue-black hair and purple eyes stared back at her in the looking glass. “My hair. My face! What did you do to me?”

“The machine isn’t just for makeup. It removes glamour. Now we see you for who you really are—and that’s not the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Queen Bonnie of the Seelie Court.”

Fergus leaped to his feet, leaving Scott drooling on the cement. “I’m going to kill you—and him, too.”

Fergus gestured toward at the male nurse, who whipped out a magic wand and deflected the bolt of dark magic back to the elf.

The magician’s scrub suit shimmered away, revealing his winged hat and sandals. “A bit of advice for you: Know your opponent before going to battle with him.”

Fergus dropped to his knees and begged, “We were only doing what King Thurzudh ordered us to do. If we go back without Princess Elva, he’ll kill us.”

“Elva’s not going anywhere,” Art said. “She’s staying here with me.”

Heather stared at Art. “Who are you?”

He took Elva’s hand and pulled her to his side. “I am Aristaios. Descendent of Apollo and Cyrene, great-great-great-great grandson of Zeus.” He nodded at the man with the wand. “This is my Uncle Hermes, god of magic, thieves, and travelers.”

“I called you a goatherder,” she whimpered.

Art shrugged. “I don’t need to walk around telling everyone I’m a demigod. Not my style. Besides, it’s true. I’m a goatherder, a beekeeper, an inventor—”

“And royalty,” Elva chimed in.

Gravel crunched, and the doorway darkened with the bulk of two baldheaded men who looked like they should be playing major league football.

“Ver is he?” The largest man bellowed. “Ver is son-of-beetch who get my girl pregnant?”

Chapter Ten

Art pulled Elva behind him. “And you are…?”

“Your vorst nightmare. Adrik Kuznetsov.”

Art gulped. The notorious Russian mobster.

“Am going to tear him apart, feet, then arms, then head.” The gangster choked back a sob. “My beby.”

“Oh. My. Goddess,” Elva breathed. “He must be talking about the girl Scott’s been mooning over.”

Art glanced over his shoulder and caught Heather and Fergus scuttling to the passed-out prince’s side.

“Excuse me, Mr. Kuznetsov.” Art waved the mountain of a man over. “I hate shouting. It feels so rude.”

The man and his minion shook the floor with their collective weight as they approached. Chuffing like an angry bull about to be unleashed on a crowd in Spain, the man glared down at Art. “Vat?”

I must be crazy, but Scott doesn’t deserve to be dismembered.

“Would your daughter’s name be Queenie with a K, by any chance?”

The mobster growled, “You know her?”

Art shook his head so hard, his glasses nearly flew off. “No, not personally, but I’ve heard good things about her.”

“Who get my girl—” Kuznetsov waved his hand in a bubble over his belly “—big?”

“I believe the person you’re looking for is snoozing on the floor over there.”

Art glanced around. Hermes was nowhere to be seen. Damn. He hoped his uncle had made himself invisible and not absent.

Five hundred pounds of angry men, one an enraged father, stomped between the benches, shaking glassware and jouncing delicate equipment. Sparing the two cats a glance, Kuznetsov frowned and growled, triggering Romeo and Kit Kat into a frenzy of arched backs, bushy tails, and hissing. The man lumbered on, gaze focused on his objective.

“Shoo,” Elva ordered. “Go home, kitties. Please?”

The cats backed out of the workshop, never taking their eyes off the intruders. “This isn’t over,” Romeo hissed.

At last, the girl’s father stood at his target’s feet. And stared. One beat. Two beats. He burst out laughing. Holding his sides, the big man took a breath and chortled, “He is kloun?”

Heather and Fergus scrambled to their feet and rearranged their clothing. Heather patted her hair and took a deep breath. “I present to you Prince Scott, son of Thurzudh, King of the Unseelie Court.”

“Da, da. Is silly clown.”

Fergus shook his head. “Not silly. Unseelie. King Thurzudh is the Ruler of the Dark Elves.”

“Kloun is royalty?” Disbelief filled Kuznetsov’s voice.

Art smothered a guffaw. He was going to lose it.

Elva whispered, “Stop. You’re going to make me laugh.”

He snorted. “Sorry. Can’t help it.”

“Vere is clown fazer, King Zurrrzuud?”

Art put both his hands over his mouth, and Elva pinched him.

“What?” Heather said.

Kuznetsov yelled, “King? Ver is King?”

Fergus spoke at a snail’s pace, condescension dripping from his words. “King. In. Scotland. Not. Here.”

Kuznetsov said, “Here. Now.” He pointed to his thug. “Or. Kill. Clown Prince. And You.”

Heather clawed at Fergus’ shirt pocket. “Call his father.”

Fergus pushed her hand away. “Yer out of yer mind. He’ll kill us.”

“I no joke,” Kuznetsov shouted. He nodded at the giant. “Misha.”

The sidekick pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Heather.

“Don’t shoot,” Fergus shouted. “I’m calling King Thurzudh. I’ll put it on speaker.”

The room echoed with the distinctive ring of a European number.

Fergus growled, “C’mon, answer yer phone.”

One, two, three rings.

“Vat? Is wrong number?”

“No,” Heather said, her whole body shivering with fear. “’Tis his manservant’s job to answer.”

Four, five, six rings.

“Do ye know what time it is?” a man’s voice thundered on the line.

Oh, no, it’s the King himself.

“I’m so sorry, yer highness,” Heather simpered. “We’ve got a situation here. Yer presence is required most urgently.”

Suddenly Kuznetsov towered over her. “Giff me phone.”

Hand trembling, she handed the phone to the monster mobster.

“Ve haff problem,” Kuznetsov snarled. “Ve need talk.” The gangster strolled away from the cowering couple and out the door.

“We have to get this shite off Scott’s face,” Heather stage whispered to her husband.

Fergus snorted. “Who’s going to drag his arse to the cleaning machine?”

She pointed at the thug. “What about him?”

“Yer not serious?”

“We can’t let his father see him like this.”

Art called out, “It’s portable.”

Heather sighed with relief. “Could ye help us, please?”

Elva put a hand on Art’s arm. “How do we know we can trust you?”

Fergus shook his head. “We have nae choice. If his father sees him like this, he’ll skin us alive, then kill us. Slowly.”

Art headed toward the workbench with the globe. Misha the Muscle blocked him. Art put his hands up in surrender. “Dude, I’m trying to keep the peace. Let me through. Please?”

The bodyguard glowered at him—then collapsed to the floor.

Hermes appeared out of thin air, smirked, and tucked his wand under his arm. “He should sleep for a bit.”

“Thanks for coming back,” Art said. “I was afraid you’d flown off to Mount Olympus.”

“And leave you to face these ruffians?” Hermes shook his head. “Never.”

Art carried the device over to the sleeping, not-so-beautiful prince. “Outlet’s over there, Fergus. Could you plug the machine in, please?”

A gravelly voice roared, “Where is me son?”

Fergus flew into the air and slammed into a wall—where he stuck like a bug on flypaper.

Elva froze, pinned by the steely-eyed gaze of a towering man with long white hair and pointed ears. Wearing knee-high black boots, black pants stuffed into the boots, and a black leather jacket, the man carried himself like a warrior—and a king. Scars crisscrossed his cheeks, and his left hand rested in his pocket.

The hand my father destroyed.

Thurzudh had no idea how much Elva hated him. A bitter taste filled her mouth and curled her lips. Rage banged its angry drum in her temples, calling on her to do something. If she had the powers, she would burn him where he stood, right down to those despicable boots, leaving only a black stain on the floor. She longed for the satisfaction of skewering him with a sword as easily as a row of ripe tomatoes. If her girls were here, she’d call on them to rise up and sting him to death. But she had no incendiary powers, no magic sword, and no supernatural ability to call on her honeybees to avenge her parents’ death. She locked gazes with Thurzudh and lifted her chin. Maybe she wasn’t a soldier, but her parents had been—and warriors stood their ground.

He looked her up and down, assessing her like a lesser being. “Ye must be Elva,” he taunted. “Ye look just like yer mother.”

Rage grew in her chest, but Elva tamped it down. She was in charge, not her emotions. She grasped her pendant and wished it could banish the man to Hades. Standing tall, her voice ice cold, she said, “And you must be Scott’s father, King Thurzudh.”

He inclined his head, his smile more chilling than his glower. He licked his thin lips. “Are ye ready to be wedded and bedded?”

The man was beyond vile. He was disgusting.

She shook her head. “I’m not marrying your son.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do ye know who yer talking to, lassie?”

“I am perfectly aware of who you are”—she pointed at Fergus still dangling on the far wall—“and your powers.”

Thurzudh flicked his fingers, and his servant fell to the floor with a thud. “That is nothing.” The king tilted his head toward the exit. “The big Russian? The Ghillie Dhu is holding him for me. One whispered word from me and he’ll strangle him.”

“Why should I care? You’re both thieves and terrorists.”

The king scowled. “Big talk fer a little bit of a girl.”

“I’m more of an adult than your spoiled rotten son.” She pointed in Scott’s direction. “Some father. You don’t even care if he wants to marry me, do you?”

“’Tis not his decision—nor yers.” He took a step toward Elva and reached out, as if to grab her arm. “Yer coming with me, lassie.”

“Dad? Is that you? Are you really here?” Using the workbench to pull himself up, Prince Scott wobbled, then stood still. “I—we need to talk.”

“What is that shite on yer face?” the king snarled.

The prince put his hand up and smiled. “Oh, yeah. About that.”

The sovereign waved his hand, and the makeup disappeared. He frowned. “Where did ye get that awful shirt?”

Scott grinned. “Fort Lauderdale. Spring Break.”

Another wave of the hand and the tee disappeared—leaving the prince shirtless.

Eyes wide, his mouth a razor thin line, Thurzudh shouted, “Ye have a huge hideous tattoo? Are ye out of yer mind?”

“Let me explain—”

“Turn around. I cannae stand to look at yer face.”

The prince complied, displaying the smiling cartoon sun encircled by the words ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy.’

“Be happy?” the king shrieked. “Ye think I’m happy with ye now, boy?”

For the first time since she’d met Scott, Elva felt sorry for him. What kind of childhood had he endured with this psychopath as his father? Had the man physically harmed him? Or had he stuck to his verbal abuse, humiliating his son at every turn?

Just as Elva was about to tell the sovereign to stop, Art spoke up.

“Sir,” Art interjected, “Scott’s young. He was just having a bit of fun.”

Thurzudh whirled on him. “Was I speaking to ye? Ye speak only when I speak to ye.” He raised his right hand and aimed it at Art. “One more word, and ye be dust.”

“Ah.” Art adjusted his glasses. “What about four words: Listen to your son?”

Disbelief wreathed the Dark Elf King’s face. “Have ye a death wish?”

“No, not at all. I am asking you to allow your son to speak.”

A bolt of electricity shot out of the king’s fingertips—and bounced off Art’s chest. Thurzudh’s mouth fell open. “What in the name of the goddess?” he whispered.

Art patted a smoldering spot of cloth. “Darn. I really liked this shirt, too.”

“Who are ye?”

Smiling, Art patted the prince’s shoulder. “A friend. He’s all ears now, Scott.”

Elva groaned and mentally slapped her forehead. Why did he have to make an ear joke?

“Dad, ye have to hear me out.”

Scott trembled, and Elva’s heart went out to the terrified man-child. No one deserved to live in such fear.

His father took a deep breath and his lips thinned. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m in love with another woman. Her father is the Russian man the tree trussed up.” Scott pointed at Elva. “She’s nae the one. Queenie with a K is the only woman for me.”

“Don’t be daft. Ye can’t marry a peasant.” He pointed at Elva. “Yer marrying that woman right there and giving me grandchildren.”

“Enough!” Elva shouted.

All gazes turned to her. No one spoke. Art mouthed the words “I love you,” and her heart leaped. She was ready to take on this ruthless evil elf.

Clasping the pendant so hard it dug into her palm, she said, “You’re the reason I have no parents. You drove them to their deaths. You forced my uncle and aunt to escape to a strange land where they knew no one. Forced them to start over, to raise me in secret to keep me safe. Lies, all lies because of you.”

Thurzudh took a step toward her and growled, “How dare ye?”

She held her ground. “Here’s a reality check for you: Your son’s girlfriend is with child.”

The king stopped and glanced between Elva and Scott. “Yer lyin’.”

Speaking in a voice as firm as her resolve, she said, “The tree of life will only grow when rooted in truth. I don’t love your son. I will not marry him. I love my beekeeping, goat herding, gadgeteering best friend, Aristaios Klarastos.”

The sovereign raised his hand as if to strike Elva and rushed her.

A breeze sprang up, wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth—and love. Elva closed her eyes and clung to her necklace. Moments later, the wind dropped, and she blinked to clear her vision. Instead of her pendant, a jewel-studded golden rod as long and thick as her index finger now sat in the palm of her hand. She knew without a scintilla of doubt this was the Golden Scepter of the Seelie Court.

Is it as powerful as Agnes and Harold claim?

Pinching the tiny scepter between her thumb and index finger, Elva pointed it at the still attacking Thurzudh and said, “I command you to stop.”

As if all the air had been released from his body, King Thurzudh crumpled mid-leap and fell to the floor.

Chapter Eleven

Art clapped his hands and raised the lights in the barn. His uncle had given him strict instructions not to interrupt the arbitrations. He had no desire to irritate the man who had raised him and fed him nectar and ambrosia while his Aunt Gaea had given him immortality. He owed his life to both of them, especially today when the Dark Elf King could have struck him dead.

Sitting at the head of the workbench, Hermes rapped the wood with his caduceus and said, “As the god of thieves, I officially call this meeting to order. You have been placed at the table in accordance with your crimes and misdemeanors. Since Misha, Fergus, and Heather were minions of the biggest criminals at this table, they have been permitted to stand on the sidelines and await my decisions.”

Art thought the minions looked relieved.

“My nephew, Aristaios Klarastos, descendant of Zeus, Apollo, and Cyrene, and Princess Elva, daughter of Queen Bonnie and King Alistair of the Seelie Court and their feline friends, Kit Kat and Romeo, asked me to serve as the magistrate for these proceedings. They have been seated at the end of the table opposite me to serve as observers. To ensure there is no retaliation against them for initiating this adjudication, I hereby issue a Supernatural restraining order against King Thurzudh, Mr. Kuznetsov, and their associates. Elva and Art are never to be disturbed by either of you again.”

The Dark Elf King muttered, “As if anyone could lay a finger on her as long as she commands the Golden Scepter of Seelie Court.”

Hermes glared at Thurzudh. “Silence. I will now read the list of grievances, and each of you will have an opportunity to respond.”

Art leaned over and whispered into Elva’s lovely ear, “He must have the same accountant as Hades.”

Hermes pinned him with a stare. “I have my own accountants.”

Wishing he could slide under the table, Art said, “Honor among thieves?”

“You might say that.” Hermes set his winged hat on the table. “On to the complaints.” He pulled a parchment tube out of his satchel. “These results have been audited by Dewey, Cheatum and Howe, LLC.”

Uncle Hermes is loving this.

Making a show of unfurling the scroll, Hermes began. “To the matter of the theft of Ms. Elva Boyd’s beehives, we find for the plaintiff and hereby order the Dark Elf King to return the boxes to Ms. Boyd’s property immediately.”

“That’s up to the Ghillie Dhu,” King Thurzudh protested. “I have nae control over him.”

Hermes flicked his wand at Thurzudh and zapped him on the nose.

“Ow,” the king whined, “ye dinnae have to do that.”

“Do I have your attention now?”

The man in black nodded.

“Good. Now do as you’re told.” The sovereign tried to rise but found himself glued to the chair. “From here,” Hermes added.

Shaking his head, Thurzudh pulled his cell phone out and made a call. “Yes, you heard me. Put them back.”

“To the matter of the Ghillie Dhu who has strayed beyond his native land and birch forest forests, you must cease and desist feeding him the enchanted waters from the Fairy Pools on the Isle of Skye.”

The king opened his mouth to protest, then made another call, this time to Scotland. “Aye, ye heard me right.”

Kuznetsov smirked.

“Wipe that smile off your face, Mr. Kuznetsov. I have some news for you. Effective immediately, you are to cease and desist your trafficking in guns, drugs, and humans.”

The Russian attempted to leap to his feet, but the chair held him tight. “You ruin business!”

“No,” Hermes continued, “I’m telling you to go into a new, legitimate business. May I recommend being an angel investor for inventors or, perhaps, real estate?”

Scowling and beet red, the mobster said, “I try real estate before. Florida full of crooks. I haff no luck.”

“Perhaps you could branch out?” Hermes coaxed the reluctant Russian. “Consider international opportunities?”

Art wondered where this was going. A legit mob boss? Is that even a possibility?

“Excuse me,” Thurzudh said. “I just happen to have some property in Balmedie. It’s on the water and would make a splendid resort. Think of the possibilities: golf, country club, restaurants, bars, special tours—and wealthy tourists flying in for long vacations.”

Kuznetsov eyed him with suspicion. “Vat is ketch?”

“There’s a tiny village of twenty-two-hundred hard-headed Scots spoiling the view.” The king gave the Russian a Cheshire cat grin. “I bet we could come up with a way to make that problem go away.”

Hermes slapped the table. “No violence!”

The sovereign put his hands up in surrender. “No, of course not. We’ll buy them out.”

“I’ll hold you both to that,” Hermes said. “Now, on to the matter of the star-crossed lovers.”

Art glanced at Elva. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

“Misha,” Hermes said, “could you please bring them in?”

The giant nodded and left the barn. When he returned, he had a ham-sized hand wrapped around the arms of Prince Scott and a lavender-streaked blonde with heavy black eyeliner, glittering eyelashes, unbuttoned ragged denim short shorts, and a purple polka-dotted bikini top.

Art squeezed Elva’s hand and whispered, “Queenie with a K.”

Indicating the youngsters should stand beside him, Hermes continued: “To the matter of the young woman known as Queenie with a K, aka Kweenie, aka Her Royal Highness Anastasia Romanov Kuznetsov, who is in love with and is loved by His Royal Highness Prince Scott, I hereby order King Thurzudh and Mr. Kuznetsov to acknowledge their betrothal.”

Kweenie leaped into Scott’s arms, and they began to make up for lost time.

Art and Elva glanced at each other and his face heated. She caressed the palm of his hand and he thought he would melt on the spot.

Hermes cleared his throat. “AHEM.”

Flushed-faced, the couple broke up their amorous attentions and stood side by side, holding hands.

Art whispered, “I thought the Romanov line was wiped out in the Revolution?”

The Russian sneered. “Duchess Anastasia my babushka.”

“Your grandmother?”

The Russian nodded and smiled. “Da.”

Hermes rapped the table. “In addition, I hereby order King Thurzudh and Mr. Kuznetsov to acknowledge Kweenie and Scott’s love child and to provide for a wedding commensurate with their standings in each of their communities.”

He glanced at the two fathers. “In other words, you’re going to throw them big parties, at least two of them—and I expect to be invited.”

Art and Elva laughed and applauded. The young couple blushed.

Maybe love does conquer all.

“To the matter of the Dark Elf King Thurzudh’s inhumane working conditions and constant threats to humanity. You may never threaten another village and you are hereby required to release all of your slaves, including house brownies, and your indentured servants, Heather and Fergus.”

“I object,” Thurzudh shouted. “They are nae indentured servants. They are willing employees.”

Hermes quirked an eyebrow. “Allow them to speak for themselves.”

Fergus took Heather’s hand. “Three hundred years is enough. We paid off our parents’ debts in the first century, but ye forced us to stay. We want our freedom, along with two hundred years of back pay with overtime.”

“Ye will bankrupt me,” Thurzudh spat.

Hermes rapped the table again. “So it shall be. You may pay them in gold. Now.”

Reaching inside his jacket, the king extracted two bags of gold and threw them on the table. “’Tis all I have with me.”

“You will pay them double that.”

“Fer the love of—”

Hermes stared at him. “Pay them, or you will sit in that chair for the rest of your life and I will force you to listen to your tone-deaf son sing heavy metal love songs and watch him jump around with his air guitar.”

The king tossed two more bags of gold on the table.

“That’s better.”

“Heather and Fergus, yer always welcome in me castle,” Thurzudh whined. “’Tis going to be lonely without ye.”

“Nae.” Heather raised her chin. “I hate the cold winters, the caves are dark and depressing, and the food is dreadful.”

The Dark Elf King gaped at them. “Where will ye live?”

“Here,” Fergus said. “We bought a house in Cat’s Paw Cove.”

Art asked the burning question. “Where? Last I heard, there were no houses for sale.”

Fergus shook his head. “There was one for rent. We convinced the owners to sell.”

“You don’t mean—”

He held up a set of keys. “We bought the Artist’s Cottage on Bent Tail Boulevard.”

Heather added, “And it came with a one-eyed, three-legged cat named Lucky.”

Epilogue

Dressed in a white beekeeper suit, hat, and gloves, Elva approached her hives with a touch of trepidation. Will the girls be angry and aggressive? Or would they be happy to be back home? Since she didn’t speak bee, the only way she’d find out was to take a look inside. She lifted the top of the box, placed the tip of her smoker into the gap and squeezed the bellows. The air filled with smoke and the fragrance of lavender.

“Hope you like the new smoke,” she said. “I have some other herbs like chamomile—but I was afraid I’d fall asleep!”

She waited a moment, then completely removed the top and set it on the ground. The bees hummed and strolled around on and between the frames. Wax and honey spilled across the edges, and her heart skipped a beat.

“You’ve been busy, ladies,” she chortled. “Let me take a look-see.”

Leveraging a frame out of the box with a hive hook, Elva lifted it up. Heavy. Always a good sign. She pulled it out completely. Almost ninety percent full. Just about ready to harvest the honey. She slid the frame back in and repeated the process, searching for the queen.

“There you are, looking all fat and full of yourself.” She chuckled. “I see your attendants are taking good care of you.”

Art pulled into her driveway, parked in the shade of trees no longer infested with an angry fairy, and tapped his horn.

“Ladies,” she said as she placed the lid back on the hive, “I think you are going to be just fine. See you soon.”

Art jumped out of his truck and ran to her side. “Need any help getting undressed?”

She laughed, “Don’t you think you’ve done enough of that in the last week?”

He lifted her beekeeper bonnet and pulled her in for a kiss. She returned his passion with her own. It felt right, kissing her best friend, the only person with whom she’d ever been completely comfortable. She was in freefall—and didn’t want to stop.

Art took a breath. “Soon I’ll be removing a different kind of veil.”

“Is that another proposal?”

He kissed her nose. “It seemed like a good time to offer up a different version.”

She mock frowned. “I believe I’ve said yes every time.”

“So you have.” He grinned, “I just like hearing you say it.”

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.” Sweat trickled down her back. “I need a cold shower before we head over to FFRH.”

“Mind if I join you?”

She pointed to the back of his pick-up truck where two beehives sat. “Won’t the girls get jealous?”

He took her hand and led her toward the house. “It will be our little secret.”

A fluttery feeling filled her stomach and everywhere else from head to toe. “I’m all abuzz.”

An hour later, Art backed up his truck on the service road behind FFRH while Elva directed him. The Flower Girls clustered nearby and cheered the arrival of their own beehives.

“Art and I will get you started,” Elva said, “but over time these girls will be your responsibility.”

Suited up from head to toe in white and topped with a sunflower-crested helmet, Sunny clapped her hands. “Ladies, settle down. Listen to Elva. We’ve got work to do.”

Art flipped down the tailgate. “First you need to tell me where you want the hives.”

Sunny led him to a shady spot in the back of the property. “We thought the newbies would like it here. There are lots of flowers around, and the lavender is taking over the herb garden.”

“Did someone say herb garden?” Romeo nipped off, leaving Kit Kat, rolling her eyes, behind.

“Romeo.” Elva shook her head. “I think this is a perfect place. What about you, Art?”

He glanced back at the truck. “You don’t happen to have a forklift around, do you?”

Rose yelled, “James, we need you and your friends!”

She must really be excited, Elva thought. She never speaks above a whisper.

The jinni team materialized out of the shadows. “At your command.”

“We need you to pick those beehives up and put them down over here.”

Sunny had better watch out. Rose is in her element!

In the blink of an eye, the bee boxes were in place.

Art whistled. “Where were you when I needed you to put them on the truck?”

James nodded. “Happy to help Rose—and the rest of the Flower Girls.”

Elva did a double-take. “Are you two dating?”

Rose blushed, grabbed the jinni’s arm, and squeezed it. “Never too late!”

The Decorators appeared and began to discuss how to enhance the boring boxes.

“Butterflies, flowers, and bees would be nice.”

“What about a little sign that says Hotel Honey?”

“Or Bee Nice B and B?

As they debated the best décor for their new friends, forager bees began emerging from the boxes and scouting the area.

Elva urged the Supernaturals to back away from the boxes. “Give them some time to get settled in. These are Italian bees, very gentle, but they’re a bit feisty from the move.”

Art took her hand. “Mission accomplished, my Queen.”

“Princess, please.” She chuckled and touched her necklace. “If only the golden scepter came with an instruction manual and a mentor. It worries me that I might accidentally set it off.”

Leaving the truck parked where it was, they strolled toward the kitchen entrance and passed the herb garden.

Romeo rolled around in a patch of leggy green plantings and trilled, “I’m in my happy place.”

Elva leaned down and tapped his nose. “You know you have to work at the clinic on Monday.”

He swatted at her hand and missed. “I can stop anytime I want to.”

Agnes exploded out the back door. “Get in here, now!”

“On our way,” Elva called. After a few steps she stopped, turned to Art, and asked, “Is this a surprise bridal shower?”

His eyebrows flew up. “Not that I know of.”

“Hmm. You’re a terrible liar.”

“Honestly, I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Get in here,” Agnes shouted. But she wasn’t angry, she was excited. And happy.

Elva’s index of suspicion ratcheted up. “I’m not buying your story, Art.”

He shrugged. “Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are. Between our two houses, we don’t need anything.”

They climbed the stairs and the little woman leaped at Elva. “You’re going to be so happy.”

“Are you crying?”

Agnes sniffed. “Yes. Good tears.” She pulled Elva through the door and into the kitchen. A grinning Harold sat on a stool by the center island next to a poker-faced Chef Malik and Niles. She swore the kitchen cat was smirking.

Arms folded, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, Rory leaned against the frame of the kitchen door. “There’s the lassie we’ve been waiting on.”

Elva glanced around the room, looking for clues. No cake, no balloons, no one shouting, “Surprise!” What the heck?

Rory pushed the door open a crack. “Ye can come in now.”

The door swung open, and a tall woman with platinum hair entered, followed by a muscular man. Both beautiful. Both elves.

The woman spoke and her voice was like a lost melody. “Hello, me beautiful Elvina. We’ve missed ye.”

Breathless, legs wobbling, Elva fell into her mother’s arms.

“I don’t understand. How—what—when?”

Her father enveloped them both in his long arms. “When we went to the Unseelie Court, we had nae intention of giving up our bairn to that evil king.”

“We sent ye off with Agnes and Harold to keep ye safe.” Her mother lifted her chin. “Thanks to Rory and his teleportation powers, ye all had good lives here in this haven for Supernaturals.”

“What about you? Where have you been?”

“Hidden among the humans we protected from Thurzudh.” Her father wriggled his ears. “Glamour.”

“Why now? Why didn’t you come sooner?”

Elva’s mother stroked her cheek, her hand as soft as she remembered from her infancy. “Ye had to come into yer powers, Princess.”

“We swore there would be nae forced marriage for our daughter. You had to make your own choices, especially in love.”

Elva whispered, “The tree of life will only grow when rooted in truth.”

“Aye,” her father said. “Now, please introduce us to your betrothed?”

Pulling Art to her side, she said, “I give you Aristaios Klarastos, descendant of Zeus, Apollo and Cyrene, great-nephew to Hermes and Gaea.”

Art bowed. “King Alistair. Queen Bonnie. I am honored to finally meet you.”

Lacing her fingers through his, Elva pulled him closer. “He is my love. My life. My forever.”

He grinned. “With an option to renew our contract.”

Hermes popped into the kitchen and sent Niles under the table in a scramble of claws.

“Did someone say they needed a magistrate?”

Elva laughed, “Where did you come from?”

“Olympus.” He pointed at his feet. Flames flew out of the back of his bright red sandals. “I am the messenger of the gods, after all. Zeus and Hera are responding to your wedding invitation. They are delighted to attend your nuptials, along with the entire pantheon of gods and goddesses.”

Agnes and Harold clapped their hands. “We love a good celebration, especially cleaning up afterward.”

A Decorator fell through the swinging kitchen door, a clear indicator she’d been listening in on the conversation. “Did someone say party?”

“We did,” Elva said. “It will be a wedding for all time.”

The rod grew warm on Elva’s skin, and she knew what she must do.

Reaching behind her neck, she undid the clasp and removed the necklace. Taking her mother’s hand in hers, Elva placed the scepter in the center of her palm.

“Thank you for giving me a choice and for making such a painful decision. You keep this until such time as you feel I’ve earned it—and know what to do with it.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she nodded. “Ye will grow into a wise ruler and someday, the golden scepter will call for ye. But for now, ye should enjoy your youth.”

Her father smiled. “What will ye do for the next hundred years of yer life, me girl?”

“Help people in pain with my healing powers.” She grinned. “And spend all my days and nights with my goat herding, beekeeping, gadgeteering best friend.”

About Sharon Buchbinder

Sharon Buchbinder has been writing fiction since middle school and has the rejection slips to prove it. An RN, she provided health care delivery, became a researcher, association executive, and obtained a PhD in Public Health. She is the author of the Hotel LaBelle Series, the Jinni Hunter Series, and the Obsession Series.

When not attempting to make students and colleagues laugh or writing, she can be found fishing, walking her dogs, herding cats, or breaking bread and laughing with family and friends in Baltimore, MD and Punta Gorda, Florida.

Connect with Sharon Buchbinder

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Books by Sharon Buchbinder

Cat’s Paw Cove Romance

Charlotte Redbird, Ghost Coach

Taken by the Imp

Healed With a Kiss

Meows & Mistletoe: A Holiday Anthology (includes Charlotte Redbird, Ghost Coach)

Hotel LaBelle Series

The Haunting of Hotel LaBelle, Book 1

Legacy of Evil, Book 2

Eye of the Eagle, Book 3

Tears of the Wolf, Hotel LaBelle Series, Book 4

Other Paranormal Romances

An Inn Decent Proposal

Kiss of the Silver Wolf

Kiss of the Virgin Queen

Some Other Child

Desire and Deception

Obsession

Excerpt from Taken by the Imp by Sharon Buchbinder

Stay a little longer in the magical town of Cat’s Paw Cove! Read on for an exciting excerpt from Sharon Buchbinder’s paranormal romance Taken by the Imp.

Blurb

Can a jinni and a warlock cook up a better way to help the poor?

Dexter Graham has no trouble making money as a financial wizard—as long as he doesn’t leave his home. He finds it nearly impossible to be with other people, because he’s a telepath who gets swamped by their thoughts. Prompted by an unexpected visitor from the past who reveals shocking family secrets, he takes a risk and visits his brother in Cat’s Paw Cove. Will the trip make things better or worse?

Ynez Saghira is a gifted chef at the Feline Fine Retirement Home who yearns to be financially independent and open her own café. She has lots of talent and creative ideas but lacks the capital to start her own business. What’s a poor imp to do?

Dexter and Ynez join forces to quiet the voices in his head, build her business, and ferret out family mysteries. Will the secrets draw them closer together or push them apart?

Available in eBook and print.

Chapter One

Windsor Locks, Connecticut

September

Dexter Graham rattled the cat treat bag and called Brutus for the third time. Odd. It wasn’t like Brutus to miss a meal. Unlike finicky felines, the fifteen-year-old black Maine Coon cat lived to eat, racing to Dexter if he unwrapped even a cough drop.

His heart kicked up a notch and his stomach roiled. Something’s wrong.

The sun shone on Dexter’s grandmother’s well-tended flower and herb garden, which now belonged to him. Butterflies hovered over luxuriant stands of royal red, purple, and yellow. Bees sipped at the open mouths of petunias, ragweed, and clover—the weeds their favorites. A large balm bush, its lush purple color soothing to the eyes, embraced both pollinators. All the little insect people anticipated the cold weather en route, and the garden shimmered with activity in the late September sun.

Still shaking the treats, Dexter sought out the intrepid hunter’s favorite napping spot. Not there. Wait. Was that—?

“Meow.”

“I hear you, Brutus.” He circled around the apple tree. No sign of the cat.

“Meow.’’

The sound was coming from beneath him.

Dexter groaned. He loped around to the front of his grandmother’s root cellar, leaned forward and pulled on the squeaking wooden door. Sitting on the root cellar’s top step, a live mouse dangling from his mouth, the yellow-eyed twenty-five-pound feline blinked and glared at him as if to say, “Took you long enough.”

“How did you get in there?”

The cat strutted out. Dexter snapped his fingers, and the cat placed the stunned rodent at his feet.

“Well, it is a lovely gift. I know you worked hard to catch it for me, but I have to tell you, I just ate.”

“Mrrp?”

“Thanks for the scare.” Dexter bent down and rubbed the cat’s ears. He was safe. Brutus had not crossed the rainbow bridge to enjoy an all-you-can-eat tuna buffet. “It gets pretty lonely here. Sure, I have Ace, my companion computer, but he’s not much company when he’s powered down. If anything happened to you, my friend, I’m not sure what I’d do.”

“Go to your brother.”

“Grandmama?” He couldn’t possibly be hearing his grandmother’s voice. It’s my imagination. I attended her funeral. He was in her garden—her favorite place in the world. It always felt like she was just around the next flowering bush, staring off in the distance, having one of her visions. Feeling like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Dexter searched for the source of the woman’s voice. “It can’t be you. You’re—”

“Dead?” She chuckled. “That’s old news.”

“I don’t see you?”

“Buckle up, Buttercup—and look up.”

A gray-haired woman wearing a brimmed hat, gardening clogs and gloves perched on a large branch of an apple tree. In his early childhood, he’d spent many sunny days roped to the trunk while his grandmother tended to her large backyard. Despite her best efforts to keep him safe while she worked—and had her occasional trance-like visions, he had untied the knots and wandered the surrounding area. He had nibbled at windfalls and created stories starring him as a fearless adventurer. Grandmama’s thoughts had broadcasted to him like a megaphone, loud and clear. When she had called, he’d returned home.

“You look good.” Too much time in the sun, that’s it. I’m dehydrated. That can cause hallucinations.

Tilting her head, she said, “Ah, poor baby. You don’t think I’m real.”

“You’re a figment of my imagination. Brutus was missing. I was worried about him.” Dexter was familiar with the signs of grief, had worked through them many times. His parents had died when he was four. He hadn’t been able to  go to school. His brother had moved away. His grandmother had died. And, now, Brutus had scared the crap out of him.

“Dexter.” She placed a fist on her hip. “Remember that story, A Christmas Carol?”

He nodded.

“Think of me as the Ghost of Christmas Past. Our family made wonderful memories here in this special place. Now, it’s time for you to go out in the world and to make new ones. You can’t be a reclusive multi-millionaire forever, honey.”

“But you—”

“Kept you tucked away, safe from people who wanted to lock you up with a diagnosis of childhood schizophrenia.” She shook her head. “As we’ve discussed before, had I allowed the doctors to treat you back then, you would not be who you are now. You are a brilliant, creative, handsome man with extraordinary abilities, who also happens to be a powerful telepath. It’s time for you to leave the nest, get out into the world.”

For a figment of his imagination, she was awfully talkative.

“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, the bumper sticker, and the pins. Remember that disastrous summer abroad trip I took? That was more than enough of the world for me.”

“You were sixteen. That was ages ago.”

“Not to me.” The pain of being led on by a flirtatious college co-ed, only to discover her real opinions of him when she’d huddled with her girlfriends, was as fresh today as it had been eleven years ago. “As you know, I tried again when I graduated with my master’s degree. A real date, face to face, with a woman I met in my online classes. By the time the evening was over, I was done with her and her gold-digging ideas.”

“Dexter, not everyone is after your wealth. There are decent women out there—some even have their own money.”

“For argument’s sake, let’s pretend I say yes. Where would I go?”

“Your brother would love to see you. Dylan’s girlfriend and I have been chatting for quite a while now. Charlotte thinks it’s time for you to visit them. I agree.”

He knew Charlotte, his brother’s girlfriend, saw ghosts. Did she really see this one? Dexter bit his lower lip and mulled over his grandmother’s words. Were they, in reality, his thoughts? Personified by his beloved grandparent? “I do owe Dylan a debt—a big one. Fifty-thousand dollars.”

“Pfft.” She waved her hand. “It’s not about the money. It’s about family secrets that might shock you—and what the past means to your present and future.”

“Why are you telling me this now? Why not before?”

“Don’t be sassy.” She fixed him with the look, the one that had made him freeze as a child. “I was waiting for everyone to be in the right place at the same time. Your brother holds the key. This cannot be done over the Internet.  It must be face to face in real time.”

“How will I get to Dylan’s? I can’t take public transportation. The voices—”

“Take Doodle Bug. She’ll get you there.”

He did have a driving license. He’d studied the driver’s manual, and video games had given him the needed practice. When he’d arrived at the DMV, he’d had a moment of panic—until he’d realized the thoughts of the people trapped at the DMV had been a monotonous drone of entreaties to be released from waiting room purgatory. He’d gotten through that day—sweaty-palmed and victorious. With the GPS lady, he could drive to his brother’s alone and undistracted by others’ thoughts.

His grandmother leaned her head back and looked up into the sky. “Beautiful day. Don’t waste it.” Like the Cheshire Cat, she faded away, starting with her feet and ending with her smile. “Go see your brother in Cat’s Paw Cove. It’s a magical place—where anything can happen.”

Feline Fine Retirement Home

Cat’s Paw Cove, Florida

September

Ynez Saghira crushed a few grains of lavender between her fingers and sprinkled them into her test dish: Moroccan lamb infused with the flavors of Persian walnut and pomegranate sauce. More than a few pieces of lavender, and the dish would taste like perfume. Less than that, and it would lose its unique flavor profile. She stirred the red-brown sauce, watched it shimmer and shine, and decided it was ready to be tested. She touched the back of a demitasse spoon to the liquid.

“Madame Jinniyah,” Ynez asked, “would you do me the honor of tasting my new sauce?”

Legs folded in a graceful pose, the elderly genie in the red and gold satin turban hovered over the kitchen on her floating carpet. “I was afraid you’d never ask.”

Ynez quirked an eyebrow at her adoptive grandmother. “Since when have you been shy about asking for a sample?”

“Chefs can be tempestuous. Plus, I didn’t want to interrupt your creative process.” The genie took the proffered spoon, sniffed, raised it to her tongue, and closed her eyes. “Hmmmm.” She licked her lips and finally spoke. “Needs more cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon? Not pomegranate syrup, walnuts, or lavender?”

“You asked me to taste it, so I’m giving you my honest opinion. I’d like it with a touch more cinnamon.”

“You always want more cinnamon, no matter what I make. You have your own shaker at the table.” Ynez smiled and took the spoon back. “So, in other words, you like it?”

Madame Jinniyah’s hooded smokey eyes, so much like Ynez’s own, widened, and she placed a hand on her red silk caftan. “No. I loved it.”

“Thank you. We’ll see what the other residents think when I serve it for dinner tonight.” Ynez turned the flame down and covered the pan to ensure the sauce wouldn’t get too diluted from condensate or too dry from the air.

“I think it should be on the menu every night. It could be your signature dish.”

“I like that idea. Let’s see how the diners review tonight’s special first.” Stepping to the large sink, Ynez washed her hands and dried them on a nearby towel. “If the Feline Fine Retirement Home residents don’t like it, I can always take it to the folks at the homeless shelter in Orlando.”

“You spend a lot of time there. Very noble, my darling, but is it what you want to do forever? You’re a superb chef. Don’t you feel your talent might be, shall we say, overlooked, by the diners at that establishment?”

“I love serving them, Grandmother. They’re not bad people. They’re going through difficult times. I wish I could wiggle my nose and fix their lives.” She sighed. “That is truly beyond our boundaries in the human realm. If for one evening a month, I can lift their spirits through food, then I feel I’ve done something good.”

“You are a generous young woman. You make this old jinniyah proud.”

“Besides, this dish would be a nice change from meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

“Comfort food for many, my darling,” Madame Jinniyah said with a small smile. “Not everyone wants Moroccan flavors like we do. We can’t help it. It’s in our blood.”

Ynez seized on the moment. “Grandmother—”

“Here it comes. You never call me that unless you have a family question.”

She dipped her chin and smiled. “You’re right.”

“What is it, my dear?”

“Who were my parents? What happened to them—really?”

The older woman glided closer to Ynez, reached over, and touched her cheek. “You know the story, darling. Your parents died. I adopted you, gave you your name.”

“But we’re magic jinnis.” Ynez threw her hands up. “We’re supposed to live for thousands of years. How did they die? A magic spell? A plague of poxes? An enraged ogre? An angry angel? Seriously, I don’t get it.”

Her grandmother shook her head. “I don’t know, my dear. What I do know is you were an infant. You had no parents. I had no children. I begged the Jinni King to allow me to raise you as my own, and he approved. Do you regret having me as your family?”

Vision blurring, Ynez shook her head. “No, not at all. You’ve been wonderful. I couldn’t have asked for a better mother and grandmother. I just….”

“Want to know.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a mystery, my little one. What I do know is you are beautiful, feisty, and you’re an imp, a type of genie. Unlike other imps, you are a very nice one. You’re still growing into your powers. In time, you will see how much you can do.”

Ynez glanced at the clock. “What I’d like to do right now is get the rest of dinner ready on time. Can’t be caught without our famous fried chicken. Could you give me a hand, please?”

“Of course.” Madame Jinniyah nodded, and pots and pans rose in the air, filled with water, and danced to the flaming stove. Vegetables flew onto chopping boards, and knives sliced, diced, and pared. Poultry parts dipped themselves in a seasoned flour, dropped into deep fryers, and sizzled as they cooked. Not a wasted movement between the two, Ynez and her grandmother moved through the choreography of creating the night’s dinner for a fussy group of elderly supernaturals, all accomplished without a wisp of smoke.

Read the rest of Dexter and Ynez’s story in Taken by the Imp, available now in eBook and print.

More Cat’s Paw Cove

Want more Cat’s Paw Cove? Read all of the books in the series:

A Witch in Time by Wynter Daniels and Catherine Kean (Book 1)

Her Homerun Hottie by Wynter Daniels (Book 2)

Gambling on the Artist by Wynter Daniels (Book 3)

Meows and Mistletoe: A Cat's Paw Cove Holiday Anthology by Sue-Ellen Welfonder, Sharon Buchbinder, Candace Colt, Darcy Devlon, Mia Ellas, Kristal Hollis, Kerry Evelyn, and Debra Jess (Book 4)

Hot Magic by Catherine Kean (Book 5)

Reimagining Mr. Right by Wynter Daniels (Book 6)

Familiar Blessings by Candace Colt (Book 7)

Magical Blessings by Candace Colt (Book 8)

Christmas at Moon Mist Manor by Kerry Evelyn (Book 9)

Love Overrules the Lawyer by Kerry Evelyn (Book 10)

Fated Kiss by Darcy Devlon (Book 11)

Charlotte Redbird, Ghost Coach by Sharon Buchbinder (Book 12)

Taken by the Imp by Sharon Buchbinder (Book 13)

The Beachcomber’s Buccaneer Bounty by Kerry Evelyn (Book 14)

Romance, Magic, and Cats! 3 Book Set by Wynter Daniels (Book 15)

New Year’s Kiss: Enchanted Kiss Book 1 by Darcy Devlon (Book 16)

Tides & Treasures by Lynda Haviland (Book 17)

Charming the Skeptic by Wynter Daniels (Book 18)

Festivities & Felines: A Holiday Anthology by Candace Colt, Abigail Sharpe, and Kira Nyte (Book 19)

Healed With a Kiss by Sharon Buchbinder (Book 20)

Multiple Blessings by Candace Colt (Book 21)

A Fae’s Wishmas by Kira Nyte (Book 22)

Christmas Magic by Catherine Kean (Book 23)