Winter Princess: Episode 1 (Reverse Harem Serial) (Daughter of Winter) Read online

  Skye MacKinnon

  Winter Princess #1

  Daughter of Winter Series

  First published by Peryton Press in 2017

  Copyright © Skye MacKinnon, 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  Contents

  A note on spellings

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Author's Note

  A note on spellings

  This book has been written by a Scottish author using British English. Please don’t hold this against me :)

  If you’re from the other side of the pond, here are some translations. Get in touch if I’ve missed any and I might send you a postcard from Scotland in return!

  Car boot – trunk

  Dinnae ken (Scots) – don’t know

  Dreich (Scots) – bad, miserable weather

  Flat - apartment

  Calling 999 – calling the emergency services (US: 911, Europe: 112)

  To all the vampires and demons who gave me a push to start this journey

  Map

  Chapter 1

  If I told people that my mother was the Queen of Winter, they’d probably lock me up. And if I told them that I can do magic, they’d run away screaming. Or laugh, which is more likely.

  It’s not like I grew up in a palace or something. On the contrary, I grew up in a lacklustre semi-detached on the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland.

  Nowadays, most people have never even heard of Beira, the Winter Queen. I’m not quite sure if I should feel offended about that on my mother’s behalf. In the olden days, everyone knew her. She was known as the Mother of Gods and Goddesses, the Veiled One, the Cailleach, and, not very flatteringly, the old hag with one eye. You can probably guess which version my mother prefers.

  Despite the legends, she certainly doesn’t look like an old hag. Sure, she is old – and I mean, really old, even I don’t know her age – but she is as beautiful as you can imagine.

  Unfortunately, I didn't get those genes from her. I'm ordinary looking, nothing special. Dark hair, brown eyes and a few extra pounds around my hips that make me curse my jeans in the morning. I guess it makes it easier to blend in though. It's hard enough to hide my magic, so it's good that I don't have to hide unnatural beauty as well. Thinking positive, that’s me.

  My mum and dad are the only ones who know about my origins. They're not my real parents, of course, but they are a lot more paternal than my birth mother ever was. I've seen her exactly four times in my life. Five, if you count the moment I was born.

  I get two letters each year; one for my birthday, one for winter solstice. She doesn’t celebrate Christmas – Jesus and all that came long after she started her rule. I have 43 letters in my top drawer, every single one of them crumpled and stained from being read hundreds of times. Today, the forty-fourth arrived, in time for my twenty-second birthday tomorrow.

  I've not opened it yet, but I've been holding it in my hands for the past hour, deciding whether it's better to open it quickly and be disappointed again, or wait for a bit longer, in the comfort of not being rejected - yet. Every time I get a letter, I write a reply, long and detailed, telling her about my life. Maybe it's because I want to make her feel guilty for having given me away. Now that I'm older, I understand her reasons, and I almost forgive her for it. Almost. If only she would allow me to visit her. In every letter, I ask. But I never get a reply. It hurts.

  She doesn't want you. You're not worthy of being a goddess's daughter.

  But now, I'm turning twenty-two. In Pagan tradition, I am coming of age. Tomorrow is the day my magic will specialise.

  At the moment, I can do basic stuff - light candles, levitate small things like books and cutlery (very handy when laying the table), open doors with my mind. Oh, and read emotions - not thoughts, although in most people I can deduce their thoughts from what they're feeling. I make a pretty good lie detector. It made me a pain for my teachers back at school, when I would call them out on made-up answers to pupils' difficult questions. Yes, I wasn't popular among teachers and my fellow students alike. Being able to see every fake or planted rumour for a lie takes the fun out of high school.

  I'm not sure what will happen to my magic tomorrow. Usually, it changes, increasing one particular power and getting rid of all the others. That's why fire mages can't control water and so on. I've been thinking about it a lot: what power could I live without? Which one is my favourite? What kind of mage would I like to be?

  But then, I'm not an ordinary mage. After all, my mother is a goddess. Which makes me a demi-goddess. Although I prefer to keep that one quiet.

  There aren't many of us. To be honest, I don't know any other living demi-gods. All I have to go on are old tales and legends. None of which are particularly reliable. In most of the stories, demi-gods have a major power, but in contrast to ordinary mages, they also retain some minor powers. I really hope that's the case for me as well. I wouldn't want to go without my telekinesis. I haven't opened my curtains by hand in years.

  I turn the letter in my hands. Already there are greasy spots on it. I should really get it over with. I'm used to her standard "PS. I'm afraid you won't be able to visit me this year" sentence at the end of the letter. The rest of it will be the same old: Happy birthday, let me know if you need any money, say hello to your adoptive parents. If I’m lucky, she might write a few sentences about her life – her life as a queen that is, not her personal life. I know next to nothing about my mother. The last time I saw her was five years ago, and even then, she only stayed for a day.

  I sigh. There's no way around it. I slide my finger into the lash of the envelope and rip it open. The letter is folded several times and I open it apprehensively. The paper is thick and feels expensive. Guess as a queen you can afford nice stationary.

  I scan the letter, skimming it for the all important words.

  And there they are.

  "Some of my most trusted guards will come and collect you on the evening of the 25th October. Please prepare to stay for a few weeks."

  Wow. I almost want to scream in surprise and happiness.

  Then I read through it again. No further information. Besides a quick 'happy birthday' at the beginning of the letter, this is all. Typical. A few weeks... I'll need to clear that with my university. I'm doing a PhD, so I don't have classes I'd have to cancel, but I have assignments to mark for some of my professors. And after the autumn break I'll have seminars to teach - and now I've got exactly one day to sort it all out. Thanks, mother. You couldn't have told me before, could you.

  I carefully put the letter back into the envelope and put it in my pocket. Even though it's short and X, I don't want to lose it. It'll join its brothers and sisters in my drawer soon. First, I have to talk to my parents.

  I climb down from my treehouse - yes, I'm almost 22 and I still spend time in the treehouse my dad built me when I was five - and knock on my parents' front door. We live in the same house, but the upper floor has been converted into a small flat for me. It's cheaper than renting my own place and I have privacy when I want it. Which is pretty much all the time.

  My parents have always given me as much freedom as I wanted. Maybe that's because they're not my r
eal parents, although they never made me feel like I wasn't their daughter. They would have likely done the same to their own children. As long as I followed their main rules and got good grades, I was pretty much free to do what I wanted. Which usually ended up me practicing magic in the fields a few minutes' walk from the house (after I almost set fire to the living room once this quickly became one of the unbreakable rules).

  "Come in," my mum yells and I join her in the kitchen. She's making cupcakes - chocolate dough with chocolate filling and chocolate icing. Guess what my favourite food is.

  I give her a kiss on the cheek. "They smell delicious." I try to steal one but she slaps my hand away.

  "No cupcakes until we're all sitting down together."

  "Mum, it's my birthday tomorrow."

  "Exactly. Tomorrow. Now shoosh, get your father while I put the kettle on."

  I find him in his office, staring at the computer screen. He looks tired and worn out. When did my dad get so old?

  They were both in their forties when they adopted me. They wanted a child and when they were offered a baby girl, they accepted without hesitation. Even though they knew from the beginning that I was different. I love them for it.

  I quietly knock against the doorframe. "Dad, tea is ready. Join us in the living room?"

  "Aye, give me five minutes," he sighs, and turns back to his computer.

  In dad-language, this means I'll have to come and get him in about ten minutes. At least by then the tea will be the temperature he likes: lukewarm, once you add milk.

  I meet my mum in the living room and slump down on the sofa next to her. A large pot of tea is waiting on the little side table, as is a plate full of cupcakes. The next ten minutes are going to be torture. Can’t dad be on time for once in his life? But then, I should know the answer to that by now. He’s a bioethical researcher at the university, and when he gets started on reading a book or journal article, there’s no stopping him. My mum is an artist, one of the few who actually manage to make a living from their paintings. She uses the shed in the garden as her studio, and often spends half the night in there. She’s currently experimenting with fluorescent paints, which means it’s easier for her to paint when it’s dark rather than during the day. My bedroom looks out to the garden, and when I leave the window open in summer, I can hear her hum from the distance. It’s like she’s singing me a lullaby without even knowing it.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow?” she asks me and puts an arm around my shoulders. She’s a very tactile person and gives the best hugs in the world. My dad is the opposite; he’s more of a handshake guy.

  “I’m going to meet Gina for tea in the afternoon, and we might head to the pub after. I was planning to do my birthday party on Sunday, but now…” I notice I haven’t told her yet. My birth mother is a bit of a sore topic in this house. I think my parents don’t like to be reminded that they’re not my biological parents. So I always make sure not to call her ‘mother’ in their presence.

  “Beira has invited me to her place.” That sentence sounds so ordinary. Except that ‘her place’ isn’t on earth, and it’s more of a palace than a house. At least, that’s what she told me on her rare visits. I was five days old when I was brought to my parents, so I have no memory of the God Realms. I couldn’t even tell you how to get there. All I know of the magical world is what I’ve read in the books Beira brought me on her visits. They are very basic, but at least they taught me how to do a few magic tricks. Everything else I learned through experimenting. Which, after I discovered I could make things explode, my parents made me do outside. Far away from anything that could break. Although I broke a tree once. Oops. I never told them that.

  “Are you planning to go?” my mother asks, her voice a little unsure.

  “I guess so.” I try to appear more reluctant than I actually am. I don’t want to hurt her by saying that I can’t wait to explore the Realms, learn more about magic, find out which of the supernatural races humans write about actually exist. (I was terribly disappointed when I discovered that werewolves aren’t real. I always fancied meeting a hot wolf shifter one day.)

  “She’s sending some people to pick me up tomorrow. I might be gone for a few weeks.”

  “Oh. That’s… sudden.” She takes a long sip from her tea cup, hiding her face.

  “I’m going to try and call if I can. I don’t know if mobiles work over there, though. But I’m sure they have some way of communicating with this world, even if it’s through letters.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I know you’re an adult now, but with all this… magic stuff, I need to know you’re ok.”

  “Everything will be fine, mum. Don’t worry.”

  With a determined smile, she finishes her tea and gets up. “Come with me for a moment, there’s something I want to show you.”

  I put down my own cup and follow her outside, through the garden and into her shed-studio. Large canvases line the walls and shelves packed with paints and other art supplies circle the room. This is the only chaotic room in my parents’ house. Everywhere else it’s tidy and spotless, but the studio is a manifestation of creative chaos.

  My mum leads me to a cloth-covered easel. “I was planning to give you this tomorrow, but now… well, we don’t know when they’ll come and pick you up, so I thought I’d show you today.”

  She carefully lifts the white cloth (I’m sure it was a bed sheet once) and reveals a big painting on canvas.

  I gasp. Then laugh. Then smile. Then almost cry. Then hug her.

  When my emotions subside a little, I turn to take another look. A painted Wyn stares back at me. When you ignore that she’s painted me in all colours of the rainbow, it’s almost like looking into a mirror. My mum is a genius. But what’s so special about the painting are the soft, intricate white lines that float around me. Magic. Even though she can’t see it herself, she’s painted them so realistic that they almost look like they’ll jump out of the canvas to bring life to something spectacular.

  “You haven’t seen the best of it yet,” my mum laughs and turns off the light. We’re left in complete darkness – wait, not complete. As my eyes adjust, the painting transforms. My throat chokes up when I realise what she’s done. The painted me has turned into a simple white outline on black while the magic tendrils are bright and colourful, exploding out of myself while at the same time hugging me gently.

  “How did you…?” I am lost for words, which is not something that happens very often. I’ll mark it in my calendar later on.

  “Two years of experimenting,” she says proudly. I can hear her move towards the light switch, but I tell her to leave it off for another moment or two.

  Finally, I am no longer the only one who can see the magic. It’s right there, on paper. It’s like proof that it exists, that it is almost… normal.

  Chapter 2

  On birthdays, my parents usually wake me up together, with a cup of tea, a plate of pancakes and a candle.

  It's been tradition for so long that when I wake up by myself, alone in my dark bedroom, it feels very wrong. I switch on my nightlight and look around. Everything is as it should be. No scary monsters under the bed (I hope, I didn't actually check). I look at my phone and sigh. It's five in the morning. Time to go back to sleep again.

  "Happy Birthday, Wyn," I whisper to myself and switch off the light.

  And gasp in shock.

  My body convulses. Every muscle tightens and suddenly I'm in the foetal position, my limbs locked around my torso. White hot pain floods my mind, but I can't open my mouth to scream. I can feel my fingernails burying themselves in my palms and I know that I've drawn blood. My chest hurts and I can't breathe. I try to gulp up air, but my lungs refuse to obey. I'm locked into myself, screaming inside, the pain threatening to drown me. Am I dying? Is this the end?

  Without warning, my muscles relax, and with a rattling sound in my chest, I can breathe again. I take a deep breath, savouring the cool air flowing down into my lungs. My b
ody hurts from the involuntary exertion. I lie on the bed, not moving, trying to calm down my breathing. What the hell was that? Was that some kind of physical illness or is it my magic going amok?

  My throat is parched and I feel a little dizzy. I slowly get up and make my way through the dark flat until I reach my kitchenette. Pouring myself a glass of water and downing it in one go, I lean against the counter. My heart is still beating too fast. My hand holding the glass is shaking slightly. I am scared. Should I wake my parents? But then, maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe it's nothing.

  Wrong.

  I collapse to the floor, my body going limp. I'm not fainting, my mind is fully aware, but my body refuses to move. At least this time there's no pain. But I can't feel anything. No warmth, no cold, no tingling. Nothing. It's as if I'm completely separated from the body that's lying crumpled on the kitchen floor.

  Then the clattering starts. It's coming from the kitchen cupboards: rattling, knocking, shattering. One of the cupboard doors above me flies open and out float four wine glasses, trundling in the air, gently knocking against each other with the most beautiful chime. They're followed by my mugs. Another cupboard opens. With a bang, a plate flies out and crashes against the wall opposite, breaking into a hundred pieces. More plates destroy themselves kamikaze style, and shards are raining down on me. I don't even know if they're cutting me; I still can't feel anything. The banging in my drawers gets louder until they fly open, releasing my cutlery into the air. The knives are flying around in a swarm, while the forks seem to be line dancing. This must be a dream. Only in a dream forks can dance.

  There's a loud knock on my door, and I can hear my father shouting, but I can't respond. I'm trapped within my body, surrounded by flying crockery. The knocking turns into banging, and with a crash, the door flies open. A second later, my parents are standing at the kitchen door, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. It must be quite a sight.