Masquerade of the Cursed King.

Vanessa Gilfoy.

Dedication.

For Ben.

Acknowledgements.

Thank you, Helen Woodall, for your amazing editing skills and honesty. Thank you, Julie, Tammi, and Jen, for all your writerly help.

Five of Cups.

On the card, a figure cloaked in black bows his head in mourning for his loss. He focuses on three spilled cups and can't see what remains. Behind him two cups still stand and in the distance, a kingdom waits across the river. Water flows under the bridge, but he doesn't notice.

The number five by itself represents the limitations of our physical existence. Our five-pointed human bodies make us susceptible to sickness and death. We're limited by time in our physical form. Throughout the Minor Arcana, five is a negative number, when right-side up.

Cups represent water, emotion, fantasy, family and relationships. So spilled cups represent loss of loved ones, a fantasy that's been squashed or heartbreak. It's difficult to see past such tragedies. We focus on them and neglect everything else until something forces our head to turn.

Right-Side Up: loss of perspective, sorrow and inaction Upside Down: hope, recovery, new perspective In the story King Erick Duran is the dark figure in the card. He's so fixated on everything he lost in the war that he can't see those who love him, nor hope for his kingdom. Unable to reach orgasm with mortal women, he fears he's cursed by a demon. Only a masked hybrid elf can give him ecstasy but her identity remains a mystery.

Although water flows under the bridge, he refuses help from past enemies. It will take magic to open his eyes but when he does, will he face the demon?.

Prologue.

August 14, 9544 AR (after Red Moon).

Valetta, Biston.

Erick burst up, gasping for air and struggling against the tangle of sheets. The damp fabric clung to his wrists, mimicking the shackles of his nightmare. Her perfume still filled his nostrils, as if the little demon really had been here. Why couldn't he stop thinking of her?

He shoved away the sheets and felt the front of his pants. Mostly dry. Thank Earth. He hadn't really come in her grip. She wasn't the cure for his curse.

Sweat trickled down his forehead and stung his eyes. In this miserable August heat, he couldn't cool down. He needed fresh air, anything to erase the sensation of her fingers creeping down his skin.

His rigid cock throbbed painfully at the thought. He shouldn't want something so treacherous. With a groan, Erick slid out of bed.

The cool wooden floor on the soles of his feet helped a little. Out the door, down the darkened stairs and through the halls, he stumbled out into the night. He gulped in the perfume-free air that dried his flesh.

The knots in his stomach should have loosened by now. Something wasn't right. Then he saw it.

A strange tent outside his palace. In the light of the Red Moon, the tent's stripes appeared red and black. Symbols of cups, wands, pentacles and swords hinted at a wizard inside.

What the hell?

Erick glanced behind him. There should have been guards stationed at the door. They should have noticed this and blared the alarm.

Half-nude and unarmed against a wizard, Eric felt a numbness spread down Erick's limbs. He didn't feel the weeds scratch his bare feet as he crept closer to the tent.

Not all wizards used their magic for devious purposes, but Erick had yet to meet one with any code of honor. The last wizard he'd met aided in the murder of Erick's father.

Erick knew he should retreat for his sword, but couldn't turn his back on what waited behind the glowing edge of the tent flap. He wanted to pummel the bastard with his bare fists. Though he doubted he'd win, he'd get in at least a few good strikes.

However, when he pulled back the flap, he didn't find a battle-hardened wizard. Instead, an old woman sat at a small table. Her white hair, neatly pulled up in a bun, seemed like that of a grandmother. If not for the thick muscle in her neck and bare arms, he'd have mistaken her for human. Only one tattoo marked her biceps. Normally, a wizard her age would have earned the marks of several schools of wizardry down the sides of both arms. Why just one?

"Two silver bits for your fortune?"

"What?" A level-one wizard couldn't divine the future.

She smiled and glanced down at his bare chest and scarred arm in a way that made his stomach turn. "I so rarely have half-clad callers in the middle of the night. Because you don't carry coin with you to bed and the sight of you pleases me, I will tell your fortune for free. A gift. Sit."

He wanted to flee from her pale, nearly white eyes, but what she said next held him prisoner.

"I promise I won't shackle you in a dungeon nor cast elven enchantments on your flesh."

How could she know his nightmare? He'd never told anyone. A chill spread over his face like falling snow.

He forced himself closer and sat at her table, unable to do otherwise. Maybe she knew how to undo his curse.

From her apron, she drew a worn deck of cards. The edges had yellowed and the corners thinned. Her thick-knuckled hands turned over the top card and placed it in front of him. It showed a boy gifting a cup of flowers to a younger girl. Six of Cups. "This is your past. Innocent love. A happy, protected childhood before the war that put a crown on your head and the war that kept it there."

Erick shifted against the back of his chair. He didn't like to think about what he had given up.

"This is you now." The wizard woman laid down the Five of Cups. "You focus only on what you lost, your three oath-brothers, your fortune, and your nation's strength."

What else was there? A crumbling palace? Fallow fields? His many failures?

"You don't see the loved ones who remain nor the those with the means to help. You can't see the water that flows under the bridge."

No one waited with a treasury of gold to repair the damages wars had wrought. All he had were two remaining oath-brothers and he saw them every day.

"If you cannot turn this card upside down soon to see what treasures you still have, this will be your future." She flipped over the last card-The Tower.

Its toppling crown, carnage and consuming flames didn't need explanation, but she voiced the meaning anyway. "You'll lose your loved ones, your throne and home by the magic you fear."

Chapter One.

August 15, 9544 AR (after Red Moon).

Damien Pass, Bis ton.

Five years. Five years had passed without so much as a visit or even a letter. Heat welled in Eleanor's belly. She'd thought Erick had forgotten about her. The heartless jerk.

Yet there he stood at the gate, chatting so casually with a group of soldiers. His wild chestnut hair sparkled in the morning light, swept back from his tan face. Frustratingly beautiful. Enthusiastic head bobs and bursts of laughter made him seem like the boy who used to toss her up in the air but he wasn't. He was all grown up and thick muscle bulged in his neck and strained the thin white shirt he tucked into his trousers. His knuckles rippled under the fabric in an all too tantalizing way but not where she wanted them. Just a few inches from the very nice bulge at his center. If she could just slip into his mind, she'd quietly persuade him to... Earth, what was wrong with her?

Her inner thighs suddenly felt sticky and she wished she'd worn a more conservative costume or at least underwear. She tugged on her skirt but it wouldn't budge below mid-thigh. At least her eyes didn't glow with lustful elven light.

He shouldn't see her like this. Would he recognize her? Was he here for her? A bubbly wave swelled her chest. Traitorous body. She shouldn't hope for anything but freedom from him and this cursed place.

Some other duty probably drew Erick here. Her escape attempts had never before warranted his personal attention.

He donned a gray military shirt and buttoned the front. A guard's uniform. He couldn't be Erick. Thank Earth.

She exhaled, though she hadn't realized she'd held her breath.

"I know. Could they take any longer?" the huge man in front of her complained.

The line had grown to twenty people long. Similar grumbles leaked from their minds and melded into an irritating high-pitched hum at the back of Eleanor's skull. She wished she could block out their thoughts.

The sun had risen behind her an hour ago and already chased away the slight chill left over from night, yet the heavy iron gate still hadn't lifted.

She needed to get on the pass and over the Santarra Mountains before her mother caught up to her. Earth, she'd made such good time. If she could get past this checkpoint, she might make it to Gildon this time.

Eleanor adjusted the straps of her cart on her sore shoulder. She'd pulled the crate-sized cart all the way from west Biston. The leather straps had rubbed blisters that oozed and stuck to the thin fabric of her bodice. Gross. With all her fidgeting, her blonde wig caught on the straps' buckle. How stupid. But she couldn't tie the fake hair back without revealing her pointed ears.

Eleanor ducked down to fix it, unseen. He couldn't see her. She should be okay. Lots of people stood between them. But her heart pounded.

"Here, let me help," the man behind her blurted. His gaze flitted down her body, pausing at the low-cut bodice that squeezed her small breasts together.

Earth, she wished her cleavage was why he stared. "No thank you," she muttered and swatted his hand away.

The large man in front of her turned around. Bearded face lengthened, he examined her the way a child admires sweets displayed behind a bakery window. Her whole fist could probably fit in his mouth. Judging by the tools in his cart, he must be a blacksmith. He inhaled her pheromone and his eyelids drooped.

She'd just taken a bath but the morning sun heated her skin. Already, her neck dampened. Soon, everyone would stare-or worse. Earth, what was taking so long? She tugged her wig's tangled locks loose and peeked around the human blacksmith.

Although the group of soldiers broke off and headed south, the Erick-look-alike guard still didn't open the gate. He tugged on gloves despite the warm August morning air. The guards who had kept her prisoner wore gloves like that all year long. Warnings whispered in her head though the gloves were probably standard issue.

"That scent..." the blacksmith's deep voice rumbled.

Eleanor quickly blurted, "I sell perfumes." She motioned to her wooden cart where tiny bottles glistened, nestled in a cotton grid. She'd bought the whole setup, costume and all with a portion of her tuition savings. The rest of her hard-earned coin was hidden in the base of the cart, just above the axels.

The blacksmith shifted to hide the growing lump in his pants. "I ain't smelled a perfume like that before."

"It's a family recipe," she lied. Unfortunately, that scent plagued her. Her elven pheromones never turned off, due to her mixed human and elven blood. A common affliction in hybrids. The rare couplings between humans and elves sometimes produced worse deformities. Some hybrids died from them in the womb or before adulthood.

Whatever the blacksmith said was drowned out in the screech of the gate.

The lone guard cranked the chain that lifted it. His biceps jerked and trembled. The gate had to weigh as much as five men.

Earth, those thick arms could easily hoist her up and squeeze her tight. The thought beaded her nipples and heated her eyes. If she had the time, she'd enjoy his hard body. Eleanor swallowed the saliva that threatened to dribble down her chin and squeezed her eyes shut to hide the light that burned in them. She shouldn't want him. He looked too much like Erick.

When he locked the crank in place, nearly everyone in line cheered, excited for a different reason.

Eleanor's eyes cooled enough to open without light bursting out. Only elves' and hybrids' eyes glowed when they were aroused or enraged. A sure giveaway as to her identity.

The hum of the line's minds quieted, like a happy hive. Much better. The line moved forward.

However, the guard stopped the old woman at the front of the line from passing beneath the gate. He roped off the hole he'd opened in the huge wall. The mortared stone topped with razor wire spanned the whole eastern border of Biston. One would think it was meant to prevent attacks from the neighboring country of Gildon but Eleanor suspected Erick and her father had the wall built to keep her in. Why else would a guard stop Bistonians from freely exiting?

The small building to the left of the gate must be the guardhouse where the guard slept or waited for travelers. Snow-colored plastic bars marked one window. A cell for elves or hybrids. Although plastic grew as tiny beads in the pods of a rare plant in Gildon, its unnatural properties made it immune to elven spells. Nothing ate the stuff, not even fungus. Gildonners melted the plastic beads in kilns and molded weapons. Nearly every other mortal nation, including Biston, ordered plastics from Gildon to defend themselves against elves and hybrids. But Biston had a treaty with the elves.

Earth, was that prison cell meant for Eleanor?

The blacksmith's lips moved but Eleanor couldn't focus on what he said. All sensations blurred and her face went numb.

One by one, the merchants and families finally crept beneath the opened gate.

She'd never gotten this far before. She was so close. But the guard could stop her. Her few spells couldn't do much beyond illusion. If he was like the guards who kept her prisoner, selected for their ability to keep her out of their heads, then what? She wouldn't be able to warp his perceptions. Could she drain him of energy? Maybe in the winter, when her body wouldn't make enough energy to keep warm but not in summer. Only when empty or cold could she drain a man.

With each step she took toward the guard at the gate, Eleanor's stomach flopped. What if he saw through her? He was too pretty to be purely human. If he had any elven blood, he might be able to break into her mind. She'd never broken into another hybrid's mind besides Erick's but he never shielded his thoughts. Earth, she wished she was stronger. She'd had no one to practice on, no one to teach her. Her mother and father had used ignorance as prison bars.

The guard's ears weren't pointed. His skin was tanned and flushed. If he was hybrid, he had to be dilute, like Erick.

Eleanor took a deep breath and wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. She could do this. Men's wills crumbled under the lure of her pheromones. She could use that to her advantage. She had before. This was no different. Why didn't it feel that way?

The blacksmith passed under the gate.

Petrified, Eleanor stared at the guard. He looked so much like Erick.

His gaze flicked up from a clipboard and a broad grin spread his thin lips. "Name?"