Ferrous (Fae's Folly Book 1) Read online

  Ferrous

  Fae’s Folly Book One

  Valerie Mars

  Copyright © 2020 by Valerie Mars

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Covers By Christian

  Print ISBN: 9798577174781

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  To all the oilfield workers who told me to follow my pipe dream.

  Contents

  1. Mallory

  2. Mallory

  3. Mallory

  4. Mallory

  5. Mallory

  6. Mallory

  7. Mallory

  8. Mallory

  9. Mallory

  10. Mallory

  11. Mallory

  12. Mallory

  13. Mallory

  14. Mallory

  15. Mallory

  16. Mallory

  17. Ryland

  18. Mallory

  19. Mallory

  20. Mallory

  21. Bash

  22. Mallory

  23. Mallory

  24. Mallory

  25. Kai

  26. Mallory

  27. Mallory

  28. Mallory

  29. Ryland

  30. Mallory

  31. Bash

  32. Mallory

  33. Kai

  34. Mallory

  35. Mallory

  36. Mallory

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with Valerie

  1

  Mallory

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. Liam burps in response. Uh-oh. I move to set him down, but it’s too late. Liam’s lunch gushes all over my neck, oozing below my bra straps like molasses. It’s…warm. I’m already breathing through my mouth, a habit earned through experiencing many a queasy toddler. Serves me right for greedily embracing the one who never wants cuddles. I should have recognized Liam’s unprecedented neediness as a harbinger of puke.

  Clara rounds the corner holding Liam’s shoes. “Too bad he didn’t wait ten minutes.” It is too bad. Ten minutes later, he’d be in his sleazy step-dad’s Escalade. I’d love to see him fish vomit out of cup-holders in his cashmere tie.

  Satisfied he’s covered every inch of my back, Liam enters meltdown mode with a wail. I consider joining him. Instead, Clara helicopters in and begins delegating. She hands Liam to our newest staff member, who looks thoroughly unprepared to handle a howling barf demon. I’d feel sorry for her, but I’m covered in vomit right now.

  Taking in my soggy exterior, Clara orders me home. “You’re going to decontaminate and get ready for a good time, okay? No brooding.” Her insistence is understandable. Tonight’s the first night in months I’ve agreed to go out. She isn’t about to let Liam’s lunch ruin Halloween.

  I remove my necklace, grimacing as it peels from my neck. That’s not how removing a necklace is supposed to feel. Tiny remnants of the pumpkin-shaped carrot slices we served for lunch are woven throughout the chain. I run it under the faucet, but the orange offenders persist. Impressive staying power, really. I rummage for something to encourage their departure and find tweezers. Perched on the bathtub, I lean over the toilet and begin pushing and plucking. After transferring every orange bit from chain to toilet, I send them to a watery grave.

  Despite time and distance, the tweezers evoke memories of my parents. There’s a photograph on their fireplace mantle of six-year-old me, covered in freckles and a triumphant grin. My mother stands behind me, her amber eyes matching my own. The classic Operation Game rests on the table before us, my chubby hands brandishing the funny bone. The last time I saw it, I bitterly regarded the image as my parents’ proudest moment of me. Maybe mine, too.

  Pride doesn’t epitomize the mood of a twenty-six-year-old med school dropout, nor do the yellowed walls of the shoe box I rent. It isn’t much, but at least it’s entirely mine. And as disgusting as the peeling linoleum may look, my crowded nightstand of uppers and downers looks right at home. Melatonin or generic Benadryl get me through the night, and caffeine pills to scrape through the days. Say what you will about the stress of student debt. It’s the existential debt that really gets you.

  The bathroom shelves crammed with a mishmash of luxury and budget toiletries also reflect my mismatched existence. I take care not to disturb the half-empty bottles that line the shower. One wrong breath, and they’ll cascade into a Rube Goldberg machine. As usual, I knock down a few. Grabbing two shampoo bottles from the heap, I attempt to draw equal amounts from each.

  Well, maybe a little extra of the good stuff this time. It’s a special occasion.

  There’s extra time before I’m due for shenanigans, so Irish coffee and chill is in order. I step onto the balcony and melt into the collapsing loveseat. It was here when I got here. I don’t ponder its origin or life before my arrival, nor its many stains. We have each other now, and that’s all that matters.

  I wish I could say the balcony overlooks a seaside property or glittering skyline, but that’s a view for the timeline in which Mallory Brooks doesn’t estrange herself from her parents and change diapers for a living. Nope, this timeline’s Mallory has a balcony which faces the opposite apartment building and alley below.

  It has everything the quintessential alleyway ought to have: a dumpster, graffiti, drug deals, and the occasional exhibitionist couple. Oh, and Bill. Bill’s our resident herald of end times. I’m sure he’s sober, but I can think of a few drugs he may benefit from taking. Not that I’m a doctor or anything, as my parents enjoy reminding me. Bill camps the pathway and panhandles most days. In exchange for donations, he will impart one of his infinite conspiracy theories to passersby. He also shares these theories without donations, because Bill’s a charitable guy.

  This week’s hot take is how 5G is going to kill us all. At least, that’s what I can make out in between the crinkles of him forming a new tinfoil hat. I haven’t seen one of those since he was on the fifth dimension demons kick.

  Local flavor notwithstanding, the balcony patio is my favorite part of the studio. My bed held that honor until recently. Two months ago, the tenants living opposite my balcony moved and a new tenant took their place. A strong, silent sort of tenant who enjoys working out on his balcony. At six o’clock. Every day. I also enjoy his balcony workouts. At six o’clock…most days. Yeah, I know.

  He typically weaves through sets of calisthenics, wearing nothing but gym shorts and a man bun. Sometimes he incorporates shadow boxing or other martial arts I don’t know the names for. He’s never glanced my way, and I’m not sure I can be trusted to react adult-like if he does. But oh, do I wish he would.

  My phone vibrates, interrupting Bill’s speech. You’re definitely still coming, right?

  Feeling smothered by Clara, I open sixteen tabs on a web browser before replying. For sure! Tap Garden at 7??

  Tap Garden is my second favorite place in the neighborhood, an opinion I feel somewhat guilty about. I know where I come from; it’s the part of town where kids get cars for birthdays, not bus passes. Knowing this, it’s kind of awkward to admit my favorite part of the neighborhood is the one most representative of my previous life: a trendy taphouse. Old habits die hard.

  I wouldn’t have made it without Clara
, to be honest. She knew I was in for it my first day at work and asked me how I slept. I didn’t, because I was terrified of the cockroaches rooming with me in my first apartment. She coached me through the roaches and laughed through every embarrassing moment of culture shock I experienced—like the bus passes. There’s a Polaroid on my mini-fridge from the day she helped me move into my current apartment. We’re holding solo cups filled with pink moscato on the balcony, pinkies up.

  The longer I spend away from my hometown, the more I realize it’s no longer home. Even so, I feel like an impostor everywhere I go. Down to the shampoo bottles and roots of my hair, I exist in both worlds and neither at once. I’m not about to feel guilty about getting down on some craft beer tonight, though. Gentrification be damned.

  Clara’s response arrives without delay. Yessss. I can’t wait to see your costume! <3 Nibbling on my bottom lip, I reciprocate her enthusiasm with a winking emoji. I haven’t given Halloween much thought since finding a banana costume in the school’s supply closet last week. Clara tried her best to convince me to wear one of her cosplay creations, but I just want to drink beer and eat pizza. She’ll probably show up as Sexy Mario or something.

  When I glance up from texting, my workout lookout has ended. Mr. Strong and Silent is on the balcony doing warm-ups. Legs curled beneath me, I alternate my gaze between my browser’s search engine and the smoke show. This is probably wrong, but he’d be inside if he didn’t want to be seen, right? Why waste this precious gift?

  I watch him flex through some push-ups, but get sidetracked by my phone during his jump-roping. Did you know that hippos produce their own sunscreen, and it’s red like blood? Emma from the four-year-old class told me on the playground and now I have a gazillion tabs of hippo facts open. The wonders of preschool.

  I abandon the hippos when Balcony Bae transitions into handstand yoga poses. How many years of practice do those take, anyway? I get caught in his movements, mesmerized. This stuff is my bread and butter. Guys who can lift a car? That’s cool. I can appreciate it, but the way Balcony Bae manipulates his body makes me wonder what else he can manipulate.

  In typical Mallory fashion, my Irish coffee loses heat before I can finish half. You’d think the whiskey would provide incentive, but my sense of sight has more to offer than my taste right now. I take a sip anyway, knowing I’ll need liquid courage before venturing out. Clara knows about my patio routine and has hinted that I need to bag my own “Balcony Bae.” She isn’t wrong, but I can’t seem to drag myself out most days. The excuses vary. I’m bloated, I’m low on cash, the weather is shitty… anything to avoid meeting people, it seems.

  Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she showed up in a Cupid costume tonight, instead.

  Movement inside Balcony Bae’s apartment distracts me mid-motion, and I end up missing my mouth. Boozy coffee dribbles down my shirt, but I can’t bother with it when there’s a spectacle unfolding before me. The sliding door flies open so quickly that Balcony Bae teeters over from his pose, hitting the concrete with a thud. I wince at the sound, but he corrects into a fighting stance so rapidly that I all but miss it. A hooded figure dressed like he’s about to deliver The One Ring to Mordor stands in the doorway, hands dramatically anchored on their hips. Balcony Bae steps toward the power poser with his right hand raised. Lightning fast, he rips the hood from the intruder’s head and I hear him speak for the first time.

  “Bash, you fucking asshole!”

  2

  Mallory

  The first visible detail of the intruder’s face is a wide, shit-eating grin. This person—Bash—seems proud to be surprising Balcony Bae. A shock of copper frames his beaming face, several tendrils fighting for territory over his brow. He attempts to right the mess, but it doesn’t make a difference.

  Surprising him a second time, Bash yanks his acquaintance in for a warm hug. “Miss me, Kai?”

  Holy schnikes, did I hear that right? Balcony Bae is over: We have entered the age of Kai! Kai, the Hot Yogi of Balcony Yonder. Clara is going to scream when I tell her. Kai ducks out of the hug after giving Bash the two lamest pats on the back I’ve ever seen. Not the touchy type? Unperturbed, Bash returns to the door frame and sags against it.

  I’m feeling robbed of our workout time, but I won’t complain about the Herculean redhead’s arrival. His biceps are well-defined, even under the woolen cloak. He stands equal to Kai, but his broad shoulders swamp Kai’s sinewy frame. If Kai’s body is built for climbing rocks, throwing rocks built Bash’s. I need to revise my position on yoga masters being my bread and butter. There’s plenty of room at my table.

  Kai retrieves his towel and begins drying his face. “Why are you here? And,” he pats, “where is my father?”

  “He’s at the citadel. Everyone is. They invoked Oberon’s Clause, my man.”

  Kai’s muscles tense as he lowers the towel from his face. “Oberon’s bloody Clause, and they couldn’t send you with a glamour?” His brows draw together as his hands attempt to grind the towel into dust.

  Bash leans back with a wince, hands raised in innocence. “Obviously they have bigger shit going on right now, but Halloween helps.”

  Falling into routine, Kai unravels the towel and places it over his shoulders. “How long have I been gone?”

  “Hell if I know, I only happened to be in town after the clause was invoked. The council summoned me, but I can’t say I’m disappointed.” Then he turns and looks straight at me, like he knew I was listening from the beginning. I’m so busted. Kai follows his line of sight, eyes widening. Double busted.

  My heart dips into my stomach and my hands feel too moist to be gripping a mug. Here we go, then. I free a hand from the mug and muster an awkward wave. I feel like a robot. “Nice costume!”

  Bash’s grin returns as he bows. “Thank you, fair lady. Where may the nearest tavern be?” Kai’s eyes dart between Bash and mine before he seizes Bash’s arm and begins dragging him inside the apartment.

  My palms are tingling and my cheeks feel warm, but I’m not about to let that ruin my chance at bagging two Balcony Baes. I clear the boozy coffee from my throat. “Tap Garden on 14th and Hays!” Bash winks as the patio door slides shut in front of his face. I watch their figures recede with stifled laughter. Alrighty, then.

  I’m not sure what in the Lord of the Rings fuck just transpired, but I enter my apartment giddy with energy. I need to rethink the banana suit if there’s a chance of seeing them at the bar. Could I alter it into a sexy banana the way heroines tear their frumpy dresses into something fashionable in the movies? I tug and stretch the yellow polyester, trying to imagine my own Coyote Ugly moment where the torn fabric transforms into pure sex and doesn’t look like a yellow sack. Seeing no sexy alterations available, I scour the apartment for costume-worthy materials.

  It’d be wonderful if Clara left something behind—like a pair of cat ears. I bite my lower lip and survey the closet with a thousand-yard stare. Everything looks too… practical. Maybe I should have participated in that superhero 5k she wouldn’t shut up about last spring. Or the anime convention she begged me to attend. It serves me right for being such a homebody.

  I’m milliseconds from dissolving into a puddle of self-pity when a pair of black combat boots speak to me.

  It isn’t a very original idea. In fact, it’s something many red-haired women have done in a pinch. Double-checking, I confer with the Pinterest gods. Yes, it’ll do. I’ll have my Coyote Ugly moment after all. Throwing Clara a warning I’ll be a few minutes late, I get to work.

  I locate Clara through the window before weaving my way to her table. She wears an ethereal icy blue dress with a golden belt and matching shoulder pieces. The delicate fabric looks hand-painted with gold accents and drapes her willowy frame in dozens of tiny creases. Loose waves of Nordic blond fall to her waist. The ensemble looks effortless, but I know from her battle scars it was no such thing. She’s way overdressed in the sea of last minute costumes, but that hasn’t stopped her from getti
ng elbow-deep in a plate of chicken wings. She’s tempting fate eating buffalo sauce with such a beautiful dress, but I admire her bravery.

  Chicken wings being as good as they are, Clara doesn’t notice me until I arrive at the table. She looks up, chicken wing held to her mouth mid-bite. I brace myself for the verbal barrage I know is coming. Her mouth stays gaping just long enough to discard the wing, and then she begins.

  “OhmygodMallory, look at youuu!” I fight the urge to tug on my shirt as she points a sauce-covered finger at me. “Are you Kim Possible? Oh my god, you are!” She claps her hands together. “Do the thing!”

  I feign ignorance. “What thing?”

  Her face contorts into a rehearsed pout. “You know the thing.” She sniffles for effect.

  I consider making her work for it, but the sooner I do this, the sooner I’ll be double-fisting pizza and beer. “Fine.” Clara improvises the sound of a ringing phone as I reach into my cargo pants. Summoning all my theatrical ability, I whip the phone to my face and draw a long breath for suspense.

  “What’s the sitch?”

  She erupts into a fit of giggles. I blow on a pair of finger guns before dropping into a deep curtsy, imaginary gown in my hands. She tosses me roses from her seat in the imaginary mezzanine. “Bravo, bravo!”