Disenchanted
Disenchanted
A Fey Creations Novel
A.R. Miller
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Second Edition, September 2013
Copyright ©
2013 A.R. Miller
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
For Howard Wilkinson
Acknowledgments
They say writing a book is a lonely thing, something you must do alone. Quite the contrary, I alone pounded the keyboard, but was far from lonely.
I had the support of friends and family. My writers group, The Saturday Writers. My most excellent husband, The Breadwinner and let’s not forget the cast of Disenchanted. Without all of whom this book would have never seen the light of day.
Special thanks goes out to my beta readers Tracey and Melissa who read the first few drafts and wouldn’t let me quit. My critique partners Cheryl and Maylynda who pointed out all my little faux pas. I also need to thank Donna, Maggie and John who went above and beyond being inspiration.
The Fey Creations Series
Disenchanted
Unenchanted
CHAPTER ONE
Seven o’clock, on the dot, Lorelei Lee marches into my salon. That should’ve been my first clue something’s up, she’s usually at least fifteen minutes late. Her lack of incognito wear—scarf covering her hair,
Jackie O
glasses and upturned collar—clue number two.
Number three, no pause at the front desk, no breathy greeting, or follow
–
me
–
boys wiggle. Hel, not even a wink for the male clientele waiting their turn. She grabs me, making a beeline straight for my station and pulls out a copy of the Iowa Star.
I assume it’s another rave review of her show at Moonlight Lake, the swankiest hotspot in The Meadows. The place is like stepping into a time warp. Think 1940’s glam and glitz, a little dinner, a little dancing enhanced by the dulcet tones of sultry siren, Lorelei Lee. She abhors the title, continuously explaining to her employer that she is not
one of those bird–footed teases
.
Automatic praise reserved for such occasions dies on my tongue with her grim expression. The brain switches gears, but before I can start the
they’re just jealous
speech, she hands me the paper.
“I’m so sorry, Keely.” She gently squeezes my arm, then turns to follow Nyssa, my shampoo girl.
Calling Nyssa a shampoo girl is an understatement. What that water sprite can do by simply washing your hair is better than visiting any therapist. Her ability to unravel knots of tension, fear and unease is amazing. Although, nowhere near as amazing as her ability to lean over a client without suffocating them. To say she’s overly endowed is another understatement. At less than five feet, it’s all right up in your face when she leans over you.
Sorry? What in hel does Lorelei have to be sorry about?
Unfolding the paper, I read the headline not once, or even twice. It takes three times for it to register.
Prominent Physician Latest Victim of The Collector?
This is exactly why I rarely read the damn thing, nothing, but bad news and fluff. Right now, I’d prefer the fluff.
The muscles in my shoulders bunch, cold fingers dancing along my spine as I scan the article. The physician is a Healer, Dr. Karen Engle. I’ve known her for ten years. Last week I’d given her a new look to go with her new position as Chief of Metaphysical Medicine. Gods only know if she’ll be keeping it now that the bastard took her hands.
I can’t even imagine how I would cope in that situation. An En’s Talents aren’t just things we can do. They’re a part of us, a very physical part. The focus of an En’s Talent is concentrated in a portion of the body. Karen’s healing ability is—was in her hands. Take her hands and it’s gone. Tossing the paper in the trash, I grab my rollers as Nyssa finishes.
Lorelei is content to sit back, close her eyes and let me roll. Usually she chatters away about any old subject, especially those centered on her, but today it all seems moot. Karen’s attack rings a little closer to home than the last two, both of us are more than casual acquaintances with her.
A little mindless conversation would be a welcome distraction from the clucking of the little old blue–hair at Rey’s station. The cape flaps at her sides as his nimble fingers pluck the rollers from her bobbing head. I almost expect her to take off, but chickens don’t fly.
“That actor was skinned alive and not even a week later that fortune teller had her eyes cut out. It’s just horrible, those poor people.”
Catching her reflection, I suppress a shudder, any sympathy in her tone contradicted by a mask of fascination and eagerness. It doesn’t help that she’s an Unchant, or that
those poor people
had their hair done here before they became
those poor people
.
That actor—the perfect occupation for a morph with his ability to change his appearance at the drop of a hat—was a referral for Dara. That
fortune teller
was a seer and one of Rey’s clients. I have to commend his calm, cool grace as she rambles on; if it were one of my clients she was yammering about, I don’t know I could hold it together.
“Hold still, darlin’.” Hair slips from Rey’s grasp with each bob of her head. “How am I supposed to tease you?”
She blushes and giggles, squirming a little in the chair. I would be sorely tempted to whack bloodthirsty chicken lady with a comb, but not Rey. He flirts his way out of every situation.
Employee and friend, or not, even I can see his abundant charms. The sharpness of his therian heritage keeps him from being too pretty with the long auburn hair and wide forest colored eyes. I’m not a fan of his facial hair experiment. The closely cropped, rigid lines are a little too sinister, sneaky looking even. I suppose it’s fitting since he’s a fox. Literally.
Securing the last roller in Lorelei’s hair, I motion Nyssa to put her under the dryer and retreat to the break room, choking on laughter. None of what happened is funny, but it’s one of those laugh, or cry situations.
Struggling to breathe, I grab a soda out of the fridge, gulping it down until my coughing subsides. Maybe its shock, but all I can picture is Rey in a hen house full of clucking blue chickens.
“Let the carnage begin,” I mutter, setting off another round of laughter.
“You are in a better mood than I expected.”
The scent of clove and spice from the little brown cigarettes she favors clings to her skin like perfume, usually alerting me to her presence. I missed it today. Dara—I guess you could call her my second in command, she prefers manager—sits at the table thumbing through a trade rag. Obviously, she’s seen the paper.
“Fox. Blue chickens. Never mind.”
Perfectly arched brows—I’ve never seen touched by wax, or tweezers—slip under heart shaped bangs. Molten gold eyes swirl hypnotically and I break contact. Even Ens shouldn’t look a vamp in the eye. My only excuse for slipping is that I trust Dara. We’ve been friends for what seems forever, having worked together back in Sioux City, when I first started doing hair. Amazingly, we ended up working together again in Des Moines and she came along for the ride when I started Fey Creations.
Grabbing a tissue, I wipe my eyes, and nose. “Hey, what are you doing here so early? The sun’s still up.”
She shrugs turning her attention to the magazine. Before I can pursue the subject, Jenny leans in around the door.
“Keely, your next appointment is here.”
The newest member of our team is easily overlooked, hiding behind a camouflage of average. Average height. Average features. Average brown eyes and hair. Her uniqueness lies in her parentage. It’s rare that a union of Ens results in an Un, but it does happen.
“Thanks.” I’d spaced the cut and style scheduled while Lorelei was under the dryer. Sighing, I follow Jenny, hoping it’s something simple.
No such luck.
CHAPTER TWO
In the reception area, Jenny nods in the direction of my next client. An over enthusiastic twenty–something with a folder barely containing the pictures it holds. This is going to be fun. Not!
I don’t get a chance to introduce myself before a tidal wave of praise and absolute certainty slaps me. A steady stream of how she has to look like the pictures continues until she sits down in my chair, stopping long enough to hand me the folder.
All her words are a tumble of blah, blah, blah as I open it and study the collage of pages torn from various gossip rags. Hollywood’s Flavor of the Month, Leesie, stares back at me.
There is no way this is ever going to work. For one thing, my client is an Unchant. Hey, nothing against Uns—my receptionist is one—it’s just near impossible to make an Unchant look like an Enchant.
Something about being magical adds to how we look. I don’t mean in a drop dead gorgeous way, we have our share of nightmares. Even with all the cosmetic augmentation in the world, Uns just become piss poor emulations when they try. They lack that magic spark.
I have no problem with things like colored contacts, or hair color. Before The Unveiling I relied on both. I was too easily distracted and my Talents too wonky to hold a glamour for any length of time. So my California–girl–stuck–in–Iowa–look came out of bottles and boxes, turning my platinum hair golden and nearly colorless grey eyes, blue. Fake–baking turned my über pale skin lobster red so I had to perfect the use of tan in a bottle.
My problem is with those who take it too far, like going under the scalpel. The glassy–eyed girl sitting in my chair rambling about an appointment to
receive her wings
brings to mind a talented pop star, whose face was literally dissolving due to so many augmentations.
