The Prince of Frogs Read online

  The

  Prince of

  Frogs

  The

  Prince of

  Frogs

  historical paranormal romance

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE PRINCE OF FROGS

  Copyright Š 2009 by Annaliese Evans

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  [http://www.tor-forge.com] www.tor-forge.com

  TorŽ is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-6167-7

  First Edition: September 2009

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my critique partner and friend, Stacia Kane.

  Thanks so much for all you do.

  Acknowledgments

  A huge thank you to my agent, Caren Johnson, for her unfailing support. Thanks to my family for their love and patience, to my husband for going above and beyond as a partner and friend, and to all the people at Tor for their hard work on this project. And last, to my readers, without whom none of this would be possible.

  The

  Prince of

  Frogs

  “Take my heart, my hinny, my girl,

  Take my heart, my own darling;

  Remember the promise you made to me,

  Down by the cold well, so weary.”

  And so the little princess did as she was asked,

  Though she feared the frog most greatly.”

  —THE WELL AT WORLD’S END,

  Scottish folktale

  Once upon a time there was a princess who slept eighty years away, and awoke to find none she had known among the living, and her body violated while she walked the gray mists of enchantment. This is not her story. This is my story. I am the one called Briar Rose, the woman of many thorns.

  —ROSEMARIE EDENBURG

  CHAPTER ONE

  May 15, 1750

  Edenburg keep

  The Kingdom of Myrdrean

  Rosemarie was awakened by a knock at the pane, a rhythmic rapping far too calculated to be made by a bird or other creature haunting the black forest surrounding Edenburg keep. There was something else at the window, something capable of reason.

  The knowledge would not have been alarming if the royal bedchamber weren’t on the south side of the castle, where the wall outside plunged hundreds of feet into the valley below.

  “Ambrose?” Rose clutched the sheets to her chest, squinting through the darkness toward the window.

  Her former liaison among the Fey de la Nuit was the only resident of Myrdrean other than herself who was capable of flight. Though her pale gray wings were hardly worth mentioning when compared to the onyx glory of Master Minuit’s, they accomplished the task they had been created for. The legacy of her quarter-fairy heritage had only been hers to claim for a very short time, but those small wings had already saved her life more than once.

  And might very well do so again.

  Her enemies were many among both the supernatural and human worlds. Other human royals demanded her allegiance and threatened her with violence, the vampire and Fey communities were on the verge of war, and somewhere the black elf who had nearly destroyed London still roamed the earth.

  Ecanthar, in his madness, believed only Rose’s blood could raise a giant buried beneath the Thames. She feared he would come for her blood again, and if the intelligence gathered by the Fey was to be trusted, he was capable of shifting his form to do so.

  The black elf could very well have sprouted wings to fly up to her window and kidnap her from her bed this very night. If she crossed the room and pulled wide the curtains, she might see his burning red eyes floating in the blackness, peering through the tangle of his raven hair. Assuming he had recovered his usual speed and strength after his battle with the Fey de la Nuit, there would be no escape. He would be through the glass in seconds, large, cold hands wrapping around her throat, stifling her screams, stealing her—

  The rapping came again, a teasing tattoo that made Rose’s heart race.

  “Ambrose, is that you?” Rose asked again, increasing her volume to be heard through the thick pane, no longer caring if she woke Gareth. In fact, a part of her hoped he might be roused from his sleep so easily, proving he was once again the skilled, ever alert warrior she had known.

  But a glance at the pillow beside her revealed her husband still slept the deep sleep of the wounded. Since the night he was nearly murdered for the blood he held in his belly—Rose’s blood—he had yet to recover his strength. He was so desperately in need of rest he often took to his bed before the clock struck one, an hour he swore was even earlier than the curfew imposed upon him as a child.

  After all, half-vampire children kept rather odd hours.

  “Gareth? Are you awake?” His cat-green eyes remained closed, the shadows beneath them making Rose hesitate to ask again. Her husband was as striking as ever, but a graver figure than before. He simply hadn’t been the same scandalous, merry rake since he’d become the king of Myrdrean.

  It made her wonder if he regretted taking her to wife.

  Perhaps he wished he had sought out another with fairy heritage instead of honoring the betrothal contract forged by their two families.

  Isn’t that why you refuse his request to journey to the enchanted Fey lands? You test his love, and begin to find it false. The fabric binding you weakens with every passing day. Soon the threads will snap, and you will learn to hate this creature, this weak shadow of a man, this—

  Rose shook her head sharply, chastising herself for her thoughts. She loved her husband as he loved her. She had looked into Gareth’s mind a dozen times. His heart was as true as any she had known. To doubt him simply because he found their present living situation difficult to bear was cruel.

  How many men would relish the knowledge that their wife was intimately bound by magic to their half brother? Ambrose and Gareth had scarcely tolerated one another even before this, and her husband knew the black faerie had feelings for Rose that went beyond affection.

  And what of your feelings? Does your body not long for the touch of the faerie? To feel his bare skin against your own?

  The thought was even more frightening than the suspicion that Ecanthar might be lurking outside her window. She craved the body of her husband and no other. These thoughts were madness.

  Though the knocking did not come again, Rose threw off the covers and reached for her robe. The spring nights were cool, and she preferred to be modestly covered when doing battle.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. She preferred to be dressed in boys’ clothes, but since coming to Myrdrean she’d had little occasion to dress against her gender. The ogres had yet to recover from the losses they suffered in London, and the tribe’s fear of the dread Briar Rose had returned with a vengeance. She hadn’t heard a whisper of ogre activity in Myrdrean or the surrounding nations since returning to her home country.

  But that didn’t mean she’d grown careless. Her sword still sat in its place by her bed, clean and ready for battle.

  The metal fairly sang with pleasure when she gripped the hilt, its blade stretching as it f
illed with faerie magic. Rose couldn’t deny the excitement filling her own veins as she stalked toward the window. Her mind might insist she craved peace above all else, but her heart thirsted for the thrill of combat. One did not spend over a hundred years as an executioner to suddenly become content minding hearth and home.

  A part of her still longed for the chance to face down a foe, to feel her arms burn with exertion as sword cleaved through flesh, to see blood flow like a font from the sundered halves of an enemy.

  Yes, there is a lust even greater than that for flesh sliding against flesh. The lust for blood, for the power that comes from—

  Rose stumbled, tripping over the hem of her nightdress.

  Something wasn’t right. She had never relished her role as death dealer to the tribe. In fact, she had often prayed the ogres would cease feeding upon innocent humans, thus making her work unnecessary.

  The sudden lust for blood and the strange, seductive voice in her mind . . . she was certain they were not her own. Whatever visitor lurked in the darkness beyond her window, he or she must have the ability to alter the thoughts of others.

  Rose did her best to firm her mental shields, ensuring she was defended from outside invasion. Her mental connection to Gareth after their blood exchange had necessitated learning the skill. There were some thoughts she wished not even her dear husband to overhear, and she certainly didn’t relish the idea of Ambrose or other supernaturals eavesdropping on her innermost counsel.

  “Ambrose,” she called once more, though now that she was fully awake she knew it was not the faerie who waited outside her window.

  Since the night he had filled her with his magic, banishing the virulent energy of the black elf, she had a way of sensing when he was near. She could feel him as if he were a part of her.

  He is a part of you, Rosemarie, and will only become more so once you rid yourself of the vampire. Surely you know this charade cannot go on. You are destined for greater things, dearest daughter.

  “Maman?” Rose’s hand froze before she could grasp the curtains.

  Her mother’s spirit had spoken to her in Myrdrean once before, but that had been months ago, when the keep was still in ruins. Her grandfather Stephen, the Seelie king, believed Marionette’s soul had finally left the earthly plane and journeyed on to the Summerland now that her daughter’s life was no longer threatened by ancient Fey prophecy. Rose certainly hadn’t felt her mother in the way she once had. It was more that her maman was a loving energy contained deep within her heart than an entity outside herself.

  But even when she had heard her mother whispering in her ear, it had been nothing like this. Marionette had always been a warm, loving light in the lives of others, never the kind to call to the darkness within.

  Laughter echoed through the room, as if there were no drapes hung to cover the bare stone walls.

  I do not call to the darkness, my dear. I am the darkness. Your darkness.

  The blue curtains, which looked nearly black in the darkened room, began to glow a deep, urgent red. It was the red of freshly spilt blood, of an ill-omened sunset, as scarlet as the eyes of the black elf who haunted her dreams.

  Rose stumbled backward, tripping over her gown again, as if she were an awkward girl of fourteen, not a queen of nearly two hundred years gifted with the grace of a goddess from her cradle. But she suddenly felt very young and very small, not at all the fierce woman whose profession had once forced her to be faster and more terrifying than the monsters who roamed the night. It was difficult to feel anything but small in the presence of the figure rising like a phoenix from the flaming red curtains, stretching and writhing as she grew as tall as the rafters.

  Rich velvet fabric flowed into satin skin the color of a dove’s wing, pale flesh draped in scarlet like the blood of a stag spilled on newly fallen snow. Slowly, a white face with deep red lips formed near the shadows of the ceiling, a woman’s face framed by hair as black as night.

  Even cloaked in darkness, Rose could see that the giant was beautiful.

  And terrible. A terrible, wicked beauty so ancient it made her bones ache to be in the creature’s presence.

  “Please,” Rose begged as she rolled onto her knees, pressing her forehead to the rich carpet in supplication. She wasn’t certain what she pleaded for, only that she wished she had stayed abed, buried beneath the covers as she’d done as a child when nightmares came to call.

  You cower before me, as they all have done from time immemorial. I expected . . . more.

  Disappointment pressed down around Rose. She gasped, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing her fists into the floor, desperately wishing the Great Mother had found her pleasing.

  So you know me. That is better. The pressure threatening to crush her bones abated a bit, allowing Rose to suck in a ragged breath. Show me your face, dearest. I would look upon that which I have created.

  Rose trembled as she looked up, up, up into the face of the Mother. Part of her had known the woman’s identity from the very instant she appeared, even if her logical mind insisted the Mother was simply a myth told to explain the creation of the first supernaturals.

  The giant laughed as if she was privy to Rose’s thoughts, which she certainly was. There were no shields strong enough to protect a three-quarter mortal’s mind from this creature. The Mother had existed before the land emerged fully from the sea, before anything as fragile as humans or the supernaturals who fed upon them roamed the earth.

  A giant hand with fingertips like flesh-covered claws reached down, catching Rose under the chin and urging her to tilt her head even farther back. Rose obeyed, knowing there was no sense in pulling away. The Mother could slice her throat open with the slightest motion of her finger. Her wrist was larger around than Rose’s entire body.

  Beautiful, as beautiful a thing as ever walked the earth. The Mother sounded pleased, as if she took credit for Rose’s long golden hair and captivating blue eyes, and the ten faeries who had visited Rosemarie with gifts in her cradle had nothing at all to do with the matter.

  But then, as mother of the Fey line, perhaps she simply took credit for the clever use of faery magic. Whatever the reason for her pleasure, Rose was tremendously grateful. Just as the Mother’s displeasure stole her breath, her approval seemed to shoot her body full of sunlight.

  No, not sunlight. The pleasure was too wicked to be compared to anything so pure. It was a euphoria that made her want to rip things apart, to put her sword to bloody use and dance in the spray.

  Rose’s fingers fisted around the hilt of her weapon, which suddenly felt alive in her hands. The faery sword burned hot against her skin, as desperate for blood as its mistress. But what was there to kill? There was no one. Not a single creature within the castle walls had offended her . . . none, save the monster who slept in her bed, the vampire who had stolen her rightful husband’s place with deceit and—

  “No.” Her chest grew tight with anguish at the mere thought of hurting her husband. She would rather die herself than harm a single hair on his head. The Mother was the one who hated Gareth. It was she who placed these horrible thoughts in Rose’s mind.

  Do not lie to yourself. It is your own soul that thirsts for the vampire’s blood.

  Rose swallowed against the metallic taste rising in her throat—the flavor of blood, made familiar from her husband’s lips, but more intoxicating than it had ever been before. She’d never found the slightly bitter taste unpleasant, but neither had it made her moan with delight or tremble with anticipation.

  Gareth’s veins rushed with the essence he had stolen only hours before. It would be a simple matter to take what she craved from his sleeping body. Fangs were not required when one had a sharp sword at the ready. She would slit his throat and fall upon him with her eager mouth, lapping at the wound she had made as his life seeped away. She would laugh as his blood flowed hot and thick across her face, her hands, spilling onto the sheets like—

  “No. No, no, no.” Rose squeezed her eyes shut,
struggling against the horrific images in her mind. A part of her was certain she would be violently ill, but still her belly cramped with the hunger for blood.

  Frantically she tried to fling her sword from her grasp, but it seemed her fingers would no longer obey her command. They were already committed to the task of slitting open the man she loved.

  “I am human,” she said, her voice breaking as invisible strings jerked her to her feet like a marionette. “I do not thirst for blood, I do not require—”

  You have been too long without, dearest. There is no shame in your hunger. The Mother is both the creator and the destroyer. The womb that births in a rush of blood and the mouth that devours in—

  “I am human! I’m not a monster.” Rose sobbed as her body spun toward the bed.

  Then you agree your husband is monstrous? That his hunger makes him so?

  “No, I-I don’t. Please!” Rose screamed the last word, panic clouding her mind as her sword lifted itself into the air of its own accord and her feet took the final few steps to her husband’s side.

  The vampires were the least of my children, but I loved them once. I loved them all—my beautiful and powerful Fey, my charming vampires, my clever elves, even the ever-hungry ogres. They were much like baby birds, always with their mouths open.

  The Great Mother’s laughter felt oily and thick upon Rose’s skin, defiling her as surely as the murder she would soon commit.

  “I beg of you, please. I love him! I love him.” Tears flowed freely down Rose’s face, and her heart raced from the sheer terror of looking down to see the shadow of her blade on her husband’s sleeping face.