Disenchanted Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Series List

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  About the Author

  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 hi
s 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.

  Gods, this needs to be nipped in the bud.

  “Kira,”—so obviously not her real name—“are you sure you want to go this short?”

  I hold out one of the bigger photos, the faery’s slender, elegant features framed by an extremely short—dare I say it? Pixie cut. Like the origins of the name weren’t answered with The Unveiling.

  I can always use my Talents to regrow the hair, but let’s face facts. Who wants to lose time and money giving away a free service to fix something avoidable in the first place?

  Kira nods enthusiastically, eyes becoming all the more vacant. The girl definitely has it bad. Enchants call it Faery Fever—since faeries and elves are usually the En of choice—the insatiable need to be around, to touch, and ultimately become an En.

  I suppose this is preferable to some of Dara’s clients, who want fangs and eternal life. Or Rey’s, who think being furry is the answer to their problems.

  Either I convince this child to let me do what will look best on her, or turn her away. Leaning a picture against the mirror, I move behind her and begin combing the hair away from her face, hoping she will see what I see. Features far too round to withstand such a drastic cut and curls that will revolt in Iowa’s humid summer air.

  No such luck, she just stares in rapture at the picture, assuming she will end up looking like her idol. Clipping the shoulder length tresses tightly to her head, I reach for the picture.

  “Kira, I want you to look at yourself.” I feel like I’m talking down a jumper.

  “But it’s not all wispy.” The bottom lip begins to protrude as she struggles with her folder for yet another image.

  As gently as possible, I move all the photos out of reach and toy with her hair until it simulates the cut. The lip now quivers and even an idiot can tell the waterworks are on the way.

  “You’re not going to do it, are you?” Her voice rises with the high, squeaky pitch of a child about to throw a tantrum. Without even looking, I can tell all eyes are on us. Some in sympathy, others relishing a blowout.

  “I didn’t say that.” Steeling myself against the possible floor show to come, I reach out and play with the curls already fighting what little I did. “It’s going to take a lot of work to get your hair as smooth as Leesie’s. See how your curls want their own way?”

  “But if you cut it short enough...”

  The whine is back, next will be the reassurance she can make it look like that, then the begging. All typical of the younger generation, thinking they can just make it so because society decreed they can do anything they want.

  No one explains the forces that make them what they are don’t just bend to their will. That’s what we get to deal with now because the masses sugarcoat everything. Everyone gets a prize, just because they show up. Welcome to the age of entitlement.

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t work that way, the only way to cut it short enough to get rid of the curl would be to shave your head.”

  “I can use a flat iron and gel.” She clasps hands below her chin, praying to the gods of hair to transform her.

  “It’s not just the curl. Your facial features are wrong for this cut. I’d be doing you a disservice by doing it.”

  “But I want it.” Her voice is beginning to rise. “I want to look like Leesie!”

  That’s it. The admission I need. “I can cut your hair like hers, but I can’t make you look like Leesie.” Pulling the picture back out I place my hand over the faery’s face and show it to her. ”Do you still want the cut?”

  Kira’s shoulders droop as she studies the picture minus the famous face, then her own reflection. Sniffles commence and she shakes her head.

  Carefully choosing my words as my fingers arrange her curls, I describe something that will work for, instead of against her. She nods, giving consent, still unhappy about not becoming a clone of her idol, but unwilling to leave without something done.

  When I finish, staff and clients alike applaud and gush over the new Kira, whose real name
is Tiffany. Leaving her in Jenny’s capable hands, I head back to my first client, glad that Lorelei’s hair takes forever to dry.

  Curlers removed, I give her shoulder a touch and she flips her head forward so I can finger comb the curls. With another touch, she sits up flipping her head back, giving her that sensual come–take–me look. Turning the chair back to the mirror, I grab the hair spray and step behind her.

  “You did wonders with that child.”

  All I can do is shrug, not wanting a mouth full of spray as I lock the ‘do in place.

  “You’re too modest.” Leaning toward the mirror as she stands, a red tipped finger coaxes a stray strand caught in her lashes back with the others. The usual Lorelei charm descends across her features as glossy red lips curl upward in appreciation of my work.

  “Don’t forget my solstice party,” she says, wiggling her fingers before heading up front.

  Lorelei’s solstice party is the event that kicks off summer. Since it’s on her houseboat it starts in swanky evening clothes and ends up in bathing suits. Optional, of course. Not something I participate in, but to each his own. Even with all the scary shit going on, I’m looking forward to going.

  ***

  “Check this out.” Rey pulls me into the huddle around Jenny’s desk.

  “The rich jewel–tone colors and warmth of the wood is comforting yet elegant, even under the harshness of the bright lights. Heavy, ornately–carved chairs and vanities give a unique historical twist to a modern salon. Ms. Fey and her expert staff cater to not only the Enchant community, but embrace Unchants as well. In a world obsessed with how we look, this salon shuns current trends, instead giving the client a look suited to their needs and features. No one leaves with a look they cannot reproduce on their own. You all know I do not give out five stars, feeling there is always room for improvement, but Fey Creations comes close. The scenic drive to The Meadows is well worth your time and I give it four and a half stars.” Jenny’s grin joins the others as she finishes reciting The Iowa Star’s review.