Taken The Coldest Fae - Katerina Martinez Page 0,3

entering the Underground, before the masses of tourists and Londoners alike became too thick that we wouldn’t be able to see each other. I didn’t think I’d ever forget him, or the way his suit so tightly clung to what I suspected was one hell of a body.

Who the hell was he? Some kind of high-powered executive, probably. He probably drove a Bentley, or a Mercedes. One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t have given me a second look if I hadn’t literally smashed into him on the street.

I moved into the Underground station, losing sight of him completely. It was time to go home and face the music, face reality, face my mothers.

CHAPTER TWO

I didn’t have one mother—I had three.

Mother Pepper.

Mother Evie.

And, of course, Mother Helen.

They weren’t my biological mothers. I wasn’t grown in a tube, but I had been adopted. My real parents were gone. Not dead, necessarily. Just gone. I didn’t know who my real parents were, or how I came to fall into the laps of the three caring, amazing women who raised me.

To be honest, I didn’t need to know anything else. They had given me the life I had. The only life I could ever have wanted. I owed everything to them, and that was why coming home with my tail between my legs stung as bad as it did. I felt like I’d failed them.

My mothers owned and operated a haberdashery in Carnaby Street, in London. For the everyday human, we sold the fabrics, the tools, and all the other knickknacks a person looking to make their own outfits would ever need.

Everyone who walked through our doors was made to feel welcomed, and like they’d made the right choice in deciding to wear the things they could make instead of buying the kinds of mass-produced, massively overpriced, low quality clothes you’d find at a shop.

Of course, there was more to the shop than that.

Ask the right questions, and the door to the backroom opens. In there, you might just find anything from enchanted threads, to potions, to little oddities useful to those with a flair for magic. See, my mothers were all mages, and even though that made me—the human—kind of an oddball at home, it also meant I should’ve known better when dealing with Lydia.

Sorry, Madame Arsehole Whitmore.

“I need to talk to you,” Gullie said into my ear as I walked beneath the arching, brightly lit and multi-colored sign that opened Carnaby Street. The Magic Box sat tucked away at the end of an alley not far from the entrance. It was a little out of sight, but that was fine. We didn’t make our business on foot traffic.

“Not now,” I hissed.

“No, it’s important.”

“Look, I’m about to walk into a hornet’s nest. Unless what you’ve got to tell me is life-or-death, it can wait. Is it life or death?”

“It could be.”

“Okay, Mother Helen is definitely going to kill me, so this takes priority. Besides, you’ve had this whole trip to talk to me.”

“You don’t like me talking to you while there’s humans around. Are there any humans around now?”

“You make a good point, but still, no.”

The Magic Box itself barely looked like a shop at all. It was a ruddy brown building at the end of a deep alleyway with a single black door and a little window looking onto the cobblestone street outside. I opened the door without knocking and stepped through. A bell jingled, and right away I was hit with the warm, inviting scent of freshly baked pastries.

Yes, that was probably a strange smell to come out of a haberdashery, but strange was our brand.

Stacks upon stacks of rolled up fabrics lined two of the shop’s walls. Walking through it, there were aisles covered in tools, bits, bobs, and even more fabrics to look through. In here, you’d find everything you could possibly need, whether you wanted to make a modern looking summer dress, or a classic, turn of the century, historically accurate, ballgown.

Mother Pepper was stationed behind the desk at the far end of the room. She perked up at the sound of the bell, then smiled when she saw me. She was a jolly woman, fairly ample herself, and getting on in years, but she had a kind, grandmotherly spirit and she loved to cook. I’d barely arrived at the desk, and already she held a small pastry in her hand for me to take a bite out of. The light fell out of her kind eyes