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  A LIFE LESS CHARMING . . .

  I wiped a trace of blood off my lip, took a look at my bruises in the compact. Everything about me ached and the cold seeped out of the shadows into my bones. Nights like this make me wish I never got started in this business.

  Not that it was ever my choice. No one chooses to be traded by their parents to pay a magical debt, certainly not when they are sixteen. Still, if I had to be a debt slave, Grimm was about as good an employer as I could ask for. For instance, he let me stay with my parents until I was eighteen (which I think was saving him room and board) and he insisted I attend night school at the community college (a smart agent is a good agent), but it was still slavery.

  Grimm is a Fairy Godfather, and he is good about making wishes come true if you have the Glitter to make it happen. My parents didn’t, but they needed a wish in the worst way, and Grimm gave them one. My little sister got her miracle; Grimm got me. So I did what he told me to, mostly. One day, I told myself, I wasn’t going to be answering calls in the mirror, or going monster hunting at the movies.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

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  FREE AGENT

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with author

  Copyright © 2014 by Jason Nelson.

  Excerpt from Armageddon Rules by J. C. Nelson copyright © by Jason Nelson.

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  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14639-6

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / August 2014

  Cover art by Tony Mauro.

  Cover design by Danielle Abbiate.

  Interior text design by Kelly Lipovich.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product

  of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Excerpt from ARMAGEDDON RULES

  About the Author

  For Donna

  Acknowledgments

  When I began writing this story, I didn’t know where it would take me, or what it would become. I also didn’t know how many people would help me along the way. First off, thanks to my critique gang at critiquecircle.com, who dealt with the insanity as I discovered the story I really wanted to tell. Leslie, John, Jim, and Andy, I can’t say how helpful you were.

  My wife and kids put up with late-night writing and early- morning editing as I worked on a story I just couldn’t let go of. They didn’t roll their eyes as I went through the stages of writing, from “This is awesome” to “This is awful” and back around to “awesome” again. I couldn’t have done it without their support.

  My agent, Pam van Hylckama Vlieg, may be the most awesome agent in the world. I’m certain you can’t prove otherwise, and I probably wouldn’t believe it even if you could. Thanks, Pam.

  My editor, Leis Pederson, patiently answered all my questions, guided me through the process one step at a time, and most importantly, loved this story the same way I did. The story simply wouldn’t be the same without her sharp eye and invaluable feedback.

  Finally, thanks to all the readers who took a chance on a modern-day fairy tale. Until next time, happy reading.

  One

  THE NEW YEAR’S Eve countdown told me I had five minutes until the ball drop. That gave me six minutes until somebody got killed. I spotted the shoplifter in line at the theater and worked my way across the street, through the teeming crowd. She had no idea what she was wearing, which made her both stupid and dangerous. Stupid was dangerous enough by itself.

  “Marissa, I might remind you of the time,” said a man’s voice. It came right out of the store window beside me, the dry voice with its not-quite-English accent. He watched me with critical eyes.

  “I got it, Grimm.” I walked along the theater line, head down.

  His image followed me, reflecting from the windows and even the brass banister knobs that held the velvet rope. “I’ll believe that when you actually do.”

  Call it women’s intuition, or maybe the slippers she wore tipped her off, but the shoplifter turned and looked right at me. Our eyes met, and she knew why I was there, if not who I was. As the crowd surged forward, she ducked into the theater, disappearing into the throng.

  “God Damsel-it.” I spat out the faint taste of soap. “Doesn’t count, not a real curse.”

  “Watch your language, young lady. Only proper women live happily ever after. Now, go get those slippers back.” Grimm appeared in the ticket window, beckoning me on.

  If I had enough Glitter to buy a happily ever after, I wouldn’t have spent all day chasing a thief. There were easier ways to make a living, and definitely safer ways.

  I breathed in the warm lobby air, which was laced with enough butter, fat, and salt to make me gain a couple of pounds just from walking through.

  The ticket man watched me as I approached, jiggling my leg. “I’ve got to go. Could you save my spot in line?”

  He rolled his eyes, the apex of teenage angst, and motioned me past. I’d been to my fair share of balls and knew where I’d go if I had a pair of shoes that were killing my feet. I headed straight to the bathroom. Nobody in the prep area, but I listened. There, soft sobbing, and the click of high heels on ceramic.

  “The slippers won’t come off like that.” I hoped I wasn’t talking to a Grandma, but the sobbing cut off.

  Grimm coalesced into the mirrored wall, his white hair framing the bald spot on his head. He looked at me over horn-rimmed glasses that masked eyebrows like a yeti’s. “Marissa, two minutes.”

  If I’d had something handy, I’d have thrown it at the mirror. In the name of not having a magical disas
ter, I decided to commit the cardinal sin of the ladies’ room. I tried the stall door. As my hand touched it, the door burst open, hitting me in the face. Pain made the world flash white. I put my hand to my nose and felt the blood as she dashed out of the restroom. Grimm told me the shoes were enchanted, but the fact that she could run in three-inch heels meant serious magic. Now I knew I had the right girl. In the lobby, the fire alarms wailed as I came out of the bathroom, and I caught a glimpse of her running out. I charged after her, through the fire exit and into the alley.

  I wasn’t afraid of your average dark alley. I had standard Agency-issue spells in my coat and a nine millimeter in my purse for dealing with the less dangerous pests, but even I knew you have to be careful with an upset woman.

  She pulled at her feet and limped down the alley. “I’m not giving them back.”

  No way was she going to outrun me. Tennis shoes might not be the height of fashion, but I wore them for their practicality. I slipped a bag out of my pocket. “This will let me take them off. You can’t remove them because you stole them.”

  She stumbled, then slumped against the wall, her feet out in front of her. Passing taillights made the glass slippers glisten, moving and shifting, like something alive. That made sense, since Grimm said they were. The glass filled with red, like she’d cut her toe. The bloodstain spread up the sides of the glass and she began to gurgle and cry.

  I pulled out my pocket compact. “Grimm, I might have a problem.”

  “Tell me you have them.”

  “Just about.”

  “Get out of there, Marissa. She’s not going to turn into a pumpkin.” His voice was firm and commanding. I’d never been the type to listen to firm or commanding. See, there was this thing about magic slippers. Use them with permission, and at midnight the whole deal expired. Steal them from a custom boutique on Fifth, and at midnight turning into a vegetable was the least of your worries.

  She curled into a ball, kicking, growling, and making noises I’d never heard outside of the labor and delivery room. Running through the theater was out; heading back in there would introduce a whole load of teens to a different kind of monster than the movie ones. The loading bays down at the end of the alley didn’t look too promising, and now Princess PMS rose to her feet. The bloodred stains covered her from head to toe. Shadows covered her face, but where the orange wash of the street lights hit her she looked maroon.

  “You want to let me help you?” I asked. The growling noise she made ruled out diplomacy. “Okay, we do it my way.”

  She leaped at me. I’d mastered seven different forms of self-defense and I wore all four of the major protection charms, but one thing was constant: Whether my assailant was a drug addict or a bridge troll, pepper spray would leave them blind. So I ducked out of the way and gave her a dash of the scent I was sampling that day. It hit her like a brick, leaving her clawing at her eyes. I realized as she stumbled past that her nails were now at least three inches long and razor sharp.

  She started sniffing the air, then like a dog, she ran straight into me, knocking me back to the Dumpster. Dumpsters hurt. I caught her arm before she could give me surprise plastic surgery and slammed her into the ground, pinning her underneath me.

  That should have ended it, but she rolled over, throwing me to the side, and I barely stepped out of the way of those nails. She kicked at me and I caught her foot.

  “Gotcha,” I said, rubbing the shoes with the bag. Grimm said the bag was made of genuine werewolf fur, but whatever it was, the effect was immediate. She thrashed and choked and kicked and I held on tight until she went limp. The slippers came off in my hand without a fight.

  They glimmered under the streetlight, and for a moment I saw an image form in them: Me, walking down the street in them. No Agency bracelet on my wrist, a bag from shopping in my hand. I could be free, if only I put them on.

  “Marissa,” said Grimm, speaking from the reflection in the shoes, “put them in the bag.”

  I did, and the fantasy blew away like dry leaves down the sidewalk. My back hurt where I’d hit the Dumpster. My arm throbbed where she’d grabbed me, and my cheek had that hot feeling that said somewhere in her thrashing, she’d managed to nail me with a foot.

  “I’m going home,” I said to my compact mirror. “What do you want me to do with her?”

  “Leave her for the police. They’ll be there shortly. Evangeline needs your assistance on the Upper East Side, and there’s the matter of a troll.”

  “I’m going home.” I knew full well he’d heard me the first time.

  “I’ve got work for you, Marissa, and if you are ever to get your own ever after—”

  “The only after I’m interested in right now is after a bottle of wine and after a long night’s sleep. I’ll see you when I’m ready for work.”

  “Marissa, you need to ask yourself what you want more: a night’s sleep, or another job.”

  I wiped a trace of blood off my lip, took a look at my bruises in the compact. Everything about me ached and the cold seeped out of the shadows into my bones. I put my hand on the bracelet and made my decision. “Tell Evangeline I’m on my way.” Nights like this made me wish I’d never gotten started in this business.

  Two

  NOT THAT IT was ever my choice. No one chooses to be traded by their parents to pay a magical debt, certainly not when they are sixteen. Still, if I had to be a debt slave, Grimm was about as good an employer as I could ask for. For instance, he let me stay with my parents until I was eighteen (which I think was saving him room and board) and he insisted I attend night school at the community college (a smart agent is a good agent). But it was still slavery.

  Grimm was a Fairy Godfather, and he was good about making wishes come true if you had the Glitter to make it happen. My parents didn’t, but they needed a wish in the worst way, and Grimm gave them one. My little sister got her miracle; Grimm got me. So I did what he told me to, mostly, and I saved up my Glitter. One day, I told myself, I wouldn’t be answering calls in the mirror, or going monster hunting at the movies.

  Monday came around before I felt like rolling into the office. When I got out of my morning shower, Grimm gave me a call.

  “Marissa,” he said.

  I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me. “Not here. Call back in a few minutes when I’m dressed.”

  He gave a presumptuous laugh. “I could peek on you, you know, and you’d never see me. We’ve never properly signed your contract.”

  “Not gonna happen, you disgusting, lecherous son of a—”

  “That will do. Get dressed. I’ll meet you in the office at eight thirty sharp, my dear. New assignment.”

  I was late on purpose.

  We rented office space like everyone else. You’d be surprised how much cheaper it was than buying. A throng of wishers, as usual, packed the lobby. I nodded to the receptionist and slipped into a door marked “Staff.” Down the hall, I meandered into the conference room, ignoring a stare from Grimm that said You are late.

  “Bring in the princess,” said Grimm, from the conference room mirror.

  The receptionist buzzed the door and she came in.

  “Marissa, meet Princess Arianna.”

  She didn’t look like a princess. She looked like a college intern for a radio station. Five foot three, strawberry blonde, and a complexion that could sure as hell use work. Plus she was packing the freshman five on her hips, along with the sophomore seven on her thighs and, well, you get the idea. “Pleased to meet you, m’lady,” I said, using the formal language Grimm preferred when I met new clients.

  She pushed back a pair of wire-frame glasses. “Call me Ari, please.”

  “Grimm.” I started, then took a breath. “Fairy Godfather, what is her destiny?”

  Grimm swirled in the mirror the way he always did, and spoke in that monotone voice he’d practiced over the last four hundred years. “She will meet a fair prince and find love. They will live happily ever after.” Sometimes, I was
amazed he could say that with a straight face. I’d read the divorce statistics, and being a princess didn’t help matters.

  Ari sighed and sat down, apparently satisfied.

  “I need to consult the stars in order to aid you,” I said, and excused myself.

  Grimm waited in my office, looking out from the full-length mirror. “Consult the stars?”

  I picked up a copy of People magazine and flipped through it. “What’s the deal?”

  “Standard princess setup,” said Grimm, now peering out at me from the goblet on my desk.

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “Standard prince.”

  I knew the type. Pitcher, quarterback, CEO. Whoever he was, he could afford a little fortune worked out in his favor. Glitter was the currency of magic, but plain old money could buy almost anything. “I’m in.” I headed back into the conference room.

  I gave Ari a smile as real as the plastic ferns out front. “The stars are very favorable.”

  She looked relieved. The stars never looked anything but favorable, a fact we didn’t mention in the sales pitch.

  “It will take a few days to prepare the rituals,” I said, “but Leona will set you up for a makeover and style rescue—I mean, enhancement—and everything will be ready right on time.” I left her there and got down to the real work.

  See, we could do magic. Well, Grimm could, and I almost could because I worked for him, but magic was expensive. If it were a prince seeking a princess, things would be a little harder, and we might have had to actually shell out the Glitter for a love potion. Setting up a princess was a whole different matter, thanks to one fundamental law of the universe: Men are stupid.

  Oh, I’m not saying they are too dumb to tie their shoes. I’m just saying the only thing a man needs to fall in love is a little prep work from the wrong woman. Then, when the right woman appears, it’s like magic. Only less expensive.

  • • •

  WE STARTED ARI’S setup with a meeting, that’s how it always went, and that’s where Grimm came in handy. He wasn’t technically a “he,” but “Fairy God Person” sounded weird. While he could appear any way I wanted him to, a balding, sixty-eight-year-old man served as a good reminder of his true nature.