The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

defiantly. Humans were drawn to the Fae like dragons to jewels, irresistibly and inexorably.
    Yet this one had scorned his attention, even when he’d opened his senses to her and infused his voice with a bit of enchantment. She should have been on her knees, begging for his touch. The idea, oddly, held a slight repugnance. She was beautiful and she’d been half-undressed, but there was no sexual appeal for him there. More an inexplicable fondness, which made him wonder if some previously unencountered spellcraft were involved.
    The sound of tramping feet interrupted his mental wanderings and he took a deep breath, banishing all thoughts of the impudent Magda. He’d find her tomorrow perhaps. Or request her company as a guest-gift from his host. Entering his chamber and pushing the door closed behind him, he smiled.
    This treaty renewal might prove to be far more fascinating than any in the past 600 years.
    Evening, the next day.
    Lucy trailed down the staircase behind Glory, muttering dire and mostly impotent threats under her breath as she tried not to trip over the gown she hadn’t wanted to wear. Glory had decided that she needed a lady to serve her personally at all banquets during the week, since she’d heard that the elven ladies indulged themselves in such a manner. Of course, only Lucy would do.
    She’d won the battle against the pink dress at least. After a long and painful argument (which had included much brush-hurling and foot-stomping on Glory’s part), Lucy had come up with one perfect, irrefutable point: if she, Lucy, wore pink, it would take some of the focus away from Glory’s own marvellously beautiful pink-clad self.
    Glory’s anger had transformed magically into an expression of thoughtful consideration. Then she’d turned towards her wardrobe, bent to yank something from the floor in the back, and pulled out one of the most beautiful gowns Lucy had ever seen. The emerald silk of the bodice and skirt draped richly over an underskirt of sheerest gold. Delicate golden beads — which appeared to be formed of actual gold - shimmered at the neckline and sleeves.
    Lucy had caught her breath at the wave of utter longing that swept through her at the sight of it. Then she’d flatly refused to wear it.
    “No. Not a chance. Those are the High House colours, so the gown must have been a gift. You know how political those elves are. If I wear it, it will send a very insulting message, and they probably invented the phrase ‘kill the messenger’. No. Absolutely not.”
    Well. That had gone well. Now here she was, wearing the gown that would be the death of her, her hair done up in a ridiculous tangle of curls, and her mother’s silver ring on a chain around her neck. Add in the oversized embroidered slippers (Glory’s cast-offs) and she looked exactly like a child playing dress-up. She yanked the skirt up from around her toes and wondered how many bones she’d break when she went tumbling down the stairs, head over heels.
    Without warning though, a surge of heat flashed through Lucy’s nerve endings, shutting down her internal complaints and heightening her senses. The triple heralds of warning, danger and threat trumpeted through her mind. She snapped up her head and scanned the area, only to see Glory’s profusion of pink ruffles blocking her view of all but the livery of one of the palace guards.
    “Milady.” The deep voice was respectful, as Ian - for surely it was he, no other mere human had that delicious voice — bowed to Glory. The princess ignored him completely, of course, and swept on down the stairs, leaving Lucy standing there staring at Ian like a fool, with a handful of skirt and a mind full of very naughty thoughts.
    Ian’s mouth curved in an admiring smile and heat flared in his dark eyes. “Lady Lucinda, you are more beautiful than a verdant summer day in that gown. It matches the emerald of your eyes,” he said, his voice a little rougher than usual.
    Lucy blushed, then scowled, then nearly tripped over the hem of her dress. “Have you been at the ale already, Ian? This infernal gown will probably get me killed, when the house which gifted it to Glor . . . um, the Princess . . . sees me in it. Elves are not known for their tolerance.” She blinked, suddenly remembering his words. “And since when do you call me anything but Lucy?”
    Ian flattened his mouth into a thin line and a muscle clenched in his jaw. “I thought to compete with the damned Fae lords and