PROLOGUE. Tattoo Faeries Series, Book 1

WICKED LOVELY

Tattoo Faeries Series, Book 1

Melissa Marr

For Loch, Dylan, and Asia,

who believed in me even when I didn't,

and

the memories of John Marr Sr. and Marjorie Marr,

whose presences linger and give me strength

when I would falter

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I've been lucky enough to have some pretty wonderful people keeping me steady along the path: my lovely and fierce agent, Rachel Vater; my insightful and passionate editors, Anne Hoppe and Nick Lake (as well as the whole amazing Harper team, including Camilla, Alison, and Tasha); my readers— Anne Gill and Randy Simpson; my dear friend, Kelly Kincy; and my mentors and friends—Michael Grimwood and Tony Harrison. I am humbled by the faith and enthusiasm you've shared with me along this journey.

And to those who have inspired and encouraged me throughout my life—John and Vanessa Marr, for teaching me about believing, about courage, about the things beyond our sight; Dylan and Asia, for reminding me every day that the impossible can come true; and Loch, for showing me that true bliss is possible on this side of the veil. Without you, there'd be nothing.

PROLOGUE

The Summer King knelt before her. "Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter's chill?"

She watched him—the boy she'd fallen in love with these past weeks. She'd never dreamed he was something other than human, but now his skin glowed as if flames flickered just under the surface, so strange and beautiful she couldn't look away. "It's what I want."

"You understand that if you are not the one, you'll carry the Winter Queen's chill until the next mortal risks this? And you'll warn her not to trust me?" He paused, glancing at her with pain in his eyes.

She nodded.

"If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next"—he moved closer—"and not until one accepts, will you be free of the cold."

"I do understand." She smiled as reassuringly as she could, and then she walked over to the hawthorn bush. The leaves brushed against her arms as she bent down and reached under it.

Her finger wrapped around the Winter Queen's staff. It was a plain thing, worn as if countless hands had clenched the wood. It was those hands, those other girls who'd stood where she now did, she didn't want to think about.

She stood, hopeful and afraid.

Behind her, he moved closer. The rustling of trees grew almost deafening. The brightness from his skin, his hair, intensified. Her shadow fell on the ground in front of her.

He whispered, "Please. Let her be the one. …"

She held the Winter Queen's staff—and hoped. For a moment she even believed, but then ice pierced her, filled her like shards of glass in her veins.

She screamed his name: "Keenan!"

She stumbled toward him, but he walked away, no longer glowing, no longer looking at her.

Then she was alone—with only a wolf for companionship—waiting to tell the next girl what a folly it was to love him, to trust him.