Fairy Tome

By Rebecca Shelley

As the daughter of ultra-rich parents, Melanie Maverone lives the good life until her parents bring home an ancient and powerful book, the Fairy Tome. When they try to unlock the book's magic, a deadly trap explodes, incinerating Melanie's richie parents, their mansion, and Melanie's plush life. All that remains is the book. Haunted by death, and hunted by a powerful and desperate man, Melanie travels around the world in search of a way to unlock the book's power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wonder Realms Books
• Release date: Aug 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781502249722

Rebecca Shelley

Rebecca Shelley writes a wide variety of books—everything from picture books to spy thrillers.She especially likes to write about fantasy creatures such as dragons and fairies.Her children’s books are written under the Rebecca Shelley name.Her thrillers and other books for adults are written under the R. L. Tyler pen name.She also has two books out under the R. D. Henham pen name—Red Dragon Codex and Brass Dragon Codex.

Book preview

The Fairy Tome

Rebecca Shelley

Copyright © 2012 Rebecca Shelley

Published by Wonder Realms Books

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission. All characters, places, and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover art © Bblood | Dreamstime.com

Scene break © Irina Shishkina | Dreamstime.com

Chapter One

So what? I can't help it if I was rich. Spoiled. Happy-go-lucky. With a baby-blue mustang and two servants just to polish it each day. Life was easy then. My maid, Ms. Natalia, kept my suite clean. I hated how her blond hair stayed perfect even when she scrubbed the toilet. Not that I ever wanted to scrub toilets, but I sure wish my hair would curl like that. Four other maids, two butlers, and three cooks kept the mansion running smoothly, even when my parents flew off to Bristol for their newest acquisition.

My parents, bless their hearts, collected rare books. I'm not talking rare as in out-of-print. I'm talking rare as in before print. Hand-written tomes that some poor scribe slaved over for like an eternity or something.

Okay, so do you have any idea how that is when you go to a school like the one I attended? First thing everyone did when they met was to talk about their parents.

My parents own the world's best-known retail chain.

My mom is a fashion designer.

My Dad is the CEO of the country's biggest airline.

So, Melanie, what do your parents do?

I always felt like a comic book in a room full of classics. No way would I say my parents collected books. I would just laugh and talk about how my parents had just added an olympic-sized pool at our seventh house, you know the one in the Bahamas. I mean, after all, when you reach a certain level of richness, it doesn't really matter how you got there.

What does matter is how you lose it all.

It was after Bristol. My parents started arguing the minute they got home.

It's ours at last. I say we use it now, before anything happens. My mom's shrill voice bounced up the marble staircase as she and Dad stepped into the entrance hall. I could hear them on the second floor with my door closed.

What could happen? We're home. We're safe. Dad's deep woody tones drew me out of my suite. From the top of the sweeping marble staircase I saw he held a heavy book, bound in black leather.

What did you get this time? I flopped down the stairs, running my hand along the smooth oak banister. The fake ferns and ivy that accented the stairs ruffled as I passed.

The book my father held didn't look as old as some books, or it had been well preserved. An engraved forest scene decorated the front cover. A strap of leather with a locking clasp held the book shut.

I reached for the book, surprised that it smelled like new leather instead of crumbling parchment and dust. My fingers brushed the edge, and a tingle wrapped around my hand and crawled up my arm. The scent of moss and green leaves filled the air. I wondered what new cleaning product the maids had polished the banisters with.

My father jerked the book away and continued arguing with my mother as if I weren't there. We need to slow down and think this over. There may be consequences we haven't considered yet.

Mom fingered a tiny gold key she wore on a chain around her neck. Be serious. We've talked about this for years.

Talking about what? I asked.

Nothing, Melanie, Dad said. Why don't you go out and play tennis or something?

I had my own tennis court out back. I like tennis. I'm good at it. Good enough to compete internationally.

Don't tell her to get lost. Mom's shrill voice made me wince. She's as much a part of this as we are. Melanie—

No. Dad marched out of the entry hall, across the reception room, and into his office. Mom grabbed my arm and dragged me after him.

Though the rest of the mansion was light and airy, my father's office was all done in wood stained so dark it was almost black. The office was two stories tall with a spiral wrought-iron staircase going up to a landing on the second floor. A chandelier with a single white globe hung down in the middle, but the dark wood sucked up all the light. The only bright spot in the office was a white marble fireplace with a comfortable stuffed chair beside it where dad used to sit and read.

My father set the book down on his desk in the middle of the room. I said no, Francis. We are not dragging Melanie into this.

Yes we are. Mom's voice dropped from shrill into a growl, and I knew from experience things were about to turn ugly between them. My signal to leave. I twisted out of Mom's grasp and made a run for it. Out of the house. Across the back gardens. Out to the tennis court. Into my private dressing room where I changed and grabbed my racket and a bucket of balls.

I practiced serving. Whap. Whap. Whap. One ball after another until the bucket sat empty. Then I sucked in a deep breath and wiped the sweat from my forehead, figuring I could go back in now. My parents' fights never lasted longer than a bucketful of balls.

I left the balls for Tom, our grounds maintenance guy, to pick up and started back to the house, racket in hand. That way if they were still fighting, I'd have an excuse to go back out.

A deep blue sky framed the house, contrasting with the red tiled roof and the crisp white walls and pillars. The sculptured trees and shrubs of the garden added a dazzling emerald. A picture perfect post card scene that any tourist would buy. A brilliant day between the end of summer and start of fall. I wish I did have a postcard to remember it.

Between one of my steps and the next the house mushroomed into a ball of orange and yellow fire. A thunderous explosion knocked over the trees and flung me back against the chain link around the tennis court. A vast column of black smoke rose into the sky. I bounced forward off the chain link and landed face-down on the grass.

Gone. My entire life gone in one giant explosion.

Chapter Two

Ashes. My whole world burned to ashes. My parents cremated. My mustang blown to bits. I stood in the blackened rubble of the mansion after the firefighters shut off their hoses. The stench of scorched fabric and flesh made me gag. My mom and dad had been in the house as well as a butler and two of the maids. The cooks had gone to the market for dinner supplies. Lucky men. They lived. Everyone else burned.

Except me. By chance I had survived as well. My heart felt as burned out as the house. Charred wood crunched beneath my feet. The explosion had flattened every wall, consumed the roof, destroyed the garage and blackened the garden.

I picked through the debris, looking for anything that might have survived. I can't explain how I felt. Shocked. Empty. I couldn't even cry. I tripped over chunks of blackened marble where the entry hall used to stand. I skirted around the couch from the reception room. Its metal frame had been twisted almost beyond recognition. No sign of the cushions unless they were in the mound of soggy ash.

The firemen must have emptied half the ocean onto the rubble. They'd warned me there might still be hotspots. I didn't care. Though I'd seen them take my parents' remains out in black body bags, I found myself drawn to the spot where my father's office had been. The last place I'd seen my parents. Arguing.

The sun tipped behind the Beverly Hills skyline. My whole life sank into twilight. The firemen had said the explosion must have originated in the office and was most likely caused by a leak in the gas fireplace. I climbed over a fallen section of wall. Soot rubbed off on my arms and clothes. The wall shifted and crumbled beneath me. I kept my balance and stepped into the epicenter of the horror. My father's office had been black before, but nothing like this. Even the fallen marble fireplace had been scorched beyond recognition. The spiral staircase tipped at an odd angle, leading to nowhere.

In the very center sat that book.

Rivulets of soggy ash, like little muddy rivers, eddied around it. A scorched key stood up in the lock. The chain it had once been on had melted. I reached down and picked up the book. Somehow, though the explosion had consumed the house and everything else in it, the book remained intact.

I pulled the key out of the lock and wiped the sludge from the cover. As my fingers brushed the black leather, the forest scent of moss and leaves mixed with the dead fire's pungent odor. The strap that had bound the book closed hung open. The parchment pages rustled as I handled the book. My heart fluttered. How could this book have survived the explosion, the fire, and the dousing afterward? Though damp and covered with soot it remained unhurt.

Miss Maverone. A policeman picked his way over to me. I'd been trying to ignore the gathering crowd—the newscasters, the gawkers, the paramedics, and the policemen. None of them could understand how the fire had burned my insides to ash. Miss Maverone, is there some family you could call to come get you?

Yeah, sure. I’ll call someone. I tucked the book under my arm and shoved the scorched key in my pocket then headed out of the blackened mess.

The policeman followed. I could tell he wouldn’t leave me be until he knew I had some place to go. I pulled out my cell phone and called John Smith, my parents’ lawyer at Smith, Smith, and Smith. Told him my parents were dead. The Beverly Hills house destroyed. I planned to go to the Bahamas for a while.

Melanie. His voice sounded pinched. You’re only sixteen. You can’t live in the Bahamas by yourself.

I’ll hire a nanny. Stupid lawyer.

I don’t have your parents’ will right in front of me, but I’m quite sure they named your uncle and aunt as legal guardians for you.

Uncle Nick and Aunt Tami! I nearly dropped my cell phone. They couldn’t have. Those freeloading, no good—

They are your only living relatives. And Nick is your father’s brother. They can’t be that bad.

You have no idea. Uncle Nick had been out of work for three years now and Aunt Tami on disability for the last ten. I guess my aunt and uncle figured they shouldn't have to work anymore since my mom and dad had so much money. Sheesh.

Listen, Melanie, I’ll take a look at the will and see what we can do. Until then I suggest you call your aunt and uncle and have them come pick you up.

Right. I hung up the phone and hit the auto-dial for the limousine service. They agreed to send a car for me. No way was I gonna call my aunt and uncle.

I shoved the phone in my pocket and walked up to the nice-guy policeman. All taken care of. Someone will be here to pick me up in a few minutes.

The policeman nodded and retreated to his car, but the paramedic folks stared at me. The ambulances’ flashing lights left spots in front of my eyes. My head and back hurt from slamming into the chain link, but I was pretty sure I was only bruised. No lasting damage. Not to my body at least. Look, I told you I’m fine. Wasn’t even near the house. Leave me alone, I said. They’d loaded my parents' bodies into those ambulances. No way was I going near them.

I stumbled away. Too many people. Too many cameras. I went around back to the tennis court to pack up what clothes I had left, just the few spare outfits I kept in my changing room.

The lights wouldn’t turn on, so I had to shuffle around in twilight semi-darkness to shove my stuff in a sports bag. Good thing I kept necessary items in my dressing room like makeup and a handbag with credit cards for when I traveled to tournaments and such. My main purse had been up in my room and everything in it melted to slag.

A moment after I left the dressing room and came around front, a sleek gray limo pulled up at the same time as a beat-up Hyundai Elantra. My uncle and aunt sat in the Elantra front seat. They stared at the ruined house, their eyes as wide as Manga characters. They must have been on the couch, stuffing their faces, watching the news, and come running as soon as the story hit.

I dashed to the limo and slid into the back seat before they could see me. Get me out of here, Frederick, I said. I knew the driver. He used to drive me to school and back before I got my license.

Of course, Miss Maverone. He honked at the crowd of people to let him through. Ignoring him, they pressed against the tinted window to get a view of me. But happy-nice-guy policeman warded them off, and the limo got away. Are you all right? Frederick asked over his shoulder.

No. I was definitely not all right, and I doubted anything would ever be all right again. At least the smell of the leather polish Frederick used on the seats was familiar as well as the way the limo glided over the road. I’d been back and forth on La Cienga Boulevard like a thousand times. But this