Towers and Tithes

Book 8 of the Fairy Tales of the Magicorum

Christina Bauer

Copyright

Newton, MA 02464

www.monsterhousebooks.com

ISBN 9781946677624

First Edition

Copyright © 2021 by Monster House Books LLC

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Dedication

For All Those Who Kick Ass, Take Names,

and Read Books

Contents

Author Note

TOWERS AND TITHES

1. Grayson

2. Grayson

3. Dex

4. Grayson

5. Dex

6. Grayson

7. Dex

8. Dex

9. Dex

10. Grayson

11. Dex

12. Grayson

13. Dex

14. Grayson

15. Dex

16. Grayson

17. Dex

18. Dex

19. Grayson

20. Grayson

21. Dex

22. Grayson

23. Dex

24. Grayson

25. Dex

26. Grayson

27. Grayson

28. Dex

29. Grayson

Description - MIRRORS AND MYSTERIES

Also By Christina Bauer

MIRRORS AND MYSTERIES

LOVE AND ETHER

ANGELBOUND

PIXIELAND DIARIES

DIMENSION DRIFT

BEHOLDER

Appendix

If You Enjoyed This Book…

Collected Works

Acknowledgments

About Christina Bauer

Complimentary Book

Author Note

Dear Reader,

My stuff rarely ends with cliffhangers.

Except now.

In this book, the cliff doth hang until the next installment, Mirrors and Mysteries.

Here’s what’s up. Towers and Tithes combines Rapunzel by the Brothers Grimm with Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. The latter novel is arguably three books, beginning with Jane’s childhood under her abusive Aunt Reed… moving to her Lowood boarding school days… and ending with her nannying for the mysterious Mr. Rochester.

To combine the fantasy elements of Rapunzel with the already-complex tale of Jane Eyre, I decided to break the joined story into two books. That’s a simple sentence to write. Behind the scenes, that statement represents a long and drawn-out decision. We authors can take ourselves rather seriously, and I really lost sleep over this one! In the end, I firmly believe this approach will deliver the best experience for you, the reader.

I hope you enjoy the adventure!

CB

TOWERS AND TITHES

1

Grayson

Age Seventeen

Bonk, scrrrrrratch.

Bonk, scrrrrrratch.

I awaken to the unmistakable noise of a forest harpy knocking at my window. Again. That’s the third time this week.

And it’s the single best part of my day.

Yawning, I slide out of bed, cross the room, and open my curtains. Sure enough, a four-foot-tall creature hovers on the other side of the glass. She has the head of a woman and the body of a hawk. Classic forest harpy.

I wave. “Are you here about a wolf pup?” Harpies act tough, but they have a soft spot for a certain baby animal. So do I, for that matter.

She caws. “Yes, I seek a healer.”

“That would be me.” My pulse speeds. I love holding and healing new pups. “Meet you by the front door.”

The harpy frowns, a movement that shifts all the dainty feathers covering her face. “You’re an elf healer?”

Here we go.

This happens all the time. Harpies are overprotective, especially when it concerns a baby version of their fave animal.

And honestly, this chick should wonder about me.

Even in the Faerie Realm, I’m considered odd. At seventeen, I’m too young to be a healer. Plus, I’m hella plain for an elf. That’s because I have a lanky frame, red hair, flat face, and loads of freckles. Also, my ears stick out more than point upward. Elves are supposed to dazzle. That’s not me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m fine with my looks, but I get how the harpy would wonder. Fae love to trick and entrap. I could be the equivalent of the evil witch in Hansel and Gretel, only I offer wolf healing services instead of free candy.

“Look,” I explain. “There’s only one Bartlebee cottage in Faerie. I’m the elf girl who lives here and heals wolf pups.”

“But you don’t look like an elf.”

“I’m Osmos. We’re a mix of elf and troll.” A distant combination, but try telling anyone that. “And to head off your next question: yes, I’m only seventeen. Most healers are over a thousand.”

The harpy tilts her head, as if seeing me for the first time. “Osmos.” The disgust in her tone is normally saved for terms like anal plague.

Shame and rage churn through me. Elves are supposed to be perfect. Osmos aren’t. That alone makes my people a target. Plus, every elf clan has a special magic. Osmos don’t wield any supernatural power… unless you count mindless servitude.

For a second, I think the harpy’s done asking questions. Come on, pup time!

No such luck.

“What’s your fairy tale life template?” she asks.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. How I hate answering this.

“Come on,” she urges. “Are you a sorcerer’s apprentice or a Rapunzel?”

All magical creatures are driven by a fairy tale life template. Osmos have a limited range of options: we can assist a witch or wizard (that’s the sorcerer’s apprentice story) or enslave ourselves to a chick with long hair (hello, Rapunzel).

“I’m the second thing.”

“A Rapunzel?” She cackle-laughs. “No, you’re not. Rapunzels are gorgeous.”

“I’m a Rapunzel life template. One day, I’ll serve a long-haired elf as her tower tithe. In the meantime, I’m trapped in this cottage.” I lower my voice. “And you’ve got a baby wolf that needs my help. Let’s meet at the front door.”

In reply, the harpy merely keeps hover-flying before my window. Not okay.

Dealing with harpies is an art form. Over the years, I’ve learned to balance their desire for questions with my need to get on with it already.

I set my fist on my hip. “Look, I respect that you’re cautious, but there’s a pup to consider. See you at the front door. Pronto.” I make a point of yanking the curtains over the window once more.

Conversation over.

“That’s right.” The harpy’s voice still carries into my bedroom. “They told me you were willful. Fine. Let’s see what you can do.”

The sound of wings-a-flapping follows. Good. The harpy must be heading for the front entrance. I live in a place called the Bartlebee, which is a wooden cottage on stilts.

Yes, stilts. It’s that cool.

An enchanted river flows right under the cottage floor. Lush forests touch the shoreline. At this time of day, night is just turning over to dawn. Gentle sunbeams color the trees. Will-o-the wisps bob above the water. My home becomes the loveliest spot in all of Faerie.

It’s too bad the Bartlebee is also my prison. Otherwise, the place would be perfect.

After pulling on my robe, I cross the cottage and open the front door. Outside, a long wooden gangplank connects my home to the shore. The harpy lands about halfway along the path. Excitement zings through my limbs. A single thought ricochets through my mind.

Pup time!

“What are you waiting for?” asks the harpy. “You better come out here.”

“Your sisters should have told you. I’m trapped in the cottage.” To demonstrate, I reach past the threshold.

Whoosh!

A magical wall of yellow flame erupts before me, creating a barrier between me and the walkway. My arm now sits halfway into the fire. Pain shoots across my skin. I pull back my hand quickly.

“See? I can’t get to you. Please, bring the pup closer. The fire won’t burn either of you.”

Beside the front door, I always keep a net on a long stick. It’s a little something-something for situations just like this one. I now pull out the rod and shake it gently. “Get in grabbing range and I’ll take it from there.”

My pulse beats with extra force. I’ve wasted too long talking with the harpy. What’s wrong with this pup?

The harpy extends her wings and glides to the very edge of the walk. She then heaves like a cat who’s coughing up a fur ball. It’s not pretty, but it is rather handy. Harpies have magical throat pockets which they use for storing all kinds of things. In this case, what comes out is a fully alive—but rather injured—lupine pup.

I scoop the animal into my net and pull it inside. Every ounce of me focuses on the baby wolf. What’s the injury? Can I heal it fast enough?

With gentle movements, I lift the tiny pup from the netting. It’s the size of a kitten and has downy fur. As I set the pup on my lap, I sense its heart beating at double speed. As I scan the animal, a weight of sorrow settles onto my shoulders. The poor thing’s front leg is covered in blood. Someone set a snare by a mother wolf’s den. The metal loop cut deeply into the pup’s limb.

Anger rises within me. No real hunter would set a trap near pups. There’s no sport in catching helpless babies. Plus, if you really need a meal, there’s much better game to stalk.

The harpy’s hawk-feet clack as she paces outside the open door. “Can you heal the little lupine?”

I nibble my lower lip. “I think so.”

If this pup were a shifter, then it could heal itself. But this is a lupine—a non-magical animal whose ancestors originally came from the human world. It needs my help.

While the pup shivers in my lap, I pull on my inner magic. Power always whirls inside me. Now, I focus the energy down my arms and into my hands.

Whoosh!

Green flames appear between my palms. Unlike the fire by my front door, this little blaze doesn’t burn or hurt. I set my hands on the pup’s front leg. Magic flows out of me and into the injured animal. My head gets a little woozy, but the pup’s leg knits back together. Muscles heal. Fur reappears. Blood burns away. My soul soars.

The healing works.

The pup hops from my lap, shakes out its fur, and skips back toward the harpy. I smile my face off. Such a lovely sight. I’m a little drained after the casting, but that’s a small price to pay.

Once the pup is close, the harpy scoops the animal back into her mouth. Not for the first time, I’m beyond happy that harpies have a soft spot for lupines. Otherwise, I’d never get any visitors.

Complaints? Sure.

Actual conversation? Not so much.

The harpy stares at me again, a new look of interest in her brown eyes. “Where’d you get…”

I brace my shoulders. Here it comes, part two. Now, she’ll ask about my magic.

“…those clothes?” finishes the harpy.

“Oh, my outfit? I get packages from Earth sometimes. Other harpies deliver things as thanks for my work.” I gesture to the different parts of my ensemble. “These are what humans call fuzzy bunny slippers.” I point to my flannel top and pants. “And these are pajamas with dancing piggies all over them.”

“Ah.” The harpy nods. “Then, where’d you get—”

“The robe?” I turn around to show off the item in question. It’s a hot pink number that reads FBI Secret Mission on the back. “It’s also from Earth. Isn’t it great?”

“No, I meant something else. What’s up with your magic?”

My stomach sinks. This is the question I was dreading. Answering it never ends well.

“Oh, gee. Look at the time. Must run! You better take the lupine back to its mother.” Grabbing the handle, I begin to close the door.

“Tell me the truth and I’ll keep your secret.”

That stops me in place. “Your sisters know the rules. They shouldn’t have sent you here unless you swore to never speak about me.”

“They didn’t make me promise a thing. I’m under no vow to hide what you do. Yet, if you answer my question, I’ll give you my word. Your secret life as a wolf healer will stay safe.”

I look around the front room, as if some way out of this situation will be sitting on the overly-plush couches or paintings of fairies. No great ideas appear. I’m stuck.

“The magic is just mine,” I reply. “I don’t know where it came from.”

The harpy laughs in a modified caw. “You’re an Osmos elf. You have no native magic.”

“Am I lying?” Harpies are well-known truth-sayers.

The harpy scratches at the wood planks with her sharp claws. It’s a dismissive movement, like she’s kicking dirt backward, chicken-style. “You certainly believe you’re telling the truth. Even so, someone cast an enchantment on you, my little troll-elf. Better find out who they are.”

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. Like this thought doesn’t occur to me a hundred times a day. Why else would I be kept in a cottage jail instead of going to the tower tithe academy with everyone else? My warden, the Prism Master, suspects I have magic, but he isn’t sure. And I’m keeping it that way until I can escape.

“So, what exactly is your magic?” asks the harpy. “You must have some ideas. I’ve never seen green flame like that before. Did a druid cast something on you?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“But don’t you think—“

Harpies can get blabby if you let them. And there’s more important stuff here. Namely, that little lupine.

“Please,” I interrupt. “You must get that pup home.”

She lets out a very hawk-like screech, spreads her wings, and flies off over the forest.

And that’s it. The best part of my day is over.

Maybe now, I’ll reread some hidden books. I could also make a stew from the four ingredients that magically appear every morning on my kitchen table. Or if I’m really lucky, I might summon a magic mirror to appear. That way, I can look at other people who get to leave their houses, talk to men, or have actual fun.

No moping, Grayson.

Whenever I get down about prison life, I always picture the same dream that awaits me when I escape. There’s a massive oak forest filled with wolves, both of the lupine and shifter variety. I step under the branches, greeting all my friends as I go. And my destination? A great castle on a hill.

Someone’s waiting for me there.

This is the best part of all. The person who awaits me is tall and broad-shouldered with long dark hair and piercing eyes. Every inch of his body exudes power and intellect. And, since this is my fantasy, he’s all mine.

Which is impossible, of course. In my most likely future, I’ll leave this cottage prison… only to enter a tower-shaped jail. And the Prism Master in my life will be replaced by an equally-nasty Rapunzel, not some hot shifter hero.

Still, as daydreams go, it’s one that’s worth keeping. And even the Prism Master can’t lock it away.

2

Grayson

After healing the pup, I crawl back into bed. Blessed sleep is mine for a while. Then, a dreaded voice booms through the cottage.

“Grayson!”

I awaken with a groan. The person calling my name is my jailer, a creep named the Prism Master. He wields what I call the evil elf trio: bewitching looks, powerful magic, and sadistic personality.

“Grayson! Now!”

I slide out of bed and rush for the magic study room—it’s where I always meet the Prism Master. Normally, the door stays shut no matter how hard I try (and dang, do I ever try). This time, it auto-magically swings open as I approach.

Inside, the chamber is a smallish space with plaster walls. Wooden shelves stand lined with leather-bound books. A large table sits in the room’s center. Quills, paper, and oddball magical junk covers the top. The Prism Master is powerful enough to keep similar rooms in every one of his ‘residences.’

Pop, pop!

Bubbling noises fill the air. A rectangle of light flashes on the opposite wall. Once the brightness fades, a magic mirror materializes before me.

Not a surprise. True magic mirrors rarely hang around like lumps. They only appear when the mirror itself—or its owner—actually wants something. Sometimes the owner is trapped inside the mirror, too. It gets complicated.

Threads of golden light swirl across the mirror’s surface. For a moment, I catch my own reflection. Then, the magical lines twist and change.

A face appears in the mirror. The Prism Master. Like always, the guy wields an ageless kind of beauty—piercing eyes, strong cheekbones, and white-blond hair. Today, he also wears long dark robes and a look of sheer outrage.

When he next speaks, the Prism Master pauses after each word.

“Who. Am. I?”

“The Prism Master.”

“And what’s that?”

“The leader of all Prism elves.” Elf clans come in pairs. Prism elves make magic mirrors. They match up with my people, the Osmos. We help out as magical apprentices… unless we’re seen as total duds. That’s when someone like me ends up as a tower tithe.

“Quite right,” declares the Prism Master. “My responsibilities are massive. I should not be wasting my time by calling your name for hours.”

It’s tempting to point out that yelling my name twice does not count as for hours, but I keep my sarcasm to myself. Nothing good happens when I clap back at the Prism Master.

Focus on escape, Grayson. Act like a good little tower tithe until he lowers his guard. Then you’ll get free.

With that in mind, I take an extra-bow low. The Prism Master is a total sucker for groveling. “Oh mighty Prism Master, please forgive me. How may I be of service?”

The Prism Master purses his lips ever-so-slightly. This man always thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room. And when he does that lip move? It means he’s scheming his pointy little ears off. “How many magic mirrors appeared in this cottage last week?”

“Why, Madame Morningstar and Harlow visited me every day.” They’re both trapped in mirrors and the Prism Master’s best lackeys.

“Anyone else?”

In all honesty, other magic mirrors do show up. I even summon some of them. It’s how I learned reading, writing, and basic healing spells. Not that I’ll ever tell the Prism Master that. By the way, elves can’t lie. One big advantage of being part-troll is that I can fib my butt off when necessary.

I set my hand at my throat. “Gosh, no. I’d certainly tell you if anything that exciting ever happened. Wow! Other magic mirrors appearing besides the ones you approve. Who’d have thunk it?”

“Good. Let me know if that changes.” The Prism Master balances a massive book on his palm and flips through the pages. “You’re seventeen, isn’t that right?”

“My birthday was last week.” Thanks for blowing it off.

There’s only one reason why the Prism Master would ask this question. Now that I’m seventeen, I’m much more likely to get chosen as a tower tithe. Fae are vicious toward other adults, mostly because they’re numerous and immortal. But fae children are rare and revered. No one wants a kid slave.

“The next selection ceremony takes place in ten months,” declares the Prism Master. “You won’t be chosen.”

“Not that I’m anxious to become a tower tithe, but how can you be sure?”

The Prism Master chuckles. “Because it’s you, Grayson. You’re ugly. Idiotic. Lazy. A total waste.”

His words hurt, pure and simple. There’s nothing quite like having an elf insult you. They’re so painfully beautiful—not to mention magically enhanced—that each word settles into the back of your head like so many mental splinters. Eventually, the tiny wounds infect your soul.

Yet another reason to get out of here.

“Besides.” The Prism Master sniffs. “What Rapunzel would want you?”

Much as I hate to continue this conversation, I can’t pass up the opportunity to advocate for a decent Rapunzel to serve. Hey, eternity is a long time.

“About that. I do have an idea for my future Rapunzel.”

“How could you know what Rapunzels are available? You’re perfectly isolated. There are no books in the Bartlebee. Visitors are forbidden.”

This is more stuff I file under the category of: things I keep hidden from the Prism Master. My harpy visitors deliver all sorts of things, books included. I just hide the stuff.

The Prism Master’s face darkens. “Who gave you information about the Rapunzels, Grayson? Tell me and they will pay.”

Fortunately, I know of a fae family that recently left the forest. “The oak pixies like to gossip. Their voices carry.”

“Hmm. I’ll relocate them.” When the Prism Master says relocate, he means destroy. Good thing those pixies are long gone.

“Now, make your request,” demands the Prism Master.

“I’ll work for any Rapunzel except…” Here, I pause for dramatic effect. “Zinnie the Elder. She’s horrible!”

In truth, Zinnie the Elder is a super-nice old lady. I figure if I act like I don’t want her, then the Prism Master will make sure we’re together. The guy really is that nasty.

“Zinnie the Elder, eh?” The Prism Master smirks. “I thought you’d fear being chosen by Lady R.”

All the blood seems to drain from my body. Everyone knows about Lady R. She’s called the tower tithe serial killer. I swallow past the lump of worry that just lodged in my throat.

“Lady R?” I ask. “Never heard of her.”

“Sure, you haven’t.” His smirk melts into a frown. “And you’ve no right to ask for a Rapunzel anyway. The Osmos tossed you out as a child. I took you in out of kindness, giving you a place to live and the chance to become a tower tithe. And how do you repay me? By slacking off on your lessons. Keeping the cottage filthy. And now, dictating your own future! I’ve been trying to hand you off as a tower tithe for years. No one wants a worm like you.”

My stomach sours as more of the Prism Master’s words twist their way under my skin.

The Prism Master goes on. “I’ll never get rid of you. It’s my punishment to watch you age and die here.” The way he says the word punishment, it’s clear that the Prism Master enjoys keeping me locked up.

“Now, scrub the cottage again. I’ll inspect it personally.” The Prism Master ends this speech by looking down at me with a mix of utter repulsion.