Sara Ella
Unblemished
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR UNBLEMISHED
“A breathtaking fantasy set in an extraordinary fairy-tale world, with deceptive twists and an addictively adorable cast who are illusory to the end. Just when I thought I’d figured each out, Sara Ella sent me for another ride. A wholly original story, Unblemished begins as a sweet melody and quickly becomes an anthem of the heart. And I’m singing my soul out. Fans of Once Upon a Time and Julie Kagawa, brace yourselves.”
—MARY WEBER, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
THE STORM SIREN TRILOGY
“Lyrically written and achingly romantic—Unblemished will tug your heartstrings!”
—MELISSA LANDERS, AUTHOR OF ALIENATED,
INVADED, AND STARFLIGHT
“Self-worth and destiny collide in this twisty-turny fantasy full of surprise and heart. Propelled into a world she knows nothing about, Eliyana learns that the birthmark she despises is not quite the superficial curse she thought it was—it’s worse, and the mark comes with a heavy responsibility. Can she face her reflection long enough to be the hero her new friends need? With charm and wit, author Sara Ella delivers Unblemished, a magical story with a compelling message and a unique take on the perils of Central Park.”
—SHANNON DITTEMORE, AUTHOR OF
THE ANGEL EYES TRILOGY
“Unblemished is an enchanting, beautifully written adventure with a pitch-perfect blend of fantasy, realism, and romance. Move this one to the top of your TBR pile and clear your schedule, you won’t want to put it down!”
—LORIE LANGDON, AUTHOR OF THE AMAZON
BESTSELLING DOON SERIES.
“Unblemished had me from the first chapter—mystery, romance, and mind-blowing twists and turns that I SO did not see coming! The worlds Sara Ella builds are complex and seamless; the characters she creates are beautifully flawed. Readers are sure to love this book and finish it, as I did, begging for more!”
—KRISTA MCGEE, AUTHOR OF THE ANOMALY TRILOGY
For my mom,
Mary Elizabeth (1956–2012).
You always said I’d write a book.
And, as always, you were right.
Once upon a time is ne’er what it seems. And happily ever after oft a mere device of dreams. What wicked snares are vines, and thorns cause many throes. But peer beyond the surface; you may there find a rose.
Prelude
This is all my fault.
She’ll lose her soul because of me.
I stare at the Verity’s vessel and search his stony eyes for some sign he’ll do what he must, some sense he’s finally decided to let go.
Do it, my soul pleads. Save her, my eyes implore.
One, two, three breaths before he nods.
Sigh. This is it. The steady adagio of my beating heart plays the coda in my final act.
His face is drawn, pale. The sight pulls at my heartstrings, overtuning them to the point of snapping.
My eyes want to close. I will them to remain open. I won’t abandon him in this. The burden is ours to bear. Together. No turning back.
The enemy raises his sword as the Verity’s vessel creeps toward him. The extended note of hesitation ushers in the last cadence of my life. There will be no encore for me. No reprise or standing ovation. This is my final performance. The curtain is closing, and the audience is taking its leave.
His sword comes flying down.
ACT I
Home
ONE
Monster
It can’t be true. I’ve known the news for a week, and still it hits me as if I’m finding out for the very first time.
Elizabeth Ember, Up-and-Coming Artist of the Upper West Side, Dies at 34.
The bold headline on the front of the New York Times obituaries blares up at me, a black-and-white photo of Mom posted beneath. Was it only last month this exact photo adorned another section of the paper? Even with gray skin, her dark hair swept into a messy bun, Mom’s organic beauty radiates from the page. Why she hated being photographed, I’ll never understand. I flip the paper upside down. When I die, will my portrait grace the news?
Of course not. My face looks as if a toddler scribbled on it with a red Sharpie while I was asleep. No reporter in his right mind would put my picture in the paper. Not unless it was a Halloween edition.
Mom used to sit in the rooftop garden of our brownstone, a cup of hot Earl Grey in her hands, and gaze out over Manhattan. She adored this city for its energy and symphony of cultures. “It’s always alive, always moving,” she’d said.
Now, every consolation from a complete stranger invites a fresh wave of sobs. My chest heaves with each one, rising and falling like the steady tumult of the Hudson on a stormy day. I drive back the waves with smiles and nods and deep, controlled breaths, all for the sake of appearances. To be the hostess Mom would’ve been. The one I’ll never be.
“I’m so sorry for your loss . . .”
Smile.
“She’ll be missed . . .”
Nod.
“It will get better with time . . .”
Inhale.
“You know we’re all here for you, dear . . .”
Exhale.
Nothing more than empty words from phony people who can’t even look me in the eye as they give their condolences. Can I blame them? I don’t enjoy looking at me. Why should they?
My phone vibrates, dancing along the granite countertop in our—my kitchen. The screen lights up, flashing the name and selfie that hurts and comforts in one ping of mixed emotions.
Joshua.
My fingers curl around the orchid-colored case, squeeze. I asked him to stay away, to give me space. Time. He agreed with a solemn nod, giving me what I wanted.
If it’s what I wanted, why do I long to go next door and fall into his arms?
I close my eyes, mentally pushing away the cacophony of voices echoing around our—my home. It doesn’t work. This is all just too much.
A sea of catered dishes covers the kitchen island. Nothing offers comfort like platters of prosciutto and tartlets, right? What is this, a cocktail party? And could it be more obvious these people know nothing about me or Mom? Prosciutto? Really? Gag me. I haven’t touched meat in ten years, and I’m certainly not going to start now.
Beyond the bar, the sunroom with its large bay window, upright piano, and ornate fireplace is set up as an art gallery. Mom’s recently commissioned dealer, Lincoln Cooper, took care of all the details, despite the setback his recent gallery fire caused him. How very noble of him considering he’s known us less than a month. Where did he find all these people? Do they even know who they’re mourning, or are their sympathies part of the show?