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  Her ability surpassed a plant-based glamara. She’d opened a portal to the mortal world, something only a doormaker could do.

  Realization stripped him of calm. If she made it through that doorway, Jareth’s ice would kill her, as feared, and Kaysar would lose an invaluable opportunity.

  He flittered directly behind her and reached out... Argh! She slipped from his hold. The vines remained attached to her, curling from her wrists to her fingertips, pulling her closer and closer to the door.

  “I only wish to aid you, princess.” He flittered again, but she contorted, avoiding his clasp.

  If he appeared in front of the portal, she might barrel into him, knocking him into the mortal world along with her. Or without her. Leave the Frostlines without a guaranteed means to return to Astaria? Never. But he needed to put his own child on the Winter Court throne. His vengeance demanded it. So Kaysar used the only option available to him. Compulsion.

  As Princess Lulundria zipped through the portal, he readied his glamara and called, “Return to me, princess. Return to me by any means necessary.”

  A moment later, she vanished in the mist. As the vines withered to ash and twirled away on the wind, Kaysar stopped and cursed. Doormakers required weeks to recharge after opening a portal. Was his glamara strong enough to recharge her now? Today?

  An hour ticked by, frustration gnawing at his temper.

  She must return. She must, she must, she must. The desire to obey him probably consumed her by now, aiding her survival. So where was she? How long must he wait?

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Mortal Realm

  Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  Present Day

  “I HOPE YOU like the taste of your balls, Nick, because I’m about to shove them down your throat.” Chantel “Cookie” Bardot tapped her fingers over the game controller at lightning speed, guiding her female Mad Hatter to beat the fire out of a Prince Charming wannabe.

  Would she receive a dozen emails in the next two minutes, asking her to act more professionally, but also less professionally, and oh, yes, could she keep doing exactly what she was doing and also change everything? Don’t get her started on the texts.

  Nick—screen name Nicobra—fought back with merciless precision, a well-placed kick sending her across the battlefield. On impact, her magic hat tumbled across the forested terrain. One of four power bars vanished.

  He purred through her headset, “How about you choke on my balls first, Cookie.”

  Oh, no he didn’t. “I tried, remember? But yours are the size of Tic Tacs.” Careful. There were lines. What she dished, he had a right to serve back to her. Plus, he wasn’t worth the hassle she’d face with her sponsors.

  Though Cookie hated Nick, she loved her job. I mean, come on! Companies paid her to stream video games and be on camera. As a secret side hustle, she accepted jobs as a digital hit woman, charging other gamers to annihilate their competitors within the game world.

  Once, Nick had tried to hire her to take out herself, never knowing who seethed behind the screen.

  Who wouldn’t love her job? What’s more, she needed it. Born with a severely damaged heart, she’d undergone various surgeries, countless medical tests, numerous trials and a plethora of experimental drugs in her twenty-six years; the bills had stacked.

  “Did you know you’re the worst girlfriend I’ve ever dated?” Nick asked, unwilling to let the trash talk end. “You beat the cheater and the thief. Congrats.”

  Ouch. For those watching her face rather than the game, Cookie let a sugary sweet smile bloom, as if Nick had just issued a sweet compliment. Never let an opponent see you rattled.

  Your hot spots became an eternal target and offered endless ammunition. Nick proved this theory every time they interacted. During their yearlong relationship, he’d discovered her deepest vulnerability—rejection. Now he liked to poke and prod until she snapped.

  Game face on. “Is someone feeling defensive about his size?” She tsk-tsked. “Don’t worry, baby boy. Size doesn’t really matter. Since the beginning of time, women have lied about preferring a man with girth. The smaller the better, we say.”

  Nick missed a series of punches, allowing Cookie to reclaim her hat. Had his confidence gotten the stinky boot? Too bad, so sad.

  On the right side of her screen, comment bubbles blew up. Key words jumped out, the messages behind them clear. Drags on Cookie...drags on women in general...drags on men...a death threat...a threat of rape...support...another death threat...a death threat against anyone who supported her.

  Whatever. She activated the “elderseed,” charging her hat to full capacity in seconds and head-butting the prince, cracking his skull. Yes! Cookie lived for blood and gore. On a screen, of course, only a screen. Although, yes, okay, sometimes she envied her avatar. Every so often, she even wondered if she herself were maybe kinda sorta...murder curious. But only every so often.

  Oh, she would never kill anyone in real life. She wasn’t a psychopath or anything like that. Mostly, she enjoyed force-feeding bad guys a heaping helping of justice. On screen and off. And yeah, she’d always been this way.

  After her parents’ acrimonious divorce, she’d stayed with her mother most of the year and her father on holidays. As the two created new families, she’d lost herself in Court TV and video games.

  At eighteen, she’d packed up, moving from Dallas, Texas, to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, to work for the company who’d created a multilevel game called The Fog A.E. The Forest of Good and Evil.

  Each level offered a different experience. As a whole, the game featured fairy tales and their vast casts of characters, all mixed together in the magical lands. Enchantia. Rhoswyn. Loloria. You could design and build your own kingdoms, battle others for theirs, or compete in tournaments for special prizes.

  Even after Cookie had branched out, leaving the company to play on her own, she’d chosen to remain in Oklahoma. She’d forged a family here. A real one. Weird, sure, but beloved.

  Once, Nick had been part of it. In a single hour, they’d gone from being a happy couple in life and supportive teammates in the game, to enemies in life and foes in the game. He’d wanted to do something, she’d wanted to stay home. A fight erupted, and he’d blamed the entirety of their problems on Cookie. She never wanted to leave the house. She ignored him. The sex sucked because he had to be too careful with her. In other words, she had more online followers.

  On his way out the door, he’d told her, “Fix yourself before the next guy comes along, yeah?”

  That one still burned. In the game, she landed a particularly nasty blow. Just not nasty enough. Dang it. Time was running out. In twenty...nineteen...eighteen seconds, the hat would time out. If Cookie failed to drain Nick of his life essence by then, the match was as good as lost.

  Pushing her dexterity to the limit, she played harder and downright filthy, upping the speed and veracity of her strikes. Nick got too busy defending himself to launch a counterattack and soon hemorrhaged energy.

  “Yes!” she shouted when Prince Charming took a savage blow to the head. Down he went. Where he stayed, too weak to rise. A triumphant grin bloomed. “That, ladies and genitalmen, is how you deal with a pouty man-baby who thinks he’s ready to spar with the big girls.”

  “Keep it down out there. I’m napping.” The grumpy voice came from the hallway, courtesy of her sixty-two-year-old roommate, Pearl Jean Levitt.

  They’d met two years ago in the lobby of their cardiologist’s office. Cookie had insta-loved Pearl Jean for the same reason she considered roller derby one of the greatest sports in history. Both were brutally honest and absolutely bonkers.

  “Good news. I won.” She tossed her controller and ended the feed. Enough of that.

  “Yes, you won,” Pearl Jean replied, unimpressed. “Barely.”

  A win was a win, right? “So you watched?” She switch
ed off her dual screens and removed her wireless headset.

  “Only because I couldn’t sleep. My sciatica is flaring. The gout is probably next.”

  Cookie snorted. Pearl Jean excelled in three things. Complaining, illness, and expecting the worst.

  Her cat, Sugars, jumped from the couch. His throne. He leaped onto her station and butted his head against hers, a demand for pets. Her chest swelled with love for the ridiculously spoiled feline as she scratched behind his ears. Her little house panther had watched the entire game, silently judging her for ignoring him and praying she failed.

  “Your sciatica, huh? You went to bed for a headache.”

  “A person can’t have three ailments at the same time?” Pearl Jean retorted.

  “Can that same person be a medical miracle who’s contracted every disease known to man and even some that aren’t?”

  “Hmph. Today’s youth. Too much sass, not enough class.”

  “You know you love me.”

  “Occasionally,” the old bat grumbled. “Perhaps.”

  Grinning, Cookie anchored a nasal cannula in place and took a hit of the good stuff—oxygen. The tube connected to a portable tank. She’d needed this for half an hour, but she’d needed to not lose against her nemesis more.

  Nick streamed for The Fog A.E., too. People loved to watch him practice. More people loved to watch her in combat.

  “This boy, Nick,” Pearl Jean called, restarting the conversation.

  “Why don’t you get up and march your butt into the living room so we can chat like civilized adults?”

  “Is he the one who thought you were too sloppy to date?” her roommate continued, acting as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “No.” That guy had taken one look at her T-shirt and yoga pants and laughed. He hadn’t gotten a second chance. He almost hadn’t gotten to take his next breath, either. In her mind. Only in her mind.

  “Is Nick the one who said you’re fun to look at but terrifying to hang out with because you’re so bad at connecting with other people?”

  “Nope. And how am I supposed to connect with someone who’s never lived my life, anyway? No, seriously. Why am I expected to share my baggage with someone who’ll never understand the constant terror of having a bomb in his chest? Besides, time is limited.” For her, very limited. “Why waste a minute considering a past I can’t change?” She was panting when she finished her speech. Climbing on her soapbox du jour took effort.

  A pause. “Is Nick the one who complained about Cookie Standard Time and your constant tardiness?”

  “No, that was Paul,” she grated. Her only other long-term relationship. The same guy who’d temporarily razed her self-confidence with his “horrible to be around” barb. “And no need to remind me of another reason I’ve been cast aside. Nick is the wannabe hero who said I needed to stop thinking about game strategy 24/7 and start living for the future.” Easy for him to do, since he had one.

  Cookie had here and now.

  When Nick had posted a one-on-one challenge via social media, she probably should have declined. Sometimes opportunities were like the Titanic. Big, luxurious and pretty, but destined to sink. Debuting a new hat during a livestream—a great opportunity. Losing a game because she couldn’t suck down oxygen—an iceberg. Physically, she hadn’t been at her best or even her most mediocre for months.

  Her male counterparts still let their mothers cut the crust off their sandwiches. Yet, she had to maintain double the kill rate or viewers lost interest. Their interest helped pay her bills.

  Forget the money, though. Forget the sponsorships and influencer deals. She played because she had no other choice. Her heart wouldn’t let her.

  Oh, the things she’d do, if ever she got a transplant. Finally, she’d experience the spark—the zest for life—everyone else seemed to have. A burning intensity for more. For better. Then, her real life adventures could kick off. Nothing and no one would stop her.

  As Cookie chugged a bottle of water, she realized she’d forgotten to give shout-outs to her sponsors during the battle. “Well, crap.” Four dozen emails now waited in her inbox, guaranteed.

  Sighing, she toed empty snack bowls aside and climbed out of her game chair to stretch. Her back protested, and she winced. Maybe she should be more understanding of Pearl Jean’s supposed sciatica?

  Think of the she-beast, and she will appear. Pearl Jean marched down the hall, a woman on a mission. “I hope you’re happy with yourself.” She wagged a finger in Cookie’s direction. “All your chatter made it impossible for me to sleep.”

  The old biddy stood at five-foot-seven, an inch taller than Cookie. They were both plump in the bust and the butt, and could easily pass for a hot young granddaughter and her thousand-year-old grandmother. A fact Cookie loved to tease her friend about. Although they didn’t have very similar features.

  Cookie possessed shoulder-length brown hair, smooth pale skin and gray eyes; Pearl Jean had a cap of silvery curls, lined golden skin and navy eyes. An older Marilyn Monroe, she liked to say.

  With a wry undertone, Cookie said, “Next time take out your hearing aids. Problem solved.”

  Pearl Jean sputtered a moment.

  Sugars jumped to the floor and wound around Cookie’s legs, letting her know he expected his evening meal. She’d found him in her backyard last year, injured and freezing to death. With a little online help, she’d nursed him back to health. They’d been together ever since.

  He meow-meowed with the whiniest voice. Sugars-speak for Faster, woman.

  “Okay, okay.” She saluted Pearl Jean before heading to the kitchen, dragging the oxygen tank behind her. Strands of fur clung to yoga pants in desperate need of a wash. One day. Soonish. Laundry required energy, and Cookie had burned through hers to slaughter a digital enemy.

  A floorboard whined when she passed, and another groaned as if collapse was imminent. Because of course it did. She’d scrimped and saved to purchase this old farmhouse, eager to fulfill a childhood dream of living in a big, boxy home with acres of land, a white picket fence and a massive oak tree with a tire swing. Visions of neighbors offering welcome casseroles and borrowing eggs for last-minute baking emergencies had danced in her head.

  She’d craved a community similar the those she’d seen on TV. Everyone shopped at the same grocery store, despised the same high school football team, and shared way too much personal information with each other.

  She’d thought, Get the house. Spend the money. Enjoy your life while you can.

  Translation: All aboard the Titanic.

  Opportunity. Crash. Sink.

  Now the house slowly crumbled around her. Small-town Wi-Fi came straight from the pits of hell. In a cart. Without wheels. Thousand year old Mr. Benson, the only neighbor within walking distance, had never given her the time of day, much less a culinary masterpiece.

  Whatever. Cookie had better things to do than lament failed reveries. She concentrated on preparing a bowl of nibbles according to Suggy’s specific demands. Wet food in the center, dry food forming a perfect circle around it, with ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TOUCHING THE EDGES OF THE BOWL. If a single kernel made its way outside the circle of acceptable morsels, her precious A-hole refused to eat.

  When she finished, he looked over the offering and issued a meow of approval. As he ate, she set course for her bedroom to steal a quick power nap—nope. Pearl Jean stood guard in the living room.

  Her roommate stepped directly in her path and motioned to the couch. “Have a seat. We’re going to talk. In case there’s any confusion, I’m not asking.”

  “What’s wrong?” Without the aid of war-spawned adrenaline, fatigue seeped into Cookie’s bones. Have a seat? No problem. She released the tank and plopped onto the cushions. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Your reactions were slower than usual today, and you struggled to maintain your foc
us. I could tell.”

  So the old bat had watched due to more than boredom, huh?

  Needing a moment to consider the best response, she pitched her gaze over the well-worn floral furnishings, a huge plasma screen TV, portraits of smiling families she and Pearl Jean had found at various yard sales, and a coffee table scattered with all her must-haves: a bottle of water, iPod, earbuds, a bag of crackers, ChapStick, an iPad loaded with true crime and romance novels, and more snacks.

  From this vantage point, she had a view of the bay windows across the room. Outside, clouds rimmed in rose and lavender smeared the sky, the sun setting over her neglected acreage. Fruit trees no longer produced and weeds abounded. What she wouldn’t give to have the energy to garden. Or at least the money to pay someone to do it.

  Here goes. “I’m fine today, Pearl Jean, and I’ll be fine tomorrow. Honest. You don’t need to worry. You’re not going to wake up and discover I’m dead.”

  “Are you sure? Because you look like death right now.”

  “Yeah, but I always look like death lately.” Twelve months ago, her doctor guessed she had eleven months to go, unless they located a new heart. Living on borrowed time now. “It’s coming, just as we knew it would.”

  “No. There’s got to be something else we can do. Have you pursued ads on the darknet wide webs?”

  “That isn’t what it’s call—”

  “I don’t care what it’s called. Use it. You might get lucky and find someone who’s selling a perfectly acceptable preowned organ.”

  Cookie blinked back tears. No emotion. If she broke down, Pearl Jean would break down.

  “No, I’m not going to search for a preowned heart on the quote-unquote darknet wide webs,” she said softly, evenly.

  “Is money the problem? Because I’m willing to donate my Social Security.”

  Lying there, fatigue got the better of her. Cookie fought to keep her eyes open. “Can we postpone this conversation?”

  “No, we cannot,” her best friend cried. “This is life-or-death.”