Winter's Tale

Winter’s Tale

Emma Holly

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2013 Emma Holly. All rights reserved. With
the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be
reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing
without written permission of the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading
this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your
use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own
copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is a work of fiction and should be treated
as such. It includes sexually explicit content that is only
appropriate for adults—and not every adult at that. Those who are
offended by more adventurous depictions of sexuality or frank
language possibly shouldn’t read it. Literary license has been
taken in this book. It is not intended to be a sexual manual. Any
resemblance to actual places, events, or persons living or dead is
either fictitious or coincidental. That said, the author hopes you
enjoy this tale!

Winter’s Tale
is an approximately
31,000-word novella
.

eISBN-13
: 978-0-9888943-0-3

Discover other exciting Emma Holly titles at
http://www.emmaholly.com

cover photos
: Shutterstock—Andreas Gradin;
elen studio

The Prince With No Heart

The Assassins’ Lover

Steaming Up Your Love Scenes
(how-to)

The Billionaire Bad Boys Club

~

HIDDEN
SERIES

Hidden Talents

Hidden Depths

Date Night

Move Me

The Faerie’s Honeymoon

Hidden Crimes

Winter’s Tale

HALF
faerie, half elf Hans Winter
broke the heart of the wrong princess. Cursed to live as a statue
at a school for human girls, only true love—and true bravery—can
free him.

December Worth never met a rule she didn’t
want to break, as the numerous institutions that expelled her can
attest. Bravery she can handle. Love she’s less sure about,
especially if it involves believing in fairytales.

A kiss seems like the last thing these lonely
souls would share, until one night in the cemetery where Hans
stands trapped, Fate brings stone and flesh together.

reviewers rave about Emma’s HIDDEN series

“A truly fantastic read! Ms. Holly turns the
shape-shifting world on their respective ears! . . . 5 of 5
stars!”—
badasschicksthatbite.blogspot.com

“I don’t know how Emma Holly does it but I hope she
keeps on doing it . . . a smoking HOT read and a great
story.”—
In My Humble Opinion
(inmho-read.blogspot.com)

“
Hidden Talents
is the perfect package of
supes, romance, mystery and HEA!”—
paperbackdolls.com

DECEMBER
Worth never met a rule she
didn’t want to break. Golden-haired and willful, she was the
daughter of old money—as unlike her folks as if a pigeon’s egg had
been slipped into a swan’s nest. Behaving as a girl of good
breeding ought seemed beyond her capacity. December’s mother
claimed she was so much trouble they dared not try for a boy to
continue the family name. December suspected the real reason lay in
her mother’s fondness for keeping her trim figure.

True to her devilish nature, she expressed
this opinion whenever her mother expressed hers.

Not surprisingly, December grew up an only
child. Her knack for embarrassing her parents got her shipped off
to boarding school. There, more rules had an inevitable effect. By
her count, she’d run through eleven institutions by the time she
was eighteen.

The twelfth was the direst she’d been to yet.
Rackham’s School for Young Ladies was in upstate New York, crouched
among the hills above a village called Kingaken. Reputed not to
refuse any girl who could pay, Rackham’s was a not-quite-crumbling
stone fortress: castellated, towered and prohibitively gated with
Victorian era iron.

Behind the repressive walls, fifty-eight
souls resided. Four were teachers, six were staff, and one was a
headmistress. The odds would have been against these few
authorities maintaining order, except that the students—who ranged
in age from eight to eighteen—were remarkably spiritless. Her first
night there, December failed to convince a single girl to escape
the dorm with her. She was informed the headmistress had no liquor
cabinet to break into, the sleepy village was too far to reach
before morning, and in any case the thick woods that clustered
about the school were “scary” after dark.

Every girl who’d ventured into them had
gotten lost and needed to be rescued.

Such stories were unlikely to deter a brave
young lady like December. Twenty minutes past Lights Out, she
pulled her winter coat over her black-and-blue plaid pajamas and
her boots over her bare feet. Breaking into the headmistress’s
office was a snap, given its old-timey lock. As was her habit after
arriving at a new school, once inside she read the latest additions
to her file. Finding them depressing—because, really, could her
previous keepers mention
nothing
beyond her misbehavior?—she
left to explore. Illuminated by the burglar’s penlight she’d
brought along, the halls resembled scenes cribbed out of
Jane
Eyre
. Heat was not a priority at Rackham. The chilly air caused
her breath to gust whitely in front of her.

Nothing living ought to be living here.

Despite the thought, no ghosts flitted out.
December crept unmolested down a creaking wood staircase. The door
at its base opened into a moonlit yard. There, brown winter grass
lay matted beneath a layer of frost, the covering thick enough to
crunch under her boot soles. No flowerbeds spruced up the area, in
which Rackham’s students took exercise like the virtual prisoners
they were. The single noteworthy feature was a small iron gate in
the opposite wall.

December switched off her burglar’s light.
Accustomed to using caution on forays like this, she glanced up
before starting toward the tantalizing portal. The school formed a
rectangle around the forlorn yard, which the windows of the girl’s
monkish dorm overlooked. Fearing she’d be tattled on if spotted,
she stuck close to the wall under them.

The gate she reached was smaller than
expected—child sized, really. Loops of chain secured it, but the
lock was rusty. She was able to snap its shank by wedging a stick
inside. Though December wasn’t tiny, she believed she’d fit through
the opening. Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, she bent her five
feet five inches and squeezed outside.

A hook in the stones above caught her coat as
she did, pulling back its hood and spilling her long flaxen curls
down her shoulders. Those curls had been her pride and joy since
she was a child, the only thing her mother seemed to like about
her. But the loss of the head covering didn’t matter. Finally,
she’d found something interesting.

She’d stumbled into a small graveyard—not one
currently accepting residents. Planted on rolling ground surrounded
by bare-branched trees, the gravestones were worn and white. Most
were leaning, weathered by many decades of wind and rain. None of
the dates chiseled in the stones were later than 1910.
Eustace
Diggle
said the first she encountered.
1876-1908. Honest husband. Faithful son
. His wife
Constance—hopefully also honest—lay beside him, succeeded by a row
of markers for the Lang family. A marble fox, carved to look as if
it slept, curled nose to tail on the resting place of Abigail
Justice. Stone ducks waddled over a child called Buster, while a
small granite bench invited folks to set a spell with “Old Maude.”
She, evidently, had lived a whole century.

Charmed by the hinted-at histories, December
continued on. The longer she walked, the grander the markers grew.
The number of plots surprised her. The graveyard hadn’t seemed this
large when she stepped into it. She thought about turning back, but
some compulsion she couldn’t ignore led her on. Surely something
wonderful would appear right ahead. She began to wonder how far
right ahead
was when, in the cemetery’s apparent center, she
came upon a beautiful statue.

The figure was a life-sized naked man on a
low pedestal, his form so white the marble he was carved from could
have been sugar. The level of detail astonished her. Nails, lashes,
the veins that fed each graceful muscle were all there. Whoever the
man was, the sculptor had caught him with one hip shot and his head
hanging. His hair was thick and slightly shaggy, his lips full and
sad. Frost rimed his pale stone torso, feathers of it creating a
patchwork over his washboard abs. A fig leaf the size of her hand
guarded his male modesty.

“No full Monty for you, eh?” she murmured,
fighting a shiver.

Wondering who he was, she crouched for a
better look at the low block of granite on which he stood. When she
scraped away the crackling leaves and twigs, she found no name or
date. All the inscription said was, “For His Cruelty.”

“Huh.” She squinted up the tall body. Set
against the dark gray sky, the marble figure appeared to glow. That
was impossible of course. Grabbing the statue’s knee for purchase,
she pulled to her feet once more.

How sad the face was—and how old-fashioned in
its remorse! Did modern men feel guilty for being cruel? The
spoiled rich boys she tended to meet through their sisters only
minded being accused of it. December stepped onto the pedestal to
examine the statue’s features more closely. The stone man was
taller than she was: six two or three, she judged.

“Someone flattered you,” she said into the
lowered eyes. “Men from your day were short.”

She thought they were at least. Who knew when
this one had been born or died?

“You’re certainly pretty,” she added, noting
the narrow nose and the clean carved lines of the cheek and jaw. “I
confess you don’t look cruel to me.”

The night wind kicked up, skittering leaves
and frost across the graveyard. December became aware of her
solitude. If she screamed, it seemed unlikely anyone would hear.
The school was far behind her. The woods she’d been warned were
scary weren’t more than a stone’s toss away. Though the area wasn’t
silent, no sounds of human civilization penetrated the dead’s
abode. She felt off balance perched on the pedestal, tense in her
muscles inside and out. Without thinking, she curled her fingers
around the statue’s impressive upper arms. They were as developed
as a gymnast’s—or maybe a swordsman’s. Helpless to resist, she rose
onto the balls of her boots, leaning closer to the mysterious
snow-white face.

As if they were long-lost puzzle pieces, her
lips molded over the full cold mouth.

A thrill ran through her, icy turning hot
where rivers of excitement hit her between the legs. The stone
mouth fit hers, its lips silky and inviting despite their
temperature. The wind seemed to sigh with longing. What would it be
like to make love to a man like this? He was so hard, so perfect,
so temptingly unable to get away.

In December’s experience, love was a
challenge to hang onto.

Her grip tightened on the statue’s taut
biceps. Goaded on by curiosity, she licked the marble lips. Arousal
flooded her at the touch, so savage it frightened her. December had
fooled around with boys of course, but she’d never longed for one
like this, as if she’d die if a hot hard cock didn’t slide into her
at once. Images bombarded her: of tearing off her clothes and
rubbing her warm naked breasts over the statue’s chest, of climbing
to its waist and impaling her steaming pussy all the way down its
dick. The stone man wanted her to do this. He’d been trapped too
long without comfort or release. Even statues weren’t meant do
without pleasure forever.