{ExcerptGiveaway) FALLEN by Ann Hunter

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 This weekend only,
Ann Hunter's
Beauty and the Beast novel
Grab this deal while you can!

Earlier this week, 
Ann Hunter
stopped by The Book Rat
for a fun interview.
Check it out!

And now...
 Here's an excerpt from 

by Ann Hunter,
coming in May 2014!


Ciatlllait’s expression was vacant. Sylas patted her face. “Ciatlllait?” He tried again. “Ciatlllait.”
Ciatlllait gaped at the ceiling. Her eyes glazed over. Sylas looked helplessly to his father. Ciatlllait grew heavy in Sylas’s arms. He sank to his knees. The crowd rose, all trying to see what was happening. Séan crouched beside Sylas, his hand on his son’s back. He pressed his fingers against the soft spot on Ciatlllait’s neck between her throat and jaw. Sylas began rocking Ciatlllait and buried his face in her hair. He sobbed. She was gone.
Gasps and whispers rose from the crowd.
“His kiss is death.”
The word echoed over the crowd like a wave. Slowly at first, then crashing against him. Sylas looked up under the assail. “No. I love her!”
Another whisper began in the back and grew in momentum. “Mortas.”
“No.” Sylas shook his head. Tears slipped down his cheeks. “No!”
“No,” Sylas sobbed.
“Mortas,” they chanted. “Mortas.”
“You are no longer our prince.”
Séan held up his hands and begged the crowd to still. Leighlinbridge was beside Ciatlllait now, just as pale and tearful as the young prince. “What have you done?” he hissed.
Sylas’s mouth opened and closed. The words in his throat strangled him. He gasped for breath. The room spun. He shut his eyes to it. He hugged Ciatlllait tightly. His lips moved in fervent prayer. He prayed in the name of all of the gods, hoping one of them would hear him. He opened his eyes when he ran out of names. The room was still. Lord Leighlinbridge still crouched beside him, but he was stiff and stared at his daughter. Sylas looked at Séan. The king hovered over them, unblinking. Sylas looked to the angry crowd. They stood stock still, some with their fists held high in the air, others bent forward on the pews, statuesque. Only one figure moved. She shifted in the shadows, cloaked in black. A band of light revealed her withered chin and lips. She hobbled forward slowly, making her way through the throng of people. Sylas’s breath caught. “Crwys.”

Crwys had watched with great interest. Marriage in itself fascinated her. There was no permanence to it. Though they perish at the end of their days, man and woman continued to unite within the bonds of this ceremony, as though it had any significant consequence upon their soul. They seemed to have this thought that love and marriage went hand in hand. Crwys tried not to chuckle at the notion.
The prince looked at her. So much pain in his eyes. A brief pang strummed through Crwys.
“Help me,” Sylas begged.
Crwys loomed over them. She pulled back the hood of her cloak. It did not seem fair to the boy not to deal eye-to-eye. “Why?”
Sylas shut his eyes so tightly that tears squeezed out. His voice was tight and breathless. “Because I believe you are the only one who can.” He looked at her. “You, who rules the worlds of life and death. Please tell me it is not too late to save her.”
Crwys was quiet.
“Please,” Sylas choked. “I’ll do anything.”
“It does not seem fair to me to help you when you broke your vow to me.”
Sylas shook his head. “I fulfilled my promise to you. I went on the journey. I— ”
“You did not finish it,” Crwys interjected.
Sylas swallowed.
“I spared your grandfather while you yet stayed with me. You could have lengthened his reign. Instead, you chose to leave me. I had no choice but to take Sionnach, and now you ask me to intervene once again.” Crwys wagged a knotted finger and tsked. “I have no reason to believe you will not go back on your word.”
Sylas gazed at Ciatlllait. “I love her.”
Crwys took a deep breath. “A life for a life, Sylas. That is how the balance of the worlds works. Pay off the balance, and you may have your Ciatlllait.”
Sylas lifted his eyes. “Tell me what I must do.”
“Allow them,” Crwys motioned to the crowd, “to find their closure. Allow them to bury her. As it stands, they believe your kiss is death. You were gone from this land for a year. They fear it has changed you. I can help redeem you.”
“You will need to prove that your kiss is not of death, but of life, of rebirth. Meet me at the cairn of her ancestors three days hence. How miraculous it shall be when your kiss of true love causes her to live again.”
Sylas shook his head. “I do not understand. Why can I not kiss her now and bring her back?”
A nearly imperceptible smile played at the corner of Crwys’s mouth. “Because, my prince, I need time to work.”

Crwys replaced her hood and backed away slowly. The air blurred and she faded to the other world. The crowd began to move and yell again. Sylas felt as though he had been hit by a sack of ashlar. He worked to catch his labored breath. Guards were moving in to contain the mob. Leighlinbridge stole Ciatlllait from him and held her close, sobbing as he had before. Séan grasped Sylas’s elbow and helped him rise. Sylas’s legs quaked beneath him. His knees buckled. Séan held firm and embraced him. “We need to get out of here.”
Sylas looked at his father and nodded.
Séan kept his firm hand on his son’s arm. They gave the crowd a wide berth and escaped the room. Sylas hyperventilated. The world was spinning. He felt as though he might vomit. Séan’s voice was muffled. Sylas thought perhaps he ordered their horses. He held Sylas at arm’s length. “Can you ride?”
Sylas didn’t know why he said yes.
Séan looked back and forth. “I fear you have brought war upon us. We must retreat to the safety of Killeagh. We have our own business to attend to.” He led Sylas firmly until they were outside. Sylas somehow managed to mount Flann and kick him into a gallop toward Summerseat.

Sylas remained in a daze the following days. Sionnach had been laid out in the great hall of Killeagh for all to pay respect. His weathered hands rested over the pommel of a great golden sword. Red velvet had been draped over his body. He wore all of his favorite finery beneath and was crowned with a silver laurel. It nearly blended in to his wispy hair. Sylas sat beside him, staring blankly into a void. The last of the subjects had come and gone and it was not long until the old king would be taken to the cairn at Redhill to be buried with his ancestral kings and queens. Sylas clasped his hands together and hung his head. “What are we to do, Grandfather? I feel so lost.”
The room was silent save for the crackle of firelight coming from two braziers that flanked the stone table Sionnach laid upon. The flickering light accentuated the gaunt pallor of death. Sionnach’s temples and cheeks were particularly sunken.
“I should have listened to you.” Sylas shook his head. “I should have listened.” He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with a sob. “Why didn’t I listen?” Sylas bit his fist until the tears subsided. He shook his head again as though it would clear it. “I’m such a fool.”
The prince rubbed his face and ran his hands through his shortened hair before rising from his chair. His legs moved heavily toward Sionnach. Sylas bent to kiss his grandfather’s forehead gently. “Suaimhneas síoraí ort,” he murmured. “Forever in peace.”

Rós backed into a corner slowly under the pressing threat of the two other hens. His Majesty waited only a few feet behind her, desiring to make her his own. The other hens had continually bullied Rós and now it was His Majesty’s turn.
Rós looked between the two hens. Her little heart pounded wildly. Her mouth gaped as she gasped for air. She took another step back. And another. His Majesty bawked earnesty. Rós eeked in terror. She felt as though she were shrinking. Why could they not accept her? The hens glowed a dark color, and His Majesty another. Rós crumpled in the dirt and His Majesty raced toward her. Rós felt his talons dig into her as he mounted precariously. Something snapped in Rós. She couldn’t take it anymore. She snaked around and bit hard into His Majesty’s foot. The old rooster crowed in anguish and fell off. Rós rounded on him and chased him down the side of the pen before going after the hens. They squawked in surprise and fear and raced away until each one stood in a corner of the pen. Rós stood in the middle, feathers ruffled, eyes defiant. Enough was enough. No more palace life. No more palace chickens. No more. Rós looked about for Boy and any of the other servants. With no one in sight, she flapped her wings and called out. The fence was not too high. The sun peaked above the castle’s soaring tower and illuminated the little yard. The world came into focus for Rós. All of the colors where amplified one hundred fold. Distinct. Edged. No longer fuzzy or blurred into one another. Rós sprinted toward the fence, flapping her wings. She bounded over the thatched wood.
I want to be wild. I want to be free.
She made a bee-line for the other side of the yard gate, still slightly airborne. Too long had she been hen-pecked in the shadow of the curtain wall. Too long had she cowered in the confines of this gray and dreary palace existence.
No more! she thought.
She was nearly to the dirt path and the green, breezy grasses outside when she heard a holler. She slowed to a strut and glanced behind her. Boy was wide eyed and hurrying toward her. He bent at the waist, extending his arms before him. Rós clucked and picked up her pace. Sunlight was only a few feet away. Boy hollered again, and jogged forward. Rós clucked loudly and dashed outside.
I want to be free!
Boy continued to call and chase her, but Rós refused to be captured. She ventured further and further into the stretch of sunlight beyond the sullen walls. Here the grass swayed in a perfect wave of energy. Here the sky burned blue with the thick air of summer’s morning. Rós squabbled joyously. Boy was falling behind. She zigged and zagged as she had that morning Farmer had tried to take her life.
My life is mine.
Rós slowed to glance behind her. Boy had stopped. He stared at the castle. Many humans marched through the open arch of the castle bearing banners of the king’s house. Many of them glowed the same color, but none more fervently than
Rós watched Boy drop to his knees and prostrate before the procession. Rós had not seen Rooster in many moons. In fact she was surprised she recognized him at all still. He had filled out, and his countenance had changed. Rós bawked quietly. She crouched in the grass and watched the procession. They bore the king, but he no longer glowed with energy or life. Rós made another small, sad noise. Rooster dragged his feet, his shoulders slumped. He hung his head. Rós rose and moved toward them tentatively. She followed behind them a ways, remaining hidden in the grass. A breeze swayed the top of the grasses in a rush of hushed whispers. The company of men lifted their voices and began singing a sorrowed song, wordless and harmonied. Rós cocked her head at this strange behavior and remained close behind, but not too close for she did not wish to be discovered. The procession followed the dirt road, kicking up dust and rocks and bugs. Rós stopped to peck a few before noticing the men had taken a left turn and headed toward the forest. She had never been in the forest. Nervous energy filled her. What was there in the shadows, in the way the trees swayed? She trotted after the men to catch up once more.

Sylas clasped his wrist and bowed his head in reverence. The sun beat down on the banner men, king, prince, and servants carrying Sionnach. Sionnach’s chalky skin appeared that much brighter in the morning light. The red velvet banner covering Sionnach’s lower half fluttered in the breeze and sunlight glinted off the edge of his golden sword. The sky was cloudless and bright. One could not ask for a better day to be honored and laid to rest.
They turned left down the road to head toward Redhill where Sionnach’s ancestors reigned in eternal silence. They entered the forest. The banner men and bearers continued to raise their voices in wordless song, honoring Sionnach’s spirit. The melody ebbed and flowed, and seemed to become one with the breeze, with the trees, with the dancing light and leaves. As they marched, Sylas could not help but think of Ciatlllait who was already resting with her own family. He thought of Crwys’s words that she could redeem him. He could be with Ciatlllait once again after three days time. Today was that day. Sylas sighed, longing to be there now. He lifted his eyes. Redhill loomed on the horizon where the trees were sparse. Sylas wondered how hard it would be to slip away, and felt a twinge of guilt. Yet the more he thought of it, the harder he found it to resist. Would it not be better to awaken Ciatlllait from her eternal sleep and honor Sionnach together? To be hand in hand before their king with the promise of continuing the royal line. Sylas glanced at Redhill in the distance. Something scurried between the trees. Sylas’s eyes tried to catch up to it. It was larger than a squirrel, but smaller than a badger. He squinted. The creature zipped between trees again. Sylas caught a glimpse of yellow feet and red feathers. He paused. There in the shadows… was a chicken. Sylas’s brow knit. He wondered what a chicken was doing this far out from the castle. The little red hen stood between two gray trunks, unblinking. They regarded each other. Sylas knew the company was growing further away as they continued their journey to Redhill, but he could not unfix his eyes. There was something about the chicken. It wasn’t her common appearance, or the way she cocked her head intelligently from one side to the other as she regarded him in return. It was something more. Something intangible. Sylas crouched. He rested his forearms on his knees. The hen pecked casually at the leaves beneath her, then blinked at Sylas with pretty, golden eyes.
“What’s your name, lass?” Sylas asked.
The hen made a throaty, slow bawk.
Sylas blinked. It almost sounded like a name. He shook his head. Chickens didn’t talk. He didn’t know why he was even trying to speak with one in the first place. As he rose, the hen leapt into a bush and Sylas jumped, startled. He breathed hard. The hen vanished behind the foilage. Sylas grimaced. He turned toward Redhill with a final glance over his shoulder and shook his head.

Rós stared not at Rooster but the shadow behind him. It wasn’t clear at first, but the nearer it drew to him, the more it stood out against his glowing colors. She had watched those change as well. But the shadow behind him remained, growing increasing larger as it closed the space between itself and the young one. When it seemed that the black swirl would devour him, Rós could stand it no longer and took for cover. She cowered in the bush and hoped the shadow would pass her over. She marveled that Sylas did not notice it and continued on his way with no more than a jump.
As she trembled in the bush, she sensed the dark energy above her, bearing down.
I am a wild chicken, she reminded herself as though being wild would make her braver. I am a wild chicken!
She closed her eyes and focused on her short, erratic breaths. Wild chicken, she repeated to herself, wild chicken. The shadow was oppressive and lingered. Rós could feel the presence even though she did not see it. There was only one other time she recalled such a presence: the day she was presented to the king. What had Farmer said that morning?
Something gods. Something chicken.
It had sounded so important. She had not understood at the time, but it made her feel special. Farmer spoke of his gods often, so she recognized the word, even if she did not comprehend what they were.
Chosen. Rós remembered. Chosen. Chicken.
Rós mustered her courage and opened one eye. My life is mine! she asserted.
The shadow moved on with a labored, wheezy breath.
Rós carefully peeked out of the bush and watched the shadow move not toward Rooster, but in another direction further into the woods. Though she trembled, Rós felt compelled to follow. She walked forward slowly, staying well out of sight, and repeated to herself Gods. Chosen. Chicken. Each step made her more confident. Gods. Chosen. Chicken.
The shadow moved quickly and Rós struggled to keep up and remain silent simultaneously. A few times the shadow paused and swirled around as though it knew it was being followed. Rós would duck and fervently hope that she had not been seen. The shadow moved on until it came to the opening of a fertile green mound, big enough to house men. An opening gaped before them. Rós hid in a small patch of wildflowers, watching the shadow warily. To either side of the opening were stone pillars, carved with strange markings. The shadow hesitated before them, then moved inside.
Rós looked about. She cocked her head with one eye set at the base of the pillars and the other on the sky. The sun was near its midpoint. She strode forward and clucked. Wild. Chosen. Chicken. The opening was dark, gaping like a giant hungry mouth. She stood before it. The pillars cast a shadow that criss-crossed over her. She thought that was odd and scratched at the bare patch of earth before the opening. A wild chicken would not fly away now, she told herself. A wild chicken would find out why the shadows did not behave as they should. Rós blinked. She took a step forth. Then another. Finally she stood with the sunshine behind her, and the darkness before her.
The path beneath her was earthy and unpaved. She could barely see, but felt that she should forge ahead and catch up to the shadow. It could not be far away. Rós stepped lightly. With great trepidation, she trotted down the path. It sloped deeply into the hill. She sensed a turn ahead. When she rounded the corner, she came to a small room lit by fire on long branches, and two metal drums. A meager table of plates and food stood at the center. If Rós found the ways of men peculiar before, they were very strange now. Who would leave this here? She marched over to the table and pecked at the legs curiously. There was another opening at the other end of the room, also flanked by two fire drums. Rós approached them. A black beetle waddled by. Rós thought it very considerate of the masters of this house to leave her a bite to eat. How kind they were! She snatched him up eagerly with a snap of her beak and continued on. The floor sloped again, but this path was well-lit. Rós was just thinking how lovely that beetle was when the path opened into a new room with many recesses in its walls. She marched over to one to see if, perhaps, the masters had left any more morsels about. To her delight she found one crawling out from under some old, musty wrappings, similar to the cloth of men. She gulped that one too, then pecked a bit to see if any more could be prodded out. She followed the wrappings to its widest point and came face to face with the sunken features of a woman. Her skin was brown and tight. Her mouth hung open, and no white filled her forward-facing eyes. What hair remained was brittle and wispy. Rós clucked in confusion. She trotted to the next recess. She found a man in a similar state. She crossed the way to another. The same. And another. Yes, the same. She pecked at the leathery skin to be sure and backed slowly to the middle of the aisle. Her eyes wandered up and down. Three bodies to a wall. Rós’s little heart skipped a beat. All of these bodies and none of them glowing. It was unnatural. She backed further down the aisle, her eyes wandering wildly. She came to an empty spot and clamored into it. No sooner had she turned around than she spotted the great shadow looming over one of the bodies at the end of the hall. The air grew staler and thick. Rós opened her beak and panted. She ruffled her feathers to allow the hot air out.
The shadow bent, if that were possible, over a young woman. The girl appeared close to Rooster’s age with fine, pale skin, and golden hair. Rós wondered why, when the girl looked yet alive, she did not glow. This place made no sense. Many bodies, but no life. Death everywhere. Rós shivered. Shadowy fingers reached for the girl’s mouth and pried it open. Rós watched as the shadow formed itself into a pure ball of energy and slid inside. The teeth closed with a clack. Horror stricken, Rós darted from her hiding spot and ran as fast as she could to the table room.

Sylas jogged down the the path of Ciatlllait’s family cairn. He had stayed as long as he could by his grandfather’s side as he was laid to rest in the Redhill cairn. It had pained Sylas and he got out of Redhill as fast as he could. The Leighlinbridge cairn was nowhere near as opulent as Redhill. It did not even have a name. Yet Sylas, being required to know the lay of his future lands, found it with ease. He was eager to find Ciatlllait and wake her from her ever sleep. His thoughts were only on her now. His jog turned into a run as he turned the corner of the first descent. He skidded to a stop in the remembrance hall where he found a chicken picking its way over the wooden plates and investigating the food.
Sylas’s mouth hung open momentarily. He could swear that was the very same red hen that he had found in the woods. But how in the world did it get here?
“Hey!” Sylas blurted.
The chicken squawked, startled. Feathers floated through the air. The hen ran in a small circle before stopping to stare at Sylas. She cackled and fluttered off the table to race toward him. Sylas picked his feet high off the floor in a nervous dance. He backed himself to the wall and smacked into it. When spun around the hen was only a few feet away. Sylas caught his breath. “What are you doing here? Who are you?”
The hen gave a long, slow bawk, as if stating her name.
Sylas shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The hen tilted her head from side to side and blinked. It was as though she were trying to tell him she went where she pleased.
“But how did you get here? Why are you here?”
The chicken scratched the floor and pecked a bit before striding toward the door at the opposite end of the hall.
Sylas felt an irresistible pull. He followed her to the braziers where she had paused. With one foot held off the ground, Sylas thought the hen looked rather like one of his father’s hunting dogs. He gave her a wide berth. A chicken. In a cairn. It was worse than the time that farmer had brought a hen as tribute and simply left her in the throne room.
Sylas backed down the hall, keeping his eyes fixed on the hen. She stared at him once more and clucked. The prince stopped. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. Are you coming?”
The hen trotted a fretted circle.
Sylas sighed. His head tipped back and he rubbed his face. “I’m talking to a chicken.” He looked at her. “Suit yourself.” He pivoted and continued on. A moment later he heard the hen squabble and found her not far behind. He smirked. As bizarre as it was, he was glad to have some company. The last several days had been very dark and lonely.
He descended further into the cairn, taking care not to disrespect or unsettle Ciatlllait’s ancestors. He kept his eyes forward, knowing his love was not far away now. The hen remained hesitant behind him, and refused to go beyond the final bend. Sylas rushed toward Ciatlllait and dropped to his knees beside her. Even in death, her beauty did not pale. If anything, the torchlight accentuated her features. Sylas took her cold, stiff hand in his own and ran his fingers over her skin. She really did look serene, as though in a deep sleep. Sylas leaned to see if Crwys was anywhere to be seen. He looked over his shoulder and around. Where was she? She said she would meet him here. Sylas stroked Ciatlllait’s hair and gazed at her with immediacy. He assured himself Crwys was coming. He glanced briefly to the hen who cowered in the corner at the end of the path. First she acted as though she were queen, but now she dare not come further. Such a strange little creature. Sylas sighed. It felt as though an eternity had passed. His eyes returned to Ciatlllait. He could do it. He could kiss her now. His chest tightened. He didn’t need Crwys. He needed Ciatlllait. He needed her standing beside him. His hand cradled her cheek as it often had in life. He touched his forehead to hers, brushing her nose with his. “Rise, my queen, and live.”
Sylas pressed his lips to Ciatlllait’s. He exhaled and widened his mouth as though he could breath life into her. He squeezed her hand tightly, urging his energy through her fingers. His fervent prayer was that his love was enough. After a moment, he felt the skin beneath his palm twitch. Muscles ebbed to life. Sylas’s heart pounded. He leaned back, his lips still caressing those of his lady love. Ciatlllait pressed her mouth to his. Her free hand grasped the back of his head and she kissed him willfully. She sat up slowly, not relinquishing her prince. Sylas embraced her. Tears slid down his cheeks. It was a miracle!
They parted reluctantly. Ciatlllait’s eyes were drowsy. She looked at Sylas. He clasped her hand and kissed it before nuzzling his cheek against her fingers. “Oh, my love! Wait until they see…”
Ciatlllait steadied herself on Sylas’s shoulder as she found her feet. She took a step back and Sylas held her at length. He shook his head. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Nor can I,” Ciatlllait said. Her voice was harsh, but Sylas thought perhaps it was still shaky from the grip of death. He came to her side and began to lead her away, but the girl remained rooted to her spot. Jarred, Sylas turned around. Why was she not coming?
“Are you alright?”
The corner of Ciatlllait’s mouth curled almost imperceptibly. “I’m perfect, my prince.”
“Then let us go,” Sylas urged.
Ciatlllait gripped his wrist hard. Her eyes were locked on his. “Not so fast.”
Sylas glanced down at her steely grasp, then back up. “What is the matter?”
“There is much death here, and I can’t help notice that you’re looking a little… green.”
Sylas’s brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”
Ciatlllait’s twisted smile grew. “No. You don’t.”
Sylas screamed in excruciating pain as a bolt of blue shot from Ciatlllait’s hand and made contact with his heart. He fell to his knees, wide-eyed and gaping at the ceiling. He choked and writhed. His legs shrank beneath him, a coldness enveloped him. The world spun. Blackness and stars everywhere. His body contorted. It was almost too much to bear. He blacked out momentarily. When he came to, everything was fuzzy. Ciatlllait’s face had grown larger than the moon. She held him close to her. Sylas wondered what had happened. He looked down to find himself several feet off the floor. Ciatlllait’s fingers curled around his shrunken body. “You could not wait for me, Sylas,” Ciatlllait spat. “You could not resist this love you claim to have. I have heard it said amongst your people that love is patient. Love is kind. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking. They say it does not boast. Yet you self-seek, Sylas, and you do me little kindness. You dishonor me. You were too trusting in this love. Now you are mine.” Ciatlllait stroked Sylas’s bumpy, slimy green head. His throat pulsed with a new breathing rhythm. A webbed foot wiggled free of her grip. “There are a many princes in this world, Sylas. But you’re a real toad.”
Sylas croaked weakly.
Ciatlllait cackled and shoved Sylas into her dress. She rounded so fiercely that the torches snuffed out in the room.


Ann Hunter wrote her first multi-award winning story before age 13. She is the author of the young adult fantasy novels The Subtle Beauty, Moonlight, Fallen, The Rose In The Briar, and Ashes. She likes cherry soda with chocolate ice cream, is a mom first and a writer second, has a secret identity, and thinks the Twilight movies are cheesier than cheez whiz (which is why they are her guilty pleasure!)

She lives in a cozy Utah home with her two awesome kids and epic husband.
Check out Ann's blog, and follow along on Twitter

Author: Ann Hunter
 Publication date: May 2014
Publisher: Afterglow Productions

One prince. One mistake. One... chicken?

A twisted retelling of The Frog Prince, featuring your favorite villain from THE SUBTLE BEAUTY and MOONLIGHT, Sylas Mortas.

What would YOU do for love?

Sylas Mortas is a young prince, but youth brings folly. When the ban sidhe Crwys comes keening for Sylas's grandfather, King Sionnach, Sylas offers to go in his grandfather's stead. This break with tradition, and selfless sacrifice, moves Crwys into loving Sylas. But when Sylas crosses Crwys to be with his true love, Ciatlllait, he invokes the wrath of a woman scorned.

Rós is just a little, aura-seeing, red hen whose master believes she is chosen by the gods. Her arrival at King Sionnach’s court is insignificant to Sylas at the time, but their destinies are interwoven.

Can Rós help Sylas save himself from the curse Crwys has planned for him? Or will he become a fallen frog prince?

Follow Sylas through his descent from noble prince to fallen, twisted creature.

Ready to discover Ann Hunter?

In anticipation of the release of FALLEN, Ann Hunter has offered up a e-copy to 1 lucky Fairy Tale Fortnight reader, available upon the book's release.

This giveaway is open to US/CAN, and ends May 10th, 2014 at midnight. 

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  1. I like this, the names are very different leading me to believe that the book will be very different. A male protagonist is always really good too, different than the usual.

  2. Fallen is now live! Be sure to check it out.


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