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A glass blower with a unique ability.

Ember Farrow breathes magic into every piece of glass she makes. It’s a gift handed down through generations in her family of fire elementals-- all the way back to when her great-great-grandfather created Cinderella’s slippers.

But then the slippers are stolen. . . and Ember is the prime suspect.

An FBI agent determined to crack the case.

Every criminal claims to be innocent, and Agent Calder Ford isn’t easily convinced. Still, his gut tells him there’s more to this case than meets the eye . . . and the same goes for the fiery woman who challenges him at every turn.

She may not be a crook, but she’s definitely hiding something . . . and Ford’s going to figure out what it is.

A family legacy that could set the world on fire.

Ember must clear her name while hiding a dangerous family secret: The slippers are more than a relic from a fairy tale. They have a dark history and a deadly power of their own. As she and Ford follow the clues to find them, she begins to fear the thief knows exactly what they have and how to use them.

If that’s the case, they’ll be coming for the only other person on earth with that knowledge.


Of Glass and Ashes is a magical adventure inspired by the fairy tale, Cinderella. If you like contemporary fantasy with plenty of twists, turns, and a spark of romance, you’ll love this modern spin on a classic.

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Ford pulled into the underground garage and parked in his usual spot, pocketing his keys before he opened the back door to let Ember out. She eyed their surroundings curiously.

"This way." He extended his hand toward the elevators.

"Not exactly what I expected," she said.

He cocked a blond brow. "What did you expect?"

They got in the elevator, and she turned to watch the shiny doors close before focusing on the blinking floor display. Ford watched her reflection, but she didn’t look at him as she shrugged.

"I don't know. Cubicles with agents and people in handcuffs and lots of ringing phones. A damp interview room with a one-way mirror and a speaker on the wall."

"You watch a lot of TV," he said. "And you're not being interrogated. We only want to ask you a few questions."

She slid him a glance. "So why bring me all the way down here? Couldn't you have asked me your questions in my studio?"

He suspected she already knew the answer. Coming to headquarters took the suspect out of familiar territory. It instilled fear and respect and put the agent firmly in the position of authority.

"Procedure," he replied simply.

She didn't respond, but he saw her fingers knit together in front of her. She seemed to notice that he noticed, and stopped fidgeting, slipping her hands into the pockets of her well-worn overalls as she turned her attention back to the elevator numbers.

Ford surreptitiously took stock of her. He'd noticed the basics before, of course. Female, five-foot-ten, hundred-twenty pounds, give or take. Her dark red hair was gathered into a pile on top of her head, a few strands sticking to her neck. Brown eyes—though like most fire elementals, he knew that could change—freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. She wore a gray t-shirt under the overalls, and he now spotted a few scars on her bare arms, one on the back of her neck. She looked both tough and innocent at the same time, which didn't make any sense.

But so far, not much about this case made any sense.

The elevator doors slid open, and he escorted her down a hallway to an open conference room. He held the door for her and with another quick glance at him, she took a seat at the long table, lacing her hands together in front of her like a child waiting for class to begin.

He shot a quick text to his partner and sat down across from her.

When he said nothing, she gave him an expectant look. "Are you going to ask me anything?"

"Just waiting for my partner," he replied.

She squinted at him slightly. “You didn’t need your partner to bring me in?”

“I didn’t expect any trouble.” He smirked. “And it was on my way.”

Her expression grew more skeptical. “Right. Where were you coming from?”

“Not important,” he replied, not wanting to admit to her that he’d wanted to get a read on her himself. Even after working with Alvarez for more than a year, there were still times he liked to fly solo, observe with no distractions. He glanced toward the door. Where was Alvarez? “It’ll only be a moment,” he assured Farrow.

Sure enough, before he could count to five the door flew open and Sasha came through, brandishing a cardboard container carrying three cups of coffee.

"Ms. Farrow, this is my partner, Agent Sasha Alvarez," Ford said, nodding in gratitude when she handed him one of the cups.

Alvarez sat next to him and pulled the other two out of the carrier. "Ms. Farrow," she gave her a slight nod. "I have another cup here if you'd like one." She flashed one of her patented winning Alvarez smiles, designed to put suspects at ease. Alvarez was well-versed at playing the good cop.

"Thank you," Farrow said, taking the coffee. She ignored the packets of sugar and creamer Sasha slid across the table, sipping the coffee black.

Alvarez smiled at her again and swept back a curtain of straight, black hair, tucking it behind her ear. "I'm sorry to drag you all the way down here," she said, empathy practically dripping from her dark brown eyes. "But I'm sure we can get this all cleared up very quickly if you’ll answer a few questions."

The glass blower turned her cup in slow circles. "I'll try to help if I can."

"Great!" Alvarez slid a manila folder from under the coffee tray and flipped it open. She took a photograph out of the file and handed it to Ford.

He set it on the table and spun it to face Farrow. "Do you recognize these?" he asked.

She glanced down at the picture and raised a brow at him. "Of course. They're the Crystal Slippers," she said. "Aren't they the whole reason I'm here?"

"The Crystal Slippers?" Ford reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a notepad, flipping it open. "Is that what you call them?"

Farrow flinched slightly. Had she not meant to say that?

"In my family, yes," she replied.

"Your family." Alvarez flipped through the papers in the folder, but Ford knew it was more for effect than anything else. "Because they created the Slippers?"

Ember swallowed. "My great-great-well, a few more greats, but I lose track, grandfather made them."

"And he was a fire elemental like you?"

At that, Farrow's mouth dropped open. "You—you know? But you're—"

"Ordinary?" Alvarez grinned disarmingly. "Yes, I'm aware."

"We don't hold it against her," Ford muttered. "Much."

"And you're…" Farrow focused on Ford then, dark eyes narrowing. "Water." She looked as if something suddenly made sense, although Ford had no idea what that could be. Perhaps she'd sensed he was a water elemental and her suspicion had now been confirmed. He'd known, of course, what she was, but even if he hadn’t, he would have smelled the smoke a mile away, as they say. Fire is difficult to miss.

"Yes." Ford nodded, annoyed at the turn the discussion had taken. This was not what they'd come here to talk about. "The Bureau often teams up Magicals and Non-Magicals these days."

Alvarez took a sip of her coffee. "Inter-species cooperation."

In fact, the program was relatively new, and Alvarez and Ford had only been partners for a little over a year and a half. The separation between the Magical world and the Ordinary had been a strict line of demarcation for centuries. History had proven that when ordinary humans became a little too aware of the Magical world, it only resulted in destruction—witch trials, wars, crusades. But over the past century, the government had seen the value of bringing more Ordinaries into the loop, so to speak. Today, Magicals and Ordinaries worked together to keep the peace, and to keep the majority of Non-Magicals blissfully unaware of the Magical world.

You know what they say about ignorance.

Ford wasn't sure how he felt about all of it. He hadn't been sure when Alvarez had been assigned to him, but she'd proven to be a valuable asset both to the Bureau, and to him as an agent. She was smart, with good instincts, and they worked well as a team.

"Any idea what they're worth today?" Alvarez asked, steering the conversation back to the Slippers.

Ember blinked. "I—I don't know," she replied. "They're one of a kind, so I'd suspect they're priceless."

"So, you'd love to have them back in the family, wouldn't you?" Ford asked.

Her eyes flashed golden, and she took a deep breath, as if to calm herself. "What would I do with them?" she asked. "It's not like I could put them on eBay."

"So, you've thought about that?" Ford asked. "Where to sell them?"

"Of course not," Ember retorted, glancing down at the photograph again. "We'd much rather have them in a museum, believe me."

And was it his imagination, or did that last part, that
believe me come out a little under her breath? Like she hadn't meant to say it out loud?

"So you don't have any idea where they are?" he asked.

"No." She looked him straight in the eye. "I don't."

"Do you know who might want them?" Alvarez asked.

"A lot of people, I guess," she replied, dragging her gaze over to his partner. "Art aficionados, collectors. As I said, I don't think they're something you could sell easily, so it would have to be someone who wanted the Slippers themselves."

"And you're saying that's not you." Ford slipped the photo back into the file and closed it. Time to lower the hammer. He shot Alvarez a glance, but she simply arched a brow as if to say go for it.

"No, it's not me," Farrow said with an irritated huff. "I didn't have anything to do with this."

"And you were not in New York last month?"

She blinked, obviously taken off guard. "Well, yes, actually. I was there for a glass blowers convention."

"And you went to the New York Museum of Art?"

She shifted in her seat, darting a glance at Alvarez, as if hoping she would swoop in and save her.

"I did," she said slowly. "I went to see the glass exhibit there, but that's not unusu—"

"What if I were to tell you," Ford interrupted, drawing her nervous gaze back to him. "That the Slippers were being transported to the NYMA, but the crate was switched somewhere along the way. That a pair of forgeries ended up at the museum."

"That's—" She swallowed thickly. "That's terrible, but—"

"And what if I were to tell you that forensics specialists were able to trace a Magical signature on the forgery crate? One that both appeared at the NYMA, and at the Louvre?"

Her brow creased and she shook her head. He had to hand it to her, Ember Farrow could play innocent with the best of them. "Well, then why aren't you talking to whoever that is? It seems like—"

"We are," Ford said abruptly, and he watched her, waiting for the realization to set in. "It was your signature, Ember Farrow. On the crate. On the fakes. At the museum in New York and at the Louvre.

"So, I'm going to ask one more time: Where are the Crystal Slippers?"



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