Killian approached it carefully, but didn’t touch anything.
“Excuse me?” he called out. He listened carefully for a response, but just as before, there was none.
He quickly pulled on the socks and shoes, brushed his hands through his still-damp hair, and walked to the door. He steered the cart out of the way, careful not to touch too much, and opened the main door. He pulled back with a jump.
“What the...”
The serving cart was right in front of him, sitting in the middle of a hall. He spun around, looking back in the bedroom, but it was no longer sitting where it had been just a moment ago. He glanced back at the cart, this time much more hesitant to touch it, and he gently nudged it to the side with his foot.
“Um.” He tiptoed further out to the hall. “No, thank you?”
The hall was long and narrow, but he passed by no other doors. The walls were plain, lit by simple chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, hardwood floor underfoot. There were no windows, no corners to turn or even stairs, and soon Killian felt his skin begin to prickle. He swallowed and looked over his shoulder. He was relieved that the serving cart was no longer in sight, and he sighed, turned back around, and nearly stumbled into the cart right in front of him.
“Ouch!”
He caught himself, snatching the cart before it could topple over. Though when he looked up, he saw a door. Frowning, Killian recognized the looping gold handle, and when he opened it and peered inside, he found none other than his own bedroom.
“Alright,” he muttered as he shut the door and looked back at the cart, “I’m really not hungry, I promise.”
A tiny bell jingled up against his ear. Killian gasped, whirling back toward the hall, his eyes widening. A swirling staircase looped out in front of him, and he dared not take his eyes off it for a second.
“Please,” he called, “my name is Killian, and I am looking for my friend. His name is Fedya?” he paused, chewing his lip. “Is he here?”
The bell didn’t answer. Without hesitation, Killian followed the staircase. It spiraled downward, and with each passing step, the smell of fresh bread wafted up to him. His stomach rumbled, the warm scent wrapping around him, and soon, the searing aroma of bacon followed after. He swallowed again, trying to focus, but as he reached the bottom step his mouth began to water.
He stood before a yawning doorway, friendly lights entwined with warm scents luring him inside. There was nowhere else to go, and when he stepped in his stomach gave another ravenous leap.
An enormous table spread out in front of him, covered end to end with platters of thick-cut ham, overflowing baskets of croissants, biscuits, and baker’s bread. Bowls of jam and custards sprinkled the tablecloth. Glass bottles of orange juice, milk, and cream sat beside a steaming tea pot, the china all perfectly set. The bacon sizzled and the eggs let off swirls of steam. Gleaming silverware was set atop freshly pressed linens, and a single chair was pulled to the side, waiting for him expectantly.
Killian sighed. He no longer expected to find anyone waiting for him. “If I eat, will you help me find him?”
He almost smiled as the bell jingled out in response. Even so, it felt strange to eat alone. The banquet was large enough to feed a dozen more people, although there were no other chairs seated around the table, and as he sat down he realized there were no other doors either. He tried not to think about it, piling his plate high. Fedya was his focus right now. Not this mansion, nor this banquet. Though perhaps a little food couldn’t hurt.
He was halfway through his second plate when a new sound drifted down the hallway. Killian jumped from his chair so fast it toppled over, and rushed over to the doorway. He peered out the hall.
“Is anyone there? Hello?”
He knew this sound. Not a bell or a voice, it was far too quiet, but it made his pulse quicken. Piano notes. Music.
The staircase was gone, replaced by another long hall filled with windows, the bright morning sun flooding the floor in golden pools of light. Killian practically ran down it, suddenly breathless. He’d heard that music before, chasing after the lofty melody.
“Fedya?”
A door appeared at the end of the hall. He started to run, hope swelling in his chest. This was it. Fedya was here.
The door swung open and the music cut short.
“Wait!”
Killian burst inside.
Fedya wasn’t there. He spun around, gasping for breath, his entire body quivering. He stood in the middle of a round room, a gleaming grand piano right in front of him. Shelves covered in thick, leather-bound books lined the walls, and scrolls of maps hung from the ceiling. A single window was set just behind the piano, the light it filtered in strangely dim.
Killian’s chest shook, heart racing, mouth dry. He glared at the piano, its ivory keys suddenly like teeth, grinning in mockery. But then he saw the metronome.
It sat on top of the piano’s hood, carved of dark wood and shimmering copper. The gears on its face stared back at him like a set of eyes, and a chill slowly crept up Killian’s spine. He eased a step closer, and his fingers twitched, tempted to touch it. It looked so ordinary. Then it began to tick.
Killian didn’t move, couldn’t look away. He stared at the slender, copper hand, waving back and forth in perfect time. Tic-tic-tic-tic. One right after another. Steady. Certain. The hand swung to the middle and stopped short.
The ticking echoed in Killian’s ears. An icy grip wrapped around his neck and Killian gasped, wrenching back from the piano. He ran back out the door, gasping for breath, his lungs feeling like every last ounce of air had been squeezed out. The floor rocked beneath his feet, dizzy and strange. He latched on to a windowsill, gripping the ledge tight, staring at the ground.
Multicolored lights dabbled across his feet. He squeezed his eyes tight, counted to ten, and gripped the sill tighter. He forced his eyes open, but the spots of color remained. Killian frowned and slowly lifted his head back up. Spots of pink and blue filled his vision, gleaming like crystal. His jaw dropped and he slowly took a step back.
Tiny pieces of stained glass were blended together, fitting into the image of a rose. Each petal, each thorn, was a perfectly carved piece of glass, pink, silver, emerald, sapphire, into a single, seamless image. Killian took another step back, trying to take it all in. The Winter Rose. It was the Winter Rose.
Through the glass he could see the cragged white peaks of the mountainside, coated in a thick blanket of redwoods. He suppressed the urge to sigh. Good. At least they were still in Thale. A field of snow stretched out around the mansion, and he could just make out the iron fence surrounding it. Then a figure moved, distant and small. Killian’s eyes widened and he leaned in close, peering through to a blush-hued world. He saw him.
“Fedya.”
The looming silhouette of Fedya’s new form fell like a puddle of ink upon the freshly fallen snow. He’d wrapped himself in a large piece of cloth, the dark fabric concealing his body and sliding across the earth as he moved across the empty landscape. His back faced Killian, his head tucked down.
Killian wrenched himself from the window, tripping as he found another staircase. His mind buzzed. Didn’t he already go down a staircase? It didn’t matter. It was the only way he could go. He sprinted down the steps, and a single door awaited him at the bottom. He yanked it open and a cool blast of air hit his face.
A world of white stretched out in front of him. Killian squinted, but Fedya wasn’t there. He took a step out and his shoe crunched on something with a loud crack. Killian pulled back, glancing down. Crushed glass glittered on his sole. He frowned, taking another step back. Another crack.
First Killian saw the shards of glass. Then he saw the blood. His heart stopped beating. Streams of red, trickling through the once pure snow, stole the last of his breath away. A sharp wind sliced across his face, luring him forward even as his stomach sank further, following the scarlet trail. He stopped. The mangled remains
of the broken chandelier lay smashed into the snow. And Dmitri.
Or what was left of him.
“What are you doing here?”
Killian gasped and spun around. Fedya stood in front of him. Or rather, a beast.
“I…” he glanced back to the chandelier. But all of it, the blood, the glass, Dmitri, was gone. “I was…”
“Get out.”
Killian blinked a few times, refusing to look away. He could see Fedya better now. Although his cloak swallowed his body, it did little in the way of concealing his massive frame, his heavy, catlike paws still visible, claws thick and sharp. Up close, his fur wasn’t black at all, but instead his mane glimmered in a rich array of deep blues and purples, and the tips of his horns flashed with a spark of crimson.
“Fedya,” Killian spoke, but his words cracked, throat dry, “you have to come back with me. You can’t stay here. Don’t you remember what the fairy said? After the Pink Moon—”
Fedya lunged forward, a powerful roar bursting from his throat. A blast of hot breath blew across Killian’s face, and when he opened his eyes, he was staring into the frozen blue eyes of a monster.
Killian couldn’t move. His arms dangled numb by his sides, legs locked in place. Each shallow breath trembled in his chest. Fedya opened his jaw, long, white fangs nearly grazing Killian’s cheek with a throaty snarl.
“Leave me alone.”
Fedya’s growls lingered as he turned and walked away, his words echoing in Killian’s skull.
Killian watched him go. He still couldn’t move. Could hardly think. But then he noticed something, a dash of pink. Soft petals rested tenderly atop a muscled paw. Fedya was holding the Winter Rose; he still had it even now. Killian called out.
“Eskor needs you.”
Fedya stopped, but this time he remained silent.
Killian seized the moment. He took another step forward, and willed his voice to remain steady. “This is my fault. I should have listened to you, before, in the gardens. I didn’t know anything about magic, and I never could have imagined what that fairy was capable of.”
“Yes.”
Fedya barely whispered. But then he turned around, facing Killian, and he visibly bristled as his voice began to rise.
“You should have listened to me,” he growled. “Now, because of you, my brother is dead. And I...”
His voice trailed off, but Killian was glad he didn’t finish. Sharp, acidic nausea lurched up from the pit of his stomach, and he swallowed hard, forcing it back down. “I never wanted anything bad to happen to Dmitri.”
Fedya growled again, growing louder. “My country, my home, will be in ruin. They have no one now.”
“That’s not true. Not if we can find a way to break this curse.”
“Are you a fool?” Fedya snarled. “You have already abused the sanctity of magic for your own foolish whims. You admit yourself you know nothing about it, and you want to try again to bend it beyond your means?”
“At least allow me to try.” Killian shook his hand, waving back over to the mansion. “This place, all of this, you really think there isn’t magic here too? Look at this; you know this doesn’t belong to Thale. We’re surrounded by magic, don’t you want to know where it came from?”
Fedya glanced away, ears pinned back, and Killian knew he was right. Fedya had felt it too. There was electricity in the air; a presence that lingered that did not come from humans. It hung back in the shadows, wrapping around them like a sentient being, waiting for its moment to be known.
Killian pressed on. “Maybe there’s a reason we were brought here. There might be something here, some way to break the spell—”
“No!” Fedya’s booming voice shuddered Killian’s heart. Fedya raised his hackles. “You will not bring any more magic into my life. You will leave that wretched stuff where it belongs—in the hands of the devil fey that have so corrupted it. You have destroyed so much already.”
Killian’s gaze lowered until the snow blurred into an endless layer of white. He couldn’t respond, body numb.
“No more magic,” Fedya said. “I want nothing more to do with it.”
The words still wouldn’t come, and all Killian could do was nod. When he looked up, Fedya had already broken away, a mere dark smudge against the stark-white snow, the only sign of life, until he turned around a corner and disappeared.
“W
ell, I’m glad someone is at least enjoying themselves.”
Killian leaned against the railing of the corral, and his mare blew through her nose, shaking her head. Thick, intricate braids coiled through her long, white hair, and her gray-dappled coat looked far cleaner than Killian remembered the night before. He grinned and held out a hand at her.
“Is the magic taking care of you too?” Killian murmured, pressing his palm into her warm, velvety nose. “Fedya thinks he can just ignore it, as if that will just make it all go away. But I doubt this place will be here forever. We have to get home.”
She snuffed in disappointment at his empty hand and Killian laughed, patting her neck. He swung his leg around the metal bars, dropping inside the enclosure, kicking up frozen earth.
The corral was built into the side of the stable, and from here he had a clear view of the mansion. It looked smaller than it had in the night, all soft, sloping rooftops and twinkling, silvery windows. He tried to find the stained-glass window of the Winter Rose, but it must have been on the other side. Statues of angels lounged on ledges and perched on columns, staring out at him with gentle, unblinking eyes.
It would have been beautiful if Killian had any idea where he was. The surrounding forest at least provided some comfort that he couldn’t be too far from the castle, but why hadn’t anyone come after them yet? He was a prince, not a soldier; did they really think he could go after a beast on his own?
That familiar ball of guilt tugged at the pit of his stomach. Fedya wasn’t a beast. Killian sighed and pressed into the mare’s warm body, focusing on her slow, even breathing.
“You know, you remind me of my horse I have at home, only she has blue eyes.” He ran his fingers across her braids, looping them through the knotted ribbons. “I named her Fleur, do you know what that means?”
She ignored him, nibbling at the tufts at grass that peeked through the fresh snow. Killian grinned.
“No, I suppose not; you’re a Thalian horse after all.”
The smile didn’t last long. He pulled on her halter and led her back inside. The stable was built out of the same, flat gray stones as the mansion, with numerous paths and walkways crawling out from various doors. Like the night before, it was still warm inside, and he took his time in brushing the already immaculate coat.
As he reached for the hoof pick, something solid slid out of his pocket and landed in the hay. Frowning, Killian picked it up. It was the mirror.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” he muttered, turning it over and flicking it open. “Nothing else around here seems to make much sense.”
He held it up, taking in his own reflection, and quickly mussed back a few stray locks of hair from his face. Then he tilted it until the horse’s staring eyes reflected back. The mare merely blinked and Killian grinned, adjusting his grip. A second face stared back at him.
Eyes beautiful and violent, they pierced deep into his chest. He couldn’t look away, lost in their gaze, as if falling into another world, deeper and deeper, illuminating his soul with fire. The eyes blinked and vanished.
Killian gasped and dropped the mirror. He whirled around, but the stall was empty. Panting, Killian instinctively squeezed up to the mare’s side, eyes darting around. Icy chills swept up his arms and his eyes widened. He knew those eyes, that sizzle of power, that lure of endless, dangerous beauty. The fairy.
He snatched up the mirror and hurried back outside. The lanterns lighting the paths were already lit, and Killian’s stomach sank. The days were so much shorter in winter. The Pink Moo
n would be here sooner than he could keep up. And the fairy was watching.
He avoided looking at the snow as he rushed way up the steps, still remembering that bright burst of red, the twisted remains of metal against flesh. Instead, he focused on Fedya. He remembered his hands, those once graceful fingers dancing across ivory keys, now stubby paws that could barely hold a flower without crushing it.
Could Fedya really change back?
It looked different inside the mansion. No more curling staircases or halls lined with bright windows. Instead he stood inside a wide, empty ballroom. He grimaced. He was so sick of ballrooms.
He crossed it quickly, opening the closest door. His bedroom greeted him, a fire still burning cheerfully in the fireplace. He closed it without entering and continued over to the next door.
No. There had to be a way to return Fedya to normal. Magic was never absolute.
He pulled open the next door, his heart beginning to pound. His bedroom again. Killian slammed the door shut and ran to the next one, yanking it open. Another bedroom.
Did Fedya even want to change? Why was he so resistant to his help? Didn’t he want to go home?
Killian raced from door to door, each one another portal to the same, tired bedroom. Never-changing, always the same. He only stopped once he reached the beginning again, out of breath, and he leaned his back against the wall, digging his nails into his palms as he squeezed his eyes shut.
How could he help Fedya if he refused to even talk to him? Killian didn’t know the first thing about magic. So where was he even supposed to start?
He buried his nails even deeper, the sharp bite a strange comfort.
Why hadn’t he waited for Melchior or Annette to come with him? Why did he have to ride out here alone? Melchior would know what to do, he always did. With some pill or injection made up hours ago, or elbow deep in medical journals or maybe even spell books at this point…
Killian froze. The doors lining the ballroom were gone. In their place stood a single set of engraved golden double doors, much bigger than any of the others doors. He didn’t recognize them, but a rush of renewed adrenaline flooded his veins as he approached. When he touched the handle, they swung open with ease, and a bright stream of warm light poured out.
FAIRYTALE Page 11