FAIRYTALE

by Rodriguez, Rebeccah

  Melchior didn’t care, and he nursed that kitten with a tiny bottle, letting her sleep against his chest and carrying her around everywhere when she struggled to keep up with her brother and sisters. He named her Stella after their grandmother who had passed away the year before.

  The day before Killian was set to return home, Melchior found Stella in the broom closet, half-drowned in a mop bucket, her tail completely missing. Melchior was inconsolable and he wound up locking himself in his bedroom with her, refusing to come out again, even to say goodbye.

  His parents and the servants eventually assumed a stray dog had gotten to her when she wandered in the garden. But Killian had seen Annette, scooped into her mother’s reassuring arms as they’d stood outside Melchior’s door, trying to console him into coming out. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t even look sad. Then, for just a moment, she had smiled.

  He wasn’t sure of it then, supposing it had been a trick of his own sorrowed mind, for in a flash it had been gone. But he was sure of it now, that same stomach-curdling smile stretched across her face.

  Killian focused, and steadied his voice as best as he could. “Dmitri didn’t die because of that earthquake. Did he?”

  Annette shrugged and stroked his cheek. “Sure he did. You saw him yourself, crushed to death beneath that awful chandelier. What a horrible way to die.”

  “You made sure he would get trapped.”

  Annette scoffed and straightened up, crossing her arms. “That’s an awful thing to say.”

  Killian couldn’t feel his legs, his hands rapidly growing numb. “Why are you doing this?” He tried to grip the arms of the chair, to steady his feet on the floor, but nothing seemed to work. What was going on? But he never looked away from Annette. He couldn’t. “Is this because I wouldn’t marry you three years ago? Because I…because I don’t love you?”

  She stopped walking. “Killian.” It started soft. Then she laughed. “Even now you remain as self-absorbed as ever, that this all must somehow be about you, doesn’t it?”

  Heat surged to Killian’s cheeks. She sounded so much like Melchior. She shook her head and began to pace. “But no, Killian, to answer your question, this has nothing to do with, as you call it, love. Believe me, any feelings my thirteen-year-old self might have ever had for you were swiftly dealt with the day I realized you would rather have a sleepover with my brother instead of me.”

  Killian clenched his jaw. “Then why?”

  “Because I deserve more.” She whipped around, drawing herself up tall. “Because I could have had everything, and you just couldn’t let me have it. I wanted it all and you wanted none of it, but you were too selfish to put yourself through even the tiniest inconvenience.”

  He tried to shake his head. To say anything at all.

  “That’s all I’ve ever been to you, isn’t it? An inconvenience.”

  She had looked so miserable that day. The Peace Summit that year was a beautiful one, hosted in the rolling hills of Belwyn. Annette used to love it there, and they treated her like royalty throughout the entire event. But the day of the Union Ceremony everything had turned gray, a cold drizzle dampening the world, and Annette had worn black, eschewing the custom for traditional dress.

  She had stared at him throughout the entire ceremony, eyes wide and glassy. But as they called her name and she took the baron’s hand, he had looked away.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You could have said something, Killian. You could have come forward, offered to marry me, instead of letting them marry me off to that awful man. But you didn’t care about me; all you cared about was yourself.”

  Her voice grew strangled, and for a flash there was a flicker of trembling on her lips. “You could have saved me.”

  Annette’s whole body shook, her hands in white-knuckled fists by her sides. But Killian looked past her as her words swirled in his mind. And even though he couldn’t move, and he could hardly speak; even though Dmitri was dead and Annette hated him, his thoughts spun back to Fedya. He was innocent in all of this.

  When he spoke, it was barely a whisper. “You didn’t need saving.”

  She fell quiet, leaving behind a cold, empty stare. “Not anymore.”

  She stepped back and snatched up the cup of tea she had offered him earlier, splashing it into the fireplace, extinguishing the flames. “Better make sure no one else takes a drink. We wouldn’t want anyone else getting sick.”

  She set the cup back on the table, and paused. “Well, except perhaps my husband.”

  Killian’s eyes widened. His face had grown numb, his lips impossible to move. Annette laughed and stroked his cheek again. He couldn’t pull away from her, frozen in place.

  “Now, don’t move. I have some very important matters I need to attend to.”

  Her wide, twisted grin had returned.

  “I was so worried that Grimbeast had killed you when you arrived, but it looks like it all worked out even better than I could have planned. You’ll be king, I’ll be queen, and no one will take a single thing you say seriously ever again because of that pesky Grimbeast poison still running through your veins. My poor, delirious husband.” She paused and bopped his nose with the tip of her finger. “Don’t worry, I’m sure your mother will absolutely love taking care of you.”

  He wanted to scream, his eyes growing wider. She was right. After years of constant paranoia and obsession, his mother’s worst fears would finally be confirmed. She’d hide him away under a guise of protection, and his words would grow lost, the mad ramblings of a poisoned, delirious man.

  Annette giggled. He couldn’t remember the last time she had done that. “Try to relax; things will be so much less painful for you if you do. Soon you’ll fall asleep, and when you wake up, everything will be just as it should be.” She trailed her finger along the doorknob, a determined glint flashing in her eyes. “I’ll be back soon, don’t miss me too much.”

  Then she shut the door, and she was gone.

  T

  he numbness on his lips had spread across his face and neck like a hundred tiny needles piercing into his flesh. Killian squeezed his eyes shut, biting back a groan as he tried to call out for help. But nothing came out except a quiet, hoarse cry, the air through his lips feeling like they were peeling his skin away.

  He couldn’t turn his head, but he eyed the door at the other end of the room. The ticking of the clock slammed in his ear.

  He sucked in a gulp of air, and with every ounce of strength he could muster, he rocked himself forward. The chair creaked, slow, and for a second he wobbled. Then he slammed to the ground, his skin erupting with slicing agony. It forced a cry out, his calls muffled and caught in his chest. Hot tears sprang to his eyes and he gritted his teeth, trying to suck in a breath.

  He fixated on his right arm, blocking everything else out from his mind. His fingers lay limp on the floor, splayed and useless, and he begged them to wiggle, twitch, anything. He wasn’t sure if they did, but the prickling sensation was rapidly spreading down from his neck and out to the rest of his body.

  Come on. Move. He had to move now.

  With another rocking movement of his body, he swung his left arm out where it thudded against the ground. Good. Keep going.

  Beads of sweat trickled down his face, dripping to the floor. His heart thundered, booming in his skull, but he couldn’t stop. With each strained grunt he threw out each arm, one after another, and slowly he dragged his body across the floor. He panted, gasping for air as he thrashed toward the door. The searing heat slashed through his body with every movement, but as he continued, he began to feel his fingers again, pushing away the stabbing needles as he clung to the carpet.

  He stopped when he reached a patch of light strewn across the floor. Panting, he rested his head, his lungs desperate for air. Then he turned his head and looked up, and he saw the moon outside, shining through the window. A perfect wax crescent, pink as a rose blossom.

  H
e turned back to the door, tried to move faster, pulling himself closer. The feeling in his arms was coming back, thick and heavy, but at the very least bending to his will. The shooting needles blanketed his flesh, dragging him against the ground, intensifying with every tormenting breath. He tried to wriggle his toes, but still they felt like nothing at all.

  His fingertips brushed the bottom of the door, and he stopped, the strength flooding from his body. For a few seconds he remained still, hoarse gasps of air wracking his chest and sweat-drenched hair clinging to his face and neck.

  Then he heard something, just outside the door. Voices. There were people in the hallways.

  Killian licked his dry lips, and called out.

  “Help.”

  He could barely hear himself. Grimacing, he forced his arms to move again, straining as he pushed himself up. He climbed to his hands and knees, but he refused to pause, afraid he would collapse if he did, and he grasped at the door handle. It twisted easily in his hand, unlocked, the door swinging toward him.

  The voices floated inside, a crowded murmur echoing in the hall. Killian winced, and called out again.

  “Help!”

  No one answered. Gritting his teeth, Killian tightened his hold on the doorknob and pulled himself to his feet, clutching the door for balance. His knees threatened to buckle as thousands of spikes cascaded through his body like a crashing wave. He swayed, pressed into the door, yearning to scream.

  But the voices were gone. Instead all he heard was his heart pumping in his chest, the blood rushing in his veins. He drew in a breath, and the sound enveloped him. He looked at his hand on the door, and the earth tilted beneath him. The air thickened in his lungs, pressing into him. He took a step forward.

  Smudges of color wafted out at the end of the hall, bright splotches of emerald hues mingling with soft pastels and winking metal. He reached out for them.

  “Help me.”

  No one answered. He took another step, and everything wobbled.

  “Please?”

  With every step his bones trembled. But he could see them now, their faces a smear, and their voices one long, monotonous cloud of noise. They didn’t answer him, and they turned, walking even further away.

  “Wait.” He tried to catch up to them, “The baron…”

  The floor fell away and Killian stopped. A harsh yellow light stung his face. He looked down. He was at the top of a staircase, and he grasped the railing, squeezing his eyes shut. The ballroom stretched out in front of him, filled with movement.

  He focused on his heartbeat. One. Two. Three. Four. The beats turned to clapping. One-two, one-two, one-two, an ocean of noise that didn’t make sense. He cracked his eyes back open. The people were all clapping, smiling. They didn’t even see him. Didn’t know what Annette had planned.

  Knuckles white on the railing, he started down the stairs, every step like trudging through sand, shooting spikes of agony through his legs. The applause grew louder, and then the band picked up.

  Their ballgowns and suits were too tightly woven together, taking up every bit of available space, blocking him out.

  “Can you help?”

  No one heard him. He bit his tongue and tried to yell.

  “The Baroness…Annette…”

  No one looked back at him. No one cared. They jostled past him impossibly fast, still clapping, their voices growing louder. He panted, struggled for air, and he staggered, his hand flying out for anything to grab. A voice called out for him, far away, floating above the crowd.

  “Prince Killian?”

  A woman. Not Annette. He stumbled, spinning around, trying to find it.

  “Prince Killian, is that you?”

  It was Empress Merav. She emerged through the mob all at once, her elegant features pulled together, taut in concern. She brought her hands out, reaching for him, but no matter how hard he tried, she continued to spin away from him.

  “Help…” he choked out, “Annette…she’ll hurt him…”

  “You need to sit down. Come with me, I’ll find a nurse for you.”

  Why wasn’t she listening? Couldn’t she hear him? She started to tug him along, back toward the stairs.

  He pulled his hand away from her, falling back into the crowd. He lost her face, but somewhere she still called his name. Faces stared at him now, eyes wide, but not a single one of them was right. Their eyes were too bright, mouths too big. They spun on by, staring, jeering, laughing. Why wouldn’t they help him?

  Killian gasped, staring as one face parted from the crowd.

  Melchior stood at the front of the ballroom, by the wide double doors, one hand tightly clutching Cosette’s. Everyone turned to him, and he smiled wide, blue eyes brighter than sapphires. He started to speak, and the room pressed in close, listening, holding their breath.

  Killian had to get to him. He would listen to him.

  But the people wouldn’t move, they blocked his path, a wall of bodies. Melchior didn’t see him, he just kept talking. His voiced soared into the ceiling.

  “...and with unspeakable joy, I am proud to share this moment with you. Ladies, gentlemen and all, thank you for being here today as we announce the pregnancy of my dear Duchess Cosette.”

  Applause erupted; the sound crashed into the windows. Clapping hands, smiling faces and clinking champagne glasses whirled around him, and Killian twisted around, trying to escape. Melchior had to see him. Had to listen to him. Killian pushed his way through, calling, waving. The bodies parted, and he froze. Annette stared at him.

  She didn’t move, simply stood. Slowly she smiled.

  Shattering glass erupted, and the applause silenced. Time stood still. A woman shrieked and Killian spun back to the front of the room.

  Bright red drops sputtered from Melchior’s lips. His hand was held out, shaking, the champagne glass smashed at his feet. He wavered for a moment, then slammed to his knees, his body crumpling in on itself. Cosette screamed again, falling beside him.

  A jolt pulsed through the crowd. Killian snapped his head back over to Annette, but it was too late. She was already gone.

  Cosette’s shrieks echoed through the hall, and all at once Killian had broken through. Melchior lay on his back, his whole body caving in on itself as he began to convulse. The crimson liquid stained his pale cheeks and chin, smearing the floor as Cosette cradled his head against her chest.

  Then Melchior stopped coughing, the tremors gone. His eyes went glassy, unblinking. Killian watched, numb. Cosette sobbed, rocking Melchior in her arms.

  “Help him!” she screamed. “Do something!”

  She kissed him over and over again, and when she pulled away, her lips were red with his blood.

  T

  he ballroom plunged into chaos. Bodies poured in, scooping up Melchior, prying Cosette away from him as her shrieks rattled the windows. Killian stood frozen, watching Melchior’s limp body be carried off. Then, Melchior lifted his hand. He was still alive.

  “We have to do something.”

  No one heard him. He wavered in place, the ground giving way. Someone caught him. He blinked again and the ballroom shifted into the infirmary, healers and nurses racing back and forth. All around people talked, some crying. He couldn’t hear Cosette anymore.

  “Hold still, please.” A woman’s face came into view. He didn’t recognize her, but she wore a healer’s uniform. Her fingers glowed white, warm, traveling up the length of his throat.

  “Where’s Melchior?”

  His words felt thick and clunky. The healer didn’t answer, but as her hands traveled along his body, he felt an eerie warmth seep into his chest. He blinked a few more times. The world stopped spinning. He flexed his fingers, the lingering traces of needles fading away.

  “Listen to me.”

  Killian swatted the healer’s hand away from him. Her fingers still glowed white as she tried to step around him, and she sighed. “I’m sorry, but we have to check everyone
who was in that ballroom for any signs of poison. Please let me finish.”

  “But I can help. I just need to talk to King Ambrose.” He dodged her hand again. “Where’s Melchior?”

  The healer paused, her brows furrowing. “Aren’t you the prince who was infected with Grimbeast poison? Should you even be out of bed?”

  The blood drained from Killian’s face, his throat going dry. He licked his lips, shaking his head. “They cured me of the poison.” His voice sounded weak. “But the Baroness Annette poisoned me again. She slipped it in my drink.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him, her hands resting on her lap. “The Baroness Annette?” she said gently. She shook her head. “I understand you’re afraid right now, everyone is. But the only thing I found in your system was a few herbs and magicked sprigs of rue. She probably gave you tea that reacted badly with the Grimbeast poison.”

  “No, it wasn’t just tea.” He stood up, pulling away from her. His brain felt like water in his skull, and he gripped the back of his chair as he tried to steady himself. “She tried to keep me quiet, to stop me from saying anything. I just need to speak with the king.”

  The room was bright and crowded, but he couldn’t recognize anyone, a swarm of bodies and unfamiliar voices. It was already happening. She didn’t believe a word he said.

  “Please sit down, you’re having hallucinations. I can help you, but you need to stay still.” She reached for his arm and he instantly pulled away from her.

  “It’s the truth. You need to listen to me.”

  The healer’s frown deepened and she hesitated, catching the glimpse of another nearby nurse. They exchanged tense glances and Killian’s chest tightened. Nobody was going to listen to him. She pursed her lips and looked back at him. “Alright.” She nodded. “Please wait here, I will find someone to escort you to King Ambrose.”