The pain in his right shoulder had dulled to a throbbing ache, but his fingers tightened around the machete as he forced himself to straighten up and take a small step away from the railing. Annette cocked her head slightly and lowered her eyelids. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“I can have you jailed for this,” Killian stammered.
“Not if you’re dead.” She turned to face him completely, her fingers still playing with the tip of the arrow. “I really wish you had just stayed where I’d left you. I still like you, Killian, I didn’t really want you dead.”
He stared at her, unable to speak. She sighed. “Though I suppose my plan will work out either way. Your mother always did adore me; I’ll be the perfect shoulder to cry on once she hears the news of her only son’s death.”
Killian’s mouth went dry, but he licked his lips and tried to steady his voice. “Maybe I can still help you.”
Annette tilted back her head and laughed. “Even now you still make me smile. You were always so good at that, even when you chose everyone else over me.”
Her smile faded as she turned to stare back at him. Her eyes were hard, and the smile disappeared.
“I’m really going to miss that about you,” she said quietly, and lifted the arrow. “Goodbye, Killian.”
The arrow sliced through the air, whipping past Killian’s chest as he clumsily dodged to the side. He fell into a sprint, darting for the door, not caring where it would take him.
He collided into a wall, and spun around, back in the hallway. Annette’s boots clicked loudly, and he raced ahead, pleading for another door. Two familiar double doors emerged, and he plunged inside as another arrow flew past his neck. It lodged into the doorframe, cracking the wood in two.
Killian slammed the door shut after him, and was instantly enveloped in silence. His right arm burned in agony, but somehow he still held on to the machete.
He was in the library. He stumbled back a few steps, his vision beginning to spot, but he gritted his teeth and darted for the nearest bookcase just as the door flew back open behind him. Annette’s footsteps echoed as she stepped slowly inside. Killian kept his back pressed up against the bookcase, biting hard on his tongue, trying to stifle down ragged gasps for air.
“Killian?” Annette practically sang his name. “Are you in here?”
He eyed the nearest shelf, and wracked his memory trying to remember the layout of the room. Fuzzy images of desks and tapestries flitted through his mind, impossible to piece together.
“What’s wrong?” Annette’s soft voice floated out to him. “Don’t you like me anymore?”
Killian squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again, he was staring at the machete in his hand. His fingers were coated with dried, blackened blood, stiff and numb, but the blade still gleamed silver in the dim light. He caught his reflection staring back, wild eyes and cuts scattered across his cheek and forehead.
“Killian?”
Annette sang again, and for a moment Killian’s heart tightened. He knew that voice, her tender, sweet little croon he’d known since before he could even articulate what it was. For a moment she sounded like a child again, that golden-curled little girl who held his hands and spun him in circles, kissing his knees when he tripped on the gravel. She’d wipe his tears and make up a rhyme, different and silly every time.
“Got you.”
The arrow struck a mirror, sending shards of glass flying. Killian wrenched away from the bookcase, sprinting to the next aisle.
“Damn it,” Annette hissed.
Killian peered around the edge just as Annette reached for another arrow. Sucking in a breath, he darted for the next bookshelf. Her head whipped up at his movement.
“I don’t think so.” She flicked the arrow into place and it sailed through the air.
Killian’s legs buckled as he ducked low, and he fell hard on one knee. He buried his face in his shoulder, desperate to stifle his choking gasps bubbling against his sternum. He could hear Annette walking again, slow, calculated steps. His right arm barely bent. Fresh blood spattered to the floor, leaving a jagged trail of red in his wake. He’d bleed out in just a few more minutes at this rate.
Annette’s footsteps stopped. Killian’s eyes darted around, searching for a scrap of tapestry, a forgotten cloak—anything to wrap his wound with. But the manor offered nothing. He scanned the walls that stretched on forever, but the surrounding bookshelves blocked almost everything out. He’d never get a good look without risking revealing his whereabouts. He craned his neck back, and his eyes widened, realization dawning on him.
Desperate, Killian shoved his hand into his pocket. A spike of hope jolted through him as his fingers closed around something solid and metal. He wrenched out the small pocket mirror, splayed opened on his palm.
It refracted the light, momentarily blinding him, but as Killian went to close it, he stopped. The enormous, round window on the second floor reflected back at him. Killian’s heart stuttered. He tightened his grip on the mirror, turning it slowly as it soaked in the entire library. He could see it all. The aisles of books, the long tables and desks, everything. He zeroed in on Annette.
She hovered in front of the door, his only escape, her bow already loaded. Her face was smooth, but he could see her jaw clenching, the tension in her fingers as she readied the arrow.
Killian swallowed hard and continued to tilt the mirror. There were another identical eight rows of bookshelves across from him, the last one only a few paces from where Annette stood. From there, though he couldn’t see it, he remembered one of the staircases leading up to the second floor, right by the round window. It looked gray outside.
“Time’s up, Killian.”
Her arrow struck the wall opposite him. Then another. She wasn’t going to stop.
Killian sucked in a breath and forced himself to stand. He could no longer feel his right arm. Another arrow splintered the bookcase, inches from his neck.
He crammed the mirror back in his pocket and stepped out from behind the shelf. Annette was already loading another arrow. Killian didn’t wait. He pulled the machete back and hurled it straight at her before turning and sprinting toward the end of the bookshelves.
Annette’s howls rattled the windows. Killian gritted his teeth and ran faster, racing to the last bookshelf. The arrows stopped flying.
“Killian!”
Her screeches turned his blood cold. He dared to look back at her. The machete stuck out of her forearm, white bone exposed as the blood gushed between her fingers. He faltered as she howled again. Then she grasped for the bow at her feet.
Killian turned back away, tensed his body, and ran straight for the bookshelf. He collided into it with enough force that his vision exploded with bright lights. The shelf shuddered and he pulled back and slammed his shoulder into it again.
A new wave of blood burst forth and Killian screamed, but the shelf continued to teeter from the force. One more time.
With the last of his strength, Killian coiled back and launched at the wobbling structure. His body hit and slowly, finally, the shelf began to tip. It leaned over with a groan before smashing into the next bookshelf, sending a shockwave throughout the room.
One by one the shelves toppled. Killian stumbled back, not daring to look back. He raced in the opposite direction as the thundering crashes shook the floor. The staircase appeared and he leapt over the railing, ignoring the burning in his legs as he ran up, gathering speed. His lungs threatened to burst. He saw the round window, and only looked back once. Annette stood frozen, her eyes wide as the towering bookcases lurched toward her. Then she disappeared.
Killian smashed through the window with full force. The ground gave way beneath him, and for a moment there was nothing but broken glass and cold air. Then he fell.
When he opened his eyes again, the sky was pink and he was surrounded in snow.
He sat up. Soft ringing clouded his ears. Slowly he
blinked and looked around, everything stained in scarlet. The snow sparkled with slivers of shattered glass and Killian breathed out. He stood, unable to feel his body. Unable to feel anything.
Every breath wracked his body. Every blink in slow motion. He looked around, not sure if he was shivering.
A branch broke behind him and sound rushed back into the world. He turned around. Annette stood in front of him.
She leaned on the doorframe, her left arm dangling limply in front of her. Thick shards of splintered wood jutted out from her torn and ragged flesh. Her once bright blue eyes were rimmed with red, staring and wide. She hobbled forward, and a flash of white bone peeked out from beneath her right eye.
“Don’t move.” She took another step forward.
Her right hand wrapped around a broken arrow, and though her body shook, her grip was firm. Killian remained still, his draining strength barely able to keep him standing. He simply stared at her, but no matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find all the pieces of the woman he’d once known. Now only hatred bled from her wounds, and he couldn’t help but wonder just how long she’d harbored that secret.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Annette screamed and dove at him. She swung the arrowhead, aiming for his neck. A pulsing roar rose from the earth and her mangled body went flying across the snow. She landed in a twisted heap a few feet away. Fedya stood in her place, squarely on all fours, the bloodied fur on his back bristled.
Killian’s eyes widened. “You’re alive.”
The words seemed to steal away the last of Fedya’s strength. His legs started to tremble, and Killian took a step toward him when Annette’s furious screams sliced through the frozen skies.
“You aren’t going to make it out of here!”
She dragged her limbs out from beneath her as her twisted bones pulled against her flesh. Somehow she still held on to the arrowhead.
“I’ll kill you!” she shrieked again. “I will kill you!”
She pulled herself upright and a loud crack reverberated beneath her feet. She paused, and for a second she wobbled. Then she set her jaw and took another step forward. A second crack followed, and Killian’s eyes shot down to her feet.
“Wait!”
Without thinking, he sprinted toward her.
“Stop!”
Annette ignored him, and as she tried to take another step, the moldy wood boarding up the old well gave way beneath her. She plunged into the earth with a horrified shriek. Killian dove for her flailing hands, latching on to her wrist with another, all too sickening snap.
Annette screamed louder, her body writhing midair as her arm threatened to tear from its socket. Tears streaked across her cheeks, her ragged gasps wracking her battered body as her hand, slick with blood, slipped in Killian’s grasp. The open wound in Killian’s shoulder burst open again with renewed vigor, and he yelled as he poured his final ounce of strength into pulling her out.
“I won’t let go,” he hissed.
He tightened his grip and their eyes met. For a moment the hatred was gone, and Killian could see all the pieces of Annette again. She was whole, the girl he’d always known and could always make him smile. She was innocent.
Then she swung the arrow directly at his head. Killian jerked back and her fingers slipped away. Her screams echoed in his ears long after the earth swallowed her whole and she disappeared from sight. But soon even that faded away, leaving only the muffle of falling snow.
Slowly he sat back on his heels. Flecks of ice pierced his torn and tattered flesh, but he didn’t shiver as the cold seeped in. He stood and turned around, but Fedya was gone. A gray, thick fog had settled around him, and a trail of blood stretched out in front of him. It led to the garden.
Killian turned away from the well without a word. He stared at the spatters, beckoning him like a path of glittering rubies. The snow muffled the world around him, hushing his footsteps as he followed the droplets. Each footstep sent chills coursing up his spine, but not once did he look back.
At last the snow gave way to a cobblestone path, and tall hedges brushed his arms. He didn’t slow, walking deeper into the gardens. Tiny bells chimed on the breeze as soft, pink petals fell around him. The path opened up, and Killian stopped.
A dome made entirely of pale, pink roses encased him, streams of soft, silver light beamed through their iridescent petals, shrouding everything in a delicate, misty haze. Killian almost smiled. They were all WinterRoses.
A shadow lurked in the mist. Killian took a step forward and saw Fedya lying on the ground. He lay nestled atop a thick bed of roses. All traces of his beastly form disappeared; no fangs or claws, no horns or fur. Only a simple, ordinary, yet utterly perfect young man.
Clasped in Fedya’s hand was a single rose, its silver thorns glittering bright. Killian recognized it as the original rose he had gifted Fedya what felt like years ago. The rose that pricked Fedya’s finger. The rose that started everything.
Killian walked over and lay down beside him, the last of his strength fleeing his body. Fedya wasn’t breathing, and within seconds Killian’s own breaths grew short and quick. He lay his head against the soft bed of roses and inhaled their sweet aroma. They smelled like home.
Tiny blurs of white floated down from up above, but they did not melt as they settled on Killian’s skin. His fingertips had begun to flourish in blue, but slowly he reached out and placed his hand atop of Fedya’s.
“I love you,” Killian whispered.
Fedya didn’t move, and Killian’s gaze slid to Fedya’s lips one final time. He remembered how they tasted. The way they felt against his own. He remembered everything.
Killian smiled. “Good night.”
He closed his eyes amidst a burst of white light. Then, nothing at all.
S
treaks of pink and purple sizzled around them as the sky exploded with color. Killian opened his eyes and Fedya stood in front of him. Fedya smiled and Killian wanted to laugh. It was the only thing he could think of to do. It didn’t make sense, and he didn’t care.
The curse, the spell, whatever it was, had been broken.
Killian could see him again, the man who practically fell into his arms that very first night, flushed with heat and something a little bit more. Living, breathing, and undeniably whole.
Killian reached for his hand and their fingers slipped together. Fedya’s skin was warm.
He smiled again, and the pain was gone. He saw the garden, the manor, the snow. He saw Dmitri. He saw everything as it should be, as it was, the past and future whirling together into a complete loop that somehow all made sense. But mostly he saw Fedya.
There was no blood, no scars or broken hands. He stood tall, strong, dark hair falling in loose waves around his shoulders, eyes bright as polished amber. His lips curled up, calm, and then he squeezed his hand and life flooded back into Killian’s veins.
Fedya was healed.
Human.
K
illian opened his eyes again. Merav stared down at him. Wet. She was crying. But her mouth curled upward and she brushed the hair back from his face. Her fingers were so soft.
With every blink she drifted further from sight, but all the while warm fingers remained tangled in his own. He turned his head and the world spun.
Then Merav’s voice. “Try not to move. We are here now.”
The fingers tightened against his own, but when he looked down, they didn’t belong to Merav at all. Fedya lay beside him, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Killian looked back to Merav, silently pleading for her to come back into view. She was surrounded by people, blurred faces, and reaching hands that lifted them up and carried them away from the glade.
Pink petals floated down on them from above, and as they cleared the garden he turned back to the mansion. His home. It shimmered and flickered, a golden silhouette piercing the sky that no one else even seemed to notice. They were too busy run
ning, yelling, searching.
He saw Cosette. They lifted her onto a blanket, body limp; blood seeping down her arms, chest, legs. She stared back at him. She blinked once. Alive. She was alive.
She turned her head away, and tears streaked her blood-smeared cheeks. But golden light encased her, sparkling and beautiful, and once again no one even seemed to pay any attention to it. But Killian stared, unable to tear his eyes away, and he knew he’d seen that light before, pure and enchanting and overflowing with magic. It coated her body until she shone like starlight, and they carried her away.
He heard the bells. Tiny and familiar, and he looked up at the sky and he saw the stars, the moon, the sun. He saw beautiful eyes staring back at him, glittering with power. The fairy opened her mouth as if in laughter, and on cue the bells rang again. She floated all around, soaring to the sky, but no one said anything. No one saw her.
She smiled at him, one final time. Then she flapped her wings and a shower of sparks rained down on them all.
“Thank you, Killian.” Merav’s whispering voice tickled his cheek. Soothing. Sweet. He looked back to her, yearning for her touch. How could someone he barely knew bring such comfort? He didn’t question it. Instead, he closed his eyes and fell deeper into her hands.
“Killian?”
Pink light surrounded them. Killian jerked awake and a hand squeezed his. The sky, the forest, the moon was gone. He scanned the walls, the windows, everything vaguely familiar, and he was sure he’d been in this room before. But never like this.
The bed had no blankets, no pillows. He lay perfectly straight with Fedya at his side, their hands clasped tightly together. For a moment he could only stare. Fedya didn’t have a scratch on him, not a mark or bruise marring his smooth complexion, his thick ebony hair falling in tangled waves around his shoulders.
At last Killian swallowed, his voice coarse and thick. “Where’s Merav?”
“She just left. She told me they sent your friend by boat to a surgeon who might be able to help him.” Fedya paused, his brows furrowed together. “What happened to him?”
FAIRYTALE Page 29