Dreams of Darkness: An Anthology of Dark Fairytales

by Cassidy Taylor

  "No." Edwin's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "I wouldn't recommend it."

  My fingers tug at the nightshirt, but I'm not sure how to politely make my getaway.

  Not when Edwin Shaw stares at me like he can see into my very soul—yet has no idea what to make of me.

  I clear my throat. "Well, I only came down for a glass of water. I apologize again for the interruption."

  "Are you spending the night here?"

  Mouth agape, uncertain, all I can do is stare. I would've thought that was obvious considering my attire. In fact, I'd wager it's obvious which bed I'm spending the night in too. "Yes, I suppose I am."

  His lips contort into a disgruntled scowl. "You won't come down for a glass of water again, will you?" He plucks up his book again and flips through the pages, locating the place he stopped when I arrived. "I don't know why you insist on spending so much time here. What exactly do you find so appealing?"

  "I…"

  But the words fail me.

  The appeal has always been his older brother. The moment I met him, John Shaw has been charming, kind, brilliant, enthusiastic. He has been the only person consistently interested in the so-called animal attacks plaguing the city—aside from myself, of course.

  And it certainly helps that the man is gorgeous.

  Edwin, on the other hand, is elusive—an oddity. I thought he might be an imbecile at first, but he quickly proved himself to be one of the most intelligent people I've ever met. His understanding of social situations, however, is decidedly lacking.

  I bite my lip. "Your brother is—"

  "If you were smart…" Edwin leans toward the lamp to illuminate the page. "I'm not saying you are, but if you were smart, you would leave my brother in peace. Our family has enough troubles without you coming in and mucking up all the hard work we've put into it."

  I cock my head—I've never seen Edwin Shaw work hard a single moment I've been here. He usually has his head in the clouds. Or a book.

  "You'll only get hurt the longer you stay here."

  "Hurt by what?"

  He turns the page of the book, jaw clenched, mouth tight. "The curse."

  The words are simple. As if he's being purely factual and holds no malice. As if he believes that to his very core.

  I heave a sigh.

  John has said on multiple occasions that his younger brother is prone to telling wild stories. He lives in a fantasy land. He never fully recovered from their mother's death all those years ago. For some twisted reason, he blames himself for her tragic demise.

  "The curse is a story, Edwin." I wet my lips, hesitant. "John told me so. It's a bedtime story your father used to tell. None of it's real."

  "Don't be ridiculous." His short scoff quickly transforms into laughter. "Does a curse really sound like a good bedtime story? It's as real as you or I."

  I frown.

  That's a fair point and one I hadn't considered, but even still, the supposed Shaw family curse is nothing more than a myth. John would never lie to me.

  My fingers press against the door frame. "If it helps a little boy feel better about his mother dying, yes, that sounds like a lovely bedtime story. Goodnight, Edwin."

  He doesn't look up before I depart, but his voice echoes softly as I head toward the kitchen. "Goodnight, Agatha."

  Chapter Five

  The light is dim, but I can see her.

  Blond curls frame her pale face. Innards are strewn across the pavement. No footprints mar the snow near her body. No one stops as they pass. No one cares.

  No one but me.

  A wolf howls.

  I'm not alone anymore.

  And for the first time, I think I am afraid. Sweat pours down my body. My breath is ragged. Nothing is safe.

  I should have been afraid a long time ago.

  "Miss Currant…"

  My eyes flutter open. My chest aches from the unsteady breaths.

  Morning light streams through the thick tan curtains by the large window of John's bedroom.

  I didn't expect to sleep after last night, but exhaustion overcame me at some point deep in the night.

  "Miss Currant."

  That's not John.

  When I push up into a sitting position, the bedding wrapped around my bare torso, Mrs. Pierce, a stern look on her wrinkled face, meets my eyes. "I've cleaned your dress, Miss, and done a few repairs."

  I clear my throat, trying to catch my breath, but the blush only increases how red my cheeks are. "Thank you, Mrs. Pierce."

  She hangs the dress on a hook near John's full-length mirror, unabashed and unimpressed. "Mr. Shaw requests that you stay for dinner. I'm preparing chicken fricassee for our evening meal."

  My gaze shifts around the room, examining my surroundings now that I have the sunlight to illuminate everything.

  John doesn't keep many possessions: Behind the mirror is a wardrobe, and a tall, six-drawer chest, a couple white shirts resting on top, stands beside it. A wash table with a marble top sits in the corner by the window, the basin a deep walnut. All three pieces and the bed on which I lie are carved with the Shaw family crest.

  The room looks vastly different than in the lamplight last night.

  Not that either of us were paying attention to the room's simple decorations.

  "Uh, Mrs. Pierce, where is the master of the house?"

  The severe woman shoots me one more glance as she heads for the door. "Mr. Shaw was called away on urgent business, Miss. You may speak to him when he returns in the early afternoon." She opens the door to depart, then pauses. "Mr. Edwin, however, is busying himself in the library if you would like company while you await Mr. Shaw's return."

  I wince but nod, and she closes the door as she disappears, leaving me alone to dress.

  The gown is indeed clean. The damaged shoulder has been repaired—at least enough to hide the obvious. Mrs. Pierce is an excellent seamstress it would seem.

  Instead of rising from the bed, I lie back.

  Her name was April Hennessey. The girl on the snowy street.

  Not that the name matters much. I could barely find information about her. Her mother was near dead and unable to help. Her father was gone. They didn't care.

  I did.

  I do.

  It has been over a month since I found her, only five blocks from the Shaw residence. I was the first person to stop, to care about what had become of her.

  She looked like me.

  Exactly like me.

  Her hair was the same golden ringlets, her skin fair, translucent from the blood loss, and her eyes, open, hollow, lifeless, were the same cobalt blue. It could've easily been my blood pooling on the cobblestones. My body on display.

  It's been a month.

  Three more girls have been found in that time, all similar in age and appearance. No one cares about them either.

  My fingers press over the bandage at my neck.

  The dressings need changed, though I'm not sure Mrs. Pierce would be inclined to assist me in that regard. I can certainly tend to my wounds alone, but the location will make it difficult.

  Still, redressing the bandages would soothe the ache that courses through my neck and shoulder and allow me to continue my research. It's been a month, but I have every intention of finding out what happened to her. To all of them.

  A knock sounds on the door.

  Then, it pushes open, and Edwin Shaw, eyes dark and narrow, lips twisted into a glower, hands clasped behind his back, steps inside the room.

  I tear at the bedding to cover every inch of my bare skin as I turn toward him. Surely, the awkward encounter in the middle of the night was enough to humiliate me for the rest of my life.

  And yet, here he is.

  Edwin gives a short bow. "Good morning, Miss Currant."

  I frown. "Good morning?"

  "Mrs. Pierce informed me you were awake. Did you sleep well?"

  My eyes scan the crumpled bedding twisted around my naked body. "Fine, thank you. And you?"

>   Finally, Edwin meets my gaze fully. "I spent my night in the library."

  "Right."

  For a long moment, he simply stares. No indication he has more to say. No sign he even has an inclination to remain here. No evidence of desire to spend time with me.

  Then, he makes a quick bow. "If there's nothing you need, Miss Currant, I have fulfilled my duty."

  I cock my head. "Your duty?"

  He purses his lips. "I was informed early this morning that, in my brother's absence, it is my responsibility to make sure your needs are satisfied. Are your needs satisfied?"

  My throat is dry, and I swallow to wet it. "Uh, yes, thank you."

  "Good." Edwin stretches his arms and turns toward the cracked door. "Now, I have bid you good morning, inquired as to your wellbeing, and asked if you are in need of anything. I have fulfilled my duty."

  "Who told you to check on me? Mrs. Pierce?"

  He glances over his shoulder. "My brother, of course. He seems to enjoy your company for some strange reason."

  I shift, sitting up, careful to keep every inch of me covered. "But you don't enjoy it, do you, Edwin?"

  He pauses over the threshold before turning his attention to me fully. "No." He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "Why are you even here? What possible reason did you have for coming here last night?"

  I look away. "I was… The Beast attacked me. It was important to tell Mr. Shaw immediately. He—we are the only ones actually trying to find him; the police don't care."

  Frowning, Edwin studies me with great care. "The Beast attacked you last night."

  "Yes."

  "But you're alive." He releases an irritated sigh. "Perhaps you are an exception, Miss Currant." Without another word, he steps from the room and closes the door behind him.

  What on earth could that mean?

  An exception to what?

  At last, I throw the sheets aside and scramble from the bed. I better get dressed before someone else barges into the room with nothing more than a knock to announce their arrival.

  Chapter Six

  Lit by the morning sun, the library is vastly different to last night. Even still, Edwin sits atop the table by the window, his jaw clenched as I enter the room.

  There's an incredible number of books on the shelves—Thoreau, Darwin, Kierkegaard, Frederick Douglass, Elizabeth Gaskell, the journals of Lewis and Clark—but I settle on Antoinette Brown Blackwell's The Sexes Throughout Nature, then take a seat on the vacant armchair.

  I thumb through the pages.

  For some reason, John wants me to wait for his return, but I have no idea what he thought I would do in the meantime. I have nothing here. I'm not even supposed to be here. I was supposed to be at Gran's house.

  I flip another page, but my eyes barely scan the page.

  Atop the table, Edwin shoots me an irritated glance—I'm quiet, but he still doesn't want me here.

  The front door opens in the distance, followed by hurried footsteps.

  Mrs. Pierce appears in the doorway, winded and flushed, but Edwin doesn't look up from his book. "There's been another one!"

  My body goes cold. "Another what?"

  "Another girl." She turns her dark brown eyes on me. "In the street. Two blocks from here. She's…she's strewn across Ezekiel Turner's bow window." She stops, heaving.

  I drop the book.

  There's no time to set it down gently.

  There's nothing to do but run.

  Mrs. Pierce left the front door open.

  It takes no effort to find the right direction. There's a crowd surrounding the body.

  "That's the fifth girl this month." The man blocking my view has a deep throaty voice. "You'd think they'd learn to stay off the streets at night."

  "Nasty business, these maulings," his friend says.

  I struggle to see. Dark blood is splattered across the window, but it's not just blood.

  The first man hums in agreement. "'Nasty' is an understatement, Reg. They're a bit much for even a butcher to look at."

  "It's hard to believe an animal would go to such lengths—"

  "There's no animal on Heaven or Earth that could do that to a girl not sixteen."

  Finally, something I can agree with.

  And there's nothing to account for the fact that these supposed animal attacks only affect young women. Girls, really. Girls who wouldn't typically be allowed to travel without an escort. Girls who are well-bred—but not too well-bred—and in good health.

  Girls like me.

  April Hennessey even looked like me.

  In the morning light, the street is cold, and the two men pull up their collars and continue on their journey. Now that I can finally see, this "mauling" is different from the others. More violent. More bloody. More intestines strewn across the street.

  But her face is still visible.

  Her auburn hair is splayed across the cobblestones, her dress and abdomen shredded open.

  It's her.

  The same girl I found only two alleys over late last night.

  A hand latches onto my arm—I jump, tearing away as I turn.

  John Shaw's sharp eyes stare back at me. "I see you couldn't resist either."

  I try to calm the unsteady beat of my heart. "What are you doing here? Mrs. Pierce said you wouldn't return until this afternoon."

  His eyes dart toward the girl on the street. "I got the news in the middle of my meeting. I had to come. I had to see." He reaches for me again, this time wrapping his arm around my shoulders and leading me away. "You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't look at this."

  A frown tugs at my lips.

  He never felt the need to shield me before. We came together—we met—because of these grisly murders, and I cannot allow the sudden alteration in our relationship to impede my ability to investigate.

  I tug free of him. "I need a closer look."

  "Agatha…"

  His words are meaningless as I approach the girl, side-stepping pools of blood to reach her body. The police haven't arrived, which means no one has mucked up the evidence. Dark bruises have formed on her face and what little remains of her neck. Probably elsewhere under the layers of clothing.

  But the only hint of her attacker is the blood on her fingertips, under her nails.

  I lean down, reaching for her fingers, but John catches my wrist.

  "Agatha," he growls—his patience has run out. "You're making a scene."

  "Someone should," I snap, but when I catch his gaze, I freeze.

  His eyes are narrow with irritation, his lips contorted into a scowl. Something shimmers at his throat, a hint of a white scar I've never noticed before, even while we were naked in his bed last night. "Agatha, it's time to go."

  At the sharp words, I allow him to lead me toward his house again, his hand clenched around my wrist. He's completely unwilling to release me. Still, my gaze drifts back toward the girl on the street.

  Unease settles in my stomach.

  He came back for her, and he killed her.

  What in the world is he going to do to me?

  THE END

  About the Author

  Best known for her brutally honest stories and realistic characters, D. L. Pitchford is an author of young and new adult books. She lives in Springfield, Missouri with her husband and two sons.

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