Red Run: A Dark Retelling of Little Red Riding Hood (Feared Fables Book 1)

by Isla Jones

  It takes all of three seconds for Dante to look around, find me with his mischievous gaze, then stiffen. He sees how shaken I am. His midnight eyes search mine a beat, then he is beside me, pulling me into his embrace.

  “What is the matter, Red?” he whispers into my hair.

  I untangle myself from his arms. Dante and I do not embrace like this. Sometimes, after we lay together he will hold me, but not like this.

  His eyes follow me as I draw back to the wall and slump. My breaths still come in raspy hitches, but my heartbeat begins to slow. Perhaps I don’t feel as exposed with another by my side.

  Whatever the reason, Dante’s presence calms me.

  He takes a single step that closes the distance between us. His hands take mine as he searches my hollow gaze. “Tell me if I am prying, but I fear you might collapse,” he says. “You look quite unwell, Red. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I shake my head. There is nothing anyone can do for me.

  My lips pinch inwards a moment as I grasp at my thoughts. “I cannot…” I hesitate. “Dante, I am afraid tonight will not suit what you want from me.”

  Dante’s hold tightens. “Ella.”

  At the sound of my name on his lips, I jerk my head up. We are aligned.

  “What sort of brute would I be to ask that of you? Looking at you now, that is the least of thoughts on my mind.”

  There is so much strength in his voice that I blink. I almost believe him.

  “We shall spend our time on other matters,” he says, his hold firm on me.

  “What other matters?”

  All I can think of is the wolf. Colton under the moonlight. Waiting for his change.

  Dante looks at the workbench, littered in unfinished business. “I see you might need my assistance. So if you will not confide in me, we shall have to do something. What better than your chores?”

  Blankly, I look up at him. I don’t see him, really. My gaze feast on the moonlight sheen of his skin, the midnight glimmer of his eyes, the combed hair that flattens to the side and to the shell of his ear. I see his face, his appearance, but not him.

  Perhaps Colton has frightened me so much that my power to read has dwindled.

  “Red, please,” he says, bringing me back to him. “Tell me what the problem is.”

  I roll my jaw twice and part my lips thrice—the seconds tick by like that before I heave a sigh and stare at the slice of tunic beneath his heavy coat.

  “I have good reason to fear a visit from the wolf tonight,” I whisper. “It is not safe for you here. You should leave before he comes.”

  Dante is silent a moment. Then his face lights up with a wicked grin and his hands slide up to my arms. “And where shall you go, my sweet witch? Off into the woods where the wolf can easily hunt you, or stay here to be cornered alone? Leave.” He scoffs a half-chuckle. “Not if you paid me.”

  †††

  I rinse my gaze over his proud profile. He is a nobleman in more ways than the term suggests. A nobleman who stands beside me at the workbench, three hours into our night, and patiently chops the last of the wolfsbane as I fill phials.

  Together, we make quite a team.

  Together, there is less fear in me.

  Still, my eyes drift ahead to the front door every other moment. I’m certain a minute at most passed in which I forgot to look at the door. That moment was when Dante confessed to me that he dreams of other lands.

  To see him this way—beside me, chopping wolfsbane in his tunic, hair tousled by the steam from the cauldron—is surreal. He tells me some dreams, of lands he knows and of lands he doesn’t. He sprinkles in some jokes. And all the while, he keeps the silver-coated dagger hooked to his belt.

  If I was a fool, I would let my mind wander to this night becoming my normal. But I am no fool. Dante fancies me. He lusts and he is kind. But this will never be our normal, no matter how…secure it feels.

  Dante scrapes the wolfsbane into the wooden bowl once it’s chopped. Then he slams the point of the knife into the workbench and asks, “Would you mind terribly if I released a burning question from within me?”

  I smile, but hope it hides under the dark light of the room. “You have earned a question tonight.”

  “What prompts you to believe the wolf will come for you?”

  I don’t even blink—I knew the question was coming. Still, hours of knowing and I came up with no solid answer other than the truth. So it is the truth I tell him.

  “I think I have realised who he is, and he has realised me too.”

  “You mean the wolf is aware of your knowledge?”

  Scraping the final spoon into a glass phial, I nod in answer.

  “Are the tales of them true?” he asks. “Can they change at will, or only under the moon’s glow?”

  With honesty in my unveiled eyes, I look at him and shrug. “I don’t know, Dante. Of the wolves, my knowledge is spread as thin as I can afford.”

  Dante peels off his gloves then slinks toward me. The fluid motion springs to mind the wolf again, moving in on its prey. He draws me away from the workshop and runs the tip of his nose along my jawline.

  “And of all my knowledge, sweet witch, why the wolf would want to harm you is incomprehensible. You pose no threat, and you would keep its identity a secret, I should think.”

  I pull away to glare at him.

  Unfazed, Dante pinches my chin and tilts his head. “Wouldn’t you? A wolf and a witch seem to me the makings of a strong alliance. Powerful outcasts banding together … I meant no offence, Ella. Fix your hard stare on another.”

  I bunch my lips and return to the worktop. “Put your gloves on.”

  The heat of Dante’s stare burns the back of my head. But then he does what I demand and is back beside me at the workbench.

  His words dance in my mind.

  Could Colton and I be allies? Is it too late for that?

  Should I survive the night, it might be wise to offer him such a bargain. Bargains seem to interest him some. And with an agreement between us, what need would he have to kill me?

  Grandmother comes to mind—she killed Silas.

  Is Colton intent on revenge? Or is he determined to finish what his father started? To kill a made witch, to remove her from his line of temptation.

  Colton could have learned the truth of what I am from his mother. If she’s the other witch…

  Soon, my head aches and I cannot decide if the pain comes from the fumes or the tangled mess trapped under my skull. Dante takes me away from the workbench and pours me hot lemon water.

  More hours tick by. Midway through the night, we share cured ham and a piece of bread. I bought this batch of bread, so at least it is edible.

  Our night slips by us like this. Side by side, at the foot of the couch, snacking and waiting…waiting…

  Waiting.

  17.

  I wake with a start.

  Jerking upright, I pry open my hooded eyes and wipe the back of my hand over my lips. Drool covers me. I wipe it on the blanket gathered between my legs, but then I come to my senses when Dante groans.

  I am straddling him on the couch, and the stiffness of my neck speaks of an uncomfortable position to sleep in. We must have drifted off sometimes after we snacked on sugared almonds.

  Dante rubs his fists on his tired eyes. “Tell me you did not wipe your drool on my tunic.”

  I grimace and glance down at the wet patch. It appears I have done more than wipe my drool on his tunic. I seemed to have directly drooled on him for quite some time. “I did not wipe drool on your tunic.”

  “Liar.” He swats at me lazily. “This fabric was imported from across the sea.”

  I roll my eyes, the urge to make a face at him gnawing within me. But to make a silly face at him would be too familiar. And all of this, our night and our morn, is too familiar.

  I climb off him.

  Dante tucks a forearm under his head and follows my frantic movements with a tired gaze. “Is this
a regular routine for you in the morns?”

  While I balance on one foot, I yank on a stocking with one hand, and use my other hand to comb through my tangled hair. “A noise woke me,” I say.

  “Oh.” Dante sits up and glances between the two doors. “Are you expecting any visitors?”

  The wolf.

  But it is the morn, the sun is up, the wolf is down.

  “I rarely am expecting visitors when they arrive.” I shake out my hair to fall down my back, then use a cloth from the washbowl to wipe at every bit of exposed flesh I can. “Aren’t you going to dress?”

  “I fancy myself a long rest where I am.”

  Brows knitted together, I round on him. “Someone might see you, Dante.”

  He shrugs. “Only if there is someone at the door. It could have been a mere bump from outside. And if you are correct, we can always simply pretend we’re not here.”

  I relent to my urges. I make that face at him, though it is more of a scowl.

  A tired smile graces his face and he crosses his ankles. “You are a frightful morn person.”

  “Frightful only in the morn? You and your flattery will not soften this heart.”

  In answer, he gives such a dazzling smile that it twinkles his eyes with the stars of the night.

  As the seconds give way to minutes, I dismiss my startled wake as a mild scare. It is one of those rare morns where my dreams are fast erased, though it wouldn’t be far-fetched to think I dreamt of the wolf—A solid enough reason to jerk awake at any sound.

  Dante lounges on the couch for the better part of the hour.

  His eyes follow me around as though if he looks away a mere second, I will vanish—or be gobbled up by the wolf in hunter’s clothing. Now that I think on it, a hunter’s skin is an ingenious disguise for a wolf. For a half shilling, I might admit to how it impresses me.

  After Dante and I share the last of my bread, a real sound comes from the door. A rapid knock at the rear of the house.

  I need not call out to know who stands on the other side. Her panic slips through the cracks of my home and poisons the air with a bitter tang. She is here for help she does not want to ask for.

  Villagers are odd in their stubborn pride. Don’t they realise pride is expensive to keep and bears no rewards?

  Fools, the lot of them.

  Dante dresses quickly and ducks behind the rear door before I open it.

  My hand flattens against the doorframe, and I level my gaze with hers.

  “Mildred,” I say with the coldness of the snow outside. “The sign on the front door is very clear. I am closed to business today. Correct me if I am wrong, but I don’t recall writing in fine print come around back.”

  Mildred’s blotchy cheeks burn brighter, not with rage, but with what I want to see on her. Humiliation. This is my small retaliation for her slights against me. It isn’t much, but it satisfies me.

  Even in her state, Mildred puckers her lips to an inch of likeness to a cat’s bottom. My own wrinkle in disgust.

  “It’s Abigail,” she says, as though I didn’t already know. “Her health … We took her to the physician and—he cannot help.”

  I am aware.

  In all his time of poaching my patrons, never has the physician helped one. No ordinary can brew what a witch does. A dash of magic is the difference between remedy and poison, life and death.

  “Come in.” I pull closer to the door, letting her pass by me.

  Mildred squeezes through the gap, her pudgy arm grazing my breasts as she does. Her back is curved, her shoulders slouched; she does not even want the walls of my home to see her here.

  As her back is turned, Dante slips out from behind the door and leaves. Still, cheeky as he is, he chances a touch of my hand before the door shuts on him.

  “So,” I begin and peel off my apron, stained with the blood of hares. “What has that foolish man done now?”

  I hold up my hand before she can speak.

  “Wait. I think I might guess … He tried to ween her off my sedative brew with smaller doses of his own, which has led to Abigail’s delirium and poor health?”

  Mildred’s lips part—bits of the skin sticks together, making my stomach churn.

  “Did he tell you that the last time he fed a patient valerian, she died? No, I’ll bet he said nothing of the sort.”

  Mildred points her red, swollen finger at me; “You shift blame when it was you who introduced her to the poison to begin with.”

  “Please. What I brew is not poison. And if I am guilty, you are doubly so. Making her marry a man she does not wish to be wed to.” I finish with a scoff and derisive glare that runs up and down her plump figure. “Some mother you are.”

  Red flushes all over her, no more in blotchy patches—all over, as if painted on. “Bailiff John is a fine candidate for my daughter’s hand. His land is much, his rank high. You dare accuse—”

  I laugh outright.

  “Bailiff John?” My grin sticks to my face. “A man twice your daughter’s age, who reeks of ale and bad bathwater. You force her into intimacy with a stranger so foul, and as her mother—and a woman—you have the nerve to defend your choices?” I take a slow step closer, and my grin fades to a half-snarl. “You might as well be the one to tie her to the bed for him to ravish. Blame rests more on your shoulders than anyone but the Bailiff’s.”

  Mildred gapes at me, her cheeks so red they might burst from all the blood gathered. Rage fills her lungs, pushes her chest hard against her corset, and wobbles her meaty hands.

  “Now,” I say with as much calm as I can muster. “We may spend time disputing, or you can ask me to save your daughter’s life.”

  This sends her crashing back to her circumstance. She came to me, she needs me—and her ignorance shields her from the truth that I would help Abigail without Mildred’s meddling.

  Still, I am what Dante sometimes says—vindictive.

  Mildred swallows and looks to the herb room. “Help her and I will pay you.”

  That’s the best I can hope to pull from her.

  I slap a smile on my face and sweep over to the herb room. Mildred shadows me with her wary gaze alone. Her shoulders relax when I hold up the pre-packaged supply for Abigail.

  “One spoon, brewed for thirty minutes. Tomorrow, brew for twenty minutes. The next, only ten—then onwards, half a spoon each day, brewed for five minutes. Do this until there is nothing left.” I hand it to her. “She will be weak and nauseas for days, but you must force her to drink clean water and eat bread, unbuttered.” At her glazed-over eyes, I add, “Do you need me to write this down?”

  Mildred shakes her head numbly and stuffs the pouch in her skirt pocket. She hesitates and in that short moment, her dislike of me slips away from her like water down a window. She sees me. A healer. A helper. A witch who saves her child from death.

  Mildred realises, I hadn’t been the one to harm Abigail. We are all to blame, yes. But I am the one to save her. That counts for something. It must.

  Before she can reach for her money-pouch, I step away. “Think of it as an offer of amends.”

  †††

  Sometime after Mildred’s departure, I returned to my chores on the wolfsbane. I packed the phials in my wicker basket with care, wrapped layers of cloth around them to stop them from breaking, then left for the Square with the basket on arm.

  The morn is late enough for the villagers to be out, but the markets are scarce. Most villagers huddle and share woes, but as I walk by, silence steals their words. Some watch with hope at spotting my basket; others are dubious, their faith in me not yet settled.

  The ordinaries should not fear. The wolf has his sights on me. The others should be safe, I imagine, if they bolt themselves away at night. Fortunate fools, yet they don’t know how fortunate they are.

  Priest Peter is on the stone path across the Square. He offers blessings to those of the villagers riddled with fear. Then, his gaze finds me coming down the Square.

 
He cannot stop the breath of relief from leaving his lips. The cloudy puff of air appears at his mouth and the tension is torn from his body.

  The altar boy takes the bowl of holy water from Priest Peter when I step onto the stone path. In its place, I push the wicker basket into his hands.

  “There is enough for every household within the walls,” I say. “Tell everyone—do not let even a drop of this touch the skin. No matter how small, a mere drop can be lethal.”

  Priest Peter nods and thanks me; his urgent tone is flooded with the same relief that lights up his creased eyes; “You have done a great service to the village, Ella. A gift from God stands before me.”

  “I’m no gift. I stand before you because of my Grandmother, and how you chose to take me to her. God has no part in my being here.”

  Shock slackens his jaw.

  I tap the wicker basket. “That debt is now repaid.”

  Priest Peter’s gape lasts a moment longer, then he snaps his mouth shut. “Very well,” is all he says.

  I’m at the church longer than expected.

  Priest Peter insisted I show him what to do with the wolfsbane. So, I spent thirty minutes with a brush damp with wolfsbane from a phial, and painted a translucent X over the doors, then coated the doorframe and windows.

  Some crowds slipped closer to observe, and when I finished, I turned to see two dozen villagers had gathered to watch me.

  As I left, two shook my hand; a woman offered me a pressed rose, wild to the northern lands; and a child sat on the train of my skirt. Inside, I wanted to boot the child away from me.

  Pretence stopped me. It was needed, so I forced a smile on my face.

  And as I walk home now, I wonder of their gratitude…

  Perhaps I am better suited to the life of a needed pariah than a wanted member of this community.

  18.

  Skirt in my hands, I wade up the lane to my home. I look over my shoulder every other second, feeling eyes on me. But I see no one.

  I move quicker, until I see Marigold at my door, waiting for me.

  My expression switches from one of paranoia to apology. I have not yet made what she needs, and tonight is the full moon.