Myth and Magic

by Radclyffe

  The evil fairy fell at the foot of the sleeping king and queen, an inky puddle seeping from the corpse.

  Ivy exhaled, long and slow.

  The corpse convulsed. A pitch-black raven burst from its chest and flew at her, its sharp talons drawn.

  Ivy screamed and the two doves swooped in, flapping their wings to shield her face. The raven turned and sailed out the window, cawing, “Damn you. Damn you all!”

  Ivy wrapped her arms around herself. When the quaking stilled, she stepped over the body and walked to the staircase that led to the tower room. She paused for only a second to look back at the fallen dove.

  *

  Ivy spread the cloak across the princess’s body, cold as death itself, and wept. No cure. No hope. No plan. Not anymore. She brushed her fingers over her girl’s lips and bent close to whisper into her sleeping ear.

  “It were always you, Rose, what warmed my heart. Ain’t nuffink worth nuffink in this life if I can’t share it with you.”

  Princess Ambrosia stirred and reached for Ivy in her sleep.

  Ivy caressed the softness of the princess’s skin, the satin of her lips, the silk of her hair. Each touch was a good-bye. She stood and walked to the window, still flung wide.

  She gulped the air as it rushed her, crisp and sharp, savoring the last taste of life as she stared into the vast blue sky above and the hard earth below. Ivy spoke no words as she swung her legs through the window, the sill biting deep into her flesh. She was past the point of threats or pleas. She inhaled deeply, leaning forward. She was ready, and then she heard a voice, ancient as time itself.

  “I thought you wanted to save your girl.”

  Ivy turned toward the voice and almost lost her balance. A strong hand grabbed her, belonging not to the old woman she assumed had spoken, but to a strong woman in her prime who stood beside her.

  “I do, but she sleeps and I can’t do nuffink to wake her.” Ivy shook off the woman’s hand and turned back to the window.

  “In fact,” the old woman’s voice warbled, “you are the only one who can wake the princess. If you choose to do so, that is, after you learn the truth.”

  Ivy climbed out of the window and studied the old woman who stood before her. Wisps of pure white hair that flew about her face. Eyes, blue and clear as the sky, surrounded by craters of wisdom. She knew something. No, she knew everything.

  “We have watched over you all these years, my dear,” the old woman said. “The three of us. We have watched you and waited for you to know who you are. Some of us realize the truth early in life, like the young one who sacrificed everything for you.”

  The young one? An image of a dying dove flashed through Ivy’s mind.

  The middle-aged woman spoke. “Others, like me, come to the truth at the height of our lives. I found the choice difficult. I had children, you see.”

  The old woman continued, “And some, like me, are so old when we learn the truth that the choice is easy.”

  “What are you talking about? What truth?” A gust of wind blew in from the window, chilling Ivy to the bone.

  The old woman took Ivy’s hand. Her skin was smooth and paper thin. “To leave this life and join us. To become a wise one.”

  “Me? A fairy? Are you blinking crazed?” Ivy pulled her hand away. “I’m just a chambermaid!”

  The old woman chuckled. “A chambermaid with the power to part a hedge of thorns?”

  “That’s right. ’Cuz I came from inside the castle. Or sumfink like that.”

  The old woman stared into the distance. “Try to touch her, I dare you! Lay one finger on my Rose, and I’ll tear you to bits! I’ll pierce you till your blood runs cold!” She quoted Ivy’s words, spoken in this very spot two years before. “Dearest Ivy, you are the one who called the hedge of thorns into being. It was born of your love for the beautiful Rose and your desire to protect her. In all the world, there is no more potent magic. It was the first time you wielded your powers, but not the last. Think, child. Remember.”

  Ivy thought and remembered. Her fall from the window that had ended at Lord Ainsworth’s gate. Milli’s miraculous meal fit for a king. So many other mysteries she’d never been able to explain. Until now. Could it be?

  The old woman nodded. “You may use that gift to awaken the princess. You may even have the life with her that you wish right here in the castle.” She sighed, the tired sigh of one who has lived centuries. “But know this, if you choose to live as a mortal, your body will age and die, though your magic will live on in some form. Join us now and you will live forever, watching over all of humanity and lessening the suffering of this world.”

  Ivy glanced at her girl. “But if I join you?”

  “She will sleep, forever protected by the hedge of your love.”

  It was barely a choice at all. Ivy strode across the room to the princess. “Awake, my girl.” She kissed her gently.

  Princess Ambrosia, thereafter known throughout the kingdom as Princess Rose, opened her eyes and smiled at the one whose love had quickened her heart. “Why, Ivy, it’s mean of you to make me wait so long! You took such a time with your chores, I must have fallen asleep.”

  Ivy cradled her girl in her arms. “Forgive me?”

  “Always,” the princess whispered.

  *

  Life changed for Ivy, who was named Princess Rose’s royal consort. Nights with her girl were a delight, but the long days at court? That was another matter. The ladies were silly. The lords, boorish. But the kitchen became a place of respite when Ivy brought Milli to the castle and named her head cook. And as for Lord Ainsworth, Ivy’s former master? He finally settled his debt to the crown…after two years of servitude spent emptying all the chamber pots in the castle.

  Following the king and queen’s deaths, Rose and Ivy ruled with wisdom and kindness and lived well into the sunset of their years, neither parting from the other for more than hours at a time. And on the terrible day when two graves were dug, the kingdom mourned and planted a bush of roses at one and a vine of ivy at the other. It is said that before the sun fell on that day of mourning the vines had entwined, one within the other.

  You can see it, if you are brave and worthy and willing to leave this world of logic and reason. You can trudge through the forest until you reach the castle where a hedge of roses blooms, but beware. It is a place where a cook can become a magician, a lord an evil fairy, a princess a mere girl, and a chambermaid a queen’s royal consort. Or even a wise woman.

  Who knows what you will become?

  But if you do risk the journey toward truth, tread softly. For you, like others before you, may catch a glimpse of the rare Briar Castle mourning dove, marked by blazing red feathers.

  “My Rose, my girl,” the dove coos as it perches on the princess’s grave.

  Still.

  Sasha Payne (Morsus@virginmedia.com) is an English writer of gay erotic fiction and romance. She is a lifelong speculative fiction and fantasy fan and most enjoys working within the genres of speculative fiction, fantasy, or historical fiction.

  This story is based on “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”

  Goldie and the Three Bears

  Sasha Payne

  It was raining like the end of days. A constant downpour that turned distant sirens into the wail of lost souls and cloaked us all in heavy gray mist. I was glad of the mist that night, glad to be one more anonymous Joe wrapped in a rain-slicked trench coat. Private dick was always a job on the edge of respectable, beyond the edge some might figure. Sure, I sailed close to the wind, but I was no scum sucker, and that was one night I was paying for it. I needed somewhere to hide until the heat wore off and Titchy McGee decided to turn his wrath on someone else to cross his path.

  From where I was standing, soaking wet and jumping at shadows, the Cabin looked like a mighty fine bolthole. It was closer to a dive than a nightclub—entry was through a back door off an alleyway—but that suited my mood. I’d never get into any high-class gin joint any way. />
  The beady-eyed gunsel behind the counter drank me in like I was a tall glass of cool water. But he was on duty and I was in a hurry to get into the thick of the action. I gave him a rain check and pushed into the club. The lights were low and a fog of smoke filled the air. Whatever kind of club you’re thinking of, that was the Cabin. Chippy boys in shorts and tight shirts swished around, selling cigarettes and their souls. The bartenders were dames with short, slicked-back hair and men’s suits. Up on the stage, a pair of canaries in low, tight dresses and killer heels were crooning to a dirty little jazz number. I knew the trombonist some, he was a switch-backer out of Brooklyn with a taste for cheap scotch and expensive card games. I’d met him in another club, another time, and I’d fingered his slider before he mouthed my piece.

  I flicked a deuce at the nearest drink slinger and she sashayed across. She poured me a dirty martini and waved back my green.

  “It’s been paid for.”

  I followed her gaze to a booth by the band. My benefactor was a suit I’d seen around. Tall, broad, with long, dark hair and a beard I could have crawled into. I pegged him as a Russian, or maybe a Pole. A traveler from the ice looking to get warmed up. It would’ve been rude not to go over, so I did.

  He grinned as he watched me walk across. I was glad to know my quality still held.

  “Aren’t you going to drink it?” he asked as I slid into his booth.

  “Figured I’d come thank you in person.”

  I took a gulp; it burned like an angry lover.

  “My name is Mischa,” he said, getting good and close. He smelled of cigar smoke, leather, and fine brandy. There was a bottle on the table, newly plundered and already half-drunk. My host was a man of large appetites.

  “You can call me Goldie,” I said.

  His fingers, thick and covered in heavy rings, tipped up my hat. “Because of your hair.”

  “Sure.”

  I finished my martini and another appeared at my elbow. He waved off the chippy boy with an ass slap that must’ve left a mark. The chippy jumped, rubbed his rump, and lammed off before Mischa could make it double.

  “I don’t get a brandy?” I asked.

  “Brandy is expensive.”

  “And you pegged me as cheap goods?”

  He smirked and drank me in. “I believe you are beautiful…goods.”

  Mischa rolled the word around his mouth, letting it linger. I could see he like the taste.

  “I’m not in the market for a daddy bear to take me home to his cave.”

  Mischa finished his brandy like it was water. His hand dropped to my thigh and explored the landscape. If the damp material bothered him then he didn’t show it. His hand was hot and insistent. I felt steam rising where he handled me.

  “A shame,” he said, figuring to sound like he meant it. “Have you played in the rooms here?”

  “You booked one?”

  Sure, I’d played here before. Everything from broom closets to ballrooms were just waiting for playmates. I was pretty sure there were secret snappers hidden away, but that was no skin off mine. I hadn’t the green to be blackmailed.

  Mischa grinned and I saw gleaming white teeth.

  He stalked into the room ahead of me. He was that kind of pick-up. The room was a temporary possession, just like I was. I figured we’d both be having a fast, rough night. The room was a decent size and glam for what it was: thick carpet, soft lights, and a bed the size of a football field. Mischa took off the heavy fur he was wearing and hung it up, neat like. Underneath, his suit was pin sharp but couldn’t stop him from looking like a circus strong man on his day off. I took off my hat and hung up my suit; I put my piece in my jacket pocket and hid my knife under my pillow. Sure it was dangerous. I already had a crew after me, and here I was climbing into bed with a gee sure to ride me hard and put me away wet. Thing was, Mischa’s interest was all on the surface. Better some bear you know wants to maul you than some dish that stabs you in the heart.

  I heard the door lock, but when I checked it the key was still there. Day some pick-up hides the key is the day I stop picking up.

  Mischa was just finishing airing his fur: He had a great barrel chest, rolling stomach, and meaty thighs. Where his skin wasn’t covered in dark, curly hair it was smothered in green and blue tattoos. He was eating me up with a spoon and I wasn’t minded to kick him out of the room neither. I liked what I saw: the muscles, and the smile, and I liked the thick, long, half-hard cock.

  He prowled across the room toward me. He had a look in his eye like a tiger circling a lost lamb and a predatory smile like he could already taste me. He pinned me up against the wall and kissed my neck with his warm, soft lips and softly bristling beard.

  “I’m going to fuck you, Goldie,” he growled into my ear.

  “Figured you might.”

  He pawed my ass with one hand while the other tangled thick fingers in my hair.

  “Do you liked to be fucked?” Mischa asked. “Do you liked to be fucked very hard while you squirm?”

  I leaned back a little. No reason he should get it all his own way.

  “Hard as you like sweetheart, but I’m not promising any squirming, nor weeping, begging, or screaming.”

  Mischa grinned and took my wrists between his thumb and forefinger. Not painful but firm.

  “I like to make men squirm.”

  “I like to make Swiss cheese and bacon sandwiches, I don’t see that happening here either,” I said. “You’re not tying me up either.” Sure I was horny and maybe I was a little reckless, but I wasn’t insane.

  Mischa gave me a hard kiss and a soft lick along the side of my face. Tasting it like he tasted the idea of owning me.

  “Tie you up!” he said, backing toward the bed and pulling me after him. “I do not need a rope or chains to control a man.” He flipped me onto the bed and pinned me down. He had my arms above my head, wrists held, and his heavy thighs were making me real intimate with the mattress.

  “You wanna test how controlled I am?” I asked.

  I was nervous, sure, but I didn’t show it. The mood was still light. Two guys having fun.

  “I think we will both enjoy this,” he said.

  He lowered his head to bite and lick my neck. His heavy beard was a light tickle against my skin. His free hand squeezed and teased my nipples before trailing down to my gut. He used his fingertips as he scoured my body like he was searching for gold. I’m no dummy but it took me a couple of passes before I tumbled to his game: looking for a ticklish spot. He was real wedded to making me squirm. He gave up on my torso and walked his fingers up to my pits. I tried to play it cool some more but busted my flush with the first card. I tensed and he chuckled.

  He drew his fingers slowly over my skin, looking for the sweet spots. It wasn’t the most undignified position I’d been in but damned if it wasn’t in the top ten. He had me pinned while that old mix of irritation and delight, pain and pleasure, at the tickling sensation was getting close to unbearable.

  “Ha ha!” he cried. Thrilled.

  Damn it.

  “Doesn’t mean a thing,” I drawled.

  My punishment for raining on his parade was that he kept it up. Round and round, light, teasing touches, until not reacting was its own agony.

  Then he spun me over onto my front. For a second or two I felt spun out of whack. Then I felt those slicked, thick fingers tug out of me. Mischa was a maestro of doing what he wanted with other men’s bodies. His left hand pawed my hair and pushed my face into the pillow. I could see nothing but the tiny whirling pattern on the cheap cotton. The scent of carbolic soap filled my lungs. My arms scrabbled for purchase but came up with nothing. Mischa’s right hand slapped my ass, then grabbed and squeezed like he was measuring me for market.

  Then he fucked me. The great length and weight of his cock slammed into my ass. He grunted. I felt him move his legs and then his right arm slid under my thighs. He lifted me up. Lifted me up and fucked me again, deeper. He had me dangling so
he could get a better, deeper angle. His left hand kept my face pressed into the pillow. His weight was behind his thrusts as he played with the angle, played with my body as he looked for the best way to fuck me as deeply as he wanted. Each thrust was deeper than the last, harder than the last. I felt like I was splitting. His balls slapped against my ass and he murmured happily. He was finally deep enough to bury himself inside me. I was light-headed. He was finally ready to really start fucking me, just the way he wanted. It was hard and it was deep and it was fast. The impact slammed me against the pillow over and over. It felt like a road drill. I ached where I hung over his arm. My legs throbbed from his weight. My head was sore from the pressure of his finger. Most of all my cock was aching. He was fucking me hard and deep, like he owned me, like a possession, and my cock was hard. Hard for him. Hard for it.

  He came with a groan, and his arm tightened around me while his fingers clenched in my hair. I heard myself creak like an old door, then he let go. I fell onto the sheets in a mess of aches and confusion. I sat up and regretted it; that hadn’t happened in a while. Mischa had wandered into the shower. I heard him start singing as he turned on the water. Fucker had plowed me, literally dropped, and walked away. I knew there were weak-willed Joes who’d take that as a cue to try harder for reciprocation. Maybe crawl into the shower and flutter their eyes at him.

  Me, I jacked over his shirt. Then I got my knife, dressed, and left. I didn’t much care if he came after me sore over his shirt. Big never bothered me anyway.

  I went back out to the bar and ordered two fingers of scotch. I knew I smelled of sex and I didn’t care. Around here it was just another cologne. As I was sipping my whiskey I saw two mooks shoulder their way in. Titchy McGee’s men—I’d seen them eyeballing me in his office, just before I jumped out the window. Since I didn’t see any windows in easy reach, I headed for a booth before they saw me. I ducked into the first half-occupied one I saw. A small, nervous-looking guy with chipmunk cheeks, a small mustache, and a neat little beard.