by Laura Kenyon
There were tall red maples, speckled boxwoods, a natural fence of fat blue spruces, and emerald green arborvitaes that twisted playfully toward the sky. There were cute little mounds of chrysanthemums in fading shades of purple, and a frothy sea of lavender lining the route to the back door. Belle had to swallow a lump the size of a softball to keep the tears down.
“I just have to put in those three azaleas,” he said when they reached the one area that wasn’t yet perfect. He dropped the shovel into the dirt. “Are you really going to stand there and watch me?”
Belle looked from the churned-up ground to the three large bushes still in pots.
“I am. And I’d like to hear a story while I’m doing it.”
She said this to get a rise out of him, but all he did was shrug and say he’d learned a ton of ghost stories during his time on the fishing boat. “They voted me resident storyteller because I could keep a straight face when everyone else was shivering in their rain pants. My favorite one’s the tale of the hitchhiker in the white dress with the bloody rope burns on her—”
“No,” Belle interrupted, goosebumps spiking all over her body. She could already imagine the rest of the tale—which was probably even more terrifying than hearing it for real. She tugged the sleeves of Gray’s jacket over her hands. “I want to hear about what you’re hoping to find out here.”
“Out where?”
“The world.”
Resting his elbow over the top of the shovel, Gray stared back at her, serious as sin. She wasn’t budging.
“Fine,” he conceded. “But you should hold the flashlight.”
“Why?” The lights from the inn were plenty bright. “I can see fine.”
“I didn’t bring it for that.” He nodded toward the surrounding woods. “I brought it in case we need protecting.”
Belle felt a dull chill as he stabbed the dirt with the blade. For about ten seconds, she succeeded in not asking the follow-up. He was just trying to scare her. But ultimately, curiosity proved stronger than wisdom. It was this same thinking that had led her into Donner’s bedroom five months ago, when she heard a woman’s laugh.
“Fine. Protection from what?”
Gray stopped digging. “The ghost with the bloody rope burns. Every full moon someone spots her in these very hills, trying to hitch a ride. You really haven’t heard about this?”
Belle tried to pass her shivering off as a simple shake of the head.
“Well, you should know for your own safety. They say she’s got flaming red hair and skin so pale you can practically see through it.”
Sounds like Dawn, Belle thought, struggling to keep her thoughts connected with reality. But her pulse was already speeding up.
“Some people say she’s dressed like someone from the 1600s, but others swear it’s a wedding dress.”
Belle’s entire body froze as each hair tried to pull itself from her skin. She didn’t blame them; she wanted to get away, too.
“Historians think it’s the ghost of a young woman they call Bloody Magdalene. Her husband killed her just hours after their wedding. Him and a whole gang of followers. He’s known as the robber bridegroom.”
Stop it, Belle thought. But she didn’t want Gray to win.
“Apparently they hung her first—in a tree just like that one.” He pointed to a massive oak towering over the inn.
She wanted to say something sarcastic—something that would make her sound immune to such cheap scare tactics. But she didn’t trust her voice.
“But that wasn’t nearly as bad as what happened to their next victim. They chopped her into a hundred tiny—”
“Oh my God, stop!” Her heart was about to pound out from her chest. She flattened one palm over her throat and the other against her belly. One more word and she might explode from fear. “This is not good for the baby!”
Gray laughed and tossed a shovel full of dirt to the side. Then he locked eyes with her, examining her face, and made a quick jolt forward.
Belle hiked the flashlight up to strike.
He burst out laughing.
“What the heck! Are you trying to actually give me a heart attack? How bad would you feel then? It would be a double homicide.”
Something about this caused Gray to stop shoveling for a moment and pause. He stared into the dirt, as if completely alone with his thoughts. She hadn’t seen him stay this still—or quiet—since they met. In truth, she’d doubted it was even possible.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“What?” He shook back to life. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He pulled one of the azaleas out of its pot and heaved it into the hole. Then he patted the dirt back in with both feet, rubbed his hand over his forehead, and smiled at her.
She stared back in complete bewilderment, waiting for an explanation. “Why did you tell me that story?”
He stabbed the ground for azalea number two. “Because you asked what I was looking for.”
“You’re looking for a chopped up bride? Seriously, just tell me.”
Gray’s shoulder’s rose, then fell. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
She shook her head. Had she heard him right? “Umm … congratulations? What does that have to do with—”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand.” He hauled over the next plant and violently yanked it free. His breathing was getting heavier. In one quick motion, he pulled his jacket off and tossed it to the ground, barely breaking his rhythm at all.
“Well, wait,” she said. “Explain it to me.”
Gray’s mouth went flat for the first time in … possibly ever. She asked again.
“Fine,” he said. “When I told you that story, I’m guessing your senses were heightened. Your reflexes were on alert. Adrenaline was ready to kick in any second. You were scared.” Belle cocked her head. So? “If someone had snuck up on you right then, you probably would have clocked him right in the head with that flashlight, right?”
She shifted her weight and shrugged. “Probably.”
Gray moved a few feet over and thrust the shovel into the ground once more. “And you probably would have done a lot of damage, too. Whereas if the same person snuck up on you in the daylight, in the inn, when you felt totally safe, it would’ve taken you a while to get your bearings and fight back.”
She thought about how she’d felt in the cabin just moments earlier—with the fire and the stew and Gray waiting on her.
He was hacking away at the ground now. The muscles in his arms seemed to have doubled in size, and he suddenly had bangs that were sticking to his forehead. He smacked them away. “That’s what fear does. It’s a defense mechanism. It lets you know when there’s a reason to be on alert.”
Belle ran her thumb back and forth along the flashlight. She had no idea what he was talking about, but if he didn’t cool it with the shoveling, he’d probably hit a water line. Or split his back in two.
“I think that hole’s big enough,” she said.
He stopped and stared at his handiwork for a moment. With some reluctance, he let the shovel fall to the ground and grabbed the final shrub.
“I’m not quite sure I understand what you’re saying.” Her voice was practically a whisper.
“I can’t fear,” he said, pounding on the last two words like he’d pounded on the dirt seconds earlier. “I was born with something missing. The wires aren’t there. My body doesn’t signal me when I’m in trouble. When I should stay away from something. I—”
“And you think that’s a bad thing?”
He looked up toward the trees and let his shoulders fall, as if begging the universe for a break. Belle knew this wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but she’d lived her entire life in fear—fear of growing up without her mother, fear of her sisters’ abuse, fear of her father drinking himself to death, fear of being held captive by a monster, fear of going back to that monster rather than destroying the entire world.
Gray let out a disappointed breath and picked the shovel up again. “People aroun
d me get hurt because of it. I put them in danger. I can’t protect them the way I should.”
Again, Belle waited for an elaboration, but none came. She watched him pack the dirt around the final plant and clean everything up in silence.
When he finally walked her to the front door of the inn, she thanked him for the fantastic job he’d done in the back yard. “It really does look amazing,” she said. “I’m sorry I doubted you.” She wanted to say more, to apologize for not fully understanding what he was going through. She just wasn’t sure how. It didn’t make sense to her.
“No worries,” he said, turning to leave.
She immediately called him back.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to, but…” She paused, not wanting to upset him again. “Can you try to explain it to me one more time?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned against the railing. She crossed the porch and took the spot by his side.
“Have you ever studied philosophy?” he asked.
“What?” She shook her head. “Look, if you don’t want to tell me, just—”
“There are a lot of long-winded dialogues in philosophy about the nature of being human … and the basic emotions that make us who we are. That make us feel and experience things in a way other species don’t. Fear and love, mostly.”
Her chin jerked up in surprise. Love?
“It’s not just about ghost stories and reflexes,” he continued. “It’s that I’m missing a fundamental part of my humanity—and all the emotions that come with it … the connections I don’t quite make with other people because I can’t understand them.”
Belle’s head was spinning, but he was starting to make more sense. It was one thing to hear that someone couldn’t eat peanuts because his throat would close up, or couldn’t sleep because he had nightmares. No wonder Gray didn’t like to talk about this. It didn’t even come with the benefit of empathy.
“But can’t you just teach yourself that stuff? I mean, you wouldn’t go and waltz off a cliff just because your body didn’t warn you. And you don’t seem…” She trailed off, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to say. He didn’t appear to be an emotionless robot, responding only to memorized triggers. “You always seem so happy.” She held his gaze for a moment and then examined the floor. The wood could use some sealant before winter came. “When you’re not being a tremendous pain in the ass, I mean.”
His shoulder knocked into hers. She smiled. If what he said was true, did he not recognize the terror that was spiraling through her right now, making every movement jolt against the air? As far as Belle could tell, her heart was trembling, her face was flush, and every noise she made sounded strained and whimpery.
Gray tapped the railing and stared curiously into her eyes. He panned down, along her neck and toward the hem of her shirt. Then he pulled away, suddenly distracted.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m not sure how to say this, but ….”
He glanced at her shirt again and trailed off.
Belle felt something tug deep inside of her. Part of her wanted to pull him through that door, race over to her bedroom, and stay there until the outside world turned to ash. But that wasn’t a thought she should be having right now. And after his confession, she wasn’t sure it was even a thought he could have. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to be speechless,” she said.
“Ha. It’s rare but not impossible.”
The air thickened between them. She followed his eyes again. Down her neck. Along her collar of her shirt. Belle’s pulse raced. He pushed forward off the railing and turned so that his body was perpendicular to hers. His lips were in line with her ear. That fresh scent wasn’t only coming from his clothes.
Then she heard the words, soft and slow.
“I think you’re … lactating.”
She recoiled. “What? That doesn’t happen till almost the last trimest—”
Her tongue stopped the second she looked down. Two huge wet circles were growing around her breasts. How was that possible? She instantly shut her jacket over the stains—before remembering it was his.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Mind if I wash this and give it back to you later?”
His head tilted and his eyes—those cloudy eyes that looked nearly translucent in the moonlight—squinted through her. “You keep it.”
Great. She’d disgusted him. Fantastic.
“It looks good on you.” He pushed his bangs off his face. They stayed up from the sweat. “Well, you should get your rest.”
Belle nodded as he backed up and headed down the stairs.
“Wait,” she said, jerking in his direction.
Gray shot one foot out and pivoted around on the other.
“I think you’re further along than you realize.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you are afraid of something. More than afraid, really.” She prayed the words were coming out right. “You’re terrified of never being able to feel what you think you’re supposed to. And that, in itself, kind of means you’re already there. Does that make sense?”
“Huh.” Gray bit his lip and stared to the side—into the trees, or the moonlight, or nothing at all. “It does, a bit.”
Silence dropped again as he turned and took another step. Then he stopped. Belle’s heart pirouetted in place.
“Almost forgot,” he said. “Ruby insisted I give you a message when you woke up. Said she’d turn me into a toad if I didn’t.”
Belle rolled her eyes. “She couldn’t do that unless she wanted to lose all her powers until you turned back.”
“I know. She told me that, too. Said it would be worth it. She’s a lot meaner in person than on television, isn’t she?”
Belle wandered nonchalantly over to the stairs so she could … hear him better. “She’s just stressed right now. What’s the message?”
“She said you’re too close to the fire. Or something like that. Does that make any sense?”
Belle was watching intently, but there seemed to be a delay between the time the words left his lips and the time they hit her ears. Fire? What was that supposed to—
Her entire body flashed with heat as Gray reached out and gave the side of her shoulder a squeeze. Oh.
“Get some rest, okay?” He shot her belly that signature, cockeyed grin. “For both your sakes.”
Belle nodded, wished him goodnight, and slipped inside before he could fade out of view.
Chapter Thirteen
DAWN
If Hunter noticed that his wife was suddenly spending her solitary evenings wearing nicer clothes, more makeup, and better jewelry, he probably chalked it up to some superficial life philosophy fad coined on Ruby’s talk show. If her courtiers noticed that she seemed happier than ever, they most likely suspected she was either pregnant or Hunter was doing something extraordinary in the bedroom.
No one seemed to have a clue that Dawn’s high spirits were due to a man whom the tabloids worshipped but knew hardly anything about. A man who lived deep in the Regian Woods on a breathtaking estate that seemed built specifically for her.
“I was afraid you forgot,” Morning said as Dawn tucked her daughter’s violet bedspread up to her orange curls.
Dawn sighed and brushed her thumb against the tiny cheek. Her son Day had said the same thing moments earlier, before she’d kissed his freckled forehead and switched off the lights. Perhaps she’d spent more time than usual getting ready for her rendezvous with Liam. Since Snow’s party, she’d met with him every night. But she couldn’t risk raising suspicion. She still clung to the idea that she wasn’t doing anything wrong, per se. She was just spending her insomniac time in the company of another conscious human. But Hunter wouldn’t like it if he knew. She’d have to be more careful.
“Forget? Never ever!” Dawn promised as her daughter put on a huge smile. “I’ll always make time for our bedtime talks. As long as you still want me to, that is.”
Morning’s legs straightened in al
arm, forcing her head to the top of her pillow. “But I’ll never not want you to!”
Dawn smiled. If only that were true. Her twins had barely broken double digits and already she could feel them needing her less. Day made sour faces when she kissed him in public, and Morning wasn’t telling her about the crush she so obviously had on Cinderella’s oldest boy.
“Well then,” she said as Morning drew her eyebrows into a deep V, “we have nothing to worry about, do we?”
Dawn could tell this didn’t satisfy her daughter, so she let her focus drift elsewhere—around the room that had started as a nursery for both of her children. Now, peach and green flowers dotted the walls. A jumble of sagging balloons bounced light from Morning’s fiber optic garden off the ceiling. Shelves overflowing with knick-knacks gave a storybook view of her daughter’s life so far. There were swimming trophies, birthday cards, porcelain dolls, and a vast collection of photographs that put Dawn on an emotional roller coaster every time she saw them.
There was one of her parents, who’d died of broken hearts (and tuberculosis) before Morning was even born. There was one of Hunter walking his new bride up the aisle after their vows, both hands grasping hers as if terrified she might run away. And there was the glaring mug of Hunter’s mother, Iola—nine years buried after trying to cannibalize her own grandchildren and Dawn.
After she died, doctors attributed Iola’s end-of-days behavior to an untreated form of schizophrenia—not unlike what happened to Snow’s mother a few years earlier. But Dawn believed it was really her long-repressed ogre lineage finally pushing through. She feared that if it could happen to her, it could happen to Hunter as well—and even their children. That’s why, after Iola’s death, Dawn pledged to be vigilant at all times for any sort of sign. Her sleeping curse had claimed everything she’d loved in the world. If she was going to continue breathing, it had to be for the sake of her children.