Blood, Milk & Chocolate - Part 1 (The Grimm Diaries Book 3)

by Cameron Jace

  35

  The Queen's Diary

  I didn't know who Captain Hook was then. But the man whom everyone feared, the man who walked among whales, trudged onto our ship's deck, a huge bottle of ale in one hand. He could barely walk straight, his watery boots thumping on the floor, slightly swaying among the sailors and misfits of the Pequod.

  Captain Hook was drunk.

  His huge figure still swayed like a lost ship in the ocean. His bushy beard swayed along, too. It was made of strings of red, of black, and a much lesser part was white, all tangled together with a straight single pigtail hanging like an animal's tail from his chin. He didn't look absurdly fashionable like the devil. He looked disgusting. His whole complexion was dim. Focusing, I realized his beard covered bad skin underneath. It was rough and bumpy, like the surface of a crusted pie.

  Still, he scared everyone next to me.

  But I wasn't that sure if it was fear he exuded. In my mind, I was only studying the man who might be an obstacle for me to reach the Tower of Tales. I needed to find a way to survive him.

  Hook's eyelashes were full of mascara, probably to take the attention away from his bad skin. His eyes were bulgy, beady, and grey, an almost colorless kind of grey. He wore a toque for a hat, a lot of silvery accessories on his hands. The rest of his cloths screamed "pirate." Who would want to sell their souls to a pirate?

  Hook stopped before Captain Ahab's open door, and peeked in for a long time, enough to realize the ship's captain was gone. Hook gulped on his ale, fluid trickling down his beard as if watering it, dripping from the end of his pigtailed beard. "So Long John Silver fled again." Hook smirked at us. "What a pity." He brushed his eyebrow with gruff hands full of rings. "He must still be looking for that whale." Hook shook his head, almost pitying Captain Ahab. He turned and faced his men, who dressed and smelled like him—of crocodiles? At least, that was what I thought. "Don't look down, goddammit," Hook snarled, annoyed by the utter obedience oozing out of their eyes. "Can't you read my face?" None of them dared to look back. His face was definitely unreadable. "You're supposed to laugh with me." He gulped one more time, lifted his head up at the sky, and laughed like a roaring lion. I couldn't decide whether it was an evil laugh or dark one. His sailors nudged each other and complied, faking laughs with him.

  Soon, when he stopped, they stopped too.

  "Not good enough!" Hook wasn't satisfied with their laughs. "Each fool of you grab his bottle of ale." He pointed. "Gulp some until your mouth is full. Feel it burning in your throat, and then laugh at the moon in the sky with me."

  Sailors and misfits watched Hook and his men drink and then laugh at the moon again. This time I was sure they looked like amateur evil men, trying their best to scare someone. How was this "Him"?

  "And you?" Hook looked down at us. "I know you don't have enough ale with you, but you should laugh at the moon with me." He waved his hand.

  It was a challenging request for the crew of the Pequod. Most of the men wished for the Moongirl's help. Laughing at her was like burning all ships of hope and sailing to hell.

  But the sailors and misfits complied. We all laughed at the moon. Hook roared louder. It took him a while before he lowered his head, looking darker than before, dark enough to make me realize he wasn't just a joker but the most powerful man at sea.

  Everyone stopped laughing immediately, all except the puffing boy. He must have been smoking again, or too excited to sell his soul to Hook.

  "What are you laughing at?" Hook growled, trudging toward him. The sailors parted.

  The boy sweated, cemented in his place. Hook stopped right before him, saying, "You know who I am?"

  The boy nodded speechlessly.

  "No you don't." Hook squinted. "You think I'm just a giant man sailing the seas, a man you can sell your soul to?"

  The boy nodded.

  "Fool." Hook gulped from his bottle. He turned around to face us. Then he smashed his bottle on a man's head, bringing him to his death. Hook pulled up his sleeves, showing a hook instead of a hand. Everyone gasped. He walked among the sailors and misfits and pointed at one of them, then said, "You!" The man approached obediently, maybe wishing to sell his soul. "You're dead." Hook laughed, and then sank his hook into the man's belly. He turned around, pulling his bloody hook back, and calling another man. "You!" Another man approached reluctantly. "You live." Hook laughed again, like a spoiled child.

  He continued walking, choosing whom to kill and whom to keep alive, killing half of everyone on the ship. I'd never seen so much blood and killing. I was about to vomit but held still, gripping my precious sack. Was I supposed to live or die in Hook's book?

  Hook stopped before me, blocking the moonlight and enveloping me with his dark. I raised my head in an uncomfortable position to stare at him.

  He stared back for a long time. Again, as if he knew me. "Going for the Tower of Tales?" He laughed.

  I couldn't bring myself to either answer or ask how he knew. He didn't seem to be asking. He was looking at my sack, which seemed to expose where I was heading.

  "Are you in love?" he uttered, his grey eyes slightly glimmering.

  I nodded.

  "True Love?" he asked.

  I nodded again, almost wanting to tell the whole world I was in love. Proud of it, hanging on to hope.

  "No, you're not," he said in a flat tone. "You know how I know?"

  I said nothing, only continued staring at him. Who was he, really?

  "Because your lover isn't here for you," Hook said, looking really happy about it.

  His words cut through me. Whoever Hook really was, and whatever purpose all the crazy incidents around me served, he was right. Angel had weakened and ran away, leaving me alone to my… Wait! I finally realized who Hook was. Why everyone feared him.

  He nodded with a grin. "Yes, that's me." He was proud. "That's why I chose who to kill and who to let live on the ship. In fact, I choose which ships to sink and which ones to pass in the Seven Seas. The Seven Seas belong to me."

  "You're Fate?" I sighed. It was a rhetorical question. "But why—"

  "—would people sell their souls to me?" He rubbed his chest, looking more sober than before.

  I nodded.

  "You must understand that Fate doesn't buy any soul he comes by." Referring to himself in the third person alerted me. Hook, or Fate, was like a demon child, ready to burn everything for his childish pleasures and impulses. This was why I couldn't sense his evil at first. It explained why Captain Ahab fled (I still wondered where to). He couldn't confront him. How do you confront a demon child who kills for fun and games?

  "I only buy souls that I enjoy." He licked his lips. "Which reminds me." He raised his brows, pulled out a gun, and shot the puffing boy, hurtling him over the ship's rails—food for the mermaids waiting to eat him at sea. "You see, I love misery," he began preaching, raising his voice and walking among the crew again. "I love pain," he roared happily, and theatrically, like a king in Shakespearean play. "I love sorrow!"

  The word sorrow echoed in the sea. It had begun to mean too much—Hook's addiction to sorrow, Angel's last name.

  "That's why no ordinary soul satisfies me," Fate said dramatically. His childish laughter had disappeared. He had an itch and needed to scratch it: buying sorrowful souls. "You know what sorrow is made from?" He turned and faced me again, his bad skin reddening with passion for pain.

  I said nothing, still clinging to my sack, contemplating jumping out of the ship. But where would I escape from Fate in a sea he claimed he controlled? Was there a tide that'd protect me? A fish that'd guide me? A good mermaid that'd help me? I really wished for the Moongirl to be real now, as I realized these were not only the Seven Seas we were sailing across—they were the Seven Seas of Sorrow.

  "You can only create so much sorrow"—he enthusiastically waved his long hands sideways—"from only one thing." He stepped closer, blocking all light again, shading me with Fate's misery. "From joy." He smiled like a child. "T
he more the joy, the better the sorrow." He reached for my hands with welcoming eyes. I pulled away. "And you, young lady, have so much joy in you, so much hope and strength." Then he finally said what was on his mind: "I want it. You can fuel my addiction."

  His smile didn't fool me. I was surprised his addiction to sorrow had made him so friendly he would have almost gotten to his knees and begged me…

  Wait! What was Fate asking me?

  "You want me to sell my soul to you?" I said, almost euphoric about his weakness, and my temporary power. How did I have such power? What was it, exactly?

  This time, Fate nodded, saying nothing and getting down on one knee, as if proposing.

  "Why would I do that?" I let out a feeble laugh, looking up at him—he was still taller than me while kneeling—as if I were looking down at him.

  "You want to find the Tower of Tales. No man or woman I came across in the Seven Seas would dare to take such journey. None of them would defy the world, their family for love," he explained, and I assumed Fate knew all about me, too. "No one believed in True Love as much as you. No one would leave behind a lush and luxurious life, being the 'girl who brought apples to the world,' and leave on a swaying ship in the sea for love." He hesitated but then said, "No one would be trusted with such a sack"—he pointed at it, and I gripped it harder—"unless they see so much power in you, young lady. So much joy." He closed his eyes, as if imagining how much he would enjoy weaving my life into threads of sorrow if I agreed to sell my soul to him.

  I sighed and looked up at the moon, really wishing the myth was real, that there was a girl up there that would help me from the dark Fate of the Seven Seas. But I knew there wasn't. I'd begun learning that the world outside the comfort of my castle was much darker than I had imagined, and that everything came with a price.

  This time, Fate wanted me to trade my happiness for sorrow. A price I was about to pay to reach the Tower of Tales.

  "You think Captain Ahab, I mean Long John Silver, isn't looking for the Tower of Tales?" Hook said. "Why do you think he is obsessed with whales?"

  Was I finally going to know?

  "One of the whales has the key to the Tower of Tales inside it," Fate explained. "And he will never find it. You will never find it."

  "Why do you say so?" I asked.

  "You will be so close to it." He narrowed a fat forefinger and a thumb. "So close, but will never find it."

  "Why do you say so?" I insisted.

  "Because whoever told you about the Tower of Tales didn't tell you about the price you have to pay," he said. "The only way to find it is in this endless sea is"—he stretched his hands wider—"through me." He smiled widely, showing a set of silver teeth upfront.

  Was he the silver-toothed man from before, playing games on me and Captain Ahab? I didn't ask.

  "So my soul is the price for the Tower of Tales?" I wanted to be clear about it. My heart beat in my throat. What are you going to do, Carmilla?

  He nodded, happier than ever, stretching out his hand. According to the tales I know now, this very much felt like Beauty and the Beast. Was Hook actually Fate and the Beast?

  "What does selling my soul to you mean?" I needed to know the details.

  "It's a simple ritual." He shook his shoulders, trying to make it sound easy. When I didn't buy into it, his face dimmed and he told me the truth. "After we perform the ritual, I will leave you be. You can roam the world, live your life, do whatever you want. But you will always, no matter how hard you try, be submerged in sorrow, misery, and pain. Horrible things beyond your grasp will happen to you. You will always struggle in the most unusual ways." He rubbed his chin to consider something. "Some people simply call this life," he said. "Well, I managed to steal some souls for my benefit. I don't need to buy poor and weak souls, because it's easy to send them to their misery." He was proud of himself again. "But my real kick"—he sighed—"is people like you. I will get you to where you want to go, with the person you want to be with, and the life you choose to have. And in exchange, I will always watch your misery, day by day, fueling my addiction."

  The devil's words made sense now. Selling your soul to Fate was the worst thing that could happen to anyone in the world. He would take all the joy and hope from one's life. None of my doings were going to affect me anymore. There would be no hope for me if I sold my soul to him, but I had no other way to reach the Tower of Tales.

  Words of approval were about to escape my mouth while tears flooded my face.

  36

  Fable's Dreamworld

  Jack stabbed the first huntsman, so the rest had had no choice but to fight. "Impulsive" wasn't even close to describing his attitude. But he had to take action. Fable had exposed everyone.

  Cerené stepped forward and kicked all the breadcrumbs away, so Fable would be freed of the breadcrumbs' enchantment. She shook her hard and rubbed away the breadcrumbs gathered in Fable's hem. "Listen to me," Cerené yelled. "It's time to fight. You can do it. I won't let anything happen to you. Later I will explain what you have been through to the Lost Seven."

  The Lost Seven were about to fight an endless crowd of huntsmen in the Queen's chamber. A suicide mission for sure. Fable gathered herself slowly as the rest were already fighting. Cerené protected her, though, until she gained full consciousness.

  Fable was crying. Being a Lost Seven hadn't stopped her from messing things up. She must be a loser, just like her mother. She watched everyone fight in the chamber, especially Jack Madly.

  "My name is Jack Madly, by the way," Jack shouted at the Queen as he dueled another huntsman. "Someone is going to write a book about me," he said as he turned to face the huntsman. "But never about you. Because you're dead." Jack stabbed him in the heart.

  The Queen ordered her daughter to be kept away from the rest. She didn't care who lived or died. Her daughter's heart was the world to her—in a sinister way, of course.

  Ladle began killing the most skilled huntsmen in the world. Killing was the norm for Death. After each stab, she looked up and asked the Tree of Life for forgiveness. Fable thought Ladle could have just worn her red cloak and scared them all away.

  Marmalade was as strong as Ladle—not as skilled with a sword, but good at maneuvering and protecting her friends from harm. She seemed extremely skilled at protecting others, and Fable wondered why.

  The Beast killed sporadically. He had pulled his cloak back, and Fable saw how ugly he was. He was so deformed that she couldn't stare too long at him, although she cared for him.

  The Beast's face did half the killing when anyone saw him. The rest he did with bare hands.

  Cerené, on the other hand, wasn't skilled at fighting, but she was like a monkey, jumping left and right. She ran away and dodged them, not really stabbing anyone. She didn't fight with a sword, but with her blowpipe. Every now and then, she used it to spit fire at them. She didn't do it often, since she needed a source of fire. Also, every breath of fire stole a day from her life—well, her current life.

  As for Fable, she was the weakest of them all, even after regaining her full consciousness and being unaffected by the breadcrumbs Cerené had thrown away.

  But Fable's nerdy looks seemed to help. Many huntsmen hesitated in killing her. She looked harmless, like a passing fly, too unimportant to waste breath on and kill. Fable used it to her advantage and stabbed first, surprising her opponents. But her stabs hardly made a difference. They barely wounded the huntsmen and didn't kill anyone. It gained her enough time to run, though.

  The confrontation lasted a long time. It was not without wounds. But who cared? Like Jack said, the Lost Seven had nothing to lose.

  Ladle surprisingly wounded Loki, so badly that he had to get mended by some of his huntsmen. The wide smile on her face when she killed scared away half of those watching her. She was a mad girl, indulging in killing without the slightest bit of remorse. And with a quirky smile on her face. She waved her scythe with ease, as if waving a spoon.

  Marmalade and Jac
k fought back to back, running after those who were pulling Shew away.

  "I love you, Jack!" Marmalade said, his back to her.

  "I love me, too!" Jack never seemed to confess his love to her. "How about someone gets some horses?" he said, as he used the moment to show a few peasant girls the way out of the castle.

  "I will," Fable volunteered. Her talent was running, after all.

  Cerené and Ladle followed her.

  Outside, the three of them gathered horses, rode a few, and got back into the chamber. Ladle turned out to have been badly hurt.

  "You don't have to get back in," Fable said. "Cerené and I can get inside. The Beast is already pulling Shew's coffin out."

  "I'm going in," Ladle said stubbornly.

  "You're bleeding," Cerené warned her.

  "So what?" Ladle's quirky and lovable childishness shone upon her face. "I am Death. I'm not supposed to die." She stopped to ponder that. "I think." She scratched her temples.

  "She's got a point." Fable smiled at Cerené, and they kicked back in. Fable discovered she was a great horse rider. At least she was good at that.

  Jack and Marmalade were still fighting back to back. The Beast put the coffin on his horse.

  More blood splashed everywhere. It was hard to tell who was wounding whom. The huntsmen seemed weaker in Loki's absence.

  Out of the castle they rode, with Shew in her glass coffin, strapped upon two horses led by the Beast on a third.

  But that seemed to be only the beginning of the madness. Fable knew she shouldn't have left, as she had to get Loki's Fleece. But she couldn't. The Lost Seven were her family, the one she'd never had. She had no way to reason it, as she had only met them recently. But it was a feeling, carved in the back of her, that they were one for all and all for one. A feeling two centuries old.

  The six of them rode into the forest, wishing to hide beneath its curvy trees. It wasn't night yet, but the dense juniper trees blocked most of the sunlight.

  "Where to?" Fable panted on her horse.

  "The cottage, of course," Marmalade answered.