Feared Fables Box Set: Dark and Twisted Fairy Tale Retellings, (Feared Fables Box Sets Book 1)

by Klarissa King

  “I wonder what I have done to mistake you, so.” Colten steps forward, and I step back once. “For you to assume I am some lacky of yours is most puzzling to me. Our bargain is what it is, no less and certainly no more.”

  “And what of a new bargain?” My eyes glitter as slip back my hood. “You have the woods, and there are certain things in those woods that I need by the full moon. A most unfortunate time for our bargain. Alas, I hadn’t thought ahead when I agreed to it.”

  “My answer is no.” He is firm in voice, his gaze harder still. “Now, begone. You are not welcome here.”

  This is not how I expected the visit to play out. Last night, he wanted something from me. A brew, a concoction, whatever it may have been. It could have been silly hope that led me to think he would want the mysterious favour come morn, too.

  “Fine,” I say and draw up my hood. “I will leave. But I ask you to remember that these items are only useful to me before the full moon. Mere days from now. After then, my services will no longer be available to you.” I level my gaze and lower my lashes. “Ever.”

  His face betrays nothing as I sweep out of the shop. Just to frustrate him, I don’t close the gate behind me, and when I reach the mouth of the path, I hear it slam shut.

  It is impossible to know whether my threat has any impact on him at all. At least until the night of the full moon. Should Marigold want the infertility draught, she might have to wait another month for me to source the ingredients and brew it under the moon. And who knows what could happen to her body—her womb—in that time?

  Not to mention, I already have a favour in mind for her to carry out as payment.

  Belladonna: Deadly Nightshade.

  7.

  The markets will have to wait.

  Some merchants have emerged from their homes and I know Abigail’s father should be among them to peddle his fine ales and wines. Yet, I see no sign of him among the greying and balding platter of wrinkles before me.

  Above the tavern, her shutters are still closed and I recall my dream.

  Often, my dreams merge with my talents. Abigail’s death in a lake of valerian did not strike me as one of those dreams. After I woke, I let the tension from my sleep drift away from me as I dismissed the dream as a mere reaction to her earlier desperation.

  Now, my certainty slips away and in settles an unease that chills my bones.

  The sun has just touched the sky with pinks and sea-blues. I steal away down an alley that lines the tavern and curves to the back stairs. The pungent stench of the nearby latrine poisons the air—and though I shield my nose with my sleeve, the smell of bodily waste still seeps up my nostrils.

  I take a moment to gag, then a shudder runs through me.

  This.

  This is the reason I had a privy built at the back of my home. I only have to carry the bucket underneath to the cesspool outside the village walls every day to avoid smells. Though, I am certain my neighbour the widow Gunhilda uses my privy. I say nothing about it. She is a frail old woman, too weak to walk the distance to our nearest latrine, and too poor to have her own.

  There is no private privy here. It is one long stretch of a wooden shed. Inside, there are seats with holes in them. One’s waste falls down the hole to the cesspool, which is emptied twice per week.

  The stench is nauseating.

  To stop from retching, I burrow my nose into the soft dip of my elbow and scurry up the stairs.

  My free hand pounds on the door. Much too hard to be polite. I don’t stop until the door whips open and I’m hit with the heat of a roaring fireplace. Abigail’s youngest brother of eight and some stands in the threshold, hope softening his youthful face. Then he notices my red cloak and hugs closer to the door.

  “Mama?” he calls. “Mama, the wi—the red girl is here!”

  There’s a crash from inside, then a stumble. Muttered words come closer until the boy is dragged behind a plump woman with full cheeks and a fuller belly. She eats well. They live a comfortable life from their tavern and market earnings.

  Abigail’s mother faces me and blood rushes to her blotchy cheeks. Above the red patches are bloodshot eyes and eyebrows in need of combing. Her lip curls just before she hisses at me, “What are you doing here? On my doorstep…I have a mind to tell Priest Peter!”

  My lips thin as I drag my gaze past her to the inside of the warm home. To hope for an invite inside might be foolish of me.

  “Good morn, Mildred,” I say and incline my head. “I am here to check on Abigail’s wellbeing. She asked to meet with me the night last, but I have not seen her.”

  Mildred’s cheeks grow so hot that I ponder spontaneous combustion a moment. It would be a fascinating death to witness. Alas, she pulls back her mounting outrage and inches closer to me—as close as she dares, with a half-metre between us still.

  “You stay away from my girl,” she snarls. “Had to tie her to the bed last night, we did. Caught her tryin’ to sneak out to see you—I won’t have it. I won’t. No woman like you should be around my girl.”

  I understand my dream now.

  Abigail is inside, drowning in her need for valerian. Maybe I gave her too much for too long, and she craves the effects of my brew always. Have I made an addict out of her?

  I hum a high-pitched sound and lift my shoulders. “All is well,” I say. “I only thought to check on her health. You shall not see me on your doorstep again, Mildred.”

  She blanches at the way I roll her name off my tongue, long and slow, like the start of a haunting song of melancholy of the heart. For a moment, she thinks I have cursed her or that I mean to.

  The mere suspicion of it will keep her away from Priest Peter.

  I make to leave back down the creaky stairs. But then I catch glimpse of something in Mildred’s eyes, not far beneath her sweaty brow.

  Lies.

  There are secrets behind her eyes.

  I wave my hand in front of my face and crinkle my nose. “You should really do something about that smell, Mildred. Some of the villagers might think you are dirty to live in such a stench.”

  My dark smile returns before I take my leave and head to the markets.

  Mildred might deny me to Abigail, but I trust my senses. They will be begging for my help before the week is out.

  †††

  Sadness fills me as I see that the pinks and blues have drifted from the sky. Instead, a sheet of cloudy grey settles above us to tell the people of England that it shall be another cold, dark day. Beside the stone platform that holds the stalls, I linger with my gaze upwards. Only when I bring my gaze back down do I see Colton.

  He moves for the gate, his barrow carted beside him by a black horse sheathed in furs. Though he walks the opposite way to where I stand, Colton seems to sense my stare. He turns his head enough to catch my gaze, then his brows lower.

  I am first to look away. I step onto the platform and hear the groan of the gate open for Colton and his steed.

  This morn, the markets are bare. It is a downside of a heavy winter season. There is little meat to procure, no vegetables or fruits—and oh, how I would poison for an apple!—and a handful of seeds. All that takes my fancy is a packet of goat’s cheese and a loaf of nut-toasted bread and jam. Together, they should make a delicious lunch.

  Colours draw me in. Most of the unmarried girls in the village wear colours—blues and soft pinks and lilac. The married ones, as per tradition, adorn dresses of beige, grey and creams. But I wear the boldest colours of them all.

  Many fabrics catch my eye. Red velvet, soft to the touch; Silk, the purple of plums; A bag of wool, dirtied somewhat; and a red garter that shines at me.

  I take my findings home, and as I pass the well, I wonder—at the weight of the stash in my arms—if I spent too much on many things. But then, I do not always have time to attend the markets before the rush. Mostly, I am in the woods before the merchants have set up.

  So I decide that the fabrics are my treats and the food is nece
ssary, because I cannot bake a decent loaf of bread no matter what I do. I was made without the touch of food, but with the touch of remedies.

  After fresh bread and some cheese fills my belly, I lay out my fabrics on the table by the fire and consider them. There are many things I can make from these. Stockings, shoe-linings, cloaks, an apron—

  My heart lunges to my throat and I freeze.

  A terrible scream comes from outside. It is far away, enough that I should think it comes from the markets. But the scream is so loud, so wretched, that I hear it anyway—whether by ear or my special senses.

  I’m on my feet and out the door. My cloak stays behind in my home. I must make haste. My boots whack into the snow, almost slipping out from under me, and my pale hair whips my face like a fine cane.

  Still, I run until I stagger to a stop at the edge of the lane.

  A crowd huddles at the well to my right.

  The wretched wails come from there—and I know those cries. I feel them behind my chest, as though my heart has been hacked out of me, and my insides gutted. I feel the pain. Grief.

  I inch toward the crowd.

  Each villager is so absorbed in whatever they see that none notice me or pay me any mind. My bare arms and shoulders shake in the wind, but I hardly feel the cold over the grief. Boldness takes over, and I’m shoving through the crowd until I only a few people stand between me and the well.

  I crouch down and peek between the legs of two men.

  A body hangs limp on the edge of the well. Droplets of water fall from dark grey hair and form a puddle at a woman’s knees—the woman who wails. I squint at the body, enough to spot the strands of dark brown that streak through a wiry mop of hair, and the wrinkled sag of a blue cheek.

  It’s the widow, Gunhilda. My neighbour … what is left of her.

  Someone—something—has filleted her. Strips of her skin dangle from her bones, hanging on by mere pinches of flesh. And I realise suddenly why I can only see a part of her cheek. The other half of her face is torn away.

  A jolt runs through my body. I slap my hands to my mouth and I think I might sick myself. Not because I have a weak stomach for the dead. I don’t. Sometimes, they even enchant me. But only a beast could have done this to her.

  The claw marks that shred down her body in thick lines. The teeth marks punched into her open throat. Missing chunks of her arms and face.

  Priest Peter pulls out of the crowd and all eyes follow him, desperate for him to speak, to deny all our worst fears. His hands lower to his thick cross where his eyes touch to. And he keeps his gaze down as he says it, loud and clear for all to hear;

  “Prepare yourselves, people of Westland. The wolf has returned.”

  8.

  Chaos is all around me. Too much—too many screams, too much panic.

  I cannot stay out here. Should they see me here, really see me, they will think I did this.

  Witches and wolves are two halves, says the lore. They come together, find one another. It is not true, yet I cannot reason with the fear that whips all around me. Fear that sees grown men race to their houses to board themselves inside, and mothers wail for their children to keep them safe.

  I turn my back on the village and sprint until I barge through my front door. The wooden slab cannot slide into its bolts fast enough. Even when it does, the sense of unease follows me. I am not safe here.

  It won’t be long until some rabid villager declares that I hold the answers to finding the wolf. Or maybe that I am the wolf.

  It only takes one idiot to infect the minds of half-wits.

  And in this village, of half-wits there are plenty.

  Grandmother told me to prepare for such times. I listened.

  I move fast.

  Moments later, I’m at my rear door, sheathed in outerwear and my drawstring pouch fastened around my waist. Today calls for a darker cloak, one that blends me in with the rest. It’s black and fur-lined, heavy enough to hug my tense muscles with warmth.

  I sneak outside to the end of the lane ahead. There, the wall of the village stands tall; I dip behind a private privy and crouch on the snow. My hands make quick work of digging through the snow, and they only stop when the loose panels of wood are uncovered.

  Just as I am about to push the panels outward, a gentle breeze washes over me.

  I still, frozen in the snow, my senses prickled.

  Somehow, the touch of the wind warms me. It carries a flowery aroma I have not smelled in some seasons. Daffodils. Narcissus. A flower of pride and disdain.

  The scent lingers as I slip through the gap in the wall, and even as I run into the woods the smell follows me. But as I walk through the trees to the path, careful to keep the wall in my sight, the daffodils soon fade to a memory.

  Come spring and summer, the flower is not uncommon in these parts. In winter, there are none to blossom nearby. The warm breeze that grazed me with its fragrance was not one that the ordinaries would have felt. That breeze was an open. One I do not understand.

  Grandmother might know.

  Hidden, I reach the village gates, then slink up the trees alongside the path. Should I be noticed fleeing by any of the guards, it will not look so favourable on me. Yet, to stay in the midst of hysteria is equally as dangerous.

  Then, I think, danger lurks all around. The wolf may go where it pleases, whether in the woods, the village, or Grandmother’s cabin.

  The thought strikes through me; my walk quickens to a jog.

  Once the village is a half-hour behind me, I jump onto the path. Hood drawn, I stride up the hill and don’t stop once, not even when I spot one of Colton’s traps at the root of a tree. If he sees me on his hunting grounds, he doesn’t let it be known.

  Grandmother normally greets me before I arrive—and so I expect the same today. Yet, as I push through the gate, she isn’t in the doorway or in the garden.

  I rush to the door and shove it open.

  My gaze finds hers; she peers at me from the armchair where she knits.

  My shoulders slump and I rest my head against the doorframe.

  “Grandmother,” I say. “You are well.”

  She spares me a brief wrinkled frown. “You expected otherwise?”

  I kick the door shut behind me, then drop onto the couch opposite her. “You weren’t at the door to welcome me. I worried a moment.”

  “Too much time in that village is meddling with your nerves, girl.” Grandmother jerks her head to the cauldron above the flames in the fireplace. “Some broth should settle you down. I could sense your fear from miles away.”

  The cauldron goes ignored as I peel off my cloak. “Grandmother,” I say, coaxing her to look at me, but she does not. Her eyes stay on her knitting. “The village…I’m not certain I should return.”

  She hums, a half-answer.

  “Someone has been killed,” I add.

  Now, she looks at me.

  Encouraged, I lean closer. “A widower from the house next to mine. The villagers think the wolf has come back.”

  “Nonsense.” Her fingers still and she holds my gaze with her stern eyes. “The wolf is gone, dear. It has been gone for many years and more to come.”

  I shake my head. “You did not see it, Grandmother. The corpse…No human could have done that.”

  “So it was a beast, of sorts,” she dismisses. I almost think her denial to be one stemmed from fear. “No matter. A band of men should hunt the beast and all will be settled.”

  Incredulous, I crinkle my nose at her. “Men from the village? They’re more cowardly than city men. And this was no ordinary attack, Grandmother. She was shredded like old linen, and her body dumped down the well.” My voice drops to a whisper as though I can be overheard. “I passed the well before they found the corpse. There was no blood, no scrap of cloth or any indication that a death happened there. Someone cleaned up—or something.”

  Silent, she sets aside her wool and needles on the table beside her. I notice my bowl is there still fro
m yestermorn.

  “Now listen here, girl.” Grandmother fixes me with her stare. “You have a wonderful gift. Unique, even for a witch. You see secrets in a person’s eyes—you read them as though you can see through their stares to their very souls. The first you notice of a person is their eyes; where they are looking, what swims behind the veil.” She points her finger at me. “But one day, you will look too closely at the wrong one and you will have no one to blame but yourself when that one looks right back at you.”

  “The wrong one,” I echo, piqued. “You mean the wolf? So you do believe it has returned?”

  She bats away my words as though they flew at her. “Pfft,” she scoffs. “A wolf is not an it, but a who. A man not so different to us. Our kind and theirs are alike. But a wolf is more animal than man, and when the full moon nears, the animal is released. Do not put yourself in his path with hostile intentions, for you will not survive it, Ella.”

  I study her a moment. Then I draw back into the plushness of the couch and cross my arms as I used to when I was a child in a strop. “How do you know this much of them?”

  “It’s all in the book.”

  Instantly, my attention is drawn to the picture frame on the wall. My eyes see a portrait of my mother, but my mind sees what sits behind it.

  The Book.

  Passed down from Hemlock woman to Hemlock woman, pages full of scribbled secrets and concoctions, tales of myth and where to separate them from truths.

  Grandmother does not let me have the book. She tells me it is only inherited when a witch proves herself. To her, my ‘silly medicines’ are no better than those of a doctor’s, but with a ‘dash of magic’ that ensures their success.

  I sink further into the couch and turn my narrow eyes on the fireplace. “How can I know whose eyes to look into and whose to avoid?”

  “Look into no one’s. Secrets are not yours to learn. They belong to the one who holds them.” Grandmother sighs and goes to the picture frame. From behind the portrait, she pulls out the book. “Wolves are drawn to our kind, Ella. Magic to magic, power to power. Many years ago, long before time as we know it, we came from the same place.”