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

by Klarissa King

  I look at her, my eyes creasing into dubious slits. “What place?”

  “A world in our own, around our own, parallel. Through a veil. We do not belong in that place, our home is here now. But that shared ancestry, the connection of our kind—wolf and witch—draws us in to one another. But that should not suggest our encounters are always of a friendly manner.”

  Her fingers dig into the leather-bound book. The leather groans in protest.

  I shift forward, my spine straight, eyes alert.

  Will I finally be allowed to touch it?

  No. I realise it the moment she hugs it to her chest, protective, as though the book is her new-born. Grandmother sinks back into her chair, then rests the book on her lap. With a flick of the hand, the book whips open and pages flip in a blur. It stops only when she lowers her hand to a page made from the thickest of parchment, sewn into the crinkled spine.

  “Wolves,” she reads, “are beasts of lore from across all the lands. The mere mention of them strikes fear into those of common ancestry, and even witches flinch at the sound of their howls. Raised with the terror of wolves in my heart, I, as did every witch before me and beside me, learned the ways to deter the beasts. A garden of wolfsbane, a silver brooch, and the venom of a vampire bat. It is with the deepest regret that I confess that while these methods protected me from the Werewolf stalking my woods for months, they have fallen to failure. In his human form, the wolf stalked and bit me in a field of daffodils. I will not perish from this bite, nor will I transform into a beast under the largest of moons. But I will never escape the beast now.

  “I set aside my duties as a Hemlock woman with a warning to all who come after me: The wind shall carry the smell of daffodils as an omen to a Hemlock woman whose path will cross with a Werewolf. Heed this omen, as I have not been so fortunate as to have one. Let the wind chase you to as far as you need go to be free of this fate.”

  Silence lifts between us. Only the crackle and pop of the fire speak.

  Grandmother locks her gaze with mine. “Do you know who penned this entry?”

  Puzzled, I shake my head.

  “My great-great-great cousin, twice removed. Narcissus Hemlock. The book was found by her cousin—my grandmother many generations away—who never wrote of seeing Narcissus again.”

  There is a coldness inside of me. It brings to mind snow, stuffed down my throat until it melts in my lungs. I smelled the daffodils today, I smelled the omen of Narcissus. And by the glimmer in Grandmother’s eyes—though, I try not to look to hard—I suspect she knows this.

  “Wh—what happened to her?” I ask, my boots shuffling against the floorboards. “Did she flee from the wolf?”

  Grandmother closes the book and sets it aside.

  “My dear, once a wolf bites a witch there is no escaping him. We only know that we can survive the bites due to Narcissus.”

  “So I leave,” I say numbly. “I have no other choice but to leave.”

  Grandmother spreads her hands, by means of indifference. “A viable option, only if the wolf wants you.”

  “I smelled the daffodils, Grandmother. The breeze that carried the scent to me was warm and fresh. That means the wolf wants me, does it not?”

  “It means your paths shall cross.”

  I run my hands over my face, finding that my patience for Grandmother thins more each time I visit her. When I drop my hands to my lap, my face reveals my defeat.

  “What should I do, Grandmother?”

  “Find the witch.”

  In answer, I simply frown at her.

  “Child, are you naïve or a simpleton? A wolf can only be birthed by a witch. Never have I birthed a wolf, and nor have you or your mother. So, who birthed the wolf?”

  A chill runs down my spine.

  Another witch? No, I would have known, I would have sensed her presence among the villagers, or even in the woods that encircle us.

  “He must have come from elsewhere.”

  Grandmother does not look convinced.

  My fingernails pick at each other, a poor habit that irks Grandmother. But I am suddenly so lost in my thoughts that I find I don’t care.

  If I stay, I put myself in the path of the wolf.

  If I leave, I abandon all I have ever known to rebuild in another town or city—one that might not take too friendly to my kind.

  Still, if I stay, my only threat isn’t the wolf. The village might turn against me. I could be hanged or burned at the stake.

  I cannot—will not—risk my life for my lifestyle.

  It is final.

  “I shall leave this place,” I decide.

  9.

  Before I can leave, there are matters that must be seen to.

  This is the midday of Thursday, the day of an important appointment—or should I say, an important patron—of mine. Should my plans of leaving have any chance of success, I cannot leave this patron waiting. His payments fund my rent, he offers so much.

  I hope to make it back in time. As I rush through the woods, I track the sun through the clouds when I can. Even when Colton blocks the path, loading up fresh kill onto his horse-drawn barrow, I ignore him and hurry past.

  I don’t relax until I am slipping through the loose panels of the wall, back in the lane behind my home. But I am too late.

  At my rear door, he stands as still as a statue. Thick black gloves with golden thread hems are the first I notice of him. Those gloves are his giveaway—he risks much by wearing them so boldly behind my home. Yet, patience relaxes his stance as he hides behind a black velvet robe with a low-drawn hood.

  “Red.” His aristocratic voice is a purr that ignites tingles in my belly. “How ravishing you look.”

  However pink my cheeks might have been, they burn hot now. I must look horrid with my hair loose, my hood down, and mud on my skirt. “Dante,” I whisper and rush toward him. As I open the door, I glance around, then scowl up at him. “You risk much by loitering outside my home.”

  There is darkness behind the hood; I cannot see his face. Yet, I feel his mischievous smile all the same. He shoves the door open, then he herds me out of the cold and into the warmth of my home.

  My fingers reach up to the tie of my cloak. But I still as Dante reaches around me, his gloves damp, and unties the string for me. He is quite particular of how our engagements play out. Each time, Dante is the one to remove my cloak, untie my corset, roll down my stockings. I once asked him why he takes such pleasure from it, and he answered with a wicked smile—but his eyes told me of his increased lust. I suppose he enjoys the anticipation.

  Today, there is none.

  He peels off my cloak. It drops to the floor at my feet as he grips my waist and turns me to face him.

  “Dante.” Normally, when I speak his name under such circumstances, it’s breathless, a whisper, a cry of pleasure. But now it is firm, and he stops at the sound. “We must not.”

  Dante pulls away from me, his gaze studying mine from behind the shadow of the hood. Then, he plucks off his gloves before he whips off his cloak.

  There he is. Beautiful enough to steal my breath. Stunning enough to stop the villagers. And, lest I forget, charming enough to enchant a snake.

  The pallor of his smooth skin reminds me of marble, whitened further by the black hair that he combs so perfectly to the side. While his jaw is strong, there is a delicate touch to his handsome face—a soft nose, rosy lips, high cheekbones. Dante looks nothing like his father, Lord Bennett, and only shares his saphire eyes with his mother, Lady Bennett.

  “Am I mistaken?” Dante’s tone is suddenly detached. “Is it not Thursday, midday?”

  My lashes lower, not into my glower, but into a seductive gaze I reserve for Dante. He falls back onto the couch as I approach, every touch of his stare undressing me.

  I slowly lower myself to straddle his lap. “Today,” I say and run my finger down his profile, “is a dreadful day for the village. They are afraid, and soon I expect them to be at my door, demanding a
nswers I do not have.”

  Dante’s hands slide to my hips where they rest. He considers me, the midnight blue of his eyes glittering like the night sky.

  Eventually, he tells me, “You are afraid, Red.”

  I shift on his lap, uncomfortable. Let us not analyse my feelings—we have not that sort of relationship. Sometimes, when we are finished, he will hold me a while and tell me silly pieces of gossip he hears. That is as deep as our conversations delve.

  Smiling tightly, I shake my head and say, “I do not want to be arrested and hung for what a beast has done—a beast I know nothing of. To reason with them … Priest Peter, most of all, is futile. Each of them believes a giant man lives in the sky and watches over them. How can such fools be reasoned with?”

  Dante smirks, a glint sparking in his right eye—catching the light from the fireplace. His plump lips steal my gaze, so soft and kissable, and he always tastes of something delicious. Sometimes sweets, other time fruits—even once he tasted of the finest wine I have ever known.

  “I have this village in my pocket,” he says. “You will not be arrested for anything, Red. Don’t you think some have tried before?”

  I blink at him.

  Dante’s smirk breaks out into a grin. “Proud Red,” he purrs, and drags his hands up and down my waist with painfully slow grazes. “Priest Peter has been warned off you and the steward is a pawn of my family’s. Who is left to arrest you?”

  “The village is in a state of unrest,” I tell him. “I do not feel safe here.”

  He grabs my waist and yanks me closer, his eyes suddenly gleaming brighter than the embers in the fireplace. “You cannot leave, Red. I have done all that should be done to ensure your safety. The stockades are not in your future. So focus, with me, on the present.”

  Dante twists and throws me down on the couch. My small smile encourages him, and soon, my corset is on the floor alongside my boots and one stocking. Before he can remove the other stocking, his patience shatters and he is in me.

  †††

  A woollen blanket is wrapped around me as a shield from his hungry gaze. Thrice, and Dante is still not entirely satisfied.

  He lounges on the floor, atop many layers of the best fur he can buy. The Autumn passed, he gifted them to me. They have since kept me warm many cold nights. The heat of his midnight eyes grazes the yellow hair that falls down my back, and no matter how brittle or knotted the strands are, there is desire in his stare.

  A dried-out log is in the fireplace. I prod the embers with an iron poker to lure out some flames. Warmth is seeping from my home, fast.

  We stew in our comfortable silence until the church bells call on the hour.

  Dante, his knee bent, and a corner of a blanket covering his manhood, asks, “What count is that? I was not keeping track of the bells.”

  I smile at the flames that lick up the log. “It rang four times.”

  He knows this, but he finds it easier to mention the bells before he transitions into farewells. His sigh comes first, as always, then the rustle of clothes.

  The next I know, he’s behind me, arms pulling me against him, and his breath is hot on the nook of my neck. I let my head fall back onto his shoulder as he nips at my skin. “I loathe to leave you.”

  Dante has read many novels, I should think. He finds romance to be implied in the most blatant of transactions. He pays me for sexual favours and I take one pound in the form of shillings. There is no romance here, only his desire and my greed.

  Still, he whispers sweet words and promises of what his next gifts might be.

  Then, I hold out my hand, palm upwards. I shatter the romance he tries to veil over us. Gifts are fine, I like the gifts, but I have more interest in what he owes me.

  He places a leather pouch on my palm, his fingers grazing mine, as though he has placed a love letter in my hand. The pouch is heavier than usual. I am rigid in his hold.

  “It is a harsh winter,” he explains between chaste kisses that lead up to the shell of my ear. “I want you to be well-fed and clothed.” He pauses, his mouth beside my ear. “And a wash would not be so terrible.”

  I elbow him.

  He chuckles quietly and withdraws to finish dressing.

  I curl my fingers around the pouch and place it on the mantlepiece.

  Dante might fill my penny-jar, but I do the hard work. He is exhausting and, already, I feel as though we are in the dead of night, not the afternoon.

  When I turn to face him, he is fastening his cloak at the strings, fully dressed. Armour gloves cover his forearms, black leather clings to his body, and a fur shawl is draped over his shoulders—it only adds to the proud impression of him.

  “Same time Saturday?” I ask.

  In answer, he winks at me. Then, he is gone.

  I secure the rear door behind him and feel—for the first time since the morn—the silence of the village press down on me. Everyone, I think, must be as weary as I am, or afraid of the wolf—as I am.

  I feel I shall have a long night ahead of me, so I afford myself a nap on the fur blankets by the fire.

  10.

  The shout of five church bells woke me, leaving all but one hour before nightfall. There was much to do in that hour.

  Despite Dante’s assurances, I recounted my penny-jar (for today, he paid two pounds in the form of shillings and gifted a phial of honey) to confirm how far I will reach should I choose to leave. My savings are plenty, I have more than a Blacksmith earns in a year.

  I smirk at the thought of out-earning Colten.

  He earns extra from all the meat he sells to the butcher and the furs he peddles to the merchants. Perhaps he earns more. It matters not. I have almost eight pounds in my penny-jar, enough to take me to the nearest city…

  But then what shall I do?

  Some questions need to be stewed before they can be answered.

  After I hide my jar in a satchel that I have filled with some dried fruits, nuts and other things (in case of emergencies), I start on stripping yesterday’s rabbit and cooking its meat in tender strips. There are two potatoes that I find to boil, and by the time the clock chimes again, I have made a hearty meal for myself.

  Before I eat, I clear the table beside the fur-throws on the floor of my fabrics. But just as I kneel by the table, there is a knock at my front door.

  I wait to sense who is on the other side. But no such sensations take me. Slowly, I rise from the furs and creep to the door. I press my hands against it.

  “Who is there?”

  There is a pause. Through the blankness around me, I sense irritation.

  The voice is low when it answers, reluctant to announce where he is to all the village; “It’s Colton.”

  My shoulders droop and I unsecure the door. Unlike last time, he doesn’t barge inside. Had I expected that?

  Colton looks at me with smouldering eyes, a stare so intense that I think for a moment that I must have slapped his mother. Then, he shoves a hare into my arms and allows me one final glower.

  He turns and storms into the misty lane.

  In the doorway, I watch him leave until his silhouette is swallowed by the fog. Before I close the door, I look around and see that all the shutters in the lane are closed; total silence presses down on us all.

  I close the door and secure it, then close my shutters too. I blow out the candle-lanterns, leaving the low flames in the fireplace as my only source of light.

  It will be a long night. I shouldn’t think anyone will come for business.

  After I eat, I do all I can in the quiet of the night.

  I sew my new fabrics into capes, stockings, skirts, and undershirts. As I said, the night is long and who can sleep when a wolf prowls the streets?

  Common Narcissus: the Daffodil. Poisonous.

  11.

  There is a village meeting in the Square this morn.

  I know this before I should. Dawn barely broke before Priest Peter sent his altar boy into the cold. Now, the altar boy crie
s in his squeaky, cracked voice of how there is to be a ‘village meeting in the Square, not a minute passed the ninth chime of the church bell!’

  The altar boy irks me.

  I stand by the window in my herb space, hands on the windowsill, where I watch the boy ring his bell and stride down my lane. I’m moments away from offering him a special berry of mine when the cauldron hisses behind me.

  “Oh!” I rush to its side by the fire. “Please, I beg of you, be finished!”

  I swiftly wrap my hands in bandages before I pull the cauldron from the grill and heave it to the workbench. Some grunts and puffs later, and I look down at my brew, pleased. Though, I might have smiled some if the pest outside didn’t holler without pause, not even to take a breath.

  I hear you, boy. Town meeting. Thank you and begone!

  I have no way of knowing what time it is until the church bell chimes. But I know seasons and suns. In winter, these parts tend to meet dawn later in the morn, around eight o’clock—I heard the church bells then. But I can’t say how long has passed since the dawn church bells and now.

  I fix the lid onto the cauldron and wipe my hands on a cloth. It should stand a while to thicken.

  I dress properly for a town meeting. Gloves, a hat, a coat that cuts below my bosom, and I even pin up my hair. The colours I wear are much the same as normal; a soft blue skirt and a cream coat. Meetings in the town circle are not so different to the homilies in the church. We are expected to dress well, to have clean hands and faces, and to be silent.

  It is lucky I chose to dress when I did.

  As I study the dark circles under my eyes in a hand-mirror, the church bells shout through the village.

  I’m out the door faster than I’d like. In the lane out front, a small string of villagers moves toward the Square. Each face is worn down, every pair of eyes is wrinkled and tired, and all share the same posture; hunched over as they brace against the icy wind.