“Comfortable,” Colton repeats.
He drinks me in as if seeing me for the first time, and not of the heated sort. There is a flush to his cheeks and he glances over his shoulder as though someone is standing behind him, listening to each word we speak.
“I need something for comfort,” he says in a low, deep voice. If it is meant to be a whisper, he fails terribly. And his gaze drops again, just as quick as the last time.
I draw back. It is my turn to blush. Surely, he does not think he is in any way a man like Dante is. Dante is the only patron I shall offer such services to.
Before I can voice my offence, Colton explains; “My muscles—from the work I do out in the woods, the labour around the village, the craftsmanship in the workshop…” He shakes his head, and I understand his blush now. He is embarrassed, as a man, to admit a physical defeat. He cannot look me in the eye, so he stares at the wolfsbane. “The pain is so great that it clutches even to my bones. When I awake, everything within me feels…shattered.”
After a pause, I duck and find a mason jar down a low shelf, far behind a small curtain I made. I bring it up to him and slide it across the workbench. “Here you are.”
Colton flinches as he studies the black sludge inside the jar.
“Don’t let the look of it fool you…or the smell, either.” I tap the cloth lid, fastened with a piece of twine. “You shall want to bathe after you use it.”
“And how does one use that?”
“Cover the sore areas of your body and sleep in it. It’s normal to be light-headed afterwards, but that is the smell’s effect, not the brew. Three nights in a row should repair the damage.”
Colton stares at me, aghast. I almost think the expression of horror he wears humorous. “I cannot sleep in that.” He pushes it back to me. “Is that all you can offer?”
With a heavy sigh, I roam my gaze around the shelves. Then, it hits me.
Normally, I reserve this for the wealthier of my patrons. It takes months to extract a single dose. I find it in a wooden box underneath the worktable.
Colton eyes it curiously as I place the box on the bench and open it. Inside, there are some phials, but only one I reach for—a single phial with pink oil in it and crumbs of dried root.
“This.” I hand him the phial. “Same method—sleep with it on, though you should want to dab it, not spread it. Don’t be too generous with the amount you use at once.”
He brings it closer to his face. As he eyes a petal glittering in the oil, he asks, “What is that?”
“A petal from a dog-rose. It smells wonderful, so you can wear it any time of day you please.”
Colton nods then stuffs it in his belt-pouch, separate to the wolfsbane phial.
He looks at me.
Brows bunched, I study him—his curious gaze, the way he searches mine.
It is an awkward moment. His face is half-scowled, half-soft. It’s a handsome expression. Most in the village think him handsome, but he is so unapproachable and rude to most that girls don’t flirt with him, and they know him unavailable for marriage.
Colton is too busy for a family.
Ever since his dad left, his workload has …
I blink.
“The pain is so great that it clutches even to my bones. When I awake, everything within me feels … shattered.”
Colton stares back at me. Behind the veil, I see what he hides from me. My gift betrays itself at the worst of times and I see him for what he is. Yellow hues glitter in flecks among the brown of his eyes, and in the shadows I catch sight of memories unshared.
“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.”
Something shifts between us.
I clear my throat, but the sound is high-pitched and squeaky. The squeak of a frightened mouse springs to mind.
“Is…Is that all?” I ask with a forced smile.
Colton is quiet, he watches me. Rich soil and coal swarm together in his eyes, forming a pond like nothing I have ever seen.
He knows. He knows that I know. It’s all over my pink face, in my shifty eyes, and—he looks to my breasts again.
Now, I understand. He looks to them and my realisation is confirmed—Colton watches the bang of my pounding heartbeat against my skin. He sees in every thump at the crevice that I am afraid, that I have realised, that I know what he is.
Colton slowly lifts his hand and takes the lantern from the workbench. His gaze finds mine again, and he holds it for an eternal moment.
Then, he dips his head and leaves.
16.
A dark fog has settled in my head. It chokes all my thoughts before I can fully realise them.
Still, even through the haze I lunge for the door and slam it shut behind him. My hands shake as I yank the panel down into its slot. I bolt both doors and close all the window shutters, but it feels as unsafe as it would if I left everything open.
My heart doesn’t stop in its race against me.
It pounds against my bones, as if it wants to break free of my cursed self. And that is what I am now, is it not? Cursed.
The wolf knows that I know…
A made witch, I am. A dead witch, I am soon to be.
To hell with the villagers. I set aside three whole phials to smear across my doors in the morn. To try it now would be too risky. It’s dark outside. Colton can turn before the full moon—enough, at least, to kill the widow. If he turns tonight…
I rush back to the workbench and plough through my work.
Wolfsbane is all that will protect me should he burst through my walls or doors. I have jars full of it, a cauldron brewing, and dozens of phials.
What I don’t have is silver.
A silver blade would be handy right now. Though, the blacksmith might be reluctant to sell me one—
A light tap comes at the rear door.
I snatch phials of wolfsbane. Some, I stuff into my skirt pockets, and I fit two between my breasts. Should the phials break, I will die before the sun rises. But if I have no weapons to use, I will die long before the sun rises.
The knock comes again, louder this time.
I peek around the drapes to the door, my breath a rattle of air.
Hand against the wall, I inch closer to the door with slow steps. Then, I close the small distance in a hurry and feel for the other’s energy. Colton surely hasn’t come for me so soon…
I don’t know what I am telling myself. He may come whenever he chooses, whenever he turns into the beast that he is.
Breath held, I listen for any giveaways on the other side of the door. A huff of hot breath, a low growl, a sniff of the air. I hear nothing but an impatient sound… a very human sound.
“Who is it?” I whisper at the crack between the door and pane. “Announce yourself.”
“It’s me, Red.” His hushed voice floods me with relief.
I rest my forehead on the door and let out a harsh breath.
“Should I freeze out here?” he asks. “For you, I might consider it.”
I unbolt the door and he slips through the small gap with ease.
It takes all of three seconds for Dante to look around, find me with his mischievous gaze, then stiffen. He sees how shaken I am. His midnight eyes search mine a beat, then he is beside me, pulling me into his embrace.
“What is the matter, Red?” he whispers into my hair.
I untangle myself from his arms. Dante and I do not embrace like this. Sometimes, after we lay together he will hold me, but not like this.
His eyes follow me as I draw back to the wall and slump. My breaths still come in raspy hitches, but my heartbeat begins to slow. Perhaps I don’t feel as exposed with another by my side.
Whatever the reason, Dante’s presence calms me.
He takes a single step that closes the distance between us. His hands take mine as he searches my hollow gaze. “Tell me if I am prying, but I fear you might collapse,” he
says. “You look quite unwell, Red. Is there anything I can do for you?”
I shake my head. There is nothing anyone can do for me.
My lips pinch inwards a moment as I grasp at my thoughts. “I cannot…” I hesitate. “Dante, I am afraid tonight will not suit what you want from me.”
Dante’s hold tightens. “Ella.”
At the sound of my name on his lips, I jerk my head up. We are aligned.
“What sort of brute would I be to ask that of you? Looking at you now, that is the least of thoughts on my mind.”
There is so much strength in his voice that I blink. I almost believe him.
“We shall spend our time on other matters,” he says, his hold firm on me.
“What other matters?”
All I can think of is the wolf. Colton under the moonlight. Waiting for his change.
Dante looks at the workbench, littered in unfinished business. “I see you might need my assistance. So if you will not confide in me, we shall have to do something. What better than your chores?”
Blankly, I look up at him. I don’t see him, really. My gaze feast on the moonlight sheen of his skin, the midnight glimmer of his eyes, the combed hair that flattens to the side and to the shell of his ear. I see his face, his appearance, but not him.
Perhaps Colton has frightened me so much that my power to read has dwindled.
“Red, please,” he says, bringing me back to him. “Tell me what the problem is.”
I roll my jaw twice and part my lips thrice—the seconds tick by like that before I heave a sigh and stare at the slice of tunic beneath his heavy coat.
“I have good reason to fear a visit from the wolf tonight,” I whisper. “It is not safe for you here. You should leave before he comes.”
Dante is silent a moment. Then his face lights up with a wicked grin and his hands slide up to my arms. “And where shall you go, my sweet witch? Off into the woods where the wolf can easily hunt you, or stay here to be cornered alone? Leave.” He scoffs a half-chuckle. “Not if you paid me.”
†††
I rinse my gaze over his proud profile.
He is a nobleman in more ways than the term suggests. A nobleman who stands beside me at the workbench, three hours into our night, and patiently chops the last of the wolfsbane as I fill phials.
Together, we make quite a team.
Together, there is less fear in me.
Still, my eyes drift ahead to the front door every other moment. I’m certain a minute at most passed in which I forgot to look at the door. That moment was when Dante confessed to me that he dreams of other lands.
To see him this way—beside me, chopping wolfsbane in his tunic, hair tousled by the steam from the cauldron—is surreal. He tells me some dreams, of lands he knows and of lands he doesn’t. He sprinkles in some jokes. And all the while, he keeps the silver-coated dagger hooked to his belt.
If I was a fool, I would let my mind wander to this night becoming my normal. But I am no fool. Dante fancies me. He lusts and he is kind. But this will never be our normal, no matter how…secure it feels.
Dante scrapes the wolfsbane into the wooden bowl once it’s chopped. Then he slams the point of the knife into the workbench and asks, “Would you mind terribly if I released a burning question from within me?”
I smile, but hope it hides under the dark light of the room. “You have earned a question tonight.”
“What prompts you to believe the wolf will come for you?”
I don’t even blink—I knew the question was coming. Still, hours of knowing and I came up with no solid answer other than the truth. So it is the truth I tell him.
“I think I have realised who he is, and he has realised me too.”
“You mean the wolf is aware of your knowledge?”
Scraping the final spoon into a glass phial, I nod in answer.
“Are the tales of them true?” he asks. “Can they change at will, or only under the moon’s glow?”
With honesty in my unveiled eyes, I look at him and shrug. “I don’t know, Dante. Of the wolves, my knowledge is spread as thin as I can afford.”
Dante peels off his gloves then slinks toward me. The fluid motion springs to mind the wolf again, moving in on its prey. He draws me away from the workshop and runs the tip of his nose along my jawline.
“And of all my knowledge, sweet witch, why the wolf would want to harm you is incomprehensible. You pose no threat, and you would keep its identity a secret, I should think.”
I pull away to glare at him.
Unfazed, Dante pinches my chin and tilts his head. “Wouldn’t you? A wolf and a witch seem to me the makings of a strong alliance. Powerful outcasts banding together … I meant no offence, Ella. Fix your hard stare on another.”
I bunch my lips and return to the worktop. “Put your gloves on.”
The heat of Dante’s stare burns the back of my head. But then he does what I demand and is back beside me at the workbench.
His words dance in my mind.
Could Colton and I be allies? Is it too late for that?
Should I survive the night, it might be wise to offer him such a bargain. Bargains seem to interest him some. And with an agreement between us, what need would he have to kill me?
Grandmother comes to mind—she killed Silas.
Is Colton intent on revenge? Or is he determined to finish what his father started? To kill a made witch, to remove her from his line of temptation.
Colton could have learned the truth of what I am from his mother. If she’s the other witch…
Soon, my head aches and I cannot decide if the pain comes from the fumes or the tangled mess trapped under my skull. Dante takes me away from the workbench and pours me hot lemon water.
More hours tick by. Midway through the night, we share cured ham and a piece of bread. I bought this batch of bread, so at least it is edible.
Our night slips by us like this. Side by side, at the foot of the couch, snacking and waiting…waiting…
Waiting.
17.
I wake with a start.
Jerking upright, I pry open my hooded eyes and wipe the back of my hand over my lips. Drool covers me. I wipe it on the blanket gathered between my legs, but then I come to my senses when Dante groans.
I am straddling him on the couch, and the stiffness of my neck speaks of an uncomfortable position to sleep in. We must have drifted off sometimes after we snacked on sugared almonds.
Dante rubs his fists on his tired eyes. “Tell me you did not wipe your drool on my tunic.”
I grimace and glance down at the wet patch. It appears I have done more than wipe my drool on his tunic. I seemed to have directly drooled on him for quite some time. “I did not wipe drool on your tunic.”
“Liar.” He swats at me lazily. “This fabric was imported from across the sea.”
I roll my eyes, the urge to make a face at him gnawing within me. But to make a silly face at him would be too familiar. And all of this, our night and our morn, is too familiar.
I climb off him.
Dante tucks a forearm under his head and follows my frantic movements with a tired gaze. “Is this a regular routine for you in the morns?”
While I balance on one foot, I yank on a stocking with one hand, and use my other hand to comb through my tangled hair. “A noise woke me,” I say.
“Oh.” Dante sits up and glances between the two doors. “Are you expecting any visitors?”
The wolf.
But it is the morn, the sun is up, the wolf is down.
“I rarely am expecting visitors when they arrive.” I shake out my hair to fall down my back, then use a cloth from the washbowl to wipe at every bit of exposed flesh I can. “Aren’t you going to dress?”
“I fancy myself a long rest where I am.”
Brows knitted together, I round on him. “Someone might see you, Dante.”
He shrugs. “Only if there is someone at the door. It could have been a mere bump fro
m outside. And if you are correct, we can always simply pretend we’re not here.”
I relent to my urges. I make that face at him, though it is more of a scowl.
A tired smile graces his face and he crosses his ankles. “You are a frightful morn person.”
“Frightful only in the morn? You and your flattery will not soften this heart.”
In answer, he gives such a dazzling smile that it twinkles his eyes with the stars of the night.
As the seconds give way to minutes, I dismiss my startled wake as a mild scare. It is one of those rare morns where my dreams are fast erased, though it wouldn’t be far-fetched to think I dreamt of the wolf—A solid enough reason to jerk awake at any sound.
Dante lounges on the couch for the better part of the hour.
His eyes follow me around as though if he looks away a mere second, I will vanish—or be gobbled up by the wolf in hunter’s clothing. Now that I think on it, a hunter’s skin is an ingenious disguise for a wolf. For a half shilling, I might admit to how it impresses me.
After Dante and I share the last of my bread, a real sound comes from the door. A rapid knock at the rear of the house.
I need not call out to know who stands on the other side. Her panic slips through the cracks of my home and poisons the air with a bitter tang. She is here for help she does not want to ask for.
Villagers are odd in their stubborn pride. Don’t they realise pride is expensive to keep and bears no rewards?
Fools, the lot of them.
Dante dresses quickly and ducks behind the rear door before I open it.
My hand flattens against the doorframe, and I level my gaze with hers.
“Mildred,” I say with the coldness of the snow outside. “The sign on the front door is very clear. I am closed to business today. Correct me if I am wrong, but I don’t recall writing in fine print come around back.”
Mildred’s blotchy cheeks burn brighter, not with rage, but with what I want to see on her. Humiliation. This is my small retaliation for her slights against me. It isn’t much, but it satisfies me.
Feared Fables Box Set: Dark and Twisted Fairy Tale Retellings, (Feared Fables Box Sets Book 1) Page 8