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

by Klarissa King

  Even in her state, Mildred puckers her lips to an inch of likeness to a cat’s bottom. My own wrinkle in disgust.

  “It’s Abigail,” she says, as though I didn’t already know. “Her health … We took her to the physician and—he cannot help.”

  I am aware.

  In all his time of poaching my patrons, never has the physician helped one. No ordinary can brew what a witch does. A dash of magic is the difference between remedy and poison, life and death.

  “Come in.” I pull closer to the door, letting her pass by me.

  Mildred squeezes through the gap, her pudgy arm grazing my breasts as she does. Her back is curved, her shoulders slouched; she does not even want the walls of my home to see her here.

  As her back is turned, Dante slips out from behind the door and leaves. Still, cheeky as he is, he chances a touch of my hand before the door shuts on him.

  “So,” I begin and peel off my apron, stained with the blood of hares. “What has that foolish man done now?”

  I hold up my hand before she can speak.

  “Wait. I think I might guess … He tried to ween her off my sedative brew with smaller doses of his own, which has led to Abigail’s delirium and poor health?”

  Mildred’s lips part—bits of the skin sticks together, making my stomach churn.

  “Did he tell you that the last time he fed a patient valerian, she died? No, I’ll bet he said nothing of the sort.”

  Mildred points her red, swollen finger at me; “You shift blame when it was you who introduced her to the poison to begin with.”

  “Please. What I brew is not poison. And if I am guilty, you are doubly so. Making her marry a man she does not wish to be wed to.” I finish with a scoff and derisive glare that runs up and down her plump figure. “Some mother you are.”

  Red flushes all over her, no more in blotchy patches—all over, as if painted on. “Bailiff John is a fine candidate for my daughter’s hand. His land is much, his rank high. You dare accuse—”

  I laugh outright.

  “Bailiff John?” My grin sticks to my face. “A man twice your daughter’s age, who reeks of ale and bad bathwater. You force her into intimacy with a stranger so foul, and as her mother—and a woman—you have the nerve to defend your choices?” I take a slow step closer, and my grin fades to a half-snarl. “You might as well be the one to tie her to the bed for him to ravish. Blame rests more on your shoulders than anyone but the Bailiff’s.”

  Mildred gapes at me, her cheeks so red they might burst from all the blood gathered. Rage fills her lungs, pushes her chest hard against her corset, and wobbles her meaty hands.

  “Now,” I say with as much calm as I can muster. “We may spend time disputing, or you can ask me to save your daughter’s life.”

  This sends her crashing back to her circumstance. She came to me, she needs me—and her ignorance shields her from the truth that I would help Abigail without Mildred’s meddling.

  Still, I am what Dante sometimes says—vindictive.

  Mildred swallows and looks to the herb room. “Help her and I will pay you.”

  That’s the best I can hope to pull from her.

  I slap a smile on my face and sweep over to the herb room. Mildred shadows me with her wary gaze alone. Her shoulders relax when I hold up the pre-packaged supply for Abigail.

  “One spoon, brewed for thirty minutes. Tomorrow, brew for twenty minutes. The next, only ten—then onwards, half a spoon each day, brewed for five minutes. Do this until there is nothing left.” I hand it to her. “She will be weak and nauseas for days, but you must force her to drink clean water and eat bread, unbuttered.” At her glazed-over eyes, I add, “Do you need me to write this down?”

  Mildred shakes her head numbly and stuffs the pouch in her skirt pocket. She hesitates and in that short moment, her dislike of me slips away from her like water down a window. She sees me. A healer. A helper. A witch who saves her child from death.

  Mildred realises, I hadn’t been the one to harm Abigail. We are all to blame, yes. But I am the one to save her. That counts for something. It must.

  Before she can reach for her money-pouch, I step away. “Think of it as an offer of amends.”

  †††

  Sometime after Mildred’s departure, I returned to my chores on the wolfsbane.

  I packed the phials in my wicker basket with care, wrapped layers of cloth around them to stop them from breaking, then left for the Square with the basket on arm.

  The morn is late enough for the villagers to be out, but the markets are scarce. Most villagers huddle and share woes, but as I walk by, silence steals their words. Some watch with hope at spotting my basket; others are dubious, their faith in me not yet settled.

  The ordinaries should not fear. The wolf has his sights on me. The others should be safe, I imagine, if they bolt themselves away at night. Fortunate fools, yet they don’t know how fortunate they are.

  Priest Peter is on the stone path across the Square. He offers blessings to those of the villagers riddled with fear. Then, his gaze finds me coming down the Square.

  He cannot stop the breath of relief from leaving his lips. The cloudy puff of air appears at his mouth and the tension is torn from his body.

  The altar boy takes the bowl of holy water from Priest Peter when I step onto the stone path. In its place, I push the wicker basket into his hands.

  “There is enough for every household within the walls,” I say. “Tell everyone—do not let even a drop of this touch the skin. No matter how small, a mere drop can be lethal.”

  Priest Peter nods and thanks me; his urgent tone is flooded with the same relief that lights up his creased eyes; “You have done a great service to the village, Ella. A gift from God stands before me.”

  “I’m no gift. I stand before you because of my Grandmother, and how you chose to take me to her. God has no part in my being here.”

  Shock slackens his jaw.

  I tap the wicker basket. “That debt is now repaid.”

  Priest Peter’s gape lasts a moment longer, then he snaps his mouth shut. “Very well,” is all he says.

  I’m at the church longer than expected.

  Priest Peter insisted I show him what to do with the wolfsbane. So, I spent thirty minutes with a brush damp with wolfsbane from a phial, and painted a translucent X over the doors, then coated the doorframe and windows.

  Some crowds slipped closer to observe, and when I finished, I turned to see two dozen villagers had gathered to watch me.

  As I left, two shook my hand; a woman offered me a pressed rose, wild to the northern lands; and a child sat on the train of my skirt. Inside, I wanted to boot the child away from me.

  Pretence stopped me. It was needed, so I forced a smile on my face.

  And as I walk home now, I wonder of their gratitude…

  Perhaps I am better suited to the life of a needed pariah than a wanted member of this community.

  18.

  Skirt in my hands, I wade up the lane to my home. I look over my shoulder every other second, feeling eyes on me. But I see no one.

  I move quicker, until I see Marigold at my door, waiting for me.

  My expression switches from one of paranoia to apology. I have not yet made what she needs, and tonight is the full moon.

  “Marigold,” I start. “I have been so busy with the demands of the Priest, that I have yet to acquire all the ingredients I need.”

  Disappointment thins her lips and her hands tighten on a folded cloth in her grip.

  “Could you manage another month?”

  Her eyes are downcast as she says, “Please, I can wait for as long as it takes. I do not expect to be your only patron or concern, Ella. My gratitude to you is eternal.”

  I give her a brisk nod. “Priest Peter has the supply of wolfsbane,” I tell her. “Use it before the sun falls.”

  It’s all I can manage to say to her, the only words I can string together as I face her sorrow. Before me, she stand
s like a doll. The sort that rich children carry with them. Glass-eyes, fragile, and so easily broken.

  Marigold is broken.

  Her husband saw to that long ago, and recently—I see her cracks in front of me. Only, the cracks come in purple marks that disappear under the frilled neck of her dress, and the over-drawn rim of her hat.

  I run my gaze over the blotches of purple and blue. “He is doing it again, isn’t he?” I whisper, my voice almost carried away in the stabs of air that pass us by.

  Colour drains from her face and gathers at her marked throat. She looks away, my words too much for her to bear.

  Is it not vile that she carries the shame that her husband should wear?

  “Did you come for the brew?” I ask. “Or for something you are too afraid to ask for, Marigold?”

  Still, she won’t look at me. Her averted face confirms all—she wants moss-salve to spread over her bruises, my own concoction to steal away all those marks within the day. But I offer her something greater.

  From my coat pocket, I slip out a purple phial. It is wolfsbane, one of the two I keep on my person at all times, even before my discovery of the wolf’s identity.

  I part with the phial and hand it to her. “Wolfsbane,” I say. “Have your husband smear it on the door, then wash his hands after. He must be the one to do this, Marigold. Calloused hands are far better for this particular brew.”

  Wearing a frown on her face, she takes it with hesitation. Still, she takes it all the same and pockets it. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes give away her mistrust, but she does not question me.

  “It’s a special brew,” I tell her. “A strong one that I had planned to use for myself. I want you to have it.” A soft smile comes to my face and I rest my hands on hers. “After your husband has washed his hands, he might feel somewhat light-headed. Let him rest the night away. Be safe.”

  “Thank you, Ella.” Her voice is a hushed tone loaded with dismay. She hoped for my salves and brews to steal away her bruises. She does not yet realise that I have offered her something far grander than remedies.

  I offered her the cure.

  The death of her husband shall be dismissed as an accident, a drunken moron too proud to wear gloves or use a brush. No one will mourn his death. Marigold will never speak of my deceit. And I will gladly dance on the monster’s grave … If I am fortunate enough to out-live him.

  Marigold sweeps down the lane, head bowed, and her shoulders hunched over.

  I turn to my door, the promise of warmth and seclusion embracing me too soon.

  Before I can go through the door, the rapid slam of footsteps rushes up the lane at me. I look over my shoulder and sigh a quiet sound of despair.

  Johan, the hay stacker, runs up to me.

  Orange hair a tousled mess, he staggers to a stop and blinks his green eyes wide. In his gloved hand, a blue phial of wolfsbane is grasped, and on the corner of his freckled lips is a smudge of jam.

  “Red,” he wheezes, short on breath. “I hoped to catch you…”

  He pauses to steady his breathing a moment.

  Patiently, I wait, though inside I am itching to hide in my home away from the ordinaries.

  “I wondered,” he says, “do you have the paste for teeth yet?”

  “I have not had the time, Johan, and I am afraid I can offer none of what you need.”

  “Not even the green paste for my son’s pimpled face?”

  I shake my head.

  “What about that sweet soap my wife likes … the one with the nuts in it? She’s down to a crumb of the last bar.”

  Grim-faced, I shake my head again. “My stores are low this moon.”

  Johan curses under his breath and kicks the snow. Then, he gives me a look of fading hope that flickers under my stony stare. “Is…About that, uh, the lotion…for my rash…you know where…”

  “I am sorry, Johan. I will work on your order after the full moon. Given the state of things of late, I simply haven’t had the time to work on anything other than wolfsbane.” I look at the phial in his hand and add, “I’m sure you can understand such changes in priority.”

  A scowl twists his face. He aims the expression over my shoulder as if to suggest his grievances, but not to offend me so directly.

  “Until next week, Johan,” I say.

  He bows his orange-topped head and leaves.

  At long last, I push through the door to my home.

  Inside, I lean my shoulder on the door to shut it, then stay still a moment. My eyes droop shut as let the familiar warmth and isolation envelope me.

  The moment is brief, for I know I must soon decide what to do about Colton.

  How can I bargain with him, how can I ensure my safety?

  An alliance could do the trick, but they are often built on a mutual benefit. There is little I can offer him in return, other than oils for his pained body and sore bones. It isn’t enough. Perhaps—

  My muddled thoughts are torn from my head.

  Someone is behind me.

  My eyes snap open, but not quick enough. I am not quick enough.

  I’m snatched backwards, to the hinges of the door. A chest presses against my back, and the cool bite of a knife against my throat holds me in place.

  Someone holds me at knife-point, and if I am horridly honest … of all the ways my life could end, this is not one I had considered.

  19.

  The metallic scent wafts from the one behind me and sneaks up my nostrils. I smell his work on him.

  Colton is the one behind me, the one to press the sharp edge of a knife to my neck.

  Slowly, I trace my fingers up my dress and try to steady my breathing.

  Be calm. Calmness clears the mind.

  It is easy to tell myself, but not as easy to listen.

  A storm descends on my mind and travels through my body to my now-shaking limbs. My breath shudders, my fingers quake. I reach for the phial of wolfsbane in my corset, careful to move slow.

  “Colton,” I say, my voice betraying my fear, hot and raspy. Broken. “This is … this is silly, you know. I wouldn’t ever speak of it. I would never reveal your truth. We … We are the same, aren’t we? They don’t understand us.”

  I pull out the phial from my corset and clasp it in my clammy hand.

  The blade bites closer to my throat where it pinches my skin. Warmth drips from the pinch. Droplets, the colour of what they call me, roll down to my dress.

  Then, my entire body is seized with a hardness, and I cannot move.

  “Stupid lass,” a woman spits at my ear. “You think you are special, different from the ordinaries, but you are one.” Her voice lowers, grows deeper into a venomous hiss. “You are a mockery of the true witch.”

  The blade is so tight on my skin that blood trickles down to my dress in a steady stream—it could soon become a river.

  “Who are you?” My voice rattles harder than my hand around the phial. “What do you want from me?”

  “For you to die, whore.”

  The blade drags to the side. I cry out and throw myself back.

  The woman behind me grunts and stumbles, enough that I escape the slice of the blade on my throat. I right myself and whirl around. Before I can lock my wild gaze on her, a gleam of metal cuts across my vision.

  I stagger back.

  My hand slaps to my cheek. The burst of pain is so blinding, I drop the phial. It rolls to the door, but care not…I care only about the gush of blood from my face. It rushes down my arm.

  But I see her.

  Savage eyes, black hair so dark it shimmers like coal embers.

  “Catherine?”

  She snarls as I speak her name. Then she lunges forward, slicing the blade out at me again.

  I cry out and stumble back. The knife just misses me.

  I hold out my free hand, breathing hard. “Wait! Stop this! Catherine…we’re the same! You and I should not fight—”

  My words are cut off with another swipe of the blade.r />
  I fall back, boots caught on the skirt of my dress. The ground pulls out from under me and I land, hard, on the floor.

  Just as she lunges at me, I roll to the door. She hits the ground beside me, a mere touch away.

  Panicked, I scramble to my feet. Before I can even turn for the door, the blade whips by me. It sinks into the wood. I make to grab it—

  My forehead is cracked against the door. She holds my hair and throws me to the side, as though I weigh little more than a cloth.

  Catherine’s strength is her tell—she has chanted to Mother for strength.

  A solid table catches me. I grunt, hands and face smeared in blood…my own and from the table of butchered animals. Though blood leaks into my eyes, I see the jar before me. Empty, other than the water trapped inside of it.

  I snatch the jar and spin around just as she charges at me.

  The jar shatters the moment I bring it down on her head.

  Catherine staggers. Her hand reaches for the cut at her hairline.

  Leaning back against the table, I kick out at her—she lands on her back.

  Before she can get up, I am racing for the rear door. I don’t look back. I run until I crash into the door so hard that all the air is punched from my insides. Never have I unbolted a door so fast in my life.

  I swing it open as I hear her behind me—getting to her feet, grabbing the knife.

  I lunge for the outside.

  A solid wall blocks my way.

  My breath catches and I look up from the brown leather wall before me, to a proud face and tousled auburn hair. His dirt-brown eyes harden as they rest on me, but a burst of panic is quick to brighten them.

  Colton grabs me and shoves me inside. The force of his push sends me reeling to the back of the couch. I turn my wide eyes on him. But Colton looks not at me; he looks at Catherine—standing opposite him, bloody blade in her hand.

  The savagery I’d seen in her eyes collapses to something else…

  Shame.

  “Mother,” Colton says, aghast. “You promised you wouldn’t.”

  The savagery might be gone from her eyes, but her voice is slick with it; “I cannot let you do this, son! Not with one like her—a made witch.” She spits those words as though they poisoned her tongue. “She is a mockery of my kind, of your kind. There is no pure power in her ordinary body! I cannot abide this Colton.”