The Enchanted Kingdoms (Haunting Fairytales Series Book 1)

by Becca Alexandra

  ‘You have been charged with the murder of Princess Mary. You have been sentenced to death by decapitation,’ Snow said loudly.

  ‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ he whispered as his head was forced onto the block. Belle’s screaming was drowned out by the chanting and jeering from the crowd. The sunlight highlighted the boards below him.

  Snow pressed her lips together. She looked out at Edward as the sword swished through the air and prayed that her plan would work.

  Journey to Neverland

  Peter sat on top of the tallest building in Santeria and looked out over the city. Chaos was breaking out, and it was all because of him. ‘Brother,’ he said to Pablo, who was sat next to him holding his wooden flute. ‘You must now, brother; if not, we will burn.’

  ‘You will burn,’ Pablo replied, looking down at the angry mob circling their house. ‘Mother and Father will die because of your stupidity. Why must you show your powers? They believe you to be a warlock!’

  ‘Am I not?’ Peter asked with a hint of a smile.

  Pablo slammed his fist down on the block next to him. ‘It is not funny, brother. You know they do not understand. Grandmother has told you to keep your magic hidden since you were a toddler. You have put us all at risk.’

  Peter rolled his blue eyes. ‘Brother.’ He laughed, running his hand through his dirty blond hair. ‘You are also magical; you play your flute with such enchantment …’

  ‘It is not magic!’ Pablo shouted. They both ducked as some of the townspeople looked up. Pablo turned to Peter, who was a mirror image of him. ‘I play well, but it does not make me a warlock,’ he whispered.

  Peter grinned broadly, showing off his pearly white teeth. ‘Animals come to you when you play,’ Peter said. ‘You are magical, and that is fantastic. Don’t you see? We are different, and that’s the most brilliant.’

  Pablo rolled his eyes at his brother’s made-up word. ‘You are to be married. You are nineteen, not nine. Forget these childish fantasies. Let them purge you of your demons and never use your powers again.’

  Peter furrowed his brows. ‘You’d have me be someone I am not?’

  Pablo peeked down and saw that their house was alight with flames. ‘For our family and futures, yes.’

  Peter shook his head. ‘I shall not. Sorry, brother.’

  ‘Please, brother,’ Pablo begged, but Peter sat cross-armed in defiance.

  Pablo sighed and stood up. He pressed his lips to the top of the flute and played his music, letting the melody carry away his worries. He played more beautifully than he ever had; a tune of wonder and sadness mixed with anger and joy. ‘It’s working!’ Peter exclaimed. They looked down, and the animals had come. Thousands of rats poured into the city. ‘Do it,’ Peter said.

  Pablo continued to play, but this time, a different tune left the flute, influencing the rats to devour the townspeople. His stomach churned as screams filled his ears. His mother and father ran out of the house and climbed onto their roof to escape the flames.

  The townspeople who had avoided the rats looked up at the building and saw Peter and Pablo. ‘Demons!’ they screamed as the small mob ran toward the building.

  Tears trickled down their mother’s cheeks as she looked at her sons. She climbed down the building, and slowly, the rats descended on her. Her husband jumped down and wrapped his arm around her stomach, hitting the rats off them both. She looked up at her husband and squeezed his hand then looked over at the townspeople. ‘I called the rats here!’ she screamed at the mob. ‘Now, I wish for them to take me like they will take all of you! If you do not kill me, you will all die.’

  ‘No,’ Pablo called out, but it was too late. The townspeople turned on her and plunged a stake into her stomach. She fell to the ground, and the rats climbed her torso, devouring and tearing pieces of flesh. Their father lunged at the mob but was killed quickly.

  ‘She lied to save us,’ Pablo said with disbelief as tears streamed down his face.

  Peter wiped away a tear and looked over the horizon. ‘She gave us a distraction, so let’s take it.’

  They climbed down the wood ladder on the side of the building and took off toward the setting sun. They ran for miles without stopping. Years of toiling the fields had made them strong and fit. They ran until they reached the hills outside of the city. Ahead of them loomed a thousand trees.

  ‘The Enchanted Forest,’ Peter said with a mischievous grin.

  ‘No,’ Pablo warned, ‘it is dangerous. Remember the stories we were told, of demons lurking in the trees and black magic?’

  Peter waved his hand dismissively and walked into the forest like a moth drawn to a flame. Pablo looked back and heard the few townspeople who had escaped. He sighed and ran after Peter.

  They walked through the thickening trees and over the uneven forest floor. Peter was entranced by fireflies and the blue and red flowers that somehow flourished beneath the thick canopy. He brushed his fingers along the petals and grinned broadly at his twin brother. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  ‘It’s cold,’ Pablo replied bluntly.

  Peter rolled his eyes and skipped ahead. The tree trunks shimmered gold as darkness fell over the forest, and the wolves howled in the distance. ‘Brother,’ Peter said and placed his arm in front of his brother. ‘Wolves everywhere.’ Peter looked down at Pablo’s pocket. ‘Your flute, brother!’

  Pablo snapped back to reality and slowly pulled his flute out of his pocket. The howling grew louder, followed by the sounds of crinkling leaves and snapping twigs. Several sets of eyes glowed yellow in the darkness, surrounding them both. Pablo placed his lips to the top of the flute, and the melody danced out of his flute and over to the wolves, who immediately whimpered and backed away.

  Peter breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God I have you. What are you getting them to do?’

  ‘Fear us,’ Pablo said quickly and continued to play. The wolves left the clearing where they were stood, and Pablo put the flute back into his pocket. ‘We should eat something.’

  Peter nodded and lifted a hand into the air. A gush of wind knocked down a branch, and a startled squirrel tried to jump as it fell but missed its landing and fell with the branch. Peter picked up a large rock and walked over to the squirrel. He hit it and watched the light leave its eyes. ‘We thank you for your sacrifice,’ Peter said over its body then picked it up. ‘Dinner,’ he said brightly.

  Pablo gathered several fallen branches and placed them above a small hole that Peter had dug. Peter used his powers and summoned fire. He looked down at the flames and smiled. ‘I love magic.’

  ‘That makes one of us.’

  They cooked the squirrel and fell asleep next to the crackling fire.

  ***

  Morning fell, leaving the forest covered in a dewy glow. Peter was up first and couldn’t keep the smile off his face. This was the freest he had ever felt. He shook Pablo’s shoulder. ‘Come on, we should keep moving.’

  Pablo rubbed his eyes and looked around groggily. ‘I had hoped that this would have been all a dream.’

  Peter pinched his arm. ‘Nope, this is all very real. Come on, brother, it’s like a dream, isn’t it? We are in paradise.’

  Pablo scoffed but said nothing and walked behind Peter. The blisters on his feet rubbed against his shoes. He took off a shoe to rub his aching feet, but his foot caught under a vine on the ground and he fell forward.

  ‘Brother?’ Peter turned back on hearing the skull-crushing thud. ‘Pablo, can you hear me?’ His hair was stained with crimson, which pooled on the jagged rock where Pablo lay unconscious.

  Peter pushed his hands under Pablo’s arms and dragged him along the forest floor. He could hear the steady trickling of a pool and dragged his brother towards the sound. The trees fell away and revealed a beautiful pool of shimmering water that glistened in the sunlight and flowers that wound their way up the rocks.

  He pulled Pablo to the edge of the pool and laid him next to the water. Peter pulled off his brown top
and submerged it in the water, which made his finger tingle on contact. He dabbed at the gash on Pablo’s head with the wet top and watched as the gash healed over.

  Pablo took in a deep breath and sat up. ‘What happened?’

  Peter looked at the water with awe. ‘You hit your head, but brother …’ He looked at Pablo wide-eyed. ‘The water is magic.’

  ‘How so?’ Pablo looked down at the water with a frown. Magic was bad, it was demonised, and it was what got their parents killed and them in exile.

  Peter took off his shoes and placed them on a rock then placed his feet into the water. ‘Ah, I feel the pain from my ankles melt away. Brother, try it.’

  Pablo pressed his lips together. ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Peter insisted. ‘Stop being so fearful.’

  Pablo cautiously dipped his foot into the pool and felt the pressure and pain leave his foot. The twins stripped and lowered themselves into the pool. ‘Isn’t this wonderful! We have found a pool of healing,’ said Peter.

  Pablo nodded in agreement and looked around the edges. ‘It looks more like a fountain. Look.’

  Peter looked around the edges; the rocks had formed a ridge, which wound around the circular pool, and in the ridge, the water waved down, connecting to a lower ridge until eventually, it hit the pool. ‘It does look similar. It is a fountain of healing, a fountain of youth.’

  ‘Yes. Peter …’ He looked at his brother and sighed. ‘We must talk about what happened.’

  ‘Never,’ Peter said. ‘Never, never, never.’

  ‘We must!’ Pablo insisted. ‘Mother and Father are dead. We killed an entire village through my music and …’

  Peter slammed his hand down onto a rock next to him, and his expression darkened. ‘We must never talk about it again. Think of this as a new start. This,’ he said, spreading his arms, ‘is Neverland. A new start where we will be happy and will never have to hide our powers again. Where magic is everything, and if people come, then they must love me for me and not expect me to be anyone else. A place where we don’t have to grow up, where I will not be forced to marry or work. A place where our past will not be spoken, and we’ll be free! Never growing up, never to speak of the past, never to be unhappy; Neverland.’

  Pablo bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. There was no point in arguing. He knew once Peter got something in his head, nothing could deter him from it. ‘We will need food,’ Pablo pointed out.

  Peter grinned. ‘Glad to see you’re on board, brother. We will sort out all the details. I’m going to grow my powers here. If I hurt myself as I have done before, I can heal myself with the fountain.’

  Pablo nodded slowly. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘And ...’ Peter said excitedly. ‘I can see how far I can stretch my powers. None of the Pan family have had the opportunity to see what they can do with the magic, but now, I can. We can.’

  Pablo waded over to where his clothes were in a pile and reached into his pocket and pulled out his flute. Playing music was the only thing he loved to do. It carried him away to another world. He pressed the wood to his lips and held back a sob. The flute was crafted by his mother. He daresn’t tell Peter he was sad, though. Peter was happy, Peter was carefree, and if Peter knew that Pablo was sad, he might leave him. He played his flute, and the sounds were more powerful than ever. It called deer to the pool and fairies, too. They both watched with fascination as the fairies danced on top of toadstools and rocks.

  That evening, Peter danced with the fairies, made a campfire, hunted a deer, and laughed by the fire.

  With each passing day, Peter’s powers grew, and he forgot more and more about his past, his parents, and the city. Pablo watched cautiously as Peter grew more arrogant with it too. The forest changed around them. Everything was brighter, and the pool grew bigger. Peter laughed more than he ever had, and Pablo cried silently in the dead of night.

  ***

  One morning, Pablo awoke to the sound of his flute playing. He shot up and looked around cautiously. He peered through two trees and saw Peter sigh and throw his flute to the ground. ‘Why do you not play well with me, and you do for my brother? I am more powerful than he is!’ Peter stomped off in frustration. When Peter was out of sight, Pablo grabbed his flute and sighed.

  ‘He’s growing too powerful,’ a fairy said from behind him. He turned and looked at her face. She had nutmeg-coloured skin, a tuft of brown hair, a long face, and wide green eyes. ‘You must stop him, Pablo.’

  Pablo nodded; he had seen it over the past week. ‘I will.’

  Pablo practiced his flute all day and every night, growing his own powers, and each day, he felt more powerful than the last. The only way to stop Peter from growing too powerful or dangerous was by becoming powerful himself.

  Peter saw the magic from the fountain dance into Pablo and watched on with greedy eyes. He wanted what Pablo had; after all, he was the more brilliant brother. Peter waited until Pablo was asleep later that night and snuck the flute from his grip. Placing it to his lips, he blew into it and wished for the forest to be his, for Neverland to be his. Slowly, the magic seeped out, and the water from the pool seeped into the ground and reached out to the edges of Santeria.

  Most of the population of Santeria turned into mermaids through Peter’s magic and fell into the ocean surrounding the huge island. The townspeople who had killed Peter’s parents ran for their ship when they saw magic spreading through the land. They boarded their ship and tried to sail to another land, but it was as if an invisible barrier had surrounded the ocean a mile out from Santeria, preventing anyone from leaving. Instead, they settled on an island, which was a part of Santeria, and looked at Santeria across the short ocean separating them.

  Peter walked out of the forest and looked around. The beach was beautiful—sand that shimmered like fairy dust, small pools of bright blue water, and the buildings had fallen down and were buried underneath the ground.

  Peter turned to his brother. ‘This is Neverland,’ he said, his eyes flaming green. ‘And I am its god!’

  Pablo’s smile turned into a hard line. ‘God?’

  Peter nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Peter left to dance around the campfire with the fairies and swim with the mermaids in the pools and ocean. Pablo settled into his new life begrudgingly but remained as content as he could. He noticed that the weather reflected his brother’s mood and realised that Neverland was indeed Peter’s, after all.

  ***

  One evening at sundown, the sky flashed red and blue, and storm clouds shadowed the island. Peter stormed out from the forest and looked out at the ship by the island. ‘They are hateful. They have been planning attacks to kill me! Nobody must be hateful, here. They are ruining everything!’ Anger flashed across Peter’s gaze. He walked into the ocean until the water was up to his waist and called the merpeople to him. They appeared, their heads surfacing from the water, and huddled around Peter.

  Pablo looked at the ship nervously as the merpeople disappeared under the surface then reappeared by the ship. The men were once pirates and had gone back to their old ways. Pablo looked at the black and white flag grimly.

  Peter raised his hands, and a mountainous wave loomed over the ship. Peter dropped his arms, and the wave crashed down onto the boat. Pablo watched as most of the crew were dragged into the murky depths by the merpeople. They tore the skin from the pirate’s flesh and took the only woman on board, the captain’s wife. Peter stopped, letting the rest go free, hoping he had taught them what would happen if they continued to try to fight them. The ocean was the only place untouched by the fountain and therefore, the only place in Neverland where one could die.

  Peter smiled at Pablo as he passed him then walked back into the forest to the tree house he had built for them. Pablo looked down at his flute, and an idea popped into his head. If the flute gave Peter magic from the fountain, then surely, it could take it away, too. He pulled in a small canoe from one of the pools, pushed it out into the
ocean, and climbed into it. He rowed over to the island, hoping Peter wouldn’t come to the beach and see him, and nervously looked down at the water. A mermaid broke the surface and leaned on the side of the boat. ‘What are you doing?’

  Pablo pressed his lips together. ‘To the island to punish the pirates more,’ he lied.

  The mermaid seemed pleased with this and nodded before swimming away.

  He reached the island and tied his canoe up. The pirates left on the ship had made a base on the island and were sat around a small fire. Pablo ducked behind the huge rocks and placed his lips to his flute. Slowly, the magic danced from the ground and flew into his flute. After fifteen minutes, he felt the last of the magic leave the ground and smiled.

  ‘What yer doin’?’ a gruff voice asked from behind him.

  Pablo turned and jumped up. ‘Look, I’m not your enemy nor your friend, but I do want to stop my brother’s reign.’

  The pirate narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s grown too powerful. He’s dangerous,’ Pablo admitted. ‘Look, keep this to yourself. The island is free from Peter’s power now.’

  The pirate looked down. ‘If yer lyin’, I’ll cut yer throat.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  The pirate laughed heartily and pulled out a dagger. Pablo backed away, but the pirate pushed the dagger against his own wrist. ‘If there is not magic ‘ere, then I will not heal?’

  Pablo nodded and watched with horror as the pirate cut off his own hand. He screamed and fell to the ground as blood pooled into the dust. ‘Told you,’ Pablo said quickly and ran back to his canoe.

  ***

  Peter shook Pablo awake the next evening and beckoned him to follow him down the clearing. Pablo sat next to Peter on a log and looked at the dancing flames of the fire. ‘I know what you did,’ Peter said darkly. ‘You took power from the island. I tried to go there, and my powers did not work. Why would you do that to me, brother?’

  Pablo gulped and lowered his gaze so as not to meet his twin’s. ‘I’m sorry, brother, but you have gone mad with power. You do not care who you hurt, and you will not talk about our parents ...’