Kingdom of Mirrors and Roses

by A. W. Cross

  The Beast was a spell? The mythical monster was nothing but a spell?

  “Why?” The rest of the sentence died in my throat. There were so many questions I wanted to ask; I didn’t even know where to start. Why was he doing this? Why had he kidnapped Clarice? Why did he demand sacrifices? How could he still be alive and seemingly well, despite being infected up to such a degree? Why was he living out here, instead of in our town?

  “Since I obviously can’t kill you in this form, not after you’ve just drained all my magic, I guess I have no choice but to take you to my castle.” He sighed, as if I’d just asked him for the biggest favor ever.

  “You kidnapped my sister!” I blurted out. “Why? What will you do to her?”

  “I will do nothing.” He emphasized the ‘I’. He got up and then grabbed my arm, roughly pulling me to my feet. “You look like you’re bursting with questions, and I really have no time or desire to answer any of them.”

  Not only was he a Mage, he was also obnoxiously rude. I wanted to punch him in the head, but how would I find the castle then?

  Maybe I should just shoot him and then try my luck at finding the castle. He was the Beast, and if legend was correct, he’d killed dozens of people over the years.

  But I couldn’t help but have questions for him, questions I wanted answered.

  “Surprisingly, I think you and I are quite alike,” the Beast said. Despite having lost his monstrous appearance, he still didn’t look much better now, covered in the Blight.

  We are alike, you and I.

  Like the voice from my dream had said. Was he… Was he the voice I heard while sleepwalking, the voice that lured me to the Wall?

  “But before you bombard me with questions,” the Beast continued, “Do you want to see your sister?”

  I gasped for air. “Yes.”

  “Then don’t bombard me with questions, and just follow me.” He gestured for me to start walking.

  “I….” I followed him, nearly tripping over my own feet. “How can… How can you be look like this and still…?”

  He rolled his eyes, as if my question bored him. “Now I remember why I avoid human communication as much as possible. What part about ‘don’t ask questions’ did you not understand?”

  His stuck-up, arrogant behavior made me furious. “I pulled the magic from you. You’re drained, so you can’t turn back into Beasty, and as far as I can see, I’m holding the weapons here, not you.” I pointed at the spare crossbow still tied to my back, which I hadn’t had the chance to use during our fight. “So, maybe try not being an arrogant prick for now?”

  To my surprise, he chuckled. “Fine. One question, but then we don’t talk until we’re out of the woods, agreed? These woods are infected with the Blight, and I don’t want them to see us.”

  “But… aren’t you one of them?”

  “I said one question and that’s the one you want to ask?” He lifted an eyebrow, obviously not impressed.

  “No.” I paused, thinking quickly. “What I want to know is—what are you?”

  He seemed to consider this question for a moment, and then shrugged. “I’m Henry. I used to be a prince, until I was cursed and became the first of the Tainted. So, when you asked if I was one of them, well, yes, in a way. But I’m not on their side, if that was what you meant by then.”

  “Cursed?” I stared at him up and down, wondering what kind of curse could possibly be strong enough to do this to him. “By whom?”

  “That’s a second and a third question,” he said while he ducked for an overhead branch. “But I’ll allow it. I was cursed by the woman I thought I loved.” He gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. “The Blight Queen.”

  Blood Rose by Clara Winter

  Prologue

  Charleston, South Carolina 1780

  The glaze of the rose-patterned teacup shimmered in the moonlight. Katydids made their noise all around us, the smell of the grass and trees, earthy and real, grounding me in the present. I needed to be grounded. The feelings I had for Edward grew by the day, but I remained uncertain.

  I held my cup and pretended to sip by bringing the steaming liquid to my lips in a movement defined by habit. I had known Edward for five months. In all this time, he didn’t see me eat or drink. We met by the light of the moon, never by the brightness of the sun. Not once did Edward question this—he never asked to see me during the day, nor did he ask me to accompany him for dinner.

  If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed he’d figured out my secret. But this seemed impossible. If he had deduced what I was, he would be afraid. This would be as natural as the surrounding forest.

  I watched him as he spoke, attempting to remain attentive. He talked often of his passion for railroads, a topic which held no interest for me. My attention waned, and I looked away.

  A tinkle of a knuckle rapping against porcelain drew me back. I reached out my fingers with the swiftness of the undead to catch the cup before it hit the ground. The scorching hot tea splashed over my hand. I didn’t react. My gaze flitted to Edwards’.

  He regarded me with narrowed eyes. “Your reflexes are spectacular, my Annabelle.” He spoke in the clipped, nasal way he always did.

  As much as I enjoyed Edward’s company, his voice set my teeth on edge.

  “You always seem to step in right before I can do myself harm.” He continued to watch me in a way that made me squirm.

  My smile widened as I tried to hide my discomfort. “I’ve always been fast.”

  “Let’s hope you will always be so.”

  The blood rushed through my veins, my heart thudding in my breast. Had he guessed?

  1

  Charleston, South Carolina Present Day

  Increase of knowledge only discovered to me what a wretched outcast I was.

  I cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my person

  reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine,

  even as that frail image and that inconstant shade.

  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

  Annabelle

  A curse is more than supernatural punishment. A curse is a time bomb, ticking down to when it explodes, leaving your life under a pile of dust so high you’ll never escape. To live under the dark cloud of a curse will change everything about you. One day, as an immortal, you will possess the power of a hundred lions free to live in any way you desire. The next day will find you weak and afraid. This had been true for me. The years had ravaged me, inside and out.

  Before me, stretched another night of purgatory. The dream, freshly woken from, tormented me in the same way–the old witch and I stood face to face, her words tumbling out in a rush I didn’t hear nor understand in my haze. A haze she created to keep me from attacking her.

  The gist of the curse was easy; it bound me to my home, the rambling plantation my family had inhabited for fifty years. The spell ensnared me like a scared rabbit. Although the others came and left as they wished, none of the sustenance I required could cross the barrier. My body would wither until I passed out of my immortality and into another existence, as bleak as this one.

  A loophole existed, a condition to break the curse, there always did. It seemed witches had a sense of humor, a way to keep hope alive enough to wrap you in a constant state of stress. My anxiety ebbed and flowed over the years, some days I accepted my fate and some days I didn’t. Today might be an accepting day.

  My feet found the floor, shaky from exhaustion. With my strength depleted by the minute this torment wouldn’t last much longer. For this alone did my spirits soar with gratitude. It may have seemed dark and depressing, but a person, human or otherwise, can only take so much.

  I shuffled across the worn pine floors, scratched and dull with age, to push open the shutters to the night. Although hot, the air wafted in a welcome way after too much time spent indoors. I breathed in the earthy scent of the Spanish moss hanging from the oak tree outside my window. If I reached out far enough, I grazed the feath
ery tendrils with my fingertips. The woods beyond echoed with life.

  My limbs ached like weak little branches of nothing. The exhaustion that threatened to send me back into a deep sleep made it a chore to remain sitting up. The sooner my torture ended, the better.

  Swann and Alain were the two bright spots in a monotonous life. Swann, bright and cheery, faced with what I suffered, did her best to pull me from my melancholy. Her kindness showed through in all the little tasks she performed, but her attempts to cheer me succeeded less and less.

  This endless night had me trapped; there was no escape from my home or myself. Why would I not be prone to sadness? At least she and Alain had the ability to leave the barrier, leave to feed themselves on evil doers who wandered too close. I did not. Alain tried everything in those first nights of entrapment to get me sustenance. To bring anyone to feed me past the invisible barricade proved an impossible task. The strongest of curses dogged my every move.

  I hadn’t stepped twenty feet beyond the magical perimeter in almost two hundred and forty years. It seemed impossible so much time had passed, and yet it did. My beauty had faded along with my desire to fight the curse that held me fast. The others should leave, I wished they would. No mortal would ever come to set me free.

  “Moping about, as usual, I see.” Swann’s accented voice spoke behind me. I continued leaning my upper body out of the window, my lower half, languishing on the cushioned window seat. I tried my best to ignore her, rude though it seemed.

  The room remained dark. Swann struck a match, sulfur filling the air. Soft light reached around me, as Swann lit the candles tucked into sconces flanking the door.

  “Please go. This is the opposite of life.” My nightly plea for my loyal progeny to leave me fell on deaf ears. They wouldn’t go. Even if I had the strength to throw them bodily out the door, they would still come back.

  “We escape when you do,” she said.

  I knew what Swann did without turning to watch. Every night, after rising, she came to my room to put out a fresh gown, arrange my hair, and powder and rouge my face. There was less face to make-up as my skin became hollower by the year. Starved of blood, I became a walking corpse. The day would soon come when I would dry up and fade away into nothing. That almost 240 years had passed since the night of my imprisonment would be obvious to anyone who saw me.

  “Why do you continue to bother? Any mortal man who beheld me would turn tail and run. Not all the powder and rouge in the world hides my beastliness.” I had yet to turn around. All I needed to do was stay where I sat, gazing out on the peaceful night.

  “That’s enough out of you, my dear. Beauty comes from within. You’re the one who told me that, once. Stand now, come on; I don’t have all night.”

  We had nothing but time. To argue seemed pointless. I moaned, moving to my feet and walking toward my former maid, turned progeny, turned caretaker. She pulled my shift over my head, never so much as glancing at the withered body underneath and turned me by my shoulders to slip a fresh gown over me.

  I no longer dressed in the old way with bustles and corsets. I missed the opulence of those big, heavy garments. Alain and Swann delighted in bringing me new styles as the centuries passed. At first, I reveled in the fun diversion; a way to focus on anything other than what I suffered.

  Every few years the fashion trends changed; each decade unique. In the 1920s, they dressed me as a doll in flapper dresses. Then it was on to sleek art deco gowns in the 1930s, taffeta frocks with tulle and fishtails in the 50s, miniskirts with thigh-high boots in the 60s. Even as I continued to deteriorate, they insisted on seeing me in new clothes should a mortal come along to end my decline.

  Tonight, Swann dressed me in a lovely garment, too pretty for me. The floaty fabric bled the color of dark, red wine with black lace panels around the neckline, waist, and bare shoulders. Silky sleeves began near my upper arms and cascaded down to my wrists like the loveliest of waterfalls. The gown fell to the ground, and although the fabric looked sheer, the bust and skirt lined with a luxurious silk, caressed my wasted skin.

  “The current styles are much more casual, as you’ve explained. Why the formal dresses?”

  “They are softer, the fabrics will hurt you less.” Swann steered me to the vanity, pressing lightly on my shoulders until I sat on the bench. Crystal bottles littered the mirrored top, glinting in the candlelight’s flicker, faint odors of floral notes hanging over them. The bottles had long dried up, empty of the perfume they once contained. Swann brushed my dry hair, twisting it up into a loose bun, tendrils of still chestnut locks, falling down my back.

  “Do you remember the first night I helped you get ready for the opera? What a magical night we had.” Swann smoothed a curl of dull hair over my shoulder.

  “I do. Never had we spent so much time amongst humans. We were all so nervous.” It should be painful to remember. Instead, I smiled, gazing off into the distance and envisioning the glamour of that evening.

  I had worn a mint green, silk, sack-back gown from France. Swann pulled my corset tight, my waist a tiny circle. Pink rosebuds dotted the skirt. Pink bows, stacked on the bodice, formed a row from the neckline to my waist. Around my throat I wore a white cameo on a black velvet ribbon. Swann and I looked like princesses from a fairytale. Delicate lace fans, beautiful rouged faces, and piles of shimmering diamonds comprised our evening. We relived the night as often as possible.

  The opera, Orpheus and Eurydice, pulsed with life on the stage, adding to the grandeur of the affair. The lightness of the dancing, the depth of the singing, made my heart pound along with the rhythm. I purchased chocolate bonbons in the lobby to appear more human. The candies sat untouched in their bag on my lap. I desired to have them, as if clutching the sweets in my hand would make me seem more ordinary. During the climax of the performance, I leaned forward so far, they tumbled over my knees, spilling across the floor of our box.

  “Can we leave off the makeup, tonight?” I hoped I didn’t sound like a whining child.

  She eyed me through narrow slits. “Non. Sit still we’re almost done.” Swann pulled my face toward her. She took the enormous powder puff, blew off the excess dust leaving the surrounding air filled with tiny talcum scented clouds. This she dabbed across my forehead and down my nose. Next came the pot of rouge applied with the tips of her fingers to my cheeks and lips.

  “Voila. Now you may continue moping. Might I suggest you join us in the salon for cards, mademoiselle?” Swann bustled about the vanity, putting everything to rights. She appeared so lovely, so perfect after all this time. Her blonde hair pulled back into a simple bun showed off her face in all its glory. The light blue dress she wore clung to her firm and athletic body, frozen at twenty-eight, and enhanced the blue of her eyes, making them appear electric.

  I did everything in my power to avoid my reflection in the mirror. I should have looked even more youthful than Swann, if not for the curse. My hair would be as shiny and healthy, my amber eyes as bright, my skin and body as beautiful. I swallowed my bitterness, instead focusing on the four-poster bed draped in decadent white silk. The mahogany headboard, once my favorite piece, swirled with dancing vines carved into the wood. Now, their twisting limbs served as a reminder that the clock ticked on my existence.

  The furnishings hadn’t changed in all this time. I hadn’t wanted them to. Swann updated things such as bedding and towels, but everything else would stay locked in time with us.

  “One game, as long as it isn’t poker.” Alain introduced us to poker a century ago. He often wiped us out of coins within thirty minutes of play. As I always lost, I much preferred games without betting.

  The salon, as Swann called it, was bright with light for the evening. Alain had lit the candles of the chandelier. Now he stood half bent over the fireplace, coaxing the flames as Swann and I entered the room. The humid, South Carolina night couldn’t be warm enough for Alain. A mortal would have found the heat stifling.

  The blues and creams of the spa
ce calmed my mind. Ornate scrollwork looped around the ceiling in crests and waves. French toile wallpaper enveloped us in rustic, country scenes. The room looked quintessentially French and was Swann’s favorite.

  Pleased with his work, Alain rose to his full height. He lacked loftiness but appeared formidable. His brown mane tumbled over his forehead, which he pushed back with strong hands, biceps bulging through his pristine, white shirt. Swann fell in love with the capable man while still mortal. Although they kept their relationship behind closed doors, I had always known the feelings they harbored for one another.

  “Here are my darlings.” A quick peck on the cheek for me, a lingering kiss on the same spot for Swann. “What shall we play, this evening?”

  I sat at the card table. “I’ll play anything that doesn’t see me losing my purse.” My parched throat, as arid as the driest desert, croaked out the words.

  The thirst, acute when I first began my incarceration, peaked at a fever pitch at around one hundred years. I spent several nights clawing at my neck until my companions reached their limit and bound my hands behind my back. Now, I experienced a dull ache in the rear of the throat, accompanied by a general emptiness throughout all my insides.

  Ready to make my game suggestion, Swann held up a hand. “Did you hear that?” she breathed.

  “I don’t hear him, but the blood, it calls to me.” Alain lifted his face to breathe in a phantom scent.

  I stared at the pair standing like rigid statues side by side. The only odor I detected came from the wood burning in the fireplace. No sound, other than the crackle and pop of the kindling reached my ears, my senses as dulled as everything else.

  “What is it?” My chest constricted in anticipation. Did we have a visitor lurking outside? No one was able to cross the perimeter, unless of their own free will. Alain had tried and failed many times to convince mortals to enter the area. Those hapless boys always ran, the spookiness of our reality too much for them to overcome. Alain told me he imagined himself like a serial killer, attempting to lure his victim to the kill room. All he wanted was to provide for me, perhaps even finding the one person to break me free of all this.