8: A gripping dark fantasy mystery

by Georgina Bartlett

  Justine opened the manilla envelope and pulled out an A4 picture of a young blonde woman, walking from a bus. Her jaw dropped as she examined it. If her hair was brown she would be the spitting image of the young girl with mud brown hair in her case file. She had the same mousy features and small frame. It was like seeing a ghost.

  “Are you sure this is her?” Justine asked.

  “Do you have any children, Miss Brick?”

  Justine read the room and shook her head once.

  “Well Miss Brick.”

  “Justine, please.”

  “Justine, when you have a child of your own one day you will spend hours memorising their face. I know this is my daughter. She’s older, but it’s her.” Grace pulled her purse out of her bag and withdrew a small picture. She gave it a final glance before handing it to Justine. It was a little girl with pigtails. The edges of the picture were frayed now from the years it had been in the purse, but it had been well taken care of.

  “Well, there’s no denying this is Melody Davies,” Justine agreed as she compared the two pictures. “What’s on the flash drive?”

  Grace played with her short blonde hair, stroking the sides near her ears, like it had been cut, but she wasn’t used to it yet. “It’s footage, of Melody entering an unmarked building with construction work. I don’t know what she’s doing and, to be brutally honest, I don’t care. I just want my daughter back, and I need you to find her.”

  “Grace, with the history of your case it would probably be best to go to the police.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Grace stood, her bag and all its contents spilling over the floor. “The police don’t believe me. They think this is someone trying to hurt us, a silly prank. But I know it’s her. I’m sure of it.” Grace trailed off, a red flush swept across her cheeks, she bent and began picking up her belongings. Justine came round the desk and bent down to help, passing Grace a five-year AA coin with ‘one day at a time’ etched onto it. “It was hard for a while,” she whispered, running her thumb over the coin before she slipped it back in her bag.

  “I can’t promise anything,” Justine explained and chewed the inside of her cheek. “But I’ll see what I can find.”

  She just got the sentence out before Grace’s arms were around her.

  What did I do, Justine thought to herself.

  Three

  The Palette Palace was vast. From a bird’s eye view it didn’t look like much, but the glass was deceiving, and it hid detail well. As Forrest walked through the halls, he was greeted with many sorrowful faces and suspicious whispers, an intimate group in the palace not fond of Forrest and his siblings, the king included.

  The people of Tincture were gifted with certain abilities. They were born with stark white eyes that would change to a certain colour a year after their birth. The colour of an iris would put individuals into a category of possible abilities ranging from blacksmiths who could control metal without tools, to physicians who could relieve patients of pain with empathy. Per the king’s rule, those with a colour that could be invested in and trained would be taken from their homes and moved to the palace, many hiding their children when the king’s men undertook their yearly survey.

  Colour was also currency in Tincture, your pigmentation a sign of your class. If you were part of a purple hue, you were considered royalty and shared the shade of the king. If your eye colour was part of the yellow, orange, or green pigment you were seen as a commoner and left to the forest. The citizens who settled in the woodland were happy to live with nature, but there were some who would go to extreme lengths to buy a place in the palace, such as using expensive contact lenses, or the more dangerous option, surgery to change their colour, which could result in death.

  With every step Forrest took he hated the palace more and more, seeing the glass as a cage rather than a kaleidoscope of dreams. He longed to be with his people in the woods, taken as a child from his family, killed for hiding him and his siblings. The king was not on the throne when Forrest came to the Palace, but he followed in his maniacal father’s footsteps, awful to Forrest and the others from the day they arrived.

  King Tinc loved power, he craved it and believed he could possess it through malicious behaviour such as his father’s. So when Forrest, Harmony, Amour, and Mort arrived - a new power that Tincture had never seen before, they became an instant threat to him. The people of Tincture loved all four, celebrating them like deities, a privilege and a curse, their attention the reason King Tinc kept them close, links on his chain of power.

  When Forrest was a teenager, he tried to leave, which resulted in the death of four innocent Tincture citizens, a message from King Tinc, I won’t kill you, but I will kill them. The day after he tried to escape, was the day he met Doc.

  Climbing up six floors, Forrest could finally see the violet stained doors to the main hall. He took a moment to compose himself.

  “Only those who know your true feelings, wield the power to harm you,” Forrest murmured to himself, a line his sister Harmony would say to him.

  With his head held high, he walked through the double doors and honoured her words.

  “Your Majesty,” Forrest exclaimed, his blue-black skin a vision in the sunlight. He bowed to the King, who stood with his hands behind his back looking out to the garden.

  “Forrest,” the king uttered. “Took your time I see.”

  Forrest rolled his eyes, safe from the king’s view. “Apologies, your Majesty.”

  “Could it perhaps be because of this trouble with Harmony? Not feeling one hundred percent?” the king groaned, turning on the spot to look at Forrest, rubbing his fingers together like he’d touched something unclean.

  The king had the body of a serpent which had found a generous dinner, thin arms, and legs but a tremendous bulge in his stomach. With good posture, eyebrows receding into his grey forehead, and a thinning hairline. The king wore a light blue suit with a powder white shirt that had ruffles on the sleeves and a tailcoat jacket with gold embellishments. He examined Forrest from head to toe with a gaze that looked like he had something sour in his mouth.

  “I won’t lie. It has been a difficult few days, my lord, a loss for the whole of Tincture,” Forrest said, his hands in fists by his sides.

  “Indeed, indeed,” the king grumbled, lost in thought.

  It had been a while since Forrest was in this part of the palace, the staining on the glass caused the sunlight to cascade a chestnut brown over the room. The walls were encrusted with jewels, all connected with an etched pattern, encompassing every surface. Half of the hall housed an impressive library of books, all dressed in purple and silver dust covers, none unique.

  A crystal throne sat in the middle of the room with a purple and silver floor rug around it. Surrounded by gemstone and quartz chairs in pinks and blues, enough to accommodate a wedding party.

  “Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” Forrest asked, his green eyes piercing against his black skin.

  “Of course there is. Why else would I have sent for you, you buffoon?” The King walked to a magnificent bookcase, his chest puffed out. He muttered to himself along the way.

  Forrest was no stranger to this behaviour from the king. He was the only one out of his siblings he would talk to.

  “I was having a rather peaceful day until I received word from Madame Arbre, Guardian of the Trees, that because of the situation with your sister, the whole of Tincture could be in danger,” King Tinc said, and blinked slowly as he waved around his hand in a circular motion.

  Forrest clenched his fists. ‘Situation’ he repeated in his head and bit back the bile in his throat. “I don’t understand, my Lord.”

  “Of course you don’t,” the king spat and ran his bony fingers over his forehead with a sigh. “It seems that what happened to Harmony has caused a ripple effect throughout the Kingdoms, and upset the balance.”

  The king muttered while grazing through a book titled The Great and Powerful King.


  “The balance?” Forrest continued, his eyebrows furrowed.

  “The balance of everything. Light and dark, day and night, good and bad. Simple enough for you,” the king blurted and snapped the book shut. “It seems that your kind is more important than we thought.”

  Forrest had always been aware of the king’s jealousy towards him and towards his siblings, the threat of someone being more important seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Madame Arbre has asked that you and the other two travel to see her as soon as possible and rectify this…mishap. You will leave immediately.”

  “Absolutely, my Lord,” Forrest agreed and turned to leave, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

  “Oh, and Forrest,” the king said, his voice low and tame as he wondered over to the throne and took a seat.

  “Yes, my Lord,” Forrest said and curled his lips.

  The king looked down at his fingers as they tapped against the glass armchair of the throne.

  “I tolerate you all,” he cautioned, and tilted his head to narrow his eyes at Forrest. “Because the people of Tincture seem to love you and believe you to be…magical.” The King paused and crossed his legs. “But don’t forget where you stand. This is my Kingdom. I will not have you play me for a fool, and I will not let you destroy what I have worked so hard to build. You will fix this, or I will.”

  Forrest stood on the spot for a moment, his dark green eyes, almost black betraying his stony composure, before bowing and walked out of the room. As he passed a large monstera plant, the leaves curled in on themselves and its vibrant green turned into a sickly yellow, utterly diminished.

  ***

  “I’m glad I spoke to you alone before we update the others. I could see it in your body language…how much he affects you.”

  “You should have seen him, heard the way he was talking about Harmony. He doesn’t care she’s dead. He doesn’t care about any of us.”

  “I know you think that, and perhaps you are right. But you are safe here.”

  “Safe?” Forrest snapped with raised eyebrows and a slack mouth. “This isn’t my home, Doc. This is a chamber I am kept in. This is his home. I mainly stay in the camphor tree on the palace grounds, closer to the woods.” Forrest crossed the room and pointed to a large tree outside the window. “This room is sterile and cold, a perfect mirror of its king.”

  “As long as I am here,” Doc said, and walked over to Forrest at the window, “I will do everything in my power to keep you all safe.”

  “Thank you, but out of the two of us, you are an empathic healer with a brain, and I have the strength to rip a tree from the ground and then grow a new one. Yet I’m still stuck under his thumb.”

  “Because of a pact you made to keep your siblings and the people of Tincture safe, that isn’t weak, its strong. You could have fought against him and created a war, but many would have died, and I don’t think you could have handled that on your conscience.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Forrest crossed his bulking arms.

  “Travelling to see Madame Arbre though, this is serious.” Doc took off his glasses to clean them with a handkerchief that had been stuffed into his lab coat pocket.

  “Why do you say that?” Forrest asked him.

  “There is rumour around Tincture that Madame Arbre is an oracle with magnificent power. If she has asked to see you all, it could be that she has seen what is causing your colours to fade and how to fix it.”

  “Does King Tinc know that she is an oracle?” Forrest asked and sat back on his bed.

  “No, absolutely not. If he thought for even a second that she had any kind of power, he would have had her assassinated a long time ago. He probably suspects that she has come across an ancient scroll that she needs to share with you. The only reason you are all safe here is because you are beloved by the public, he can’t hurt you without an uprising on his hands.”

  “Oh, can’t he? Look at this place, Doc.”

  Forrest’s chamber was made of green stained-glass. A chandelier in the shape of an orb omitted constant purple light from the ceiling. Forrest’s bedframe was made of solid crystal. When he sat on it, he was pleasantly surprised to find the mattress was soft. The only other piece of furniture in the room was an extremely uncomfortable clear quartz chair that sat by the window.

  “The others are blind to it, but this palace is a prison. Do we stay here because it’s our home, or are we prisoners with a severe case of Stockholm syndrome?” Forrest asked, sat on the bed with his head between his hands.

  Doc walked over to Forrest and laid a hand on his shoulder. “They aren’t blind to it,” he mused. “They are just loyal to you. They would follow you anywhere. If you no longer wish to be in Tincture, you can all find a new home. Away from Tincture, away from the promise you made.” His grey hair hung over his glasses and his smile revealed the age lines on his cheeks.

  “We,” Forrest corrected, his light green eyes meeting Doc’s gaze. “You’re part of our family too. And like you said, I made a pact with the king. I tried to leave once and four boys the same age as I was died because of me. The only way we could ever leave this place would be if the king was dead.” Forrest’s eyes flashed dark, and his blue-black fingers wove together leaving a hole in the shape of a noose.

  “But we can’t think of such things right now. We have to see Madame Arbre,” Forrest huffed, and slapped his hand against Doc’s shoulder, almost sending him flying. But Doc was used to their heavy handedness and had gotten better at staying on his feet, managing to steady himself. “And I think you should come with us.”

  “What? I can’t leave the palace. King Tinc won’t let me,” Doc exclaimed.

  “You have to come. You can help me keep Amour and Mort under control, and I always need your guidance. We’ll leave after I’ve told them what is happening,” Forrest concluded, and all Doc could do was nod.

  ***

  “Who exactly is this Madame Arbre?” Amour asked, saying her name in a French accent.

  They had all gathered outside the palace. The building had large grounds that held the king’s horses and had footpaths he liked to walk along. He would never leave the palace because he was afraid of what might sit on the other side. A set of crystal gates stood one-hundred feet high and was linked to the walls, encasing the whole palace. They managed to sneak Doc out without any questions asked, but sooner or later the king would find out. Doc sat on a tree stump and watched them all while he kept a case clutched to his chest.

  “She reached out to the king and said she has information that can help us. Call your steads,” Forrest stated.

  “And how come Doc is coming too? He never joins us on our field trips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him leave the palace,” Mort observed, her hood pulled over her pixie cut and eyes black as coal.

  “Actually, I did, once,” Doc told them, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  The forest floor was shrouded in darkness, but a little light did manage to break through the thick canopy of trees above. Hot and humid, they were at the entrance of where magic and mystery were created.

  “Enough, both of you. Doc is coming, and we need to leave now,” Forrest rasped, and held his thick arms out in front of him with his hands splayed. “Call your steads.” He snapped his blue-black fingers.

  Each took a few steps closer to the woods. Amour drew his hand up to his lips and blew on the tips of his fingers, each of his digits lit with a perfect flame. His eyes shared the colour of the flickering torches. Forrest collected an acorn from the floor and held it in his palm, and Mort stood waiting for them with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms.

  “Stead, with me now.” The three of them spoke in unison after an exchange of glances.

  Amour threw his fire to the ground and lit a patch of dirt and leaves alight. Forrest threw the acorn deep into the woods, and Mort knocked the heel of her shoe twice on the wet earth. Doc sat forward with his eyes wide open. For the moment, everything was quiet an
d still. The only sound came from the crackle of leaves that singed under the flames.

  The dirt beneath Mort’s feet started unfolding events as it began to shudder. Mort kept her arms crossed, but adjusted her feet to stand with a wide stance. The earth continued to tremble as if a freshly sired vampire was about to burst from it. In a matter of seconds, the soil began to mould itself. Twigs and leaves joined the mud, making it look like a wattle and daub nightmare. Suddenly Mort was atop a mound of mud that began to resemble a horse, a behemoth head now visible with black stone eyes as it huffed out a lungful of air.

  Amour’s flame was almost out on the ground, and the fire dancing over the ash beneath it. When it was no more than a wisp, it erupted with a spark as if gasoline had been thrown on it and blinded Doc, who fell backwards from the tree stump. Carefully he looked over the husk left from an old tree and found a horse made of pure fire, its mane blowing in the breeze. Amour strode over to the beast and ran a hand over its muzzle before he jumped atop it, unharmed.

  Mort and Amour glanced down at Forrest. They were smirking.

  “Getting a little rusty?” Amour taunted.

  A whinny broke through the trees like a thunderclap, the sound of hard and crisp gallops followed it, filling the forest as if coming from all directions. Finally, a horse that looked like it had been carved from brown varnished oak shot through the darkness towards them. It stopped dead in front of Forrest, its body hard as stone and its mane like bark, rough and jagged.

  “Never,” Forrest boasted, and raised his eyebrows at them. “Let’s go, Doc. You’re with me,” Forrest stated as he jumped atop the horse with no trouble. Doc held his case tight against his chest, taking a slow walk over to the stallion. When he was close enough, he laid a hand on its flank and felt the power moving through it like life, even though it was cold and hard as rock.

  “Need a hand, Doc?” Forrest asked, his eyebrows high on his forehead and his lips curled into a smile. Doc nodded and gave him his hand. He was in the air for a moment before landing atop the horse.