Fairest of All

by C J Preece

  “One question.”

  He bowed his head graciously. She remembered their first meeting in the forest, when he was every inch the suave and helpful stranger. “But of course.”

  “Why the Witch?”

  “She promised me this.”

  “This?”

  “You. One last battle. One last chance.”

  “But why?”

  He actually smiled. A real smile, not the baring of the teeth she was used to. “I am older than you think. I cannot hunt as well as I once did. I could not sniff you out in this place, where before I could. When the leader of the pack is no longer the strongest he is soon replaced. In truth I was already in decline fifteen years ago, when a human child bested me. But I knew you were special then. I knew that I could accept no other death. If you are worthy enough to give it to me.”

  She actually understood. Before she might have been able to kill him, through luck and trickery, but she wouldn’t have understood what it meant. She had been killing Old Breed without thought for over a decade, she had forgotten what they were, underneath the animal. Remnants of an old world. To kill Big Bad now, to sever this last link. She would still do it, and do it gladly, but it wouldn’t be only for herself. The Wolf allowed her time to understand all of it, then crouched low. She matched his stance, gun before her and knife held close to her body.

  His first strike was made with such incredible speed she barely saw him move. One moment they were watching each other, the next he was alongside her, raking his claws against her flank, tearing through the armour like it was cloth. She dived to the side and rolled to a stop, firing a single shot towards him. It served to keep him back and give her time to recover. The cut on her side wasn’t too deep. He had only been testing her. Her eyes narrowed and she began to circle, watching him closely. He still meant to kill her, if he could.

  He moved again, but this time she was ready, dropping to one knee, under his sweep, and driving her knife out into his leg. The blade bit deeply enough to be wrenched out of her hand when his leap carried him past her. She had another knife drawn before he landed, turning to face him and firing her second shot. She hit him dead square in the chest, forcing him back another step. The buckshot made an ugly gash, but wasn’t deep enough to do real damage. He growled and charged again, faster than before. She dropped the shotgun and readied her knife, slicing his muzzle as he barrelled into her.

  They tumbled in a pile of fur and blood, her knife flashing in and out again and again as his claws made short work of the armour on her back. Her cloak had been shredded to pieces when they finally came apart, and her back felt the same. Blood dripped freely to the floor and there were scratches from her shoulder blades to her hips. But he hadn’t escaped unscathed. His right eye was missing, along with a chunk of his left ear. Deep gashes across his muzzle were clearly causing him pain. Red even managed a smile.

  “Looks like we match,” she said.

  To her surprise he grinned as well. “It will give me something to remember you by when I kill you.”

  “I thought all the bullets I’d left in you did that.”

  He charged again, and she copied him, sprinting as hard as she could for him. She saw the shock register in his remaining eye at what she was doing, and in that shock she had an opening. She made full use of it, throwing herself into the air and coming down two-footed on his shoulder, sending him skidding along the floor. She landed heavily and spun, drawing a pistol and emptying the magazine in a long sweep that caught him with at least half the bullets. Blood poured and he staggered to his feet, trying to get away from the onslaught. She drew her other pistol and placed her next shots. A couple to each arm and leg. They wouldn’t kill him, but they would slow him down. Now they were even.

  Now he was cautious. No more headlong charges. Instead he came at her methodically, weaving and rolling to make shooting at him risky, but always forcing her back. She knew the wall had to be coming up soon, and once she was trapped there he would have freedom to attack her. She drew a second knife and continued to retreat, always watching for a pattern to his movements. She might have to bleed to get free.

  She hit the wall and he pounced, claws high and mouth wide enough to swallow her whole. She pushed off hard from the ground and met him in mid-air, getting inside his guard and stabbing both knives into his chest. He collided with the wall, smashing her against it as well. She felt ribs crunch in her chest and yelled in pain as above he let loose a howl as her knives were driven even deeper. He fell back but she hung on with all her strength, coming with him as they crashed to the floor. He brought one massive paw to his chest and raked the other along her already ruined back, dragging a scream from her.

  Letting go of the knives she sat up sharply, almost straddling his torso, and drew a revolver, putting two bullets into his chest before rolling off and scrambling away on all fours, her back on fire. She realised her throat was hoarse, and she was still screaming, but over her own cries was his howling. Looking over she saw both knives still embedded in his chest, two messy bullet holes above. Along his flank were her earlier pistol shots. His fur was stained crimson from his own blood and he was struggling to even roll onto his front, let alone to rise. The sight gave her strength enough to rise and face him, waiting until he was on his feet before attacking.

  He clearly expected her to strike, or to put another bullet into him, but instead she dropped the revolver when she was two steps away and grabbed the hilts of her knives, wrenching them free. Blood poured from the wounds and he collapsed to one knee, giving her time to get behind him and drive the knives into his shoulders, right at the joint. It was time to end the hunt, but he was still dangerous, maybe even more dangerous than he had ever been. She took no chances, drawing her other revolver and shooting out both his kneecaps. A swift kick put him on the floor on his back.

  She drew another knife and knelt beside him, preparing to cut the tendons in his elbows. But before she could he grabbed her wrist. She fumbled for her gun but he wasn’t attacking. His grip was too weak to hold her and he was moving slow.

  “I think you’ve won.” Even while dying he managed to keep his voice level and calm. “Not much point in crippling me completely.”

  She moved a little closer, still wary of the claws, and knelt beside him.

  “I’m done. Even if I killed you there’s no way I’m walking out of here.” He groaned as his muscles spasmed from pain. “If you wouldn’t mind making it quick?”

  She watched him, knife in hand, and remembered how often she had thought about this moment. Having him, at her mercy, dying and immobilised. She had once promised herself she would use every second she had to hurt him. But now, with his broken body at her feet, in a dimly lit garage in the middle of a dying forest, she couldn’t remember the hate ever being so much. She had seen the effects of that hate, in Snow and Charming. The Witch must have felt it once, she was now sure. In order to become what she was. Red knew she was a killer, and a hunter. But she wasn’t cruel. And even despite her hatred of wolves she had never been cruel in killing them.

  The wolf saw all of that in her eyes. There was more in common than she wanted to acknowledge. Everyone else had seen it, if only she could have listened. “It is an honour to die at your hand,” he said.

  She didn’t trust herself to reply. She wasn’t sure exactly what would come out of her mouth. Her thoughts whirled as she drew her revolver and placed it under his chin, angling the barrel upwards towards the brain. The knife would have been more traditional, but it was time to end this hunt for good.

  The gun boomed and the wolf went limp, his eyes rolling backwards in their sockets and his head lolling to one side, the mouth falling open.

  There was nothing more to do. She collected her weapons, wincing as the pain in her back finally started to reach her, and left the body where it lay.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Old Ghosts

  The city was burning down, but for Snow White there was o
nly one thing which mattered anymore. A revenge twenty years in the making had finally boiled over, turning her thoughts to crystal and bringing her entire being to bear on one name. King Charming was going to die, and he wasn’t going to do it at the hands of street scum, or fire, or even the wrath of whichever vengeful god had come down to put an end to the scum that was Ateer. Charming would die by her hand. She would watch the light fade from his eyes, knowing that she had finally enacted justice upon him.

  It had in fact been he who taught her how to use a sword, nearly twenty years ago, when he was saner. What she had paid for those lessons was simply another indignity, one she would doubtless have suffered regardless. She had survived the Queen, her own step-mother. She had survived the Queen in the guise of the old hag. She had survived him, for all those years until she could escape. She had survived the city, and one way or another she would survive long enough to watch him die. The castle was ahead, behind was only fire and destruction.

  The gates were open, the bodies of the street rats piled up around them, bodies riddled with bullets, then deeper in marked with spears, and finally, at the doors to the inner keep, swords and maces. Here and there lay the bodies of guards, torn apart or beaten to death by hands and feet and the sheer weight of an entire city raised in rebellion against the one man who had dragged them down into his own madness, making the city a twisted reflection of himself.

  The final townspeople lay inside the doors, along with the final guardsmen. Dead. All dead. Everyone in the city could be dead, save for her. But he would be alive still, she knew. He could never die on an accident, it would have to be by design. Her design.

  “Darling!”

  He was right there, dressed in his finery as though he were about to attend the finest ball. A sweeping midnight blue half cloak over his shoulders, covering a periwinkle blue doublet. A fine white shirt, knee high kidskin boots. His blond hair tasteful and understated. He smiled, he actually smiled, at the sight of her. “I am so glad you’ve arrived. I am preparing for the apocalypse.” He swept his arms wide and she saw the scabbard, as well as a duelling pistol in his belt.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, the demure tone she had used for so many customers coming easily to her lips. Nothing more than another snake. “I hope you prepared me a seat.”

  “The guest of honour!” She didn’t know if he truly understood her, or if he was only playing along. Even before the madness had eaten his mind he had been obsessed with the theatricality. The word play, the fun of it all. “Of course you are welcome. It wouldn’t feel like the end without you.”

  “Then shall we to business?”

  “Why to business? Dinner my dear. A feast such as we have never had before. The children are prepared for the table, the brides and grooms all assembled, and so we eat.”

  He moved so fast, faster than she remembered. The gun was up in a heartbeat, the flash and the roar as the bullet sped her way. She moved, far too slowly, but the bullet sailed harmlessly past her. He had missed on purpose, just to let her know. She should be dead.

  She drew her own gun and fired as well, but he had already moved, sprinting up the grand staircase, his pistol discarded on the ground. She dropped her gun and gave chase, reaching the stairs in moments and taking them three at a time. When she reached the upper floor he had already disappeared, though she could hear his taunting laughter echoing from every wall. The castle was in near total darkness, the only light the fires from the city reaching through the windows.

  “Charming!” She screamed, kicking open the nearest door. She could hear footsteps running, somewhere near, but with so few lights it was nearly impossible to find him.

  Inside the room she could see blood on the floor and a pile of limbs and bodies in a corner. It looked like the entire staff had been herded into the room and gunned down. The soldiers had been thorough, she could see dozens of bullet holes in every body. She left the door open and moved on down the corridor, kicking open the next door along. Here there were more dead, Charming’s personal maid and closest assistants. They had meant as little to him as any of the others he had murdered over the years. She wondered whether he was even aware of other people anymore, or whether he saw them all as animals and figments of the Dreamscape.

  “I will find you,” she said, her voice echoing back at her from the walls. She remembered the last time she had been inside the castle, nearly fifteen years before. Trying to make her escape while still weak and unsteady. Not knowing her way, not knowing a single face she saw. No one had even tried to stop her then. This time there was no one left to stop her. Surely the only two left alive would be her and the King himself.

  A shadow flickered on the wall, heading up the grand staircase to the second floor. She broke into a run, charging up the stairs two at a time. Upstairs more opulence, more decadence, and more blood. It seeped from under the doorways up here. She opened one room to see men bearing the crest of the King’s personal guard. All of them dead with sword wounds. He might have done this himself, but she didn’t think he had the courage. These men, loyal as they were, might have fought back. She saw a tray of glasses and walked over, the sharp scent hitting her before she got halfway there. Poison. He had drugged them, then dealt the fatal blows.

  She returned to the hall. “Coward!”

  “Whore!” Came the reply.

  She ran towards the voice. He sounded deranged, even in that one word. His voice was high and wild, and as she rounded the corner she saw the man himself, his hair now unkempt and covering his face. He ran before she could reach him, disappearing behind a heavy metal door, which slammed shut behind. She wasted a few seconds heaving at it, but he had locked it and she had no way to get it open.

  There couldn’t be that many ways to escape. She would be able to cut him off elsewhere. And he clearly wasn’t thinking clearly, or his guard would have still been alive. She made for the next room down, bursting into it to find an opulent bedroom that stank of decay.

  On the bed lay a body, only a few days dead. It was dressed in what might once have been a beautiful ball gown, a pale shimmering blue with white lace and silver fastenings. But it was torn and faded. Snow wondered whether the woman had worn it to die in, or because she had no other choice. She thought she recognised something in the pinched face from long ago. The woman hadn’t been seen in years, but then from what Snow had heard she had gone mad long ago. Cinderella had deserved more than she got. They all had.

  She was about to leave when there was a noise from deeper in the room. She turned, sword out and ready, but lowered it slightly when a child tumbled into view. It was a boy, less than five years old. He had the shock of blond hair that marked him as one of Charming’s. He scrabbled at the floor, clearly looking for something. She frowned, wondering what he was doing, then noticed his ribs, plainly visible under his skin. The boy must be half dead from starvation. A flicker of compassion ran through her, but she pushed it away. Even if she could bring him with her, the days to follow would be unkind to all children, and Charming’s worst of all. If anyone ever found these children, they would be dead anyway. Better to leave the child to die with his mother, even if she couldn’t quit bring herself to deal the final blow herself.

  It was difficult to close the door, and harder to turn the key in the latch. But by the time she turned away she had already begun to forget his face.

  At the end of the corridor were more stairs, leading up to one of the towers. Charming always did like to be dramatic. Where better to stand, as the world came to an end, than right there on the very top of the castle, surveying his domain as it burned. She mounted the stairs slowly, aware that despite his madness, he was still a capable swordsman. If he had control of his mind he would be unbeatable, but maybe she would have a chance.

  He was waiting for her, ever the twisted gentleman. He was facing the city, bathed in an orange glow from the light of the fires burning right to the doors of the castle. “Hello Snow Whit
e,” he said quietly.

  “David. Or is it James this time?”

  “Do we always have to fight like this?”

  “I am about to kill you. And you didn’t exactly talk to me before. I had that problem of being in a coma.”

  He swept away from the wall, his cloak swishing impressively. “Oh Snow, you always did like your jokes. Our love was a glorious love. My kiss awoke you from that cursed sleep and we spent many happy years in my castle after the death of my first wife. Until you ran away, leaving me bereft and alone.”

  “Cinderella only died a few days ago,” Snow said, circling until he had his back to the edge. If she could keep the space clear for herself she might be able to crowd him into a corner.

  He frowned. “I don’t remember.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but you are clearly not my Snow White.” He took the cloak from his shoulders and threw it down with a flourish. She had hoped he might fight with the cloak on and hamper his movement, but he wasn’t that far gone yet. “Now I will kill you, foul impostor.” He drew his sword and she found her fighting stance. His was the more elegant and classical, but hers had been taught to her by people who had really lived and died by the sword.

  There was no more room for words. While he began his salute she lunged, striking for his heart. He leapt aside and her blade sliced through his top buttons. He struck back with incredible speed and she was forced into an awkward stumble away from him. She could have died in that moment, but he was too busy being outraged. “Bad form!” He cried. “To strike a man while in salute!”