by John Moore
“Mmm,” agreed Charming. “I tended to find that most magic is only good for rather impractical things.”
“Like killing people in horrible ways.”
The talk of killing was making Wendell a bit uneasy. Lacking the Prince’s appreciation of pulchritude, he was concentrating more on his surroundings and he didn’t like what he saw. The entrance hallway was lit by torches, not the more even light of the lanterns he was used to, and they flickered in the draft and threw dancing shadows on the walls. The ceiling was high enough that its corners remained in darkness. He could have sworn he saw movement there. The portraits on the wall were not exactly uplifting, either. The subjects were all grim and slightly pop-eyed, as though staring in horror at some ghastly sight. And faintly, high above, almost at the limits of his hearing, he could detect the sound of heels on stone.
A crack of lightning lit up the windows; thunder crashed outside. Wendell and Ann jumped. Charming glanced at the windows, where the rain was coming down in sheets. On the walls, the torch flames fluttered and threw off oily black smoke. When the thunder faded away, the sound of footsteps could be distinctly heard.
Ann pointed to a staircase. “The south tower. My stepmother descends even now. Oh, Prince Charming! May you die as bravely as you have lived.”
“Thanks.”
“Uh, Sire? Maybe we just ought to leave a business card and take off?”
“Don’t be silly, Wendell. It’s raining cats and dogs out there. See if they have a place to stable the horses.”
“I’m not deserting you until this is done,” said Wendell. He dropped the duffel bag he’d been carrying and started pulling weapons out. The Prince ignored them. They listened to the ringing of metal heel caps on stone, echoing from the dark stairwell. It grew steadily louder, steadily closer. Ann was twisting her hands together and Wendell was staring into the staircase like a hypnotized rabbit when the sound suddenly stopped. There was a final flash of lightning, a penultimate crash of thunder, and all the torches in the hall went out. At the same moment a figure, bathed in a red glow, appeared on the stairs.
“Nice entrance,” murmured Charming.
The late King Humphrey, it seemed, had married young. The Wicked Queen was only twenty-six years old. The red glow came from a fist sized ruby that she held in, of course, her fist. It cast a sphere of eerie light that accented the blood red of the lips and nails, and reflected from hard, black eyes that glittered like anthracite. Her dark hair, redolent with sickly sweet perfume, gleamed and writhed about her shoulders. She stood at the top of the final flight of stairs, fixed her gaze on the Prince and said, in a voice that dripped with venom. “Prince Charming! So, you dare to take away my stepdaughter?”
All eyes switched to Charming, who was dusting his boots with a handkerchief. He glanced up, as if surprised to see anyone there, and looked the Queen up and down. “Your stepdaughter? Why, I would have sworn you two were sisters.”
The thunder died away. There was dead silence in the room for the space of ten heartbeats. Ann closed her mouth with a snap. Wendell held his breath. Charming continued to favor the Queen with his most dazzling smile.
Then the Wicked Queen raised a hand to her head and patted a stray hair into place. “Oh, do you really think so?”
“Absolutely. I really like your outfit, too. Black leather goes so well with your eyes.”
“Why, thank you, Charming.” The Queen descended the last few steps and came into the hall. “You don’t think the spiked heel boots are a bit too dressy?”
“No, they’re perfect.”
“Good grief,” muttered Ann. Ruby shot her a hostile look. “Well, I do try to keep myself in shape. Eat a proper diet, you know, and stay out of the sun. Still.” The Queen pointed to a large mirror that hung against the wall. She realized it was barely visible in the dim light, so she waved her hand and the torches flared back on. They revealed a huge slab of ancient plate glass, heavily silvered on one side, surrounded by an ornate wooden frame covered with gold leaf. “The magic mirror says that she is more beautiful than I.” The was no doubting who she was. Ann stuck her chin defiantly in the air.
“Oh, I wouldn’t trust those magic mirrors,” said the Prince. “They always have to be recalibrated. Besides, the light in this hall is so bad.”
“Well, that’s true. Perhaps it would see things differently in the morning sun. In fact, I’ve been intending to move it. But it’s so heavy.”
“It would be an honor to assist you with it.” The Prince flexed a bicep.
“Well,” the Queen looked at the young man’s well-muscled form, particularly noting the tightness of his breeches. “I was thinking, perhaps, it would be much more suitable in the master bedroom.”
“I couldn’t think of a better place for it,” said Charming. He lifted the mirror off the wall and moved forward with it. “Say, Wendell, this might take a few minutes. Don’t wait up, okay?”
“I don’t believe this,” said Ann. The Queen glared at her and then smiled sweetly.
“Ann, my dear, why don’t you get that nice young page a glass of milk and some cookies? And then you can amuse yourself until bedtime.”
“Why don’t you jump…”
“She’s such a darling child,” The Queen told Charming, linking her arm in his as she led him away. “You don’t think this red nail polish makes me look cheap, do you?”
“On the contrary, I think it’s very classy,” lied the Prince. “It really suits your — ah — theatrical style.” The rest of his patter was lost as the couple negotiated a turn in the hallway and their voices were swallowed by the thick stone.
Ann stared after them in astonishment. Then she looked at Wendell. Wendell shrugged. “They don’t call him Prince Charming for nothing.”
ALTHOUGH THE CASTLE OF the Wicked Queen had huge, echoing hallways, the rooms were rather small. This was made up for by the fact that there were a lot of them. The Queen’s bedroom was, in fact, a small suite with a sitting room in front and two dressing rooms flanking the actual bedroom, which was completely filled by a four-poster bed. “Here you go,” said Charming. “We can just set this up in front of the bed here.”
The Queen gave him a look of cool amusement but led him back out to the sitting room. “Silly boy. No woman wants to lay in bed staring at her own hips. I think it will do just fine out here. Why don’t you set it up while I slip into something comfortable?”
“Um,” said the Prince. “Okay, I guess.”
The Wicked Queen patted him on the rump. “Don’t worry, the high heels stay on.”
“Righto,” said Charming with more enthusiasm. As soon as she vanished into her dressing room, he laid the mirror down on the carpet and flipped it over. On the rear side, concealed among the intricate carvings of the frame, were four tiny set screws marked “BRIT,” “CON,” “VERT,” and “HOR.” Charming examined them carefully, then made some small adjustments with the blade of his knife. He took down a painting and hung the mirror in its place. After adjusting it to hang straight, he stood back and surveyed his handiwork. The mirror, although slightly dusty and showing a few finger smears, nonetheless presented him with a perfectly adequate reflection. The Prince waved a hand dramatically.
“Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,” he said. “Who’s the finest of them all?”
The image on the mirror shimmered and grew cloudy. Light and dark billows swirled across the glass, as in the bottom of a muddy well. Abruptly the turbulence ceased and faded away to reveal the sparkling image of — Prince Charming. The Prince smiled broadly. “Thought so.”
“Is the mirror working, darling?” called the Queen.
“Works perfectly,” said Charming.
“Then do come in.”
Charming pushed the door open and let himself into the bedroom with all the coolness he could muster. But his suave facade abruptly disintegrated when he saw the Queen. She was wearing a push up bra, the kind that only covered the bottom of her breasts, leaving the erect n
ipples straining outward. A dozen candles bathed her skin with a warm, gentle glow. Her taut thighs were encased in fine black mesh stockings, held up with a garter belt, and, true to her word, she had kept the spiked heels, giving her legs the illusion of incredible length and slimness. She presented a vision like nothing the Prince had ever seen — indeed, there were few men in Illyria who could claim such a sight — an erotic figure so compelling that only Charming’s long experience with stressful situations and his carefully honed ability to manifest grace under pressure, kept his hormone pumped teenage instincts from overriding his brain.
“Nice stockings,” he told her.
It was a stupid thing to say, even to Charming’s ears, but considering he was on the verge of swallowing his tongue, it wasn’t that bad a line.
“Thank you,” said Queen Ruby.
There was a longer pause. Ruby shifted her hips, causing a dozen gentle curves to ripple like water on a calm sea. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on Charming’s forehead.
“Well?”
“Hmmm?”
“Aren’t you coming to bed?”
“Bed?” said the Prince. “Bed. Oh yes. What a great idea. This one here looks good.”
The bed did indeed look good; it looked even better when the Queen stretched out on it, turning away from Charming and then looking back over her shoulder in an attempt to be coy. It was a futile attempt since the Wicked Queen’s normal expression of predatory intelligence would have shown through a mud mask, but it was good enough for Charming. He wasn’t looking at her face anyway. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt with sweating hands, eventually ripped it off, and tossed it in a corner. He followed this with his boots, hopping around on one foot in a positively antic way while he tore the opposite one free.
“Are you nervous, darling?”
“Who me? Of course not.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
“Well, it’s drafty in here. I feel a slight chill.” The Prince was fumbling furiously with a recalcitrant belt buckle.
“But you are sweating, also.”
“Must be those peppers I had at lunch.” Charming finally got his pants off, leaving only his underwear, and hopped into bed alongside the Queen. She turned to meet him, opening up her arms and he seized a breast in each hand and locked his lips to hers in a lubricious kiss that lasted a full two minutes before he had to come up for air. The Queen, panting, said, “Take it slowly, darling. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to act as though this was your first time.”
“Who’s acting?” said the Prince, just before taking one nipple into his mouth.
The next moment he was lying on his back on the floor. “Ow!”
He sat up on the rug, where the Queen had flung him with the force of both arms and legs, and gingerly rubbed a tender spot on the back of his head. He looked up to see the Wicked Queen towering over him, and when she wanted to tower, she could really tower. She pointed a long red fingernail at him. “Say that again.”
“Um…” It took the Prince a minute to clear his head. “Who’s acting?”
The Queen’s eyes narrowed and glittered. “You are pure?”
“Pure? Well, I’d hardly say that. I’ve had a lot of impure thoughts. About a minute ago I was having them in bucketfuls. In fact…”
“Are you a virgin?”
“Yeah, I’m a virgin, okay?” the Prince shouted back. “Tell the world, will you! Does that bother you? You want a certificate of prowess or something?”
The Queen sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed one knee over the other. Her face was a study in concentrated thought, and when she looked at the Prince, it was with the speculative air that one uses when choosing a calf for slaughter. Charming had only to look at her face to reach three conclusions:
(1) She was up to something.
(2) It was not something fun.
(3) Once again, he was not going to get laid.
These thoughts, particularly thought number three, did not make him happy. “I knew it,” he muttered, “I should have gone after the stepdaughter.”
“Get dressed,” said the Wicked Queen. She tossed him his pants. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”
TO PUT IT IN THE MOST understated terms, Princess Ann was miffed. As a young girl, she had long and vivid daydreams about being rescued by a handsome prince, rescued from some terrible danger, like being eaten by a dragon. When she got a little bit older, she had decided that the danger part was probably not necessary, and messy besides, and that merely being carried off by a handsome prince was more than adequate. A few years later she decided that she didn’t really care about being carried off, either. Should a suitably romantic rendezvous be arranged with a handsome prince, she would be more than happy to meet him halfway, or even all the way. Alas, the severe dearth of handsome princes passing through Tyrovia forestalled her putting any of these plans into action.
Now the most famous, most regal, most handsome prince of all was within the very castle and what was she doing about it? Well, right now she was cooking oatmeal for breakfast. “Great,” she thought. “Oatmeal. He’s probably used to pheasant under glass.”
“Does his Highness like oatmeal?” she asked Wendell.
“He doesn’t care. He’s not really into food.”
“Do you like oatmeal?”
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
“Does your mother like oatmeal?”
“She’s my stepmother. No, she doesn’t.”
“Then why are you making oatmeal?”
“We don’t have pheasant.”
“Ah.”
Ann had not spent a restful night. The sight of her stepmother leading the Prince to her boudoir, after having spent the last week railing against him and plotting his demise, had quite astonished her. It had also left her with a feeling of profound rejection that was not relieved one whit by the crying of hot tears onto the shoulder of her favorite stuffed animal. Then, just at the time that she imagined the two of them involved in the most sordid undertakings, there arose a furious altercation. The stone walls of the castle effectively muffled the sound so that it was impossible to discern the actual words, but there was no mistaking the heat in the young Prince’s voice, or the cold calculation in her stepmother’s reply. Then came the sound of steps on the stair. When she arose this morning she found the Prince sleeping on a couch in front of the fireplace. For some reason she felt immediately cheered.
He was still sleeping when she went back. Asleep, he looked very boyish, but there was a hint of cragginess to his features that spoke of impending maturity. “He will age well,” she thought. “When he loses his prettiness, he’ll look distinguished.” She touched him on the shoulder. “He came to carry me off on his white steed. He’ll take me back to his castle in Illyria, there to live in splendor as his bride, and later, his Queen.” Ann let the daydream linger only a moment longer. She knew she wasn’t going to leave Tyrovia. The peasants had been loyal to the old King. When he died, Ann knew it was her responsibility to repay that loyalty. To leave now would be to abandon them to the rule of a mad sorceress.
Charming stirred and rubbed a hand across his eyes. He focused them on her. “Hmmmm?”
“You didn’t have to sleep down here,” said Ann. “We have plenty of empty rooms. I would have fixed one for you.”
“I thought you were asleep. I didn’t want to trouble you.”
“It would have been no trouble.”
“Well.” The Prince sat up on the couch and reached for his boots. Ann sat down beside him and demurely crossed her hands in her lap. Charming watched her from the side of his eyes. She was, he decided, quite cute. In fact, she was really beautiful, particularly if you went for that pure and innocent look. Charming didn’t. He rather preferred the down and dirty sort of look, but what the heck. If pure and innocent was the hand you were dealt, pure and innocent was the hand you played.
Aloud he said, “Is your stepmother up yet?”
/>
“She’s my stepmother. I mean, yes, she’s up. She didn’t go back to bed. After you came downstairs, she went to her laboratory.”
“Ah.” The Prince did not like the sound of this. “Any idea of what she was doing there?”
“Well, I’d say she was either laying more curses and spells on you, or she was lifting the spells she already laid.”
“Hmmm.” Charming considered this. “If I’m lucky, it’s the former. Okay, Ann, what’s the story? I was sent to check out the situation because I heard you were in trouble. I came, I saw, I slept on the couch, now I’m leaving. You seem to be doing okay. The Queen seems kind of bitchy, but frankly, I really don’t see any problem here that couldn’t be solved by a cold bath.”
“What do cold baths have to do with anything?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Excuse me, I think the oatmeal is done.”
The Prince followed her toward the kitchen, but peeled off when he saw Wendell. He took the page aside. “Hi Wendell. Seen the Black Widow around?”
“Yeah, she’s in the library. She’s been there all morning. And wow, you should see the library she’s got. Packed to the max with books and scrolls and old, old maps. Mandelbaum would flip over this place.”
“At least I know what they’ve been spending their money on. It sure hasn’t been on maintenence.” The Prince and Wendell looked around. In the daylight, the castle looked even drabber and more depressing than it had looked the night before. Paint was peeling from the door frames and there were cracks in the ceiling. The tapestries were moth-eaten and full of holes. Stuffing leaked from the sofa. Broken windows were patched with oiled paper. In spite of the air of impoverishment, the furniture was free of dust and the floor was swept clean. Ann’s doing, Charming guessed.
“What sort of books does she have?”
“Magic books. All sorts of magic books. Here, I grabbed one.” Wendell showed him a well-thumbed volume, which the Prince recognized.
“Modern Organic Alchemy, by Morrison and Boyd. I’ve seen this in Mandelbaum’s lab.” He leafed through it. “This woman has really studied.”
