Red Run: A Dark Retelling of Little Red Riding Hood (Feared Fables Book 1)

by Isla Jones

  There he is. Beautiful enough to steal my breath. Stunning enough to stop the villagers. And, lest I forget, charming enough to enchant a snake.

  The pallor of his smooth skin reminds me of marble, whitened further by the black hair that he combs so perfectly to the side. While his jaw is strong, there is a delicate touch to his handsome face—a soft nose, rosy lips, high cheekbones. Dante looks nothing like his father, Lord Bennett, and only shares his saphire eyes with his mother, Lady Bennett.

  “Am I mistaken?” Dante’s tone is suddenly detached. “Is it not Thursday, midday?”

  My lashes lower, not into my glower, but into a seductive gaze I reserve for Dante. He falls back onto the couch as I approach, every touch of his stare undressing me.

  I slowly lower myself to straddle his lap. “Today,” I say and run my finger down his profile, “is a dreadful day for the village. They are afraid, and soon I expect them to be at my door, demanding answers I do not have.”

  Dante’s hands slide to my hips where they rest. He considers me, the midnight blue of his eyes glittering like the night sky.

  Eventually, he tells me, “You are afraid, Red.”

  I shift on his lap, uncomfortable. Let us not analyse my feelings—we have not that sort of relationship. Sometimes, when we are finished, he will hold me a while and tell me silly pieces of gossip he hears. That is as deep as our conversations delve.

  Smiling tightly, I shake my head and say, “I do not want to be arrested and hung for what a beast has done—a beast I know nothing of. To reason with them … Priest Peter, most of all, is futile. Each of them believes a giant man lives in the sky and watches over them. How can such fools be reasoned with?”

  Dante smirks, a glint sparking in his right eye—catching the light from the fireplace. His plump lips steal my gaze, so soft and kissable, and he always tastes of something delicious. Sometimes sweets, other time fruits—even once he tasted of the finest wine I have ever known.

  “I have this village in my pocket,” he says. “You will not be arrested for anything, Red. Don’t you think some have tried before?”

  I blink at him.

  Dante’s smirk breaks out into a grin. “Proud Red,” he purrs, and drags his hands up and down my waist with painfully slow grazes. “Priest Peter has been warned off you and the steward is a pawn of my family’s. Who is left to arrest you?”

  “The village is in a state of unrest,” I tell him. “I do not feel safe here.”

  He grabs my waist and yanks me closer, his eyes suddenly gleaming brighter than the embers in the fireplace. “You cannot leave, Red. I have done all that should be done to ensure your safety. The stockades are not in your future. So focus, with me, on the present.”

  Dante twists and throws me down on the couch. My small smile encourages him, and soon, my corset is on the floor alongside my boots and one stocking. Before he can remove the other stocking, his patience shatters and he is in me.

  †††

  A woollen blanket is wrapped around me as a shield from his hungry gaze. Thrice, and Dante is still not entirely satisfied.

  He lounges on the floor, atop many layers of the best fur he can buy. The Autumn passed, he gifted them to me. They have since kept me warm many cold nights. The heat of his midnight eyes grazes the yellow hair that falls down my back, and no matter how brittle or knotted the strands are, there is desire in his stare.

  A dried-out log is in the fireplace. I prod the embers with an iron poker to lure out some flames. Warmth is seeping from my home, fast.

  We stew in our comfortable silence until the church bells call on the hour.

  Dante, his knee bent, and a corner of a blanket covering his manhood, asks, “What count is that? I was not keeping track of the bells.”

  I smile at the flames that lick up the log. “It rang four times.”

  He knows this, but he finds it easier to mention the bells before he transitions into farewells. His sigh comes first, as always, then the rustle of clothes.

  The next I know, he’s behind me, arms pulling me against him, and his breath is hot on the nook of my neck. I let my head fall back onto his shoulder as he nips at my skin. “I loathe to leave you.”

  Dante has read many novels, I should think. He finds romance to be implied in the most blatant of transactions. He pays me for sexual favours and I take one pound in the form of shillings. There is no romance here, only his desire and my greed.

  Still, he whispers sweet words and promises of what his next gifts might be.

  Then, I hold out my hand, palm upwards. I shatter the romance he tries to veil over us. Gifts are fine, I like the gifts, but I have more interest in what he owes me.

  He places a leather pouch on my palm, his fingers grazing mine, as though he has placed a love letter in my hand. The pouch is heavier than usual. I am rigid in his hold.

  “It is a harsh winter,” he explains between chaste kisses that lead up to the shell of my ear. “I want you to be well-fed and clothed.” He pauses, his mouth beside my ear. “And a wash would not be so terrible.”

  I elbow him.

  He chuckles quietly and withdraws to finish dressing.

  I curl my fingers around the pouch and place it on the mantlepiece.

  Dante might fill my penny-jar, but I do the hard work. He is exhausting and, already, I feel as though we are in the dead of night, not the afternoon.

  When I turn to face him, he is fastening his cloak at the strings, fully dressed. Armour gloves cover his forearms, black leather clings to his body, and a fur shawl is draped over his shoulders—it only adds to the proud impression of him.

  “Same time Saturday?” I ask.

  In answer, he winks at me. Then, he is gone.

  I secure the rear door behind him and feel—for the first time since the morn—the silence of the village press down on me. Everyone, I think, must be as weary as I am, or afraid of the wolf—as I am.

  I feel I shall have a long night ahead of me, so I afford myself a nap on the fur blankets by the fire.

  10.

  The shout of five church bells woke me, leaving all but one hour before nightfall. There was much to do in that hour.

  Despite Dante’s assurances, I recounted my penny-jar (for today, he paid two pounds in the form of shillings and gifted a phial of honey) to confirm how far I will reach should I choose to leave. My savings are plenty, I have more than a Blacksmith earns in a year.

  I smirk at the thought of out-earning Colten.

  He earns extra from all the meat he sells to the butcher and the furs he peddles to the merchants. Perhaps he earns more. It matters not. I have almost eight pounds in my penny-jar, enough to take me to the nearest city…

  But then what shall I do?

  Some questions need to be stewed before they can be answered.

  After I hide my jar in a satchel that I have filled with some dried fruits, nuts and other things (in case of emergencies), I start on stripping yesterday’s rabbit and cooking its meat in tender strips. There are two potatoes that I find to boil, and by the time the clock chimes again, I have made a hearty meal for myself.

  Before I eat, I clear the table beside the fur-throws on the floor of my fabrics. But just as I kneel by the table, there is a knock at my front door.

  I wait to sense who is on the other side. But no such sensations take me. Slowly, I rise from the furs and creep to the door. I press my hands against it.

  “Who is there?”

  There is a pause. Through the blankness around me, I sense irritation.

  The voice is low when it answers, reluctant to announce where he is to all the village; “It’s Colton.”

  My shoulders droop and I unsecure the door. Unlike last time, he doesn’t barge inside. Had I expected that?

  Colton looks at me with smouldering eyes, a stare so intense that I think for a moment that I must have slapped his mother. Then, he shoves a hare into my arms and allows me one final glower.

  He turns and storms in
to the misty lane.

  In the doorway, I watch him leave until his silhouette is swallowed by the fog. Before I close the door, I look around and see that all the shutters in the lane are closed; total silence presses down on us all.

  I close the door and secure it, then close my shutters too. I blow out the candle-lanterns, leaving the low flames in the fireplace as my only source of light.

  It will be a long night. I shouldn’t think anyone will come for business.

  After I eat, I do all I can in the quiet of the night.

  I sew my new fabrics into capes, stockings, skirts, and undershirts. As I said, the night is long and who can sleep when a wolf prowls the streets?

  Common Narcissus: the Daffodil. Poisonous.

  11.

  There is a village meeting in the Square this morn. I know this before I should. Dawn barely broke before Priest Peter sent his altar boy into the cold. Now, the altar boy cries in his squeaky, cracked voice of how there is to be a ‘village meeting in the Square, not a minute passed the ninth chime of the church bell!’

  The altar boy irks me.

  I stand by the window in my herb space, hands on the windowsill, where I watch the boy ring his bell and stride down my lane. I’m moments away from offering him a special berry of mine when the cauldron hisses behind me.

  “Oh!” I rush to its side by the fire. “Please, I beg of you, be finished!”

  I swiftly wrap my hands in bandages before I pull the cauldron from the grill and heave it to the workbench. Some grunts and puffs later, and I look down at my brew, pleased. Though, I might have smiled some if the pest outside didn’t holler without pause, not even to take a breath.

  I hear you, boy. Town meeting. Thank you and begone!

  I have no way of knowing what time it is until the church bell chimes. But I know seasons and suns. In winter, these parts tend to meet dawn later in the morn, around eight o’clock—I heard the church bells then. But I can’t say how long has passed since the dawn church bells and now.

  I fix the lid onto the cauldron and wipe my hands on a cloth. It should stand a while to thicken.

  I dress properly for a town meeting. Gloves, a hat, a coat that cuts below my bosom, and I even pin up my hair. The colours I wear are much the same as normal; a soft blue skirt and a cream coat. Meetings in the town circle are not so different to the homilies in the church. We are expected to dress well, to have clean hands and faces, and to be silent.

  It is lucky I chose to dress when I did.

  As I study the dark circles under my eyes in a hand-mirror, the church bells shout through the village.

  I’m out the door faster than I’d like. In the lane out front, a small string of villagers moves toward the Square. Each face is worn down, every pair of eyes is wrinkled and tired, and all share the same posture; hunched over as they brace against the icy wind.

  I melt in with them. Those I came too close to pull away until there is a clear space surrounding me as if I am the wolf they must avoid. Still, I keep my chin up and stride with them through the lanes.

  The others are quick to flock away from me when we reach the Square. They spread out and find stones to climb onto or crates to perch on to get a direct view of the Priest, who stands in the centre of the Square.

  Beside the steward—our only law enforcer, though we all know the Catholic Church is the law around here—stands the Priest, clutching a worn copy of the bible in his purple-gloved hands. A wooden cross hangs just below his grasp, and a hat so wide it looks like a dark halo shields his face from the drizzle of snow.

  My boots press into the sludge that the snow has turned into at the Square. Here, the ground is trampled on and water is thrown out from the well to fight against the snow—but I find it’s now more difficult to wade my way over the slippery ground to the bakery. Out front, there is a stack of crates that I perch myself on. The baker eyes me a moment, but I purchase grain from him often so he says nothing.

  Not all the villagers are here yet. Some still trickle into the Square from the lanes and, as I scan the faces of each, I notice that Abigail and Mildred are not among us.

  Still, Priest Peter decides to start.

  He holds up the bible above his head.

  Silence.

  Are we supposed to be struck with the imagery?

  I’m not. I simply watch with bored eyes and hope to be on my way home soon.

  “The word of our holy lord!” he cries. “Many times, he has warned us of the beasts the devils hath unleashed upon our world!”

  He lowers the book and holds it at arm’s length, his thumb peeling the pages to where a bookmark protrudes from.

  “Daniel 4:33,” he reads in a voice that roars louder than the bell. “And he was driven from men, and did eat grass as oxen, and his body was wet with the dew of heaven, till his hairs were grown like eagles' feathers, and his nails like birds' claws.” He pauses, runs his gaze around his gathered flock, then lifts the book for all to see. “Our Lord hath warned us!”

  But he hardly offers a strategy, does he?

  “He hath given us the tools to defend ourselves—our divine spirits—from the devils lurking around.”

  I wonder why he says devils, as though there is more than one. Their religion isn’t a piece I take active interest in, but as far as I knew, there was only one devil in their precious book.

  “And he hath given us a woman,” he shouts, “to protect us!”

  Most frown at their religious leader. Even the altar boy looks up at his Priest with curiosity in his crinkled face.

  Oh.

  Oh, no.

  Priest Peter turns his gaze on me. And with his stare, a near-hundred others follow. All to me. Too many eyes, too many people.

  I shift uncomfortably on the crates, unable to fight off the sudden panic that surges through me.

  “A witch?” Priest Peter points at me with the bible. “Or our gift?”

  It is my turn to frown. Though, at what point it turned into a scowl, I am unsure.

  I am no one’s gift.

  “Our red healer,” he states proudly, “might save us from the beast! For she is the only villager to produce what it is we need—wolfsbane!”

  I flinch.

  Wolfsbane is deadly. To me, to the villagers, and to wolves. Each time I handle it, my hands are wrapped in gloves, and I ensure it never touches my skin. Even the slightest of contact can cause heart failure. And this Priest wants me to what? Hand it out like home ointments to a village of imbeciles?

  Improperly, I shout back at the Priest, “Silver works just as well.”

  There is a murmur that ripples over the crowd. I have confirmed a lore of theirs. I have confirmed a wolf’s mortality, and in a way I suppose I have granted them hope.

  “Ah, you see!” Priest Peter pulls his attention back to his flock, of which I am not one, I am the outsider on a stack of crates. His voice gains momentum now, and he shouts the way men do in a fight outside the tavern, so loud his face grows pink; “With the healer’s wolfsbane at our doors and silver in our hands, who shall be most fearsome? A lone wolf, or a village of furious men?”

  There is a roar of agreement. Some fists pump in the air, and scarce are panicked expressions. Priest Peter has drawn out the animal in them all—for to fight an animal, they must become one themselves.

  The hoots continue, even as the Priest shouts again, “Our healer—” The urge to curse him takes me. “—will provide us with our wolfsbane to hang at our doors before the moon is full, and our blacksmith—” He looks to his left, opposite where I sit. I trace his gaze to a huddle of people and see Colton, disinterested, beside his mother. “—will coat our blades with silver to end the beast! Each home will be defended, as will our village, for we are one united, but the beast…” He jumps off the podium and people part for him as though he is Moses. “…the beast is none!”

  Cheers tear through the Square.

  The sound brings flutters to my heart—the sort I feel when bad near
s. Their silver and rage will not protect them all. They are mere tools to delay the inevitable. Wolfsbane is their only hope—and it is likelier to kill them before it can save them.

  White Snakeroot: So poisonous that once ingested, the risk of contamination to others is severe. Native to foreign lands, must be imported with the trade.

  12

  I browse through the crowd slower than normal. Some women offer me smiles. They are tight smiles that I see as grimaces, but they look at me, they acknowledge me, and all it took was the Priest to announce me as a healer, not a witch.

  Fools.

  When this is all over, I am under no delusions—I shall be a pariah once more.

  Still, I move with ease and lock sight onto my target.

  Colton has turned away from me, but I catch his profile under the clouded light from above. With the distance of the sun, his complexion has blanched to such a pallor that even his few freckles melt away; so similar to the woman with him.

  His mother, Catherine, wears skin not unlike my own; a pallor so white it resembles, not snow, but the translucence of watered-down milk. Most people of our land are pale, but Catherine and I are more so—the veins beneath our skins are stronger than our own complexions, leaving branch-like marks to spread over our arms, wrists, necks, and—in my case—inner thighs.

  “Colton,” I say.

  I watch each of his back muscles tense, a ripple from the nape of his neck to his belt, and he slowly looks over his shoulder at me. He wears the scowl I had anticipated.

  Catherine steps out from his shadow, and much like her son, she stares as me with such disdain it’s a wonder it doesn’t boil my skin. She snarls, “You address my son so boldly, girl? By his given name, no less.”

  “I mean no offence,” I tell her. “I only mean to ask if your household should want wolfsbane, too. Given your obvious dislike of me, I doubt you should want my help.”

  “We want nothing from you,” spits Catherine.