Out of the Wild

by Sarah Beth Durst

  Julie shivered. Put that way, it seemed perfectly appropriate that Sleeping Beauty was here. This mansion was frozen in time just like her castle had been in the original story. But why did Bobbi need to kidnap her to bring her here? Why not just ask Mom? Why turn Mom and Grandma into pumpkins? It didn’t make sense.

  “You know, you’re, like, the only person within thirty years of my age that I’ve seen since we got here,” the boy said.

  Julie was still thinking about Bobbi. If this had been her destination all along, why hadn’t she simply poofed herself here? Why transform an apple and mice and cross hundreds of miles . . .

  “You here with your dad?” he asked.

  Staring at Graceland, Julie almost didn’t hear the question. “Y-yes,” she said.

  He nodded. “Me too. Total surprise trip. How cool is that? Dad just said pack, and we jumped in the RV and here we are. He has a whole itinerary planned: here, Grand Canyon, Disneyland. Early birthday present.”

  “Happy birthday,” she said absently.

  “We must speak with this king,” Dad said. “It is always wise to enlist the aid of local royalty. Once I wake Sleeping Beauty, it will be good to have assistance when I face her kidnapper.”

  Julie felt her face turn bright red as the cutest boy who had ever talked to her stared at her father like he was crazy. “Are you guys from Massachusetts?” he asked. “I heard everyone there thought they were in a fairy tale. Weird stuff.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Weird.”

  A voice behind the boy said, “Henry, who are you talking to?”

  Henry. The Cutest Boy Ever was named Henry. Henry turned, and Julie saw a very short man, so short that he could have been a cousin of Snow’s seven. The man—Henry’s father, Julie guessed—was about as tall as Henry’s arm-pit. But that was where the resemblance to Snow’s seven ended. He was beardless and wore an Elvis shirt. Snow’s seven would never have worn an Elvis shirt. They didn’t approve of any music more recent than Mozart (whom they had known personally). “Hi, I’m Julie,” she said.

  “Rumpelstiltskin!” Dad said.

  Julie froze. He didn’t just say that. Please, let him not have just said that.

  Drawing himself up, the man planted his fists on his hips. “Do I walk up to you and insult your height or hair or—”

  “Do you not know me, Rumpelstiltskin?” Dad said. “I am Rapunzel’s prince.”

  Julie jumped in. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Please excuse my dad. He’s had a rough time lately.” You could define “lately” as the last five hundred years, right?

  Dad frowned in confusion. “I meant no offense. Rumpelstiltskin was a great friend of mine. Much misunderstood by my royal cousins. You do look very much like him.”

  Okay, not helping.

  The man scowled. “Let’s go, Henry.”

  And then the Cutest Boy Ever followed his dad away and was quickly swallowed by the crowd. Julie stood on tiptoes trying to see where he went, but he was gone. She turned back to Dad, about to explain (again) why he shouldn’t mention fairy tales . . .

  Dad drew his sword. “You stay here, Julie. I must pass this gate.”

  Whoa, no sword! Bad sword! “Dad, no, put that away!” She grabbed his arm. He couldn’t be planning to hack his way through! He was not, not, not going to re-create another fairy-tale moment!

  At least Henry hadn’t stayed to see this. If he thought Dad was crazy before . . . Julie glanced at the crowd to make sure he was gone. He was. Unfortunately, others had seen. All the tourists around them had backed away, leaving Dad in an empty circle of sidewalk. A reporter elbowed his way through the crowd toward Julie and Prince. “Let me through! Press coming through! Press!” He shoved a microphone in Dad’s face. “Sir, can you comment on—”

  “I must reach the castle,” Dad interrupted in a voice that brokered no argument. He eyed the reporter and the cameraman. “The crowd parted for you and your . . . giant eye.” He nodded at the camera. “If you will part the throng again, then I shall rescue the princess.” Julie shot a quick look at the camera. A red light flashed on the top. Did that mean it was taping? Had Dad’s words just been broadcast to the entire world? I have to stop this, she thought. How do I stop this? She wished Mom were here. Mom would know what to do.

  “Sure, we can get you closer,” the reporter said in a much friendlier voice.

  Before Julie could do anything, the reporter and cameraman flanked Dad and shepherded him around the tourists and through the front gate. Julie scurried to keep up.

  “I want an exclusive,” the reporter said, all chummy now. “You’re from Northboro, aren’t you? The Fairy-Tale Capital of the World. You’ve seen this all before.”

  “Indeed I have,” Prince said.

  At the reporter’s signal, the cameraman scooted around for a better shot of the prince with the thorn-encrusted Graceland behind him. Dad handed the duffel bag to Julie. “Please await my return.”

  She swung the bag over her shoulder. “If I can’t stop you, then I’m at least coming with you.”

  A policeman sauntered forward to intercept. “Sir, I have to ask you to go back behind the gate.” He had a Southern drawl. He also had a gun. His hand rested lightly on it, and his eyes were trained on Dad’s sword.

  Oh, no, Dad wouldn’t know what a gun was. Would he even recognize a policeman? What if Dad tried to fight?

  “I am here to help,” Dad said. His voice was like milk chocolate, smooth and certain. It was the voice of someone you shouldn’t doubt.

  The policeman took his hand off his gun and (to Julie’s surprise) smiled.

  Wow, Julie thought. First the reporter and now the policeman. She hadn’t considered what it meant for a prince to be charming. This was Dad’s kind of magic: his voice seemed to say, “Trust me. I am here to save you.”

  The policeman shook his head. In an apologetic voice, he said, “We’ve tried to cut through it—”

  Stepping up to the house, Prince hacked at a thorny vine, and it melted away from the blade. “Be right back!” Julie called to the policeman. She grabbed the back of Dad’s shirt and plunged in with him.

  Brambles closed around them. Julie felt bark slither around her ankles, and she tried not to scream. Thorns grazed her skin as the barrier wove itself shut behind her. She clung to Dad’s shirt as he swung his sword machete-like through the thorn barrier. Rustling, the vines rearranged themselves, parting for Dad’s sword. Light from the setting sun filtered down in fractured streaks, and the sound of the crowd faded behind them.

  Suddenly, Dad’s sword swished through empty air. In the weak light, Julie saw an opening—the front door to Graceland. Without hesitating, Dad walked through it. Julie glanced back at the thick thorn barrier behind them as she followed Dad inside.

  Inside Graceland, it was dark. Shadows, as twisted and tangled as the thorns that blocked the window, coated the King’s house. The fading sunlight pierced through in thin, weak slivers. Clutching the back of Dad’s shirt, Julie followed him. After the crowd of tourists, the quiet here felt peaceful. It was a sleeping silence.

  Julie thumped her shin against something hard. “Ow!” Releasing Dad’s shirt, she rubbed her shin and squinted at the shadow in front of her. It was an end table, she guessed. She peered at the room around her. Up ahead, she saw a glint of blue, a stained glass window with images of parrots or maybe peacocks. Beyond the glass, she saw a shiny black shadow. She guessed it was a piano.

  Julie saw movement along the walls. “Dad!” she cried. He spun around, and she saw a blur of color as he turned. A mirror, she realized. There were mirrors on the walls. Mirrors everywhere, actually. She’d seen a corner of one, mostly obscured by thorny vines. “Sorry,” Julie said. “False alarm.”

  “I asked you to wait outside,” Dad said. “The fairy godmother could be here. How can I keep you safe if you will not obey me?”

  Funny. Julie could have said the same thing. If he’d listened to her, he’d have never touched that g
lass slipper, never have crossed the East Coast, and never have entered a thorn-encrusted Graceland. What were they doing here? They should be home with Mom. They should be back guarding the Wild.

  At least they had nearly found Sleeping Beauty. Once they had her, they could load her onto the bath mat, fly home, and then this whole stupid quest would be over. It could become just another story she told Gillian on the phone. Gillian would probably think it was a grand, wonderful adventure. Julie nearly smiled, but then she had a thought. “You know you can’t actually kiss her, right?” If his hacking at thorns at the motel had made the Wild grow like she guessed it had, Julie didn’t want to think about what kissing the actual Sleeping Beauty would do. “We’re just going to take her back to Mom, right? I mean, when we find her. Where is she anyway?”

  “She’d be in the highest tower,” Prince said.

  Um, Graceland didn’t have a tower. “It’s a two-story house,” Julie said. The first floor was the museum, and the second floor was off-limits, according to Henry.

  “We must find stairs,” Dad said. “And hope there are no dragons to guard it.”

  “Right,” Julie said, rolling her eyes. “I always hope that.”

  Circling through the first floor, they found the staircase by the front entrance—they had passed it initially in the darkness. Narrow rays of light illuminated a velvet rope barrier blocking a curved staircase. On the left side of the staircase, above a row of red potted flowers, hung an oversized oil painting of Elvis. At the top, a mannequin in a display case sported a black-and-white Elvis suit. Stepping over the rope barrier, Dad charged up the stairs. Julie unhooked the rope barrier and followed.

  Dad halted as the stairs turned. Julie bumped into his back. Peeking around him, she saw a man crumpled on the top step. She clutched the railing as her head spun. Oh, whoa, was he—

  He wasn’t dead, she realized. He was snoring.

  Like Snow’s seven, this man—a security guard, to judge by his uniform—had been caught inside the thorn barrier and, like in Sleeping Beauty’s fairy tale, he had fallen asleep. Julie thought of the sleeping dwarves in Grandma’s motel as she and Prince skirted around the guard. Were they still asleep? Had they discovered the two pumpkins? Were Mom and Grandma all right? We have to find Sleeping Beauty and get home now, Julie thought.

  Upstairs tasted stale. Julie breathed in dust. She was sweating in her coat, especially under the strap of the duffel bag. It was even darker upstairs, thanks to the mansion’s black padded walls. They peered first into the room on the left. She saw deep red wallpaper, thick curtains, and the shadows of a desk and chairs—this was an office. No Sleeping Beauty. They checked the room on the right—it was a bedroom, decorated entirely in white and gold.

  “She is here,” Dad whispered. “I smell roses.”

  The white and gold bedroom did smell of roses. Julie eyed the perfume vials on the vanity and thought that they might have something to do with the scent. She bet that Sleeping Beauty would be in Elvis’s room, not here in what was clearly a woman’s bedroom. But where was Elvis’s room? She hadn’t seen an obvious entrance . . . unless that black padded wall at the top of the stairs was actually a door.

  As Dad exposed an empty bed, Julie stepped back into the hall. Now that she was looking for it, she could make out the doorknob in the wall. She also saw a chain dangling on one side with an open padlock. That was a promising sign—someone had been here. She tried the doorknob. It turned easily, and she pushed the door open.

  Elvis’s bedroom was drenched in crimson. Mirrors covered the ceiling. Red draperies scalloped the corners. In the center she saw an enormous bed, larger than king-sized, a sea of scarlet quilt with bulging shadows in the middle. Dropping the duffel bag by the door, she drew closer to the bed.

  The shadows looked like . . . Yes, the shadows were in the shape of a person. Sleeping Beauty! She’d found her! “Dad!” she called. “Dad, come here!”

  The body in the bed growled.

  That didn’t sound like Sleeping Beauty.

  Julie turned back in time to see a flash of gray fur leap out of the crimson sheets. In the dim light, she saw yellow eyes, sharp teeth, a feral face, the body of a . . . “Wolf!” she yelled. She felt the wolf’s breath hot in her face, and she heard herself scream.

  The wolf’s jaws widened, widened, widened beyond impossibly wide—and clamped down over her head. She felt hot, wet darkness slide around her. Teeth grazed her arms. She screamed again, and the wolf swallowed her whole.

  Chapter Nine

  The Wolf

  Air! Julie needed air! Thick heat clogged her throat. She clawed around her, and her fingernails raked into sticky softness. The smell of bile and stale blood filled her nose and her mouth. Let me out! Please, let me out! Heat squeezed her lungs. Her ribs pressed into each other. Her knees were jammed up into her chest, and her arms were pinned against her. She scratched and kicked, but the warm, wet walls cocooned her as if she were a fetus in a womb. Let me out! Out, out, out! She couldn’t breathe. She felt her head swim. Please, please, please . . .

  The walls trembled around her. She heard a horrible scream. No, she felt the scream. It shook her from inside out. She couldn’t move her arms to cover her ears. The scream penetrated deep into her skull and echoed there. Water gushed—was it water? It felt thick and warm. Thick liquid poured over her, and she saw a shard of light.

  The shard of light pierced through the red-black bubbling gush. Julie pushed toward the light as air rushed toward her. She gasped in and then spat as thick salty iron liquid poured into her mouth. She fell onto the floor, coughing and vomiting.

  Her dad knelt over her. His sword lay beside him in a pool of . . . oh, God, that was blood. Everywhere, blood. She’d been tasting . . . She retched again, her stomach heaving, and then she felt her dad scoop her into his arms and lift her off the floor. A few seconds later, she heard running water, and she felt a towel on her face. Gently, her dad washed the blood and . . . She didn’t want to think what else. She didn’t want to think at all. Keeping her eyes closed tight, she let him dab her face with water.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice urgent.

  She’d been swallowed alive. Swallowed whole. She’d been inside . . . Julie gritted her teeth. She was not going to be sick again. “I’m okay.” Her skin felt like one giant bruise everywhere, and her head buzzed and hummed. But she was alive.

  “Good,” he said, his voice gentle now. “I will fetch us new clothes. You will feel better once you are clean again.”

  She opened her eyes. Her lashes felt stuck together as if she were wearing gummy mascara. Blinking, she saw a bathroom, a tacky orange-and-brown tile bathroom with gold fixtures. She was on the floor between the toilet and the shower. Blood-soaked towels lay around her. She tried not to look at them.

  Yes, she needed to be clean again. Right now.

  Gripping the sink counter, she pulled herself to standing. Her legs unfolded as if they’d been packed together for hours. The sink was still running. Splashing water on her face, she tried not to look in the mirror, but despite her efforts, she caught glimpses of deep red clots in her hair and streaks on her neck. Her clothes were hardening. Her skin shuddered back from the stiffening cotton. She shed her coat. It didn’t help. The . . . mess . . . had seeped through her coat to her clothes.

  Clean, she thought. Need to be clean.

  She stumbled to the shower. Turning the faucets on, she stepped in fully clothed. She stood there and let the steam and water pour over her. She heard Dad enter the room. “I will wait for you outside this door,” he said. “Simply speak if you need me.” Julie heard the door close as he left. Stripping off her clothes, she scrubbed as if she could clean away what had just happened. Eaten alive. Swallowed whole. Cut out of a wolf’s stomach.

  Shutting off the shower, she dried herself with a hand towel, the only clean one in the bathroom, and she dressed in a black shirt that hung to her knees and jeans that dragged on the floor. One of E
lvis’s shirts?

  And she had just showered in Elvis Presley’s bathroom.

  Gillian was never going to believe this, she thought. But the thought failed to make her smile. Instead, she started to shake. She took deep breath after deep breath.

  Julie extracted her old belt from her ruined jeans and ran it under the sink faucet until it looked like just a stained brown. She threaded it through the pants and rolled up the jean cuffs. She then emptied out her old pockets and stuffed the contents into her new pants: house key, three nickels and some pennies, old receipts, her school ID, and Gillian’s English homework (now more than a little crumpled and stained). She took Jack’s bottle of magic beans out of her coat and stuffed it into her oversized jeans pocket. Now fully dressed and clean, she felt almost human again. Stepping over the blood-soaked towels and clothes, she opened the door to the bedroom.

  Her father was wearing the black-and-white Elvis suit from the top of the staircase. Rhinestones studded the sleeves, and the pants flared into bell-bottoms. She laughed before she could stop herself, shrill and loud. It shattered the silence of the crimson-draped bedroom, and then her laugh died as she realized that she could now see the room. Light from streetlamps shone through the windows.

  Dad saw her look at the windows. “The thorns are fading,” he said. “Sleeping Beauty has been moved.”

  “We have to leave,” Julie said. “Now.” If the thorns were fading, then the police would be coming soon, and the guard on the stairs would wake. They’d find Julie and Prince here in Elvis’s bedroom. They’d find blood in Elvis’s bedroom and bathroom. They’d find . . . it. Him. She made herself turn and look.