Disenchanted

by Raven, C L

  Disenchanted

  C L Raven

  Published by C L Raven

  Copyright 2012 C L Raven

  Cover by Lizzie Rose

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters in this book are completely fictitious. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Long_Live_the_Queen

  Midnight Kiss

  Three_Cheers_for_Sweet_Revenge

  Master_of_Puppets

  Disenchanted

  Operation Midnight

  Sleeping Beauties

  Girl All the Bad Guys Want

  Tempting Fate

  Once Upon a Nightmare

  About the author

  Acknowledgements

  We'd like to thank our mum, Lynette Davies again for putting up with being forced to read our work in the crappy stages, the bit in between and the final error check, for not kicking us and our animal army out to go and find a 'proper' job and for looking after that animal army when we're off ghost hunting.

  Again we'd like to thank all our Facebook and Twitter friends who've supported us, encouraged us, bought our first book and eagerly awaited this one. And for helping with ideas and titles and sharing every link we post about them, spreading the word when we forget to.

  Humongous thank you to Lizzie Rose, who painted the cover for us using her grandfather's watercolours. He'd be so proud of you. It's perfection in paint. Your awesome talent left us breathless and clapping excitedly like demented seals.

  Massive thanks to Ryan Ashcroft for camping at our house for days on end and taking time off work to make our book trailer perfect. Your ideas and hard work stunned us. Jerk.

  Red Bull, you are our rock.

  The animal army, thanks for just being you and giving us a reason to get out of bed.

  Long Live the Queen

  Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess called Snow White. Who the hell calls their child that? I'm surprised they let them register that on the birth certificate. Imagine if everyone named their kid after their most prominent feature? The country would be overrun with Baldlylockses, Beanstalks and Wrinklestiltskins. I would've named her Princess Plastic. Or Toad Features. Ok, she had white skin (bit of sunshine never hurt anyone), but she had dark hair and bright red lips. What is she? A Goth? A clown? A reject from the nineteen forties?

  You know the story of how this poor tormented princess was targeted by some evil stepmother who forced her to live in the woods with some creepy little men then kept trying to kill her. I'm surprised she hasn't appeared on The Jerry Springer Show so everyone can enjoy booing me as I walk on stage.

  You haven't heard my side and it's about time I was allowed to defend myself and correct facts that have been wrongly passed down the generations. Everyone's so quick to believe her side, just because I didn't get a publishing deal. The legend would be a lot different if I'd got my story out first. But she went running to those Grimm brothers, turning on the waterworks so her bosoms jiggled. So, instead of a tale about how the young and beautiful always get their own back on embittered witches and win the handsome prince like it's a twisted Rom Com, it would've been a moral tale about what happens when ungrateful wretches think they can screw over their unappreciated stepmothers. Try packaging this one in a bright pink cover with a cursive font, Hollywood.

  ***

  It's not easy joining an established family. It's even harder joining an established castle. I had dainty shoes to fill and between you and me, my bunions have been playing up. Everyone loved Snow White's mother (who no doubt had an equally uninspiring name, like Soft Hands). She was pretty, gentle, loving, kind and any other adjective that adds up to sickeningly, arse clenchingly dull. There's more personality in my pot plant.

  Naturally, when someone's that popular, you despise them and before you know it, their photo's on your arrow target. Sweet little queens don't rule countries and defeat other kingdoms. Sweet little queens don't chop people's heads off, start wars, or turn servants into quivering wrecks. I enjoy making people cry. A wobbling lip's not enough. I want real tears or I feel like I've failed.

  Soft Hands died giving birth to that brat, Snow White. Dying propelled her to sainthood. A sainthood's no good when you're dead. It won't get you into the best clubs. Who can you impress with that? Angels scoff at sainthoods – they've got halos and wings. It's the equivalent of a Blue Peter badge – gets you into some places but is otherwise useless.

  Of course, nobody could take Soft Hands' place, however perfect they were. I was doomed from the start. I should've given myself an obvious name, like Sex Kitten. The castle staff hated me because I was different to her in every way and my gorgeous husband's daughter took an instant dislike to me. She was a pretty child, adored by everyone. You know the type. Daddy's little princess. Except in this case, it's true. And didn't she know it? Jumped up little tart.

  Snow White never knew her mother, so I did the best I could. I'd never liked children and never wanted any (I have an hourglass figure that wouldn't take too kindly to harbouring life), but when I met her father, William, I fell in love. We met when I fell off my horse and he came to my rescue. I've always had a hero fetish. Ok, I confess, I'd spied him and thought, 'now that's a scrumptious little crumpet' and faked a fall so he'd stumble across my unconscious form and save me. Forget the advice on dating sites, faking death is the best way to win someone's heart.

  Mother warned me about men with baggage, but I loved him. I vowed to prove Mother wrong. Even if she was right, I'd still get a castle and a crown out of it. It beats a detached house and oversized car in suburbia.

  Will was a sweetheart. Toned, fit, the most amazing eyes I've ever seen and he wasn't just a ruler in the kingdom, if you know what I mean. He told me once Soft Hands was too tame in the bedroom. She was a wedding night, special occasions only and missionary position type of wife. I was an every night, twice on special occasions and every position type kinda girl. It wasn't all physical. He had an amazing sense of humour and what he didn't know about beheading wasn't worth knowing. He could instruct the executioner to get the exact angle and force to make the head bounce, roll and spin like a dropped coin, complete with blood fountain. But he doted on his darling daughter and felt he had to compensate for her having no mother, so he never disciplined her.

  There's nothing worse than spoilt children. They're up there with colonic irrigation and contagious flesh-eating diseases. A child needs boundaries, but when I'm the only one who chastises her, I come across as the bad guy. I was trying to prevent her from spiralling into a life of underage drinking and snogging unsavoury boys on street corners. If you know this tale, you'll know that had I got my own way from the start, she wouldn't have ended up shacked up in that weird set up in the woods and marrying a guy who clearly prefers girls of the cold and dead variety.

  At first she liked my magic. I'd do tricks for her, stage magician stuff really. She loved the cute bunny in the hat trick, until the cute bunny bit her. I laughed for hours. It was so funny. The tantrum she threw! Tears and snot streaming down her face. I painted the scene and look at it when I need cheering up. She tried to have the bunny banished from the castle. See what a wicked little minx she is? I kept the bunny and called her Countess Dracula. We were united in our hatred of that obnoxious toad.

  ***
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  As Snow White got older, magic was no longer cool and I was branded a witch. You know what teenagers are like. Nothing's cool. She couldn't stand that I did something better than her so spread horrible rumours I was practising black magic and casting hexes. Oh come on! If I was going to hex anyone, it would've been her. I'd have made her ugly, fat and for everyone to see what she was really like beneath that tiara. The fact she was magically unmolested should've been enough proof the rumour was profoundly untrue.

  Whenever something went wrong, it was my fault. Everyone ignored the fact I could make crops grow, cast love spells and bestow wealth on the king. They only saw the stereotypical witch in a black cloak, with a black cat and a pointy hat. I'd like to point out, I don't have warts. Or a broomstick. Queens don't clean. And I've never cackled in my life. Ok, I have the cat, but he's a sweet natured Persian called Mr. Darcy and has never helped cast a spell. He has more important things to do, like sleeping, washing and sitting on the windowsill, watching the world go by. And dropping the occasional mouse into Snow Spite's designer stilettos.

  My only friend in this cold shouldered castle, apart from Mr. Darcy, was my mirror. He was always there with a kind word, encouragement and good advice. But you know what it's like getting older. Each morning a new wrinkle appears, you can't get away with partying all night and that chocolate cake doesn't move off your hips like it used to. I needed my mirror to boost my flagging self esteem, especially when people were fawning over the beautiful young woman that pampered princess was becoming. People forgive a pretty face anything.

  One morning, I got out of bed after a particularly rough night. Snow White had been singing to the moon or something (crazy cow), I was coming down with a cold and had one of my migraines. I stood before the black coffin shaped mirror, ready for my shot of ego boost. I tossed my hair and pouted sexily. Still got it.

  "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

  I don't know why he insists on that ridiculous rhyme. Imagine my horror when that treacherous mirror replied,

  "Snow White's the fairest of them all."

  I know I looked rough, but this was harsh.

  "What? Princess Bouncy Boobs? That obnoxious snotty troll?!" I paced my room.

  "You're still beautiful, my lady," the skulls above and below the glass answered.

  "I'm second best to Snow Shite? That lazy, plastic fantastic…her? Oh this really takes the biscuit! She's got to you, hasn't she? What'd she do? Pose in her Ann Summers Prostitute Princess lingerie?" The mirror, for once, had no opinion.

  Even my mirror preferred that troublesome wretch. It's bad enough having to compete with other women to get the attention of men, but my own stepdaughter? She, with the personality of rotting fungus? I embarked on a vigorous exercise programme, sent for the castle nutritionist and made the best face cream my ingredients had to offer. I sweated, starved and covered myself in goo for six months then faced my mirror again. We hadn't spoken since that day.

  "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

  "Snow White's the fairest of them all. She grows lovelier each day."

  "You've got to be kidding! I've eaten like a rabbit for six months! I haven't tasted a chocolate cake for six…whole…months! My corset's reduced my waist to seventeen inches! I haven't had a seventeen inch waist since I was sixteen and you're telling me little miss perfect pants is prettier than me? What do I have to do? Drink the blood of children? Sell my soul? Cast an ugly spell on little miss grumpy knickers?"

  I launched my face cream at its lying face. I picked up the shards, cutting my finger. I'm not nominating him for mirror of the year. As long as Boobilicious Barbie was around, I'd always be second best. Will didn't see her for the poisonous toad she was. He'd say it was hard for her growing up without a mother. What was I? A hat stand? It's hard living with her, but am I cut any slack? No. I had to get rid of her. I know it seems harsh, but who wants to face encroaching middle age with that buxom beauty reminding you of the youth you lost looking after her? I was getting more wrinkles while she was bouncing round with her flowing locks, pert breasts and tight, perky little peach of an arse. And was she grateful? Was she heck!

  I went down to the stables and summoned my best huntsman. When I say best, I mean easiest on the eyes. And he could ride. Between you and me, that's not why I hired him. There are certain things I need to make my life bearable. Gorgeous huntsmen and stable boys, horizontal Tango with Will, chocolate cake and no Snow White. It's so much nicer peeking out a window and watching these fine specimens work rather than some old flabby man. In the summer, they strip to the waist. On those days I spend a lot of time outside. Just to check they're doing their jobs properly. It's not like I'm sitting there fanning myself, watching their rippling muscles as they muck out the horses. If I angle my chair right, I get a perfect view when they bend over.

  "Take Snow White into the woods and get rid of her," I told my best looking (I mean best) huntsman.

  His eyes widened. "You want me to kill Snow White?"

  "No, I want you to play hide and seek with her." He stared at me. Cute, but dumb. But we've established why I hired him. Pecs appeal. "She's planning to kill me and frame the king so she can have the throne. I want proof that you've killed her." The words slipped out before I could stop them, but I couldn't take them back. You know what it's like, you say something, get carried away and bang! You're embroiled in a murder plot. "Bring me her heart so I know you've done it."

  In hindsight, I should have asked for her head, but it would've been tricky explaining to my beloved Will why his precious daughter's head was mounted on a plaque in the drawing room. I could hardly say it was a perfect place to hang my hat and scarf. I would seem so heartless. However much I hated that little weasel, I couldn't break Will's heart. This had to be done on the q.t. I'd claim it was a hunting accident. Or she was mauled by a bear while she was collecting berries. Nobody does a sad face better than me. I have plenty of time on my hands to practise fake sincerity. There's a lot of waiting around between executions, royal parties and plotting how to spend the next million.

  I waited for the huntsman to return, a strange quivering feeling in my stomach. I was finally rid of that pest. He stopped beneath my window.

  "It's done!" He hoisted up a heart.

  "Thank you." I turned away, smiling. I was once again, the most beautiful woman in the castle. Goodbye salads, squats and smearing myself in gunk. Goodbye sour puss.

  I spent the day gluing my mirror back together then sprinkling fixing powder over the cracks. It transformed back into an unbroken mirror. If only it was that easy to get rid of wrinkles. I hung it on the wall and went to bed. I woke in the morning ready to face the world again. I stood before my mirror and blew it a flirty kiss.

  "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

  "Snow White, my Queen has escaped your knife and she gets on happily with her life. With seven dwarves she lives it seems, you're only pretty in your dreams."

  Birds took flight as the mirror fractured beneath my unqueenly tirade. I'm not proud of that, but I grew up around huntsmen and picked up some choice words. Never send a man to do woman's work. I'd have to dispatch her myself. Men. Can't cook, can't discipline children, can't kill Glow Bright. I bet that brazen hussy seduced my huntsman so he wouldn't kill her. I've seen her, singing out the window, conveniently forgetting she's wearing that low slung corset that squeezes the bosom so tightly you're just waiting for them to pop out the top like two bars of soap.

  Queens don't take betrayal well. We're notorious for overreacting and demanding traitors' heads. Some put them on pikes as lessons to other would-be traitors. I'm more restrained than that. But I did have the huntsman shot. Not killed, just wounded. I say not killed, but that depends how long it takes someone to find him. I'm not heartless. I left a map. Somewhere. He had to be taught a lesson. You let one get away with scuppering your murder plot and they're all at it. I was sad to los
e him. It will take ages to find someone as gorgeous as him.

  An idea formed in my head. Ok, it wasn't the cleverest plan, but I needed to kill her without it looking like murder. Chopping off her head and burning the remains so she couldn't return to life was effective but would raise tricky questions. No way was I going to rot in a cell for ridding the world of little miss tiny tushy. Looking back, acting under the influence of rage wasn't a good idea. Revenge is a dish best served cold. I should remember that.

  Using my magic, I transformed myself into a gypsy woman. I know, unglamorous, but we queens must suffer for our goals. I collected brightly coloured laces and set off for the woods where Snow Fright was living with seven dwarves. Is there anything odder than seven blokes living in a cottage deep in the woods? I dread to think what they're getting up to. If you or me stumbled across this cosy cottage, would they offer to take us in if we cooked and cleaned for them? Yeah, right! They'd stick us in French Maid outfits and have us doing all sorts of unmentionable things. But not Snow White, oh no. If I dropped her from a great height she'd land on her feet and not even twist her ankle, while the rest of us would be pea soup on the inside.

  Anyway, off I set, found that suspicious little cottage and knocked on the door. Madam herself opened it. No French Maid's outfit. I restrained myself from slapping her pretty little face and held out my tray of laces.

  "Would you like to buy some laces, pretty girl?"

  "Yeah alright. I'll have the red ones." She sniffed. "They'd better be cheap, or I'm not buying." She looked me up and down. "Never heard of washing?"

  I should wash your mouth out with bleach and a scouring sponge, Fungus Face. Smiling, I offered to lace her corset for her. Who was she trying to impress? Her seven bonk buddies? Gullible cow agreed so I laced her corset and yanked the laces really tight, imagining I was wrapping them around her wrinkle-free throat.