THINK YOU KNOW FAIRY TALES? GUESS AGAIN.
It’s been hundreds of years since Greta’s so-called story came to an end and it didn’t end with a happily ever after then. Why should she expect it to be any different now?
She’s a Grimm—a special kind of guardian angel and official ass-kicker in the paranormal world. Between trying to stay alive, training new Grimm and dealing with demons, romance is hard to come by. Then there’s the fact that there’s only been one man ever who really made her heart race.
And he’s been out of her life for a long, long time…
But now he’s back and just in time.
Greta needs Rip’s help.
There’s an unexpected threat to their world, a betrayal none of them saw coming.
Working together is the last thing they want, but it just might be their only chance.
A fairy tale best suited for grown-ups…don’t say you weren’t warned.
COPYRIGHT
Initial Copyright © 2009, Shiloh Walker
Reissued © 2016
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people.
Please note that if you purchased this from an auction site or blog, it’s stolen property. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Your support is what makes it possible for authors to continue to provide the stories you enjoy.
DEDICATION
For the editor who first took a chance on this story, Heidi. She loved how I bastardized fairy tales.
For every reader who took a chance on the Grimm
And for my family. Always for my family. I thank God for you. Every day.
A TIME FOR ALL THINGS
“Is this a trick?”
His question went unanswered. Frustrated, he pinched the bridge of his nose and wished for the millionth time that being immortal meant he didn’t suffer such mortal maladies as headaches.
“May I beg to know why?”
This time he was answered. Not in words. The knowledge was just there.
It was time.
There was a time for everything under heaven and this was their time.
“I can handle the problem. I do not need to send Rip out.” But even as he made the offer, the response echoed through him.
This is what is meant to be done.
“I don’t entirely understand why it has to be so complicated. Why not just… Fine. Fine. Let’s make it complicated.”
Everything was complicated, really. And at the same time, it was abysmally simple.
In moments, he was alone in his thoughts—or as alone as he could ever expect to be. Reaching up, he closed his hand around the medallion that hung on a silver chain around his neck.
CHAPTER ONE
You may have heard of me. My name is Greta. It’s short for Gretel.
As in…Hansel and Gretel.
Yes, as in Hansel, Gretel, breadcrumbs, wicked witches, gingerbread houses with sugar candy for the windows…except there weren’t any breadcrumbs. No gingerbread houses or sugar candy windows.
I never did get what you’d call a happy ending.
Although, the woman who lived in the house was…different. Not particularly all that wicked, really. Wasn’t even a witch, for that matter. She was unusual, definitely, but not a witch.
Hans was real, though. And if you want to talk wicked, we could talk about him. I was seven when he first started molesting me. They didn’t call it molesting, though. Not then. And he wasn’t the one doing anything wrong.
I was.
I was making up stories. I had a devil inside me. I was trying to cause trouble.
My stepmother came up with all sorts of reasons why I was the bad one. Me, when it was her son doing that to me. It didn’t start until after my father died. Hans knew better. My father would have believed me, and he would have killed the sorry little shit.
I’m getting off topic, though. That story is already done, already over with. It was another life ago, and I mean that literally. That life ended when I was twenty—it ended the night I died.
The night I made my choice.
I don’t like thinking about that night, not even what little I remember. It was painful. In order to receive the power of the Grimm, a human has to die. For a few minutes, at least. When we wake up it’s like we’d gone to sleep and, while we slept, somebody played around with our DNA—we’re stronger, we’re faster, we’re nearly indestructible…and we see demons. It’s not anything you can be prepared for. Trust me, I know. Mary had warned me when she told me what she was…what I could be. She prepared me as best as she could, but some things you just have to experience.
So are you confused yet?
I guess I could explain.
Like a lot of fairy tales, this one happened a long time ago…
Then
A poor woodcutter lived with his wife and his daughter on the edge of a large forest.
The girl was called Gretel. The woodcutter did not have much food around the house, and they were poor.
But they were happy.
Then his wife fell ill and, as she lay on deathbed, she asked a favor of her beloved husband. “Do not mourn me for long. Find yourself a new wife, a woman who will love you and my daughter. Be happy.”
After the loss of his beloved wife, the woodcutter fought the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn’t lie down beside his wife and quietly grieve himself to death, no matter how much he wished, for his precious daughter Gretel needed him.
The summer after his wife’s passing, he met a woman with a son just a few years older than his Gretel. The lady was lovely with a winsome smile, long blonde hair and laughing blue eyes. Her son, Hans, shared her smile, her blonde hair and her laughing blue eyes. Thinking it would do both him and his daughter good to have laughter in the house again, he courted her.
Their wedding was a quiet, simple affair. After all, they were poor.
For a time, he was happy. For a time.
But then he realized sweet Gretel wasn’t as happy as he would have hoped. She remained somber eyed and unsmiling, and when he returned home each night from a hard day’s work in the forest, she clung to him as though something had filled her with fear. She slept poorly and only when he remained at her side would she calm enough to drift away.
She was unhappy. He loved his precious Gretel. How could he possibly hope for happiness when she was so miserable? He had made her mother a promise—he’d see to Gretel’s happiness. It was a promise he meant to keep, but he couldn’t do so until he knew what had saddened her so.
Tragedy fell before he ever learned what grieved her.
One day while he was out chopping wood, there was a horrific accident.
Now Gretel was left to the not-so-kind mercies of her stepmother and her stepbrother. While her father had lived, Hans had been content with petty cruelties and her new stepmother had sat by and watched. But no true harm had been brought upon her.
After her father’s death her sad life turned into a nightmare. Two nights after her father was buried, she awoke to find Hans standing by her little bed under the stairs. She cried and pleaded, but her cries and pleas went unanswered.
A great famine fell across the land.
By night, she cringed and cowered in her bed, fearing the times when Hans would creep into her room.
Every night she prayed.
Every morning she prayed.
“Dear Father in Heaven, I pray you would send one of your angels to save me.”
“Dear Father in Heaven, I pray you would send one of your angels to feed me.”
“Dear Father in Heaven, I pray you would send one of your angels to make Hans stop hurting me.”
It seemed that her prayers would go unanswered. Then came the day when her stepmother told her that she wouldn’t be going into town to clean homes, scrub floors or fetch water. Instead, she was to go deeper into the woods. An old woman who lived in the deep woods had need of her and had offered to pay handsomely.
Hans would escort her.
“But when will I return, stepmother?” She was unhappy in the home, but it had been her father’s home. It had been the only home she’d ever known.
“I pray you do not return, Gretel. Ungrateful, lying wretch of a child. Now leave me.”
With tears in her eyes, Gretel left, following along after Hans. For a time, she dared not take her eyes from him, terrified he would touch her again. But he did not. They walked all through the morning and then stopped so Hans could eat. His mother had sent along with him a small lunch, bread and meat and an apple. There was nothing for Gretel and Hans did not share, but Gretel was used to being hungry and she sat quietly while he ate.
After he finished eating, they once more started to walk. Gretel’s small legs ached and her feet were sore and raw by the time they reached a small clearing in the woods. In that clearing sat a lovely house with windows that glittered under the sunshine that filtered through the leaves overhead. There was a small barn with chickens and a gurgling creek ran through the yard. Gretel’s throat was painfully dry, but she did not dare pause for a drink. Still, she walked too slowly and Hans reached out, grabbing her arm and hauling her along with him as he headed for the door.
It opened before they reached it and in the doorway there stood a woman with kind eyes and a kind smile on her face. “Hello, Gretel.”
She said nothing to Hans.
Gretel blinked and stared at the lovely lady. She wasn’t old, not at all. Her black hair had not even a strand of white and her face was smooth and unlined.
“My stepmother told me that I was to go work for an old woman,” she said without thinking. “You are not old.”
“Appearances are deceiving,” the lady replied. Stepping aside, she gestured to them. “Come inside.”
Inside the house was the wonderful aroma of cooking meat, stewed vegetables and warm bread. Gretel’s empty stomach rumbled and the lady sighed as she passed by. Stroking a hand down Gretel’s hair, she asked, “Child, how long has it been since you had a good meal?”
Hans spoke up before Gretel could reply. “Just this past lunchtime. Mother packed both of us a wonderful lunch.”
The lady turned her head and studied Hans. It was the first time she had looked upon him, and as she did so, she frowned. “You are a dishonest boy, Hans. Dishonest and cruel. You ate at lunchtime while your stepsister sat and watched. You shared nothing with her.”
Hans went pale, then red. “That is an ugly lie.”
“If anybody should understand ugliness and lies, it would be you, would it not?” She held out a hand for Gretel and said, “Come, young one. Let’s get you cleaned up and fed.”
But Hans did not let go of Gretel’s arm. “You’re to give me the money first. You told my mother you would pay for Gretel.”
“Indeed.” She slipped a hand inside her skirt and drew out her hand, offering Hans the silver coins she held. “There is your money. Take it.”
He grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket. With a sly smile, he continued to hold tight to Gretel’s arm. “It is a long walk back home and I’m terribly hungry myself.”
The lady lifted a black brow and then gestured to a basket on the table. “You will find yourself a meal inside there. Take it and go. Do not return here, Hans. Never again.”
Hans left, leaving Gretel alone with the strange lady. With fear knotting her belly and her body weak from hunger, Gretel followed along behind her new mistress. They entered the kitchen and Gretel asked, “Should I get to work now…?”
What did she call this lady? Gretel did not know.
“My name is Mary. You may call me Mary and I will call you Gretel. And no, you shouldn’t get to work.” She swept her skirts aside and settled on the bench by the table. “Let me see your hands.”
“My hands?”
Mary nodded. “Yes, Gretel. Your hands.”
Gretel held out her hands, cracked and thin. They were rough from hours spent cleaning and chapped from hours spent washing dishes and doing laundry.
“Oh, dear one. You’ve the hands of a scullery maid.”
“I am not afraid of hard work,” Gretel mumbled, looking away. She felt ashamed, standing there in her threadbare dress, with her thin legs and calloused hands.
Mary wore a fine gown, finer than any Gretel had ever seen. It was a lovely shade of blue. Her long black hair was worn swept away from her face and her cheeks glowed with health. Her hands were soft. There was a chain around her neck and from it there was something shiny, round and silver as the coins she’d given to Hans.
“I’m pleased to hear it, Gretel. You will work hard here. But there is a difference between hard work and slaving away.” Then she squeezed Gretel’s hands gently and said, “That is something we may discuss later. For now, let’s get you fed and cleaned up.”
For the first time since her father died, Gretel sat a table and ate her fill.
For the first time since her father died, Gretel went to bed and didn’t fear the dark.
For the first time since her father died, Gretel didn’t weep herself to sleep.
Yeah, yeah, I know.
It’s not exactly the version you’re familiar with.
But what’s more believable? That Gretel was an unhappy, orphaned girl, or that Hansel and Gretel skipped merrily through the woods, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs as they walked in hopes that it would lead them back home?
Come on. Even back then children weren’t idiots. Throwing bread on the ground usually results in something trying to eat the bread.
Hans might have been stupid enough to try a trick like that, but I certainly wasn’t. Besides, if my parents had been deliberately trying to get rid of me, there’s no way I would have kept trying to find my way back.
The Brothers Grimm never asked me, though. It was the popular version that got recorded for the ages, not the real one.
The real one involved things even uglier than a woman sending her children off to starve in the woods. I guess the real one had a happy enough ending, though, now that I think about it. Hans died, my stepmother left me alone, and I didn’t have to live my life in fear.
Yes, Hans died. That’s probably what led to the story ending up in a Grimm fairy tale.
It wasn’t long after his death that my stepmother went a teensy bit crazy. Okay. A lot crazy. People would hear her rambling, like the madwoman she was. Back then, people didn’t really get insanity, if you know what I mean. They thought she was possessed, or that she was a witch, communing with the devil and demons and that was what led to her ruin.
Maybe that’s where the idea of a witch came from. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with Mary.
Mary had been…different.
She saved me. When she took me in, bought my “services” from my stepmother for a few pieces of silver, she saved my life.
But it came with a price. Nothing is free in this world. Not now. Not then.
Not ever, I’d gu
ess.
So you want to know the price? Well, think of Buffy. Yes, as in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Think of her, more or less. I say more or less because I’m both more and less. Less because I don’t come with the super strength. I’m a little stronger than the typical person, but I can’t send a man flying through the air when I punch him.
That’s okay, because I can knock a man to the ground and that’s perfectly sufficient. I also don’t come with visions or prophecies. Much to my disgust, there’s probably no Angel or Spike in my future, either. I’m not petite. I’m not blonde. I’m not beautiful.
I’m just me.
So definitely less on some front.
But more on others…because…well, there’s more. Nobody looking at me would ever realize just how much lies below the surface. They’d never believe the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done. The lives I’ve taken. The lives I’ve saved.
I guess you could say I’m hard to kill. And man, oh man, have people tried.
Old age won’t kill me, because I don’t age.
Injuries won’t do it, because my body has been blessed with the ability to heal from even the most mortal of wounds, a bit like the vamps from Buffy in that aspect. If you cut out my heart or take off my head, I’ll die. Maybe drop me inside a vat of acid, but that sounds really painful.
Kind of gross too. Actually, it all sounds kind of gross. It’s even worse in reality. I’ve had to cut out hearts, and I’ve had to take heads. Never had to resort to acid…
Sorry. My thoughts to tend wander and often they get really morbid when I’m bored. And right now, I’m really, really bored.
I’ve been bored ever since I stepped foot inside Ann Arbor, Michigan, a week ago. This is a college town and it’s Friday night. There should be something going on.
Plenty of parties. I can feel them, the rush of energy, the laughter, the jealousy and anger.
But nothing I can act on.
Nobody who needs me.
It really sucks, because my entire life is centered on being needed.
Candy Houses Page 1
