Once Upon a Happy Ending: An Anthology of Reimagined Fairy Tales

by Casey Lane

  “That was oddly specific, and more than a little pathetic.”

  “Can you please stay out of my head?” he asked his godmother, who stared at him before delivering her unsurprising answer.

  “No.”

  Soon, the fay had something to add.

  “Look, it’s not my usual motto,” Maleficent said hesitatingly, and he lifted his head, intrigued.

  She was right. Her usual motto was disappearing as quickly as she came, and seeing him a few years later when he called again. She’d stayed behind this time, and now she looked like she was uncomfortable, confused.

  He wondered if the world was about to end.

  Actually, now he paid attention, it wasn’t the only difference. Today, she wasn’t all in black. Her attire was mostly dark, but there was a dash of pink on her dress.

  Pink.

  Yes. The apocalypse was coming.

  “But truth is,” she added, “you have a dreadful taste in women and if I leave you to it, we’ll still be at it in thirty years.”

  “Thanks, Mal. Exactly what a man who’s just lost yet another fiancée might want to hear,” Charles said with a laugh. “You’re such a ray of sunshine.”

  God, the man was suicidal. No one talked to her with quite so much familiarity, not even Kings, Queens, or fellow Fay. Certainly not now they’d all learned the truth.

  Maleficent was the heir to the Unseelie Court, Rumpelstiltskin’s equal, and her spells were the most powerful anyone in Gaia could cast – nothing could break them, save for True Love.

  But the Fay Queen just ignored Charles, carrying on.

  “I’ll give you a couple of things that will help your selection process in the future. Use them wisely.”

  Chapter 2

  If the idiot came into the shop again, Anya was going to get up, growl and tell him what he could do with his order of bacon sandwich and fries to go.

  The man had first come in three months ago, and since then, every Friday, he made it just before eleven, when she’d cleaned up, labeled and put everything away, ready to close up. Needless to say, after warming up the oil and using the fryer, opening the containers and stuff, she had to do it all over again.

  It was fine, any other evening, really – it was all part of the crappy minimum wage job she had to do in order to keep a roof over her head and the lights on. But today, with a sick child at the back, she could definitely use a break.

  The clock indicated ten fifty. Surely, he wasn’t going to turn up now…

  Dammit. There he was. And damn her, but all her animosity disappeared, replaced by the nameless confusion that always accompanied his visit.

  The man was beautiful, in all his scruffiness, with his deep brown eyes and that kissable mouth. Just beautiful.

  She hated him for it; she wasn’t supposed to be attracted to men. Normally, she wasn’t. Not anymore.

  The other part of the confusion was that strangely, he looked familiar, which was stupid. If she’d ever known a guy like him, she wouldn’t have forgotten him. Maybe he had one of those faces, similar to an actor’s or something.

  But he was no pretty boy retouched digitally to remove all wrinkles; no, the guy was what her mother used to call a real man. Stubble, tired eyes, strong hands with calluses – she’d felt them when she’d taken his cash before.

  “Good evening,” she greeted him, cursing herself for sounding breathless, as usual, when she spoke to him. “What can I get you today?”

  He smiled faintly, tiredly.

  “Fat, please. You can hook me up on an IV directly.”

  He always deadpanned his answer, amusing her despite herself.

  “A BLT and fries coming right up!”

  Which meant that she wouldn’t get Gillian home before midnight. Her smile disappeared at that realization.

  “Strange how we can easily overlook a bright light until it stops shining,” he quoted out of the blue.

  She lifted one eyebrow without looking up from the work she was trying to do as quickly as possible.

  “Your smile,” the stranger explained. “You smile, normally.”

  She suspected he might have asked why she seemed so dejected tonight, but a weak, broken little voice interrupted him, making the answer quite obvious as her six-year-old daughter came from the back.

  “Momma,” she sniffled, “my throat hurts again.”

  Damn it to all hell!

  She abandoned the half-ready sandwich and rushed to the adorable little girl with bright red curls.

  They looked nothing alike; Gillian was fair and tiny where Anya had a golden skin, brown hair, and long limbs. The only similarity was their bright green eyes, practically identical, their turned up nose and pouty mouth.

  Those features meant that her girl – like Anya in her youth – had the most potent puppy dog eyes in the history of man.

  When she looked up, her Friday Stranger was staring, visibly horrified by the adorable little girl who looked so crestfallen.

  It amused Anya, all the while impressing her, because it wasn’t the usual reaction she got from people who were seeing them together.

  Normally, they stared judgmentally. Gillian was six and Anya was young – she looked even younger yet.

  “What’s wrong with the girl?” the stranger growled, sounding like he was ready to fight an army of trolls if that was what it took to make her feel better.

  “I’m cold,” Gil replied shyly, popping her head up from the crook of Anya’s neck.

  “She has a little cold,” Anya added soothingly. “Nothing a night of rest won’t fix as soon as we get out of here. Do you mind waiting a minute? I need to give her her medicine.”

  She went away without waiting for an answer. Putting Gil back on her makeshift bed, she got her to sit up to take her strawberry scented syrup.

  “How’s it going Mini Me?”

  “Not bad. I just don’t like it when it hurts,” Gil pouted, before breaking into a smile. “The man was pretty, wasn’t he mama?”

  Anya just laughed; that was her daughter, six, going on twenty-six.

  “Yes, although he’d be prettier if he wore a skirt and ribbons like you.”

  Gil snickered.

  “Handsome, then. Was my daddy as handsome as him?”

  Anya’s eyes darkened. It wasn’t the girl’s fault: of course she’d be curious about her low life of a sperm donor.

  She had every intention of telling her daughter all about him some day, but the girl wasn’t nearly old enough to hear it yet, so she just replied the only thing she could say, “Yes. Yes, he was.”

  Chapter 3

  Finn was disturbed, bothered, and maybe even slightly angry.

  The anger was a first, but the other things, he’d felt every Friday since the first time his feet had led him to the dark, passably clean takeout a few steps off the main road.

  He liked to walk at night, anonymous, inconspicuous, although the two men always trailing his steps somewhat blew his cover.

  One day a few months back, he’d ended up in front of that shop, seeing the pretty girl through the windows.

  She looked so tired – exactly how he felt. Before he knew it, he found himself going in.

  It was stupid. He had hundreds of cooks available at any time of the day, but he found himself wanting something she made; three months later, the Friday stop was a ritual, something he was looking forward to from the beginning of the week.

  Yes. Yes, he’d considered it. He’d wondered if he should try to get close to the girl, because his fascination wasn’t going anywhere – but he hadn’t, for various reasons.

  Firstly, she was young – a good ten years younger than him, perhaps more. He knew men older than him married to girls younger than her, but he respected none.

  Secondly, she was, in her own way, very similar to Annabella Cartwright. Taller, darker, perhaps even more beautiful, but the rest was there. The confidence, the award winning rack, the long lashes that made men want to give her the world. She
was his type; he knew better than to go for his type.

  Finally… she didn’t know who he was and he liked it that way.

  Well, that, or she was the best actress he’d ever met. She’d looked at him like she was trying to place him, the first time, but when nothing came to mind, she’d just shrugged it off and carried on working.

  It went against all odds. Who in the Kingdom didn’t recognize their sovereign? But to be fair, he generally appeared in public clean shaven, his hair falling around his face, brushed into submission. Friday was dress down day at the palace – they never scheduled anything if it could be helped – so he didn’t bother to shave, and he wore jeans, a leather jacket, and pulled his hair in a bun. He looked like the very opposite of what a King should look like, so he understood why she hadn’t identified him.

  He felt normal for once, and that was invaluable.

  Today, the visit wasn’t relaxing – not even a little bit. He hadn’t expected the adorable child with her eyes. He hadn’t expected to want to grab them both and put them in an ivory tower where nothing would dare hurt either of them – not even a stupid cold.

  And he hadn’t expected to be furious about the probability that the brown haired beauty was taken. Idiotic. Women like that generally were in relationships, but it hadn’t even entered his mind before. He knew he’d looked at her left hand and found it free of jewelry the first day; that had been enough for him to conclude that she was single. If he’d had a woman such as her, he certainly would have hurried and put a ring on it, so to speak.

  When she came back, a smile on her lips, he decided he must have lost his mind, as he accosted her by accusingly stating, “You don’t have a ring.”

  She wiggled an eyebrow again.

  “No, I do not.”

  He should have shut it after that defensive answer, seeing her shoulders tense, but he pushed, “And the girl’s father?”

  “Out of our lives,” she replied hotly, returning to his sandwich.

  She threw it away and started afresh.

  “Do you mind locking the door behind you?” she asked, chopping tomatoes without gracing him with a glance.

  He did so, before returning to the counter, and carrying on his interrogation.

  “So, the father is so disinterested that he wouldn’t take care of his sick child while her mother was working,” he said, not disguising his disgust.

  Her eyes locked on his, and her voice was a low whisper when she said, “That’s assuming a lot. That I’d let him anywhere near my daughter, for one.”

  “You let him close enough to you,” Finn replied bitterly, immediately regretting the accusing tone.

  What right did he have to press her about who she let between those shapely legs? None.

  “Let would be an inaccurate description,” she replied.

  It took a second for him to understand what she meant. Then, he saw red.

  She had no idea why she’d been so open; had he sprayed a truth serum in the ventilating system while she hadn’t been looking?

  Anya never spoke about Gil’s dad and she never, ever mentioned the night that left her a broken, pregnant girl. It had been too traumatic at first but years later, she couldn’t begin to regret her decision to have gone to that darn party and taken the spiked drink that sealed her fate. Because she had Gillian, her sun, moon and star, the reason why she smiled and got up every morning.

  “Who is he?” her Friday Stranger growled menacingly.

  She wished she didn’t react to his protectiveness like a school girl with a crush, but well, she went and did just that.

  “No one of importance. BLT and fries to go. That will be seven marks, sir.”

  And please get your gorgeous ass out of here so I can clean up and take my baby home, she added, mentally at least.

  “What’s his name,” he replied, completely ignoring her.

  She put on hand on her hips and gave him all the attitude she could muster.

  “And this is your problem, because?”

  He looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it, simply getting his wallet out and dropping all his notes on the counter.

  Anya had never been as pissed off in her life.

  “What do you think you’re doing? I’m not a damn charity case!”

  She picked the smallest note, got his change, and pushed the damn wad of cash to him, quite satisfied when she saw it falling off the counter and onto the floor. Then, turning her back to him, she started cleaning her station, calling out, “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out!”

  Chapter 4

  Charles was having too much fun at his expense. Finn wished he could throw him in the dungeons, or at least fire his ass, but it would probably go against the blood oath to always have each other’s back they’d sworn at age seven.

  It had been a year since Maleficent had dismissed his last woman, and given him the tools to find a wife who’d fit the bill.

  Charles had laughed from the beginning, but Finn had felt hopeful at first, confident that she’d solved his problem.

  She’d given him two enchanted artifacts, each one more unlikely than the next.

  The first was a mattress, which seemed quite plain, normal, really, but when he found the two men who had carried it up to a guest room close to his quarters asleep on it, completely out for the count, he didn’t doubt the power of her spell. That mattress was enchanted so that anyone touching it would fall into a deep, undisturbed slumber.

  Yes, Maleficent had a thing about sending people to sleep for some reason.

  Anyway, the mattress might have been quite useless if it wasn’t for the second object she’d sent with it: a pea.

  Yes, a pea – green, quite plain, rather inconspicuous. Her note advised him to place it under the mattress and invite any woman he considered to use that bed.

  Any woman who sleeps peacefully despite the presence of this pea may be deemed unworthy.

  Find a lady who stays awake, tossing and turning, wanting a break and you’ll know you’ve found yourself a real live princess.

  “Damn,” Charles has said, “Let’s hope she doesn’t give up the day job, her prose is awful.”

  Finn rolled his eyes, not certain what to expect at first, but he diligently drew a list of female acquaintances he deemed worth considering, and every weekend, found excuses to invite them over – parties, assembles, early morning meetings for a charity they supported.

  Each and every one of them slept like hibernating bears, snoring so loud Finn could hear them from his chambers across the corridor.

  “I don’t get it, maybe the pea isn’t working?”

  “Something Maleficent did, not working?” Charles responded with a snort. “No, face the fact. You just have terrible judgment of the female sex.”

  That made him think about dark waves, tantalizing curves, bright emerald eyes.

  Yes, he had dreadful taste in women, which meant that she, to whom he was drawn more than anyone he’d ever met, was probably a terrible choice, too.

  He remembered her reaction two days ago, when he’d left perhaps five or six thousand on her counter, and he found himself wondering if there was a chance that he might be wrong on that score, for once.

  But he knew which head was talking now, and it certainly wasn’t the one screwed on his neck.

  “How about you chose someone for me, then?” he found himself asking Charles.

  “Not on my life – if you value our friendship, leave me out of this mess.”

  Well, so much for that.

  “Sir, we have the documents you requested.”

  He gestured the official in grey and black forward, taking the folder he was holding out and pushing aside everything else he had been working on.

  The man was wearing the uniform of the Watchers, the royal guards, and there was only one request he’d personally sent to them recently.

  He opened the folder to a formal square photo, no doubt taken for some form of identification.<
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  Charles, catching the photo above his shoulder, took a step forward, enquiring, “What’s this?”

  Finn felt strangely annoyed; he shared everything with his old friend, his first royal counselor, but he hadn’t breathed a word about his Friday nights so far.

  He forced himself to respond, though.

  “I met this woman. She seems to be in some sort of trouble – she took her very young child to work, in the middle of the night. I wanted to see if she needed the crown’s help.”

  There, that sounded reasonable, didn’t it? It wasn’t and wouldn’t be the first time that he took it upon himself to step in when one of his subject’s misfortunes was brought to his attention.

  None of them had looked like her, though. And to be entirely honest, at least with himself, he hadn’t requested a background check to help her – he knew better than to think that she’d accept it, anyway.

  No, he’d just been…

  Curious?

  He read on about Anya Dawson, twenty-seven-year-old, single mother. She’d gone to college, but dropped out her first year. His fist curled as he learned why; there was a report of her being drugged and abused. DNA evidence had been taken, but the culprit hadn’t been caught yet. Anya reported that she had no recollection of the event, and no idea of the identity of her aggressor. Her daughter’s father.

  She stopped school three months after the event, despite the fact that her grades had been pristine before. From what he read, all contact with her parents ceased at that point, and she started to take one crappy job after the next while raising her daughter. She wasn’t claiming any kind of benefits, although she was eligible for a bunch.

  Fuck.

  “Stupid, prideful girl,” he found himself muttering, although he certainly didn’t mean the first adjective.

  She was the opposite of stupid; but yes, her pride was costing her a lot.

  Finn flipped through the few pictures of her and her daughter – love was transparent on both sides. She’d raised her well, the kid was already one year ahead at school and the teachers were considering having her skip another year.