The Dark Queen (The Dark Queens Book 5)

by Jovee Winters

  She clenched her jaw. “George, my George, never reads.”

  His look was sad but honest. “I began to suspect that it had been George and not William who’d met his untimely demise. And when I thought that, it wasn’t a far stretch to imagine that William had also been the one to poison his own brother. At first, I thought myself mad. Thought I had to be seeing shadows and ghosts where there were none. It had been so long, and people change. But the more I noticed, the more I began to notice too. Like the dowager—how she too changed in the months following William’s death. I was George’s oldest and truest friend. The differences with her were so slight as to be subtle. Her favorite color, which had once been rose red shifted to black. Her food preferences changed.” He shrugged. “Like I said, small things.”

  Though she loved the way he still stroked her skin, she had to look him eye to eye. Pulling back just enough to do it, she searched his gaze for any sign of deception but found none.

  “What happened?” Her whisper sounded like cannon fire in her ears and she was sure they’d be caught. But though her knees trembled, Fable would hear him out.

  Wetting his lips, he blinked rapidly several times before saying. “One day I spotted Brunhilda working magic.”

  “But I thought you said she was a witch.”

  He shook his head slightly. “Not magic, Fable. But magick. The dark kind.”

  She swallowed hard, wondering if he knew that she too worked magick. Though she’d not sold her soul to do it, her powers were more akin to her grandfather’s Hades than a fairy godmother’s.

  “Brunhilda did not know magick like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like death curses.” He nodded slowly, as though reinforcing that he did not lie. “The first queen’s death was no accident of fate. It was deliberate and caused by the dowager.”

  Her nostrils flared, deep down Fable had already suspected this, but hearing him say it now made her feel scared and terrified. “Are...are you sure?”

  Nodding once, he again drew her chin back, curving his large palm against her neck and odd as it was, Fable felt safe for the first time since being tossed in the tower.

  “Many months back I visited a witch, and not just any witch, but the witch. Baba Yaga. I thought I was going mad. I had to make sure. I had to know the truth, one way or the other.”

  Immediately Fable shivered, everyone in Kingdom knew of the child eater. Her powers were terrifying, mythical, and nearly godlike by comparison. Anyone would be a fool to seek out that woman. A fool or desperate.

  “She told you?”

  He clipped his head once. “Aye. She did.”

  Baba did not lie. The witch had many flaws, but one thing was known to be constant with her, if you paid in enough gold, the truth you’d know.

  “She verified everything I’d already suspected. Brunhilda, George’s real mother, died the night before George took the throne. This witch, whoever she really is, did it and took on her form. I knew then that to betray those truths to anyone would become my eventual demise. So I never told a soul. Until now. Until you.”

  Trembling with the enormity of this reveal, only one thought pierced Fable’s heart. “Is it possible that perhaps the witch had her hook’s in William before he—”

  When Charles wrapped his arm around her waist, she didn’t complain, and she didn’t pull back. His touch upon her spine soothed her raging nerves.

  “He knows, Fable. For he is the one who set the whole thing up.”

  Chapter 4

  Fable

  Fable hadn’t been able to sleep that night, or the next, or even the next week as Charles’ words continued to echo through her head.

  George did it...

  Gripping the golden lion’s head bedpost, she stared at nothing as growing dread continued to consume her soul.

  George did it...

  George...

  George knew.

  He knew.

  He wasn’t bespelled. And he wasn’t really George; he was an imposter. An evil twin with a heart full of hate and lust.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, a lone tear rolled down her cheek. For days, she’d attempted to reconcile Charles’s revelation with what few memories she had with her king, and though it pained Fable to admit it, she had to concede that it all made horrible sense.

  His easy disregard for her.

  The way he’d so easily batted away her words when she’d spoken to him of her misgivings concerning his mother. It was a fact within Seren that nothing happened there that her father wasn’t always aware of; any good king knew what happened within his own walls.

  Fable had tried to brush off her unease in the beginning, how he’d so easily disregard her thoughts or feelings. How little he seemed to care whether she was in his presence or not. The long leash he continually gave to Brunhilda.

  And once she’d been tricked into putting on the wrist cuff, cutting off her powers, Fable had latched onto that, choosing desperately to believe that George was under the same sort of enchantment as she.

  What if Charles was wrong? What if he lied? Could she even trust him? She didn’t know him, he could be trying to manipulate her mind, could be trying to...

  But no more had she thought it then she knew it wasn’t so because Charles hadn’t sought her out in the first place. Fable had brought him to her.

  “My queen,” Mirror spoke gravely, “your thoughts are so heavy as to smother me.”

  Shoulders drooping, she turned bleary-eyed toward her only friend and gave him a small, pitiful smile. “I am sorry, Mirror. And you are right; my thoughts are grave today.”

  His handsome face scanned the corners of the tower. “May I help?”

  She sighed. “I wouldn’t know how. Unless you know magick and can release me of this chain.”

  Fable held up her wrist, showing off the iron shackle.

  He shook his head, but said, “It’s been some days since last you’ve seen Snow. I could try and fetch her for you.”

  Immediately the thought of company livened Fable’s sour mood. And a real smile spread upon her lips. “I’d like that.”

  Mirror’s smile was as large as hers. “Only give me a moment, my queen. I shall return soon.”

  And just like before when he’d gone to fetch Charles, Uriah vanished from within the looking glass.

  Knowing she’d be in for a long wait, Fable rose and decided that she was done torturing herself with unanswerable questions. Taking care of her morning ablution, she took time with her appearance. Getting out of her sleep things for the first time in a week and slipping into one of her prettier, yet more sedate gowns.

  A confectioner’s delight of spun frothy fabric dyed a beguiling shade of silvery-lavender. It cinched tight at the waist, but the strings were in the front and not the back, so she could take care of dressing herself.

  Her hair, however, was another matter. A few quick brushes to get out the worst of the tangles was all she could manage before there was a soft, hesitant knock at the door.

  Gasping from a powerful case of nerves and happiness, Fable ran to the front door, idly wondering why Snow hadn’t come in the back way as Charles had.

  “Come in, come in, my little—” She gasped. Her happy greeting for Snow died on her tongue as George tossed the doors wide and stepped through.

  Handsome as ever, and dressed in a burgundy wine colored smock that highlighted the gold strands of his hair and captivatingly attractive features, he looked around the room slowly.

  Pausing briefly when his gaze landed on her discarded clothing on the floor.

  “Are you well?” he asked slowly, and she frowned, hearing a note in his voice that she’d so often heard before but had refused to speculate on.

  That note was the sound of utter boredom.

  George was uninterested in her. To have a king grow bored with his queen was a never a good thing, far too many queens had lost their heads for less.

  Her soul trembled, and it was all she coul
d do to remain standing. So often she’d heard this and every time she’d made excuses for his behavior, cold hard reality was like a smack of ice water to her face.

  Not wanting him to know or suspect at all that she was starting to see the truth, she wrung her fingers together and clasped them tightly in front of her, forcing her lips to rise into a facsimile of a smile.

  “Yes, George, I am.” Her words had sounded unsure and hesitant.

  But then, that’s how it had sounded lately when around him.

  “You’re back soon,” she said, for lack of anything better to say. Brunhilda had mentioned him being gone a fortnight; he’d barely been gone a week.

  “I’ve been made aware of important matters to attend to back home.”

  She swallowed hard, not liking the sound of that one bit. Without asking, she knew he spoke of her. But she needed the confirmation.

  “Me? Matters pertaining to me?”

  Why did her heart flutter so strangely in her chest?

  He grunted with a nod, then he looked her up and down, and for the first time, she spotted something other than quiet detachment in his gaze.

  “You look...nice.” He wet his lips, taking a step further into her room.

  So far they’d been talking with the door open, and when she glanced out, she realized with a start that Charles stood outside and was looking at her with anguish in his brown eyes. They’d not spoken since that day in her tower. She wet her lips, hating that it bothered her so much.

  He’d been out there the entire time and she’d not known it. But he’d never returned, never even looked up at her tower when out in the fields practicing with the other knights.

  Grabbing hold of her stomach, she nodded. “Thank...thank you.”

  But George wasn’t done. He invaded her space so that he and she shared breath. His hands wrapped hotly around her waist, and his smooth cheek rested proprietarily against her own.

  He smelled of pine and sandalwood, two scents she’d once loved. But now her flesh prickled with revulsion at his touch. She wanted to shake him off her, but she knew to do so might well be the last act she ever committed.

  His lips feathered along her skin. “Mmm, my dark beauty. Tonight I shall return to you. Dress in white. You look pure in white.”

  As opposed to not pure in white? The bastard. She’d been pure when she’d come to him; he’d been the only man to lay claim to her body, and she hated him for it. If only she could have her magick back, she’d leave. Leave and never return again.

  Anger burned through her belly. And with it came a hot rush of tears jammed tight in her throat.

  Fable swallowed hard determined not to show him just how upset she now was. “Yes, my king.”

  Lowering his hand, until his palm cupped her bottom, he squeezed to the point of pain, making her lift up on her toes. But she’d be damned if she made a noise of protest, burying the pain, she swallowed the sound and held her head high.

  “Tonight you will make me a child,” he said.

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  Taking her face in his hands, he jerked her forward, slamming his lips to hers, and without a word of warning crammed his tongue inside of her mouth like a javelin.

  She tasted spearmint on it.

  The only way to not shove him off her as she wished to do was to transport her mind someplace else. To a safe place, a happy place. Home. In the below. With her family. Why had she ever thought herself unhappy there?

  He bit so hard on her bottom lip at one point that she felt the burn of tearing and tasted the copper of her own blood. Pulling back with a satisfied grin, George patted her on the head like she was nothing more than a good, little pet and smirked.

  “Until tonight. Kitten.”

  And there could be no more denying the cold, hard, brutal facts that George was exactly who Charles claimed he’d been because the cruel petting session had exposed his neck.

  His very naked neck.

  The iron necklace she’d sworn had to have been enchanted by Brunhilda wasn’t on him today.

  Fable didn’t cry until he’d turned away from her, marching back down the stairs without looking back once. Charles lingered only a moment longer, shaking his head softly before reluctantly locking her in the tower once more. She’d hoped Charles might be the one to help save her. That perhaps she’d found a kindred spirit in him, but she’d been wrong.

  Though he knew the truth, he would not do a thing to help. And that was a terrible feeling, to know that she truly was all alone.

  She stood exactly where she was until she heard the last echo of his footsteps melt away.

  In fact, she didn’t move at all until suddenly tiny arms had wound themselves around her waist.

  With a start, Fable twirled, and couldn’t help but choke up with relief at the sight of the little girl who had begun to feel more like a daughter of blood than of marriage to her.

  “Snow!” she cried with joy, dropping to her knees and hugging the sweet girl tight to her breast.

  Snow began to sob, and the sound tore Fable in two.

  “What is wrong, my love? Why do you cry?”

  Snow was nearing eleven years of age now, and it was obvious to one and all that when she grew fully, she’d be a beauty beyond compare. Prettier even than Fable, and she wasn’t afraid to own up to that fact.

  With her milky ivory complexion, ebony colored hair as dark as Fable’s own, and enchanting blue eyes, she was exactly what a fairy tale princess should look like. Mixed in with her sweet disposition, and Fable knew that to know Snow was to love Snow White.

  It was impossible to hate anyone so pure and beautiful.

  “Why has grandmum hidden you from me?” She hiccupped, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. “I asked for you for days and was told to shut up or I’d be thrashed but good.”

  Her tiny shoulders trembled as she continued to sob silent tears.

  “Oh, my sweet, beautiful girl. I’m okay, see. They haven’t harmed me.” Fable tried not to choke on the lie, but for the benefit of the girl, she plastered on a tight smile and twirled for her.

  No sense in adding to the girl’s unease by admitting that her grandmother was a vile witch and her father a horrible, wicked man. Somehow, someway when Fable left this place, and she would, she was going to figure out a way to take the girl with her.

  Wiggling as tight into Fable’s side as she possibly could, Snow sighed deeply as though releasing all the cares of the world and a real smile tugged at Fable’s lips because there wasn’t anything she loved in this castle the way she did this little girl.

  After clinging tightly for another few minutes, Fable reluctantly pulled back, wiping up the girls tears.

  “There now, my dear, smile, for we are together again.”

  Long lashes matted with tears, Snow sniffed an unladylike little sniff and shook. “Fable?” she said slowly.

  Hearing the question in her name, Fable cocked her head. “Love, what is it?”

  “Mirror spoke to me today. Is it true what he said?”

  Mouth suddenly going dry as she tried to imagine just what her mirror could have possibly said to the little girl, she was hesitant to ask. “Wh...what did Mirror say to you?”

  “That my grandma is a very bad witch.”

  Gasping, she shot a heated look toward Mirror, which still lacked Uriah’s face, no doubt the miserable cur was hiding from her wrath. The cheeky bastard.

  “It’s not tr—”

  Snow’s face set into a hard line. “Don’t lie to me too, Fable. Everyone else in this place lies to me. Please, don’t be like everyone else. Is it true?”

  Her words were so strong, so evident of the little princess she was. Young as she was, there was no mistaking the budding nobility standing before her.

  Heart sinking, because she did not want to admit to this, but knowing she now had no choice, Fable softly said, “Yes. It’s true.”

  “She has locked you away, hasn’t she?”

/>   Again, it felt like she spoke not to an immature eleven-year-old, but a mature and reasonable adult.

  Closing her eyes, she shamefully admitted the truth. “Yes, Snow, she has locked me away.”

  “She’s not my real grandmother, is she?”

  Fable couldn’t help the gasp of shock that fell from her. “Where...where did you hear such a thing?”

  If Mirror had told the little girl all this, Fable was half-tempted to break him herself.

  Where once it had seemed like she’d been talking to an adult, now Snow looked her age as her small shoulders slumped, and she released another silent sob. “My fairy godmother, the Blue, told me.”

  Clenching tight to her upper arms fear beat a terrible rhythm in Fable’s heart; she shook her head. “Now you listen to me, little one. You tell no one of this. No one. Do you understand?”

  Her brows lowered. “But father would—”

  So she didn’t know just what kind of man her father actually was. Good. Because at least Fable wouldn’t be forced to shatter the poor girl’s entire world tonight. “Leave him out of this, do you hear me?”

  “But we can’t just stand back and let this happen, Fable; we must do something—”

  “Yes.” She nodded brusquely. “And we will. I will. Not you. Do you hear me? You stay out of this, Snow White. Promise me.”

  A stubborn look pinched her pretty features. “I can’t—”

  Fear twisted her heart in its vice grip, and Fable shook her hard. “You will!” she snapped. “Promise me!”

  Startled at the vehemence and violence of Fable, Snow went absolutely still. Enough so that Fable, ashamed of what she’d done, snatched her hands back and curled them impotently upon her knees.

  “I’m...I’m sorry, little Snow. Please forgive me. Only, I worry for you; you must know this. Promise me, child, promise me you will not go after your grandmother.”

  Blue eyes flashed with fury. “She is not my grandmother.”

  Her chin notched high, and for just a moment Fable saw George in her. Fable had seen the paintings of Violet, Snow’s birth mother. In every way, she looked a mirror image of her, but the hardness and implacability were all George, and it saddened Fable to see it in Snow.