Fairytales Slashed, Volume 2

by Megan Derr

  Surfacing, he shook his head to get hair and water out of his face, then searched around to get his bearings. The boat was straight ahead, and not so far off he would exhaust himself fetching it. Good.

  Swimming briskly but not terribly quickly, it took him only minutes to reach the boat. Grabbing onto the side, he hauled himself up and over—bellowing back threats at the comments about his ass. Honestly, dwarves. Who needed enemies? He glared at them all the way back, unfazed by the exaggerated leering and snickering observations about how thoroughly tanned he was everywhere. "Shut up, you stupid sex-starved dwarves. Honestly, go find a willing pixie or three."

  Reaching the dock, glaring murder, he swiftly tied the boat off—tripling the number of knots—and stepped out onto the dock again. Ignoring the continuing ribbing and leering, he strode back to his clothes. Someone tossed him a rough drying cloth—Davie, he thought—and he used it quickly, then bent to retrieve his clothes.

  "See the goblins did you a new one," said one of the dwarves, slapping Calder's right thigh in friendly appreciation of the dragon wrapped around it, inked in the finest blue-black goblin ink. It was the latest of what now totaled six tattoos, all done by his goblin friend.

  Three of the other five were goblin tribal tattoos, a very high honor for a non-goblin. Two of those were on his forearms—the right marking him as being an honorable member of the local tribe, the one on his left wrist telling everyone he had permission to bear the one on his right. The last tribal tattoo was on his left thigh, and took up most of it, a complicated pattern of knots, whorls, sigils, and other such things that would tell anyone who saw it why a human had goblin marks.

  Of the remaining tattoos, one was a winged dragon spread across his back, the other a rose low on his abdomen, with its thorny vines twined around his hips and waist.

  "Yes," Calder replied in answer to the comment. "Goulet was bored and wanted to play, and decided I needed something new."

  "Goblins," the dwarf—Rich—said with a snort. "The only thing more painful than being a goblin's enemy is being his friend."

  Calder laughed, and swiftly finished dressing. Last of all, he dropped the delicate-looking but surprisingly strong silver chain of his pendant over his head, so that the quartet of jewels—sapphire, amber, emerald, and diamond—set into swirling silver fell against his chest. He rubbed his thumb over the pendant, smiling faintly, feeling the same bittersweet ache, and perhaps a bit of longing, that he always felt. Words ten years old now still played through his mind as though they had only been spoken yesterday. Happy Birthday, Cal. Wear it and you will always be in good health.

  "I'm surprised the pixies haven't kidnapped you, boyo," said Travis, the oldest of the seven dwarves that, along with the goblins he called brothers, were Calder's best friends. "You're the sort of young, handsome, no doubt virile thing they like to kidnap."

  Calder rolled his eyes again. "Stop talking about me that way, you old pervert. I've got nothing to offer them. Pixies aren't my thing at all."

  "More for us," said Bertie, the youngest, with a leer. "We do like the pixies, yes."

  "Go dunk your head in the lake and cool off," Calder said, laughing despite himself. "Do you troublemakers need anything else, or am I…" he trailed off as the sound of the royal trumpets filled the forest. The dwarves, clustered in a loose half circle around him, fell silent as well.

  "What…I guess the King has returned home early, but an entire week?" Calder shook his head. "Something does not feel right about this, my friends. I had best go."

  Mick nodded. "You'd best, I don't like it either. The silver trumpets should not yet be sounding."

  "Keep that boat tied up!" Calder called over his shoulder, waving in reply to the dwarves' farewells.

  He ran as fast as he could without exhausting himself, weaving and wending his way through the dense trees and scrub of the royal forest to which he was bound, moving with an ease only ten years as its Huntsman could allow.

  Why was the King home so early? Royalty never returned early for good reason. But surely if the King was dead or wounded, they would have learned of it before now—and the silver trumpets would not sound the return of the King if he were dead.

  He spilled out of the forest and kept going, across the royal lawn, straight to the back of the castle. His steps slapped against the old stones of the kitchen yard, and then he was finally inside, struck hard by the stifling heat of the kitchens.

  Kitchens which should not be so busy, when everything had been so still and quiet when he had left earlier that morning. The King had not been home more than twenty minutes, surely. He would not normally cause such a fuss—so what was going on? Guests? He would have sent at least a full day's warning.

  At the primary bank of ovens, the head cook was knocking around her assistants and scullery maids, scowling and cursing, shaking her head and rolling her eyes—and every word spoken in her native tongue. Something was definitely wrong, to put her in such a state. He did not waste time attempting to talk to her, knowing he would not understand a single thing she said.

  Instead, he moved on through the kitchen and hallways, eventually reaching the large hall just off the grand entrance. Servants and knights and nobles scurried about everywhere, every word a furtive, anxious whisper. Fear and curiosity filled their faces in equal measure, and Calder wondered what in the names of hell he had missed.

  Moving through the chaos, he jogged to the stairs and up them—and had just reached the top when a voice called his name. "Cal!"

  He turned sharply, just in time to catch up the slender Princess who threw herself into his arms. "Highness! What are you doing here? Should you not be greeting your father?"

  "I tried," she said, pulling away and looking up at him. Her white skin was flushed red with anger and humiliation, dark eyes blazing, and her blood-red lips were twisted into a scowl that never boded well for anyone. "He will not see me. He arrived with some woman and they went immediately to the royal chambers, ignoring everyone and the guards are standing watch at the doors and refuse to admit anyone. Even I am forbade entrance—when has papa ever not wanted to see me? I did like that woman at all, Cal, she…she did not look right. Neither did papa. Why would he not want to see me?"

  Calder shook his head. "I do not know, Snow White, but I will find out. For now, humor me and return to your room. Do not leave it until I come and speak with you, all right? I will go and see your father."

  She made a face, but nodded, embracing him quickly once more before stepping back, running fingers through her tousled pitch-black hair. "Yes, Cal. Thank you." She wrinkled her nose. "Be careful of that woman. I think she is a witch."

  Stifling a laugh, because he did not want her to think he was being mocking, Cal cupped her face in an old gesture of comfort and said, "Get, Snow White. I will tend your father."

  "Stop calling me that," she said, wrinkling her nose again. "Honestly, I am twenty—too old for silly nicknames."

  Chuckling, he pushed her gently in the direction of her room, reminded her to stay there, then strode off in the opposite direction to go see the King.

  The first thing he noticed, when he arrived, was the guards. He knew them well, for they had been at the castle even longer than he. They'd been amongst the first people he'd gotten to know, after arriving, and had kept him cheered when he did not have the forest to hide in. Now, though…they did not look right.

  But they did not look wrong, exactly, either. If anything…he would have to say they looked as though they had very recently been well and thoroughly fucked. "Tom, Will," he greeted congenially. "Good day for you so far?"

  They both startled, as if surprised he was there, and he realized they hadn't known he was there. "Hullo, Cal," Will said, smiling at him—or, at least, in his direction. But the smile was vague, and his eyes distant. Already he seemed to be forgetting what he was doing, and that Calder was there.

  Calder felt a chill run down his spine, the hairs on his neck prickle, as realizatio
n dawned. Surely not…

  "Cal, come look at this."

  Setting down his book, Cal looked across the room at where Lev was doing something to an unfortunate green-brown frog. "What are you doing to that poor frog?" Standing up, he shoved his hair out of his face and crossed the room, peering curiously at the oddly complacent frog. "Hmm…what did you do to it, Lev? It looks…actually, it looks awfully smug for a frog from the magic department. That frog looks like he was just tumbled, and tumbled well. Are you cheating on me with a frog, Lev?"

  "Oh, fuck you."

  "I believe that is the matter at hand, yes."

  "Stop making me laugh, I'll lose control of the curse. I'm not very good at holding them yet. I'll reassure you later that I would never cheat on you with a frog—or anything else."

  "Then why does that frog look so pleased?"

  "He's under a Siren Curse," Lev replied. "It means he thinks I'm better than getting laid. Those are the signs of it—a well fucked look, that dazed oblivion to surroundings, as well as a blind obedience to me, if I were to make him do anything. He's lost completely in his head, and I don't mean the one with the brain."

  Calder grimaced. "So you've turned the poor frog into a lust-struck fool? That sounds like heaven and hell, with an emphasis on hell."

  "It is," Lev replied, and snapped his fingers, breaking the curse. On the table, the frog seemed to shudder, and then slump in an utterly dejected matter, giving a plaintive croak. "Hell, yes," Lev emphasized. "The only thing worse than being under a Siren Curse is being freed from it. If the curse doesn't kill, which it can, then it leaves the victim…wanting forever."

  "Addicted to the best feeling in the world, with no chance of ever finding it again, wanting it even if it's evil?"

  Lev smiled at him, then leaned forward to give him a quick, hard kiss. "Exactly. There are hundreds of accounts of people begging to be put back under the curse. Most of them kill themselves, or die trying to find the feeling again. It's a terrible curse."

  Calder shook his head. "I hope it's one of the stricken curses."

  "Oh, it is," Lev assured.

  "Then why are you casting it on a poor, innocent frog?"

  "Requirement," Lev said. "I can't fight what I don't know, and the best way to know is to do. Hopefully, I'll never see it again after I pass my final examinations."

  Calder nodded.

  "Now," Lev said, as he put the frog back in its cage, then wiped his hands. He turned to Calder, and sank his hands into Calder's overlong hair, dragging him close. "Let us return to the discussion about fucking you…"

  "Yes, lets," Calder agreed breathlessly before Lev kissed him in a way only Lev could—so hard and deep, greedy and thorough, Calder felt as though he must be under some spell himself, but it was good, and right, and he never wanted to be anywhere but right here.

  Laughing as they broke apart, he helped strip off their clothes even as they walked and stumbled and finally managed to collapse in a heap on their pushed-together beds.

  Could it really be a Siren Curse? But something so illegal…casting such a curse came with a penalty of death. Who would…oh, god, the King. "I have come to visit the King," he said, still smiling congenially, keeping his manner casual, uncaring.

  They frowned at him, pulling themselves from their dazed states with an obvious effort. "Forbidden. No one is allowed to see the Queen and King."

  Cold sliced up Calder's spine. Queen? He also noted they had said Queen and King, not King and Queen. That was more than a little strange, given how long these men had served that King and adored him. Perhaps the Princess had been right, even if the notion still seemed strange and borderline ridiculous—how could there be a witch here, and what had she done to coerce the King into marrying her?

  "I see," Calder replied to their refusal. "But, however shall I know what to hunt for their dinner? I am certain our new noble Queen wants something appropriate to the occasion, but I do not yet know her tastes."

  He could see them falter over that—he had always come to see the King upon his returns, to know what to bring down in the forest. As the Royal Huntsman, he and he alone was allowed to hunt in the King's Woods, and only with the King's permission. Bound to the forest by old magic, one of the few life-bond spells still legal, he could sense everything about it, knew where the animal he sought could be found—he knew the forest, and everything and everyone in it, and would until he died.

  "We would not want to offend the new Queen," he added quietly.

  That seemed to decide them, overcoming even the strange orders or commands or whatever that went along with the Siren's Curse. Nodding, obviously still hesitate but not able to risk offending she who had them so enthralled.

  Nodding to them, Calder passed through the open doors before they could change their minds, and stepped into the entry room of the Royal Chambers.

  It was oddly silent. The King had never been a quiet man; like his much loved only child, he was talkative and bright and always doing something. When Calder had first applied to take up the vacant post of Huntsman, that they both liked people and being busy had immediately drawn them to each other.

  The King always had people around him, and after returning from one of his journeys around the kingdom, he was rife with new tales to relate until the listeners were all but falling over from exhaustion. Now…now there was nothing. He hesitated, not certain he should press his luck by venturing deeper into the royal chambers. What if he was dealing with a witch? How did one deal with a witch?

  His thoughts went immediately to Lev, but he yanked them right back. He had no right to venture down that path. Lev was ten years behind him. A possible witch was no excuse to call up that bittersweet piece of his past.

  Deciding that inaction was not the way to handle the problem, he left the entryway and entered the king's salon. The emptiness seemed all the worse here, when every chair and couch and chaise should have been occupied by the King's friends.

  The sound of rustling fabric drew his attention, and Calder turned just as a woman came through the doorway from the bedroom. She was beautiful—stunningly so. Tall and stately, elegance in every line of her body, every movement. Her skin was the sort of china pale that all girls dreamed of possessing, flawless and smooth, as perfect as untouched snow. Her hair was a deep, rich auburn, pulled back from her head, held with diamond pins, to spill in artful curls down her back and over her shoulders—shoulders that were still that perfect white skin, so too the tops of her breasts, swelling up from a gown of deep green velvet.

  Such a gown would have cost a fortune – green velvet and silk, embroidered in gold thread and sparkling jewels, the bodice intricately woven with a star and roses pattern in gold and silver thread, speckled with still more precious jewels. Worst of all, a glittering diamond and emerald diadem lay over the dark curls, sparkling on her forehead. The diadem of the Queen. She also bore, he saw, the matching wedding ring. So the King had married a witch.

  Because she was definitely a witch. Ten years later, he still recognized the coppery scent that clung to practioners of high magic.

  He remained silent and still as she approached, treating her much as he would a new wild animal come to his territory—let her be, watching closely, give nothing away, be prepared to kill at any time if the creature proved too dangerous.

  When she reached him, perhaps only a step or two of space between them, she extended one pale, perfect hand, waiting expectantly.

  Taking it, Calder bent deeply over the hand and brushed the softest of kisses over the knuckles. Then he relaxed his grip, but did not rise or withdraw, leaving that for her to decide.

  She let her hand linger for at least a full minute, then twisted it to grasp his chin and pull him far too close. "You must be the Huntsman," she murmured, her voice the sort that most men found enthralling. Smooth, soft, but with a hint of purr, a hint of growl. Calder remained unmoved, beyond a slight shiver of fear that something great and terrible was now Queen of the place he calle
d home.

  "You are quite impressive," she purred at him, closing the space between them, breasts pushing against his chest, arms twining around his neck. She smelled like roses and violets, mingled with that coppery tang—that he realized was growing stronger, and her strange blue-violet eyes had a faint shimmer to them. She was trying to cast a spell on him, likely the Siren Curse.

  He realized abruptly that it was not working—and that thought was immediately followed by the further realization that if she knew it was not working, he was probably a dead man.

  Then her lips covered his, warm and soft and talented, but something about them made him shudder with distaste, made him think of blood and dying flesh. But he kissed her back, and settled his hands lightly on her waist, struggling to imitate what it was like to be utterly enthralled by a lover.

  Such a feeling was ten years old for him, not felt since he and Lev had decided to go their separate ways.

  Kissing the Queen was nothing like kissing Lev, but if he thought only of Lev while he did it, perhaps he would pass muster. The kiss went on and on, seeming to last forever, far too long for Calder's taste. But he could feel something in it, something coursing through him, making him shudder and shake, making his skin crawl.

  It was, he sensed, the Siren Curse—but it wasn't working. Why not? He was not immune to magic. If that were the case, the binding spell would not have taken. Something else was preventing the Siren Curse. But what?

  He had no chance to solve the riddle, as she finally drew back and gazed up at him through long lashes, her strange eyes now practically glowing. "What a fine Huntsman you are," she purred, "and all mine, yes? Don't you want to be all mine, Huntsman?"

  "Yes, my Queen," he murmured, not resisting as she guided his hand to her breasts, smoothing his hand over them through the stiff bodice, curling over the edge of it to just touch the soft skin where it bulged over the top of the bodice. Again he was reminded of dying flesh—touching her felt like touching a corpse. He hid his distaste, hid everything, calling up memories he had tried in vain to keep buried, needing them now, the feelings they inspired, to fool the witch-Queen.