by Kaylee Rymer
Her Ugly Monster
Book #1
Kaylee Rymer Social
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Her Ugly Monster
Foreword
1. Weegel
2. Ivora
3. Weegel
4. Ivora
5. Weegel
6. Ivora
7. Weegel
8. Ivora
9. Weegel
10. Ivora
11. Weegel
12. Ivora
13. Weegel
14. Ivora
15. Weegel
16. Ivora
17. Weegel
18. Ivora
19. Weegel
20. Ivora
21. Weegel
22. Ivora
23. Weegel
24. Ivora
25. Weegel
26. Ivora
27. Weegel
The End
DEDICATION
Author Notes
Her Ugly Monster
Copyright ©2018 by Kaylee Rymer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental
ASIN: B07GQHQK19.
Cover Illustration by Ryan Schwarz
The Cover Designer
Foreword
One character experiences severe PTSD and may be triggered, reliving traumatic memories or hearing things. It may be upsetting for some readers.
This book is also written in British English, with the only exception of the more archaic ‘burned’. If you do spot any genuine spelling, grammar and typo mistakes, please message me and I will be happy to alter them.
1. Weegel
Snap.
Weegel flinched at the sound. What was that?
He glanced down at his feet. A stick. He’d only gone and stepped on a bloody stick!
With a pounding heart, he moved his eyes back to the bush. The humans hadn’t spoken for a while, and the woodland clearing beyond appeared empty and lifeless.
It was silent. No birds twittered in the trees, and even the wind seemed to stop.
“Wh-what was that sound?” one human asked.
Weegel’s stomach clenched and carefully he bit down on his tongue. If he ran, he would alert the humans to his presence, but if he stayed they’d find him.
“Well, don’t say you don’t deserve it, idiot. Spying like a little cretin.”
Weegel rolled his eyes. It was Rosemary, the voice who lived inside his head, and she was wrong; he hadn’t been spying on the humans, he’d stumbled upon them by accident.
“I... think I heard something,” the human said again.
“Oh, shut up, will ya?” another human replied. “Yer hearin’ things!”
The second voice was much louder, angrier and deeper than the first, and one Weegel didn’t like the sound of.
With slow, careful movements, Weegel took a step back, trying to avoid the detection of the humans.
Snap.
Weegel silently cursed. Why did there have to be so many sticks?
“There it is again! I told ya I wasn’t hearin’ things.”
“Yeah, I heard that too. Hold on.”
Heavy footsteps approached the bush, and soon a shadow loomed before Weegel. It was now or never. Fight or flight.
The branches parted, and a round, startled face appeared. Wide black eyes met Weegel’s yellow ones.
Flight.
With a turn of his heel, he sprinted off through the forest, dodging trees of various shapes.
“It’s the worcog! Quick, after it!” the human shouted.
Why had he bidden his time? If he had taken off sooner, they wouldn’t have caught him. Stupid, stupid, worcog.
“Yes, stupid, stupid worcog. They’re going to kill you.”
Rosemary’s voice echoed through the forest, seeming to come from everywhere, but he pressed on.
Shouts bounced off the trees, growing louder and closer with each beat of his heart. No matter how fast he ran, there was no escaping the men.
His foot caught on an upturned root, and he went flying face-first into a delicious pile of crap.
Weegel jumped back up to his feet, wiping his face. Some had even gotten inside his mouth.
“Over here! It ran this way,” the humans called.
Weegel whirled on the spot, looking for a place to hide. A large oak tree with a thick trunk provided great coverage, but it wouldn’t last. It looked as if he would have to fight.
Taking his place behind the tree, he grabbed his bow, nocked an arrow, and pulled the string. Any minute now.
“I see its tracks. The stupid beast actually thought it could get away.”
Weegel gritted his teeth, taking in slow, steady breaths. A hot prickle spread through his chest. That word beast, or any other variation, always caused his blood to fizzle.
“We’ll be rich once we get our hands on it. No more workin’ at the farmhouse. No more shovelling shit. One thousand gold pieces!”
Despite his best efforts, Weegel’s breaths increased, steam escaping from his nostrils.
“You shoulda seen it. Ugly! Big yellow eyes, puke-coloured skin, and horns like a dumb sheep. Baaa.”
The man’s foolish bleating rang through Weegel’s skull, eliciting painful memories of times long past. A picturesque farm scene, dense woods, and tall boys towering him at every turn. Back then they’d called him a goat, but the insult was still the same.
“Typical monster, the thing deserves to be killed...”
Something snapped inside Weegel, sending electrical jolts through every fibre of his body. He jumped out from behind the tree, his arrow drawn and pointed.
Two startled faces, a yelp, and a pair of stumbling feet. Nothing but pure fear. The way Weegel liked it best.
He kept his arrow on the larger, the same black eyes meeting his own again. The smaller boy on his right looked just like a petrified deer.
With a curl of his lips, Weegel stepped closer, keeping the arrow tip pointed at the boy’s chest. Yes, just a boy in the end, not much younger than he was.
“Go on, say it again,” Weegel breathed.
The larger boy’s lower lip wobbled. His black eyes never left the tip of the arrow. He held a knife in his hand, which slipped to the floor as his wrist lost all its previous vigour. It was always the way with humans. They got so caught up in the fun of the chase, they were totally unprepared when the monster bites back.
A dark laugh escaped Weegel’s jaw. “I can’t believe I was actually afraid. Enough to run for my life. Look at you. You’re nothing but a pathetic, blubbering blob!”
The large boy closed his eyes and whimpered. “Please... we’re sorry. We... never... we only...”
“You never meant to hunt me down for a reward? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
The boy gulped and nodded a quick yes.
Weegel scoffed. “And you expect me to believe that?”
Again, the boy nodded a simple yes. Big mistake.
Weegel directed the arrow back and forth between the two boys. “Which one of you should I take out first?”
None of them answered. Not surprising.
Weegel moved his eyes to the large boy who was now sweating profus
ely, not a single pore spared on his pimply face. The smaller boy never made a sound and kept his eyes on his feet.
Weegel inched closer. Both boys flinched.
His hold on the string quivered. What was taking him so long? Why couldn’t he shoot? It was just like shooting deer, one shot and it would all be over.
No one could blame him. It would be self-defence. Either him or the boys, who were terrified. The larger one had even pissed himself. And the smell.
Weegel closed his eyes and took in deep, slow breaths. Then he let go of the arrow, aiming straight for the tree behind the boy’s heads.
The large one yelled and fell to his knees, covering his head. “No, no! We surrender!”
“Quiet!” Weegel yelled.
The boy glanced up, tears streaking his round face. The smaller one looked from Weegel to his large friend on the floor, confusion creasing his eyebrows.
Weegel pointed a finger at the arrow behind them. “I’m no monster, but if you ever try to track me down again, I promise the next one won’t miss. Now leave my sight!”
Both boys staggered, bumping into one another before taking off through the woods.
Good riddance.
He slung his bow back on his shoulder and continued his hike through the woods. Before he’d accidentally stumbled upon the boys, he had been in search of a secret town. A town so elusive that the streets were said to be paved with gemstone. Well, there was only one way to find out.
A poster caught his eye a few trees away. When he reached it, he was greeted by his own face. Once again, the humans overemphasised his otherworldliness, although he had to congratulate the illustrator for making him look so deliciously evil — horns twisted around his head like tree roots, cold dragon eyes, and... a snake tongue?
Weegel stuck out his tongue. No, just an ordinary, non-forked tongue. Feeling slightly disappointed, he put it away and read out the sign.
“Worcog. Wanted for theft and for daring to be different.”
Those weren’t the exact words written on the poster, but they may as well have been. The humans were afraid of him. When you’re the last living member of your race, who could blame them? After all, Weegel wasn’t exactly a saint. He was a known thief. But that was hardly his fault. He needed to survive, and no one had ever given him a chance to be an ‘honest upstanding member of the community’.
Once he’d accumulated enough stolen goods, he could pawn them in exchange for a boat ride to the Great North, the ancestral homeland of his people. He’d only ever known misery in the land of the men. In the Great North, he could find a fresh start and discover other worcogs.
He pulled the poster off the tree and stared at his image. The likeness was there, but Weegel was much less terrifying. Although he was far from handsome, he had a certain boyish charm with his thick red hair and impish smile. A mischievous glint to the eye also hinted at a playful nature. Yet all the humans ever saw was the horns, and the green, muddy skin.
Weegel tore the poster up and discarded the pieces, but a quick glance around the forest confirmed there were many other posters.
With a roll of his eyes, he pulled up his hood, covered his nose and mouth with a scarf, and took off in search of the mysterious town.
2. Ivora
With one stroke of the brush, the waves fell into place, and the great ocean burst to life.
Ivora stepped back and gasped. Blue waves rolled towards her, spraying a fine mist her way, and soft sand caressed her toes.
Seagulls squawked high above, hovering in a perfect azure sky. One even dived into the waves and caught a fish.
A seashell lay on the sand by her feet. She picked it up and placed it by her ear. Her mother had always told her of the ocean’s sound, but what need did she have of a faint echo with the sea right before her?
Ivora closed her eyes, savouring the sweet music of splashing waves, crying gulls, and a gentle, cool wind. Beautiful. She never wanted to leave.
A knock echoed through the beach, and she glanced around. Where had it come from?
“Ivora. Your breakfast is ready.”
Ivora shook her head and the sounds of the ocean disappeared. She was back in her bedroom, facing her mural once again. Paint dripped from her brush, running down her hand and turning her fair skin blue. She sighed. If only she could escape into her painting for real.
The knock came again. “Ivora?”
“All right, Mother. I’ll be down shortly.”
Mother’s footsteps retreated down the stairs.
Ivora set her brush beside her paint box, noticing she was out of blue. She would have to make a visit to town and purchase more paint.
Dressing quickly in her favourite blue dress, she peered into her vanity mirror and did a double take. Blue paint stained the tip of her nose. A little had even dried into the blonde of her hair. Yanking a flower from a vase, she tied it in place to cover the paint. Now Mother would be none the wiser.
She wiped her nose on the way to the door, pausing when she reached the threshold. She chewed her bottom lip, trying to remember if she’d forgotten something.
Of course.
Ivora moved to her bedside cabinet and grabbed the chain. The pendant was of a diamond-studded wave, a bright iridescent blue against a silver backdrop. She had never gone a day without the necklace since her mother gave it to her on her fifth birthday.
“A family heirloom,” Mother had said. “Cherish it always.”
She tied the necklace around her neck and gazed over the pendant.
It really was beautiful.
“Ivora!”
Ivora rolled her eyes, tucked her necklace beneath her dress like Mother and Father instructed, and rushed downstairs. There, on the table, was her breakfast, a bowl of porridge. “Thank goodness, I’m starved.”
Her mother, Gertilde, gave her a pointed look from her place by the hearth. “Finally, I was starting to think you’d never show, but I’m afraid your porridge has gotten cold now, dear.”
Ivora shrugged, taking her seat. “Well, never mind. I’ll still enjoy it.”
“What were you doing up there, anyway?”
She sat up, grinning from ear to ear. “I was painting.”
Mother shook her head. “You and those paintings again. It’s like you live inside them.”
“I wish I did. It’s so boring in town. When will you finally take me to see the ocean, Mother? I think I’m more than old enough.”
Mother smiled mischievously. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
Ivora assumed her sweetest gaze, the one that made her green eyes bigger and shinier. “Go on, you can tell me. I won’t tell Father.”
Mother frowned. “No matter how much you use that look, Ivora, you know it’ll never work on me.”
Ivora sighed. “Fine.” She swirled the contents of her bowl, lost in thought. If her parents were taking her away, it would have to be a big surprise. One she wouldn’t expect in the slightest. Ivora’s birthday was in a month’s time, her sixteenth to be precise. Her coming of age would be a perfect time to explore the world.
“I know!” Ivora piped. “You’re taking me for my birthday, aren’t you?”
Her mother tossed the spoon into the pot and wrapped her arms. “That’s enough now, Ivora. Like I said, you’ll have to wait and see. Now I will hear no more of this ocean talk.”
Ivora sank back into the seat, her excitement deflating.
Mother returned to the pot, and silence fell across the kitchen. Only the sizzling and spitting of Mother’s potion filled the room. Outside, a goat bleated in the paddock, and the distant clank of Father’s hammer echoed across the cottage grounds.
Ivora gazed into her bowl, imagining that her porridge looked like the different continents of the world. One day she would finally get to leave the cottage and travel. It was bad enough she’d never left town.
Mother left the potion to a simmer and took a seat beside Ivora. In her hand was a list of chores.
�
��Now, your schedule for the day. First things first, feed the chickens and then the goats. Second, hang the linen on the line. Third, place the chicken in the pot, chop the vegetables—”
Ivora placed a hand on her mother’s wrist. “Mother, you don’t have to give me a run through of the list every time you leave for the day. I’m sure I can manage.”
Mother looked a little stunned for a moment. With a sigh, she folded up the list and passed it to Ivora. “Here.”
Hesitantly, Ivora took the list and read through her chores. There were also the dishes, baking the biscuits, and cleaning up of Bryce’s mess, their old faithful mastiff.
“And don’t forget,” Mother rose from the chair, grabbed a book from a shelf, and plonked it down onto the table.
Ivora read the title, and her stomach churned: one hundred runes and how to interpret them.
She released an exasperated breath. Mother had insisted every day for the past three years that Ivora learn runes. Only Ivora couldn’t quite get to grips on them, finding it hard to tell the difference between all the various symbols. Often she would secretly be reading one of her fairy tales, pretending to take in all the runic symbols when she was really reading about the adventures of her favourite queen.
Mother had always been interested in magic. She had placed protective crystals all around the cottage to ward off unwanted guests. Even her latest potion, a simple medicine to cure baldness, was sizzling away in the pot. Mother had even charmed Ivora’s necklace and promised that it would always bring her luck. Her father, Robert, on the other hand, was more down to earth, preferring to spend his time moulding metal into perfect shapes.
Not that Ivora minded all the magic, but it did make her and her family the talk of the town; Mother would enter in her extravagant purple cloaks and beaded jewels while Father kept to his forge.
They were the Hammersmiths, after all, the oddball, mismatched family who lived at the edge of town.
That reminded her. Ivora finished the last of her porridge, put on her blue cloak, and moved towards the door.
