Her Ugly Monster (book 1)

by Kaylee Rymer

  Weegel stared in horror. No, he wouldn’t. Not Henry, an innocent caterpillar.

  The boy flattened Henry with his boot. The other two boys burst out laughing, pointing at Weegel while calling him a crybaby.

  Henry had become nothing more than a gooey green blob.

  Weegel narrowed his eyes as every muscle in his body trembled. “You bastard... He was my friend!”

  He rushed forth and knocked Duke off his feet. Duke screamed as Weegel scratched at his face, but his brothers soon came to his aid and pinned Weegel to the ground. Duke joined his brothers once again, and they kicked and punched Weegel till he was black and blue. They even forced him to eat Henry’s remains, but Weegel vomited on Duke instead, and the boy punched him harder.

  And then they left him to rot in the woods.

  Weegel curled up into a ball, wishing that the earth would swallow him up and take him to hell where he belonged. He deserved it for letting Henry die.

  The poor thing never even got to be a moth.

  “Weegel?”

  He perked up at his mother’s voice, wanting so badly to run into her arms, but he was too ashamed. What would she think of him?

  After all, he’d promised to stop fighting with Duke and his brothers, yet he went against her wishes and got himself hurt.

  Barley stalks rustled behind him, and then a shrill gasp pierced the cool summer air. “Weegel!”

  Someone lifted him off the ground and a woman’s face appeared before him. It was a perfect heart shape, framed by beautiful red curls, and Weegel’s heart warmed. Mother.

  A crease formed between her big brown eyes. “Weegel? What happened to you?”

  His lips trembled, and he looked away, squeezing his eyes. “I’m s-sorry, M-Mummy...”

  Mother cradled him in her arms and rocked his head. “It’s all right, sweetheart. We won’t let them get away with this.”

  “They... killed Henry.”

  “Henry?” She paused a moment. “Oh, Henry. Oh... oh, Weegel, my baby. I’m so sorry. We will get you a new pet, I promise.”

  “But... I want Henry,” he cried, burying his face into her chest.

  She brushed his hair, stroking the tender lumps of his forehead, but he didn’t flinch. Her touch soothed his soul, and he breathed in her scent.

  “Mrs Colt’s cat has just had eight kittens. You can take your pick from the litter tomorrow. Now let’s clean up those cuts.”

  She carried him back to the farmhouse. Once there she placed him on a stool and tended to his cuts.

  “Ow, it hurts, it hurts!” he yelled, stamping his feet as she pressed a warm cloth to his forehead.

  She pecked his forehead. “There, all better.”

  Weegel cast his eyes to the floor. “Don’t... don’t tell Grandpa.”

  Mother lifted his chin and levelled his eyes with hers. “He’ll find out, eventually. You can’t hide those cuts forever.”

  “But... he’ll be ashamed of me...”

  “Listen to me. Your grandfather loves you very much, but fighting is never the answer.”

  He blew a sigh, “I know.”

  She winced. “Ugh, have you been sick?”

  Weegel wobbled his bottom lip, and once again he burst into tears. “They made me eat Henry!”

  Her jaw clenched and a hardened look formed in her eyes. “They... did what?”

  Weegel scooted back in his seat. Her voice was barely a whisper, and he swallowed, wondering if he should tell her the next thing on his mind. “And I... also said a bad word.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

  The tone of her voice turned his blood ice cold, but he was already in too deep, so he told her. “The... the one you call... a-another boy if his parents aren’t married.”

  She threw the cloth into the bowl. “Weegel, you know you’re not supposed to say words like that.”

  Weegel smiled. “But it can also be used to describe a really bad person, like Duke. I read it in a book.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  He dropped his head, and more tears gushed from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  She sighed and pulled him close. “I forgive you. Just don’t resort to name-calling again, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “I love you, Weegel.”

  “I love you too, Mummy.”

  “Weegel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Wake up.”

  “Huh?”

  “Wake up!”

  Mother shook him next, and the small farmhouse kitchen disappeared.

  Weegel gasped awake and locked eyes with a blonde-haired girl. He screamed and shuffled back on a crisp white bed, gazing desperately around the room. No, not a room, but a cave. A cold, grey cave.

  Stone walls closed in around him, making him feel trapped and confined, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

  His heart beat through his chest. Where was he? And what happened to the farm? To Mother?

  An eerie-sounding voice rang through his skull, and he cried out, throwing himself back on the pillow.

  “You’re far from home... you’ll never see your mum again...”

  Hoarse breaths escaped his sore throat, and he bit down on his tongue.

  She sounded exactly like Duke’s mother, except less human somehow. A ghost.

  What in the hell was she doing inside his head?

  A blonde shape appeared in the corner of his eye. He turned. The girl was back at his side again, and he strained his eyes to get a better look. For a moment he thought it was Milly Shoehorn, the Cobbler’s daughter, but then he recognised her, and Duke’s mother vanished. “Ivy!”

  She smiled, and her warm green eyes sparkled. “Yes.”

  His heart flipped, and he reached out a shaking hand. She took a hold and squeezed it tight.

  A lump clogged his throat. It really was her. No doubts about it.

  Ivy placed a hand against his clammy forehead, and he closed his eyes, melting beneath her touch. Then she pressed something cold against his lips, and he gazed down into a cup. He held his head back and let her pour the cool liquid down his burning throat.

  She put the cup to one side when he had his fill then dried his mouth with a cloth. Their eyes were inches away, and she smiled shyly.

  His insides turned to mush at the mere sight of her smile. By gods, she was perfect.

  An image of her leaving down the mountainside rushed to the fore of his mind, and he felt a crushing blow to the chest. It hurt. A thousand times more than the pain in his head. Letting her go had been the stupidest thing he’d ever done, and he regretted every moment. The memory of her heartbroken face would be forever etched in his brain, and he deserved every bit of pain it gave him.

  Why did he point an arrow at her? And why... why had he destroyed the one last connection she’d had with her parents?

  His head swirled, and he massaged his eyeballs.

  She brushed a hand between his horns. “It’s all right. You just rest.”

  “Ivy... I’m... sorry.”

  Her hand froze.

  Weegel watched her between his fingers, his heart beating inside his mouth.

  Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Let’s... just focus on getting you better now.”

  “I understand if you don’t want to stay anymore. Take whatever you need, and—”

  She placed a finger to his lips, and he looked up in surprise.

  “I’ll never leave you,” she whispered.

  His heart drummed through his ears. Her breath tickled his face, sending electrical jolts through his body, and he yearned to sit up and press his mouth against her lips.

  She gasped and fixed the bandage around his horn.

  Wait, bandage?

  Weegel felt his left horn and a dark prickle shot through his arm. Images flooded his mind next — images of a rolling rock, Ivy’s helpless face, and then total darkness.

  Half of his horn had snapped off. A wet, bloody stump was left in its place. The blood ru
shed through his head, drowning out his thin breaths.

  Ivy cradled his head. “Weegel... look at me.”

  He looked up, and her face swam up before him. He tried to focus, but she was nothing but a blur.

  “Stay with me, Weegel. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

  He focused on her honeysuckle scent and breathed her in. “What... what happened?”

  “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood. I’ve tried everything, from your scarf, yarrow leaves, and bandages, but it still won’t stop the bleeding.”

  Weegel stared up at the stalactites. For as long as he could remember, his horns had been a burden. Yet now that he had lost one, he felt incomplete, less whole somehow.

  “Where’s the broken horn?” he asked.

  Ivy released a shaky sigh. “On the table.”

  He closed his eyes. A part of him was on the table, disembodied from the rest of him.

  “I... really am sorry. It’s all my fault. I should never have tried to leave.”

  Weegel turned her way. “No. The fault’s mine. I was the one who burned your letter.”

  Ivy shook her head, hearing none of it.

  What he’d do to be able to lift his head and comfort her, but he was too weak. Half the worcog he used to be. He feigned a smile instead. “Don’t worry. I’m... sure it’ll grow back.”

  Again, she shook her head. “Goat... goat horns don’t grow back.”

  He chuckled. “Are you calling me a goat?”

  She half laughed, half sobbed. “Maybe...”

  Weegel patted her hand. “You did a good job. Thank you. I know how blood makes you get.”

  Ivy met his eyes, and a small smile played across her face. “You’re welcome. And... thank you. For saving my life.”

  His heart skipped again, and he returned the smile. “And I’d do it all over again.”

  He cupped her cheek in his hand, and he knew it just by looking at her then; he had fallen absolutely head over heels in love with her, and there was no turning back.

  Ivy closed her eyes as he massaged her temple.

  “Weegel...” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s... something I need to tell you...”

  He stopped rubbing her temple and looked at her curiously.

  Her delicate lashes fluttered with anticipation, and slowly she opened her eyes. “I’m... I’m the princess... Ivora.”

  Weegel’s heart started up again, and his vision swirled.

  Of course. It all made sense. The necklace, the soldiers, everything.

  “Weegel!”

  His head fell back on his pillow, and the last thing he remembered before he passed out was the cool touch of her hand.

  The hand of a princess.

  20. Ivora

  Ivora shivered before the hearth, wrapped up in several furs.

  Every single part of her was numb. She’d never known a winter like it. The north truly was a cold, miserable wasteland. Ice covered every rock and tree. Lakes and rivers were frozen, and all the animals had disappeared. Even the sky had turned into a permanent cloud.

  The kitchen had become her new quarters. The flames kept the room warm, along with the combined body heat of human and worcog.

  Weegel had taken a few weeks to recover, and she’d stayed with him every step of the way.

  He slept a lot, and Ivora had taken those rare moments to appreciate the art of his face. With closed eyes, his aquiline nose took centre stage. She would run a finger along the bridge and stop between his brows. Then she would move to his cheeks.

  Though coarse, his skin had an enticing feel, but his lips were smooth. She traced a line around the peaks of his Cupid’s bow and placed a finger against the groove beneath his nose.

  Poor Weegel hadn’t woken for a whole day after she confessed her identity, but when he finally did, he looked at her as if she were a brand new person.

  It made Ivora feel like a museum relic. Apparently, Weegel had read many books on the kingdom’s noble families. He told her that the seal on her necklace had belonged to Benfred Westwind, lord of Westwind Isle.

  There was also the Roseblood dynasty, seal a red rose, of whose last unliving member she had already met, and Cadstone, which was now extinct. Their seal had been a mountain. Godwyn’s had been a great fireball or a comet.

  Westwind had been her birth mother’s father, and Godwyn her father’s.

  According to Weegel, King Merf Godwyn had been a cruel man. He cared more for his own wealth and power than he did for his people. He imposed heavy taxes, took away land and food from the most vulnerable communities, and had even killed those who dared to oppose him.

  And the fae were no exception. He made life harder for them, permitting hunting laws all around the country to the point where the fae had to go into hiding.

  Ivora had felt sick to her stomach to learn that she was related to such a man. How could anyone be so black-hearted? Thank goodness she had managed to get away from him.

  He had even shunned his own son, The Crown Prince Torin, for siring Ivora, a lowly girl. Merf believed that only men could rule; women lacked the brains and were too soft.

  It was no wonder that the current ruler, King Astor, had overthrown Merf. Astor had started a rebel group of both human and fae, and in mere weeks he had rallied thousands. By that point Godwyn’s men had already deserted him; even Torin had disappeared.

  It was just a question of how Mother and Father fit into the story. Unfortunately, Weegel didn’t have an answer. Ivora had shown him the portrait of the young brunette girl her mother had given her. He confirmed it was Rowenda Westwind, her birth mother, but they could find no connection to her adopted parents.

  Ivora gazed down at the Westwind seal on her necklace. A family heirloom, Mother once told her.

  Footsteps echoed up the tunnel, and Weegel soon arrived, panting and sweating. He’d only started venturing back outside again two days previous, and it was obvious he was out of shape.

  His face shone like wax as he doubled over, clutching his sides.

  “Weegel. You’re supposed to take it easy,” she said.

  He moved across to the table and plonked down into a chair. “Had... had to clear up all the snow. Otherwise, we’d be trapped.”

  “Then let me do it.” She got up and joined him at the table. “You just focus on getting better.”

  “No. I need to do it. I have to feel useful.”

  Ivora took his hand. “Even with one full horn, you still have much to offer. Don’t weigh all your self-worth on the number of horns you have.”

  “Horns were a sign of masculine power in ancient worcog clans.”

  “And a smashed horn only shows a sign of a struggle, a fight the male survived.”

  Weegel cocked a brow, looking rather impressed by her knowledge of worcogs.

  He’d read her his book about ancient worcogs, the only source of information he had about his race. They’d lived in the great northern wild, a sturdy race built for the world’s harshest conditions, and it was no wonder; Weegel barely seemed to feel the cold.

  He’d confessed his reason for taking her necklace, which was to secure his safe voyage out of the country in search of his people. Ivora’s heart wept for him. Poor thing, having to resort to desperate measures to find the one place he belonged. Something Ivora could relate to. Ever since she’d departed from her parents, Ivora had felt lost. Well, until she met Weegel.

  Weegel pursed his lips. “Guess I never thought of it that way. But imagine if someone chopped off all your hair, and it never grew back?”

  Ivora’s arms pricked at the mere thought, and she brushed a hand through her locks, grateful for the comfort they gave. She’d been growing her hair since she was ten. Now it reached past her waist, providing an extra blanket in the winter.

  She sighed and smoothed down his hair. “Think of it this way — it shows your brave sacrifice. You saved my life. If it meant cutting off my hair to save yours too, I’d do it.�
�

  Weegel grinned. “Let’s just hope for your sake it never comes to that. You’d look ugly as a bald person.”

  She whacked his shoulder and his eyes gave a mischievous glint. Without warning, he jumped out of his chair and tackled her to the floor. According to the book, rough play was how young children bonded and formed friendships, but for mates... well, she dare not think about it.

  Weegel pinned her to the ground, smiling down in triumph. “You know you won’t ever win a fight with me, princess.”

  She scowled up at him. “Don’t call me princess!”

  He chuckled, and his face softened as he skimmed over her features. His eyes were like melted butter, drowning her slowly, and once again she lost herself in his gaze.

  Why did he have to be so frighteningly beautiful?

  A soft hum echoed up the tunnel, and Ivora glanced at Weegel. He seemed confused too.

  The humming grew louder, and Weegel got to his feet.

  “What is that?” Ivora asked.

  “Sounds like a large bee,” he replied, grabbing his copy of One Thousand Fairy tales Retold for the Young and Old.

  “In winter?”

  Weegel scratched the back of his head and put the book down. “Good point.”

  A ball of light entered the room next, and Ivora shielded her eyes. The sudden brightness took her by surprise, but like the cold, it appeared to have no effect on Weegel.

  The light landed on the table, and Ivora removed her hands. The silhouette of a tiny person appeared. It had the wings and antennae of an insect, but the face of a small child.

  “Oh my...” she gasped, moving closer to get a better look at the faery. It was so beautiful. Its hair flowed like a soft feather, and it had twinkling blue eyes.

  Weegel slammed a fist onto the table, and the sweet little thing fell backwards. “I told the big oaf no messages to my home address!”

  Ivora turned on Weegel and saw the scrunched up letter in his hand. It was bright gold and twice the size of the faery. Ivora hadn’t even noticed the faery had been carrying anything.

  Weegel glanced at Ivora, and a wide, toothy grin spread across his face.

  “Has someone written to you?” she asked, moving closer to the envelope. A strange seal covered the top.