Kill Me Softly

by Sarah Cross

  She knew he was joking. She knew, but it wasn’t funny.

  “No,” she said, threatening him with a pathetically slow kicking gesture.

  “You’re right. You’d probably be disappointed. I haven’t had a lot of practice, for obvious reasons. How’s Felix? Amazing?”

  “Felix … has had a lot of practice,” she said dully, not liking the direction this was going in. “That’s what you’re trying to say.”

  Blue shrugged. “It’s not like I read his diary. Just something to think about.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Well, maybe you should.”

  She closed her eyes; let the subtle rocking of the water carry her. “Shut up, Blue.” The water was almost as warm as her body. If it wasn’t for Blue’s leg touching hers, it would be like floating in a sensory deprivation chamber. Instead, it was almost hypersensory. Every time he touched her, something new unfurled inside her. “Shut up or I’m leaving.”

  “Fine,” he said quietly. “But only because I don’t want you to go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AFTER SWIMMING, they all crept into the Knights’ house, their swimsuits dripping water on the floor, their feet tracking grass onto Persian carpets. Every room was decorated to within an inch of its life. Years of wealth and influence had gathered there like dust.

  Freddie shushed their laughter. It was late, he said, and his mother was hypersensitive. She’d wake at the slightest sound.

  The boys descended to the basement, unbothered by the cold swimsuits clinging to their legs. Mira’s hair was soaked, and she was hugging her towel to her body, missing the heat of the pool. Viv brought her to Freddie’s room to change.

  Moonlight streamed through the windows, casting a bluish glow on old Little League trophies, Freddie’s guitars and amp, and a messy twin bed stripped to the fitted sheet. The rest of the covers slumped sloppily to the ground, like they’d been kicked off during fitful sleep.

  Mira changed back into the clothes she’d worn earlier. Viv flopped down on Freddie’s bed, still wearing her wet bikini. She stared at the ceiling, arms limp at her sides. Like an actress auditioning for the role of a corpse.

  “Do you think I’ll look pretty when I’m dead?” Viv asked.

  Mira’s mouth opened without a response.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Viv went on, teeth scraping her ruby lip. “I mean, I am, and I’m not.”

  Mira could hear the tick of a tiny clock, the blood moving through her head. She barely knew what to say. “What’s on your mind, Viv?”

  “Not dead, exactly. In an enchanted coma. Don’t you worry about that, too?” Viv sighed. “No, I suppose not. Who’s afraid of Freddie?”

  “I worry about it,” Mira admitted. “I don’t want to not be in control. I don’t want to be at someone else’s mercy.” She went and sat at the end of Freddie’s bed, next to Viv’s feet, which were pointed delicately like a ballerina’s.

  “Same here,” Viv said. “But my whole life going forward is going to be like that. I’d have to keep a perfect balance to avoid it. Pretty enough to make Henley the Huntsman want to save me … but not too pretty, because too pretty is what sets my stepmother off. And she wants me gone—she wanted me gone years ago.”

  Viv twisted restlessly. “I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Waiting to make him hate me, I guess. Make him loyal to her so he’ll cut my heart out when she asks him to … And then if Henley doesn’t kill me, there’s the matter of being pretty enough to attract some necrophiliac playboy. Someday my prince will come—and be enamored of my lifeless body. There’s some happily-ever-after for you.”

  The image of Gwen shuffling through the street fair arose in Mira’s mind. She imagined the moment when the prince must have found her—dead to the world, numb. He was so in love with her perfect little doll face that he felt compelled to bring her coffin with him so he could look upon her always. Like she was a souvenir, not a person.

  Until she woke up, and ruined his fantasy.

  “Blue and Layla told me about Gwen,” Mira said, unsure how to offer comfort when everything she’d heard about Viv’s tale was twisted and dark. “The other Snow White Somnolent. But I don’t—I don’t think it always has to be like that. Your prince could … take pity on you, maybe. Feel bad that your life was cut short. And not want to leave your coffin in the woods, or wherever he found it. He wouldn’t necessarily be a bad person.”

  “No,” Viv said, shaking her head, wet tendrils of hair writhing against the mattress. “The only person who’ll pity me is Henley … that’s the only way he won’t kill me. If he decides not to anyway.”

  “I don’t think it would be pity, Viv,” Mira said, but Viv wasn’t listening.

  “Regina had a glass coffin built when I was thirteen,” Viv said. “She put it in the sunroom and she tends to it like it’s her baby; she polishes it every day. It looks like a display case, and that’s what it is. A display case for my corpse, so she can use my so-called beauty to her advantage, flash my undead pallor at potential suitors, like: here, take her, please. She wants to get rid of me … she wants me in someone else’s house, as someone else’s problem.”

  Viv sounded upset, not blasé like she probably wanted to.

  Mira laid her hand on Viv’s ankle, just to remind her she was there. That Viv wasn’t alone right now. Wasn’t dead, or in danger. Mira knew she sometimes needed reminding of that herself.

  “Couldn’t you tell your dad it bothers you? Having the coffin in your house?”

  “I’ve tried—but he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s spoiled because his curse is dormant, so he never had to go through any of this when he was younger. His only role to play is the inept, worthless father—which he’s perfect for. When I complain, he says we need to learn to get along; he has other problems, he’s not going to fix ours. And then Regina tells me I’m lucky my dad’s so uninterested in my life. I could have a Donkey Skin curse, and wouldn’t that be awkward?”

  “ ‘Donkey Skin’?” Mira didn’t know that tale. “Is that—a princess turns into a donkey?”

  Viv laughed. “Oh, Mira. That’s cute. No—turning into a donkey would be fun, compared to this nastiness.” She sat up, directly into a slice of moonlight. Her skin glowed like a ghost’s.

  “In the Donkey Skin tale, the princess’s mother dies young—like most of our moms—”

  Mira’s hand trembled against Viv’s ankle, and she brought it back to her lap before Viv noticed. That was her mother’s fate—her mother’s and her father’s both.

  “—but not before telling the king he can’t marry anyone whose beauty doesn’t surpass her own. Years go by, and naturally, no one’s beauty compares to the dead queen’s … until one day, the old lech notices that his daughter is the hottest thing on two legs.”

  Viv raised her eyebrows, daring her to make the connection.

  A sour taste crept into Mira’s throat. She hadn’t known her father, but in her mind, fathers were heroes, protectors. “You’re not saying—?”

  “So the king decides to marry his daughter. He pursues her, no matter what kind of roadblock she throws up, and she has to dress in the skin of a donkey and pose as a filthy urchin to escape. Then she toils as a servant in another kingdom before she finally gets her Cinderella ending, when the local prince notices that the urchin cleans up nice on special occasions. But who knows what went on in that house before she ran away?”

  These tales got worse and worse. Mira’s hands twitched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. A fairy had to choose that curse. Had to bestow it on a girl no older than Mira, knowing what would happen to her.

  Her thoughts went to Delilah—and how cruel a fairy had to be to inflict that on someone. She wondered how much evil Delilah was capable of. And what the fairy had in store for her.

  “Like all curses,” Viv said, “your mileage probably varies. But trust me when I say I’d rather have my heart cut out by my b
oyfriend than deal with my dad trying to sleep with me.”

  “Henley wouldn’t really …” Mira couldn’t contemplate the other half of Viv’s statement.

  Viv flopped back down on the bed, in the same pose she’d take in her glass coffin. She was shivering, her voice trembling with the vibration. “Who knows what he’ll do. He’s crazy. I don’t even care.”

  There was a knock on the door then. Light, polite, so as not to disturb anyone.

  “It’s open,” Mira called, grateful for the interruption. She was afraid that if they kept going, Viv would sink so deep into her own darkness that she wouldn’t be able to dig her out.

  The door opened and Freddie slipped in. He bowed his head, as if to apologize for intruding.

  “Hey, lover boy,” Viv drawled.

  Freddie ducked his head again, embarrassed this time. “Viv. Don’t say that. Henley’s in the house, you know.” He cleared his throat. “How are you, ladies? I’ve been sent as an emissary to make sure everything’s all right.”

  “We’re done here,” Viv said, pushing herself off the bed. “I need a cocktail anyway. Is the bar open?”

  “Wills is mixing drinks,” Freddie said. “But, Viv, you probably shouldn’t—”

  Viv dismissed his words with a wave, as if his worry buzzed around her like an annoying mosquito. “Enjoy the dark, kiddies. I’ll give you some alone time.” And then her pale slip of a body was gone, padding soundlessly down the hall.

  Freddie sat down on the floor, next to a hamper overflowing with boxers and T-shirts. Mira had intended to follow Viv, but the way Freddie planted himself in the room made her think that he wanted to talk to her—even though he didn’t say a word.

  Silence descended, making every outside sound seem louder. Faintly, Mira could make out a high-pitched trill of feminine agitation—a damsel in moderate distress.

  “It isn’t funny, Philip! I’m going to have a bruise on my spine!”

  “Is that—?” she asked.

  “My mother,” Freddie said, plucking a stray guitar pick from the floor. “Probably thinks there’s a pea under her mattress. She’s hypersensitive, and it’s made her into a hypochondriac. Although there might really be a pea there. My father plays tricks on her sometimes.”

  “So your parents are cursed, too?”

  Freddie nodded, leaned back on his arms, then drew one knee up, restless. “Both sides of my family have a long history of active curses. They’re proud of it. Being marked, as a hero, especially, is an honor. It’s a sign of good faith on the fairy’s part—that she thinks you’re worthy of it.”

  Mira wondered if her parents had been cursed. If they’d had to fight to be together—only to lose everything at her christening.

  Lost in her thoughts, she was surprised when Freddie asked, “Are you scared, Mira?”

  “Scared?”

  “Your sixteenth birthday is approaching. And things tend to change on days like that. I wondered if … I mean, you seem distracted. I thought maybe …”

  “Oh.”

  The memory of Delilah’s cold nails on her skin came back. Tracing her mark, sizing her up. She could almost hear the fairy’s voice, sweet like caramel and sharp like steel.

  Darling, what terrifying timing.

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” Freddie said. “If something happened, I would wake you. If we didn’t know where you were when it happened … I would search for you.”

  And he would. She knew he would. But …

  “I don’t want to owe you anything,” she admitted.

  He looked stung by her remark. “You wouldn’t owe me anything. I’m not out to gain something from waking you.”

  She was sorry she’d hurt his feelings—again. But that didn’t make her worries less valid. He thought she wouldn’t owe him anything. He believed that now. But how would things change if he restored her to life? How would he feel once he’d saved her and she was as standoffish as before?

  Mira didn’t want that rescue hanging over her head, pressuring her to fall in line like a good princess and show her gratitude by … by doing whatever was expected after that.

  Marriage. Dating. Sex. She wasn’t sure how things worked here, how much the fairy-tale community’s reliance on tradition had kept them from evolving with the rest of the world. But clearly, there would be pressure to conform—either social or magical—or Viv wouldn’t be as scared as she was. Not just of her enchantment, but of what came after.

  Mira didn’t want to be resigned to her fate. Didn’t want to be mired in hopelessness, like Viv was, like it was quicksand—a trap that only grew tighter when you tried to escape.

  “Can I ask what I’m doing wrong?” Freddie said finally. His mother’s complaints had quieted, giving way to the heaviness of sighs, the flick of Freddie’s nail against a guitar pick, the rustle of Mira’s legs shifting on the bed.

  “Nothing,” she said. “There’s not a checklist of things I want that you’re not doing. I just—my heart is somewhere else.”

  She felt cruel saying that. But it was true.

  Blunt rejection seemed to embolden him. “I’ll wait, you know,” he said, with a resoluteness she hadn’t heard from him before. “I know you don’t like me now. But I think you might, eventually. And I would be good to you. I would never hurt you—the way Felix will.”

  Mira closed her eyes. Not that again. Not that—always. Her chest tightened, squeezing the air from her lungs. Freddie didn’t understand. He couldn’t see the way Felix treated her. He saw only the curse, the black-and-white doom of it, the fact that Felix wasn’t a hero, wasn’t a prince. There was a delicate line between love and death for Romantics, but she was sure Felix would tread it with the utmost care. Hadn’t he already?

  “People who care about you won’t hurt you, Mira. Not even if they can’t help it. That may not matter to you now, but one day, it will.”

  “You don’t know anything about the people who care about me,” she said, feeling surly, defensive. He was insulting someone she loved, and it brought out the worst in her. “You only know how you care about me. And you don’t even know me; you’d feel this way about any princess who shared your curse. So don’t lecture me like your love is so much truer than anyone else’s.”

  Struck dumb, Freddie just stared at her. His usual expres-sion—earnest, hopeful, kind—crumbled, and he looked like he was trying not to cry.

  Mira felt awful. She hadn’t meant to lash out at him. She’d just wanted him—wanted everyone—to stop attacking her, stop slandering Felix, and making her feel stupid.

  “Get off my bed,” he said. Wordlessly, she did. He scraped toward it like a sleepwalker, collapsed onto the mattress, with his face mashed into the pillow so he didn’t have to look at her.

  “Freddie, I—”

  “I don’t feel well. Please go away.” His voice was muffled, but the meaning was clear. He wanted her to leave before anything else could change. Before he broke down, or said something nasty, if he was even capable of that. Before she could be meaner to him.

  Mira tiptoed to the door, utterly disgusted with herself. Before she left, she stopped in the doorway to get a few words out. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I really do appreciate the things you said. It’s just … this is hard for me. Please believe me.”

  She waited a few heartbeats for his answer, some indication that he could forgive her. But none came.

  Mira needed Freddie. She didn’t want to need him, but she did; and she knew that was where a lot of her frustration originated. It chafed at her that their fates were intertwined.

  When she trudged into the basement, Wills was at the bar, shaking a cocktail shaker. Viv was perched on a barstool, rimming a glass with sugar. She wore a floppy, feathered hat and knee-high cavalier boots, like a stripper musketeer. Her tiny apple mark—not bloodred but cherry-blossom pink—showed above the waistband of her bikini bottoms.

  Blue, Caspian, and Henley were gathered around a low t
able, in the shadow of a taxidermied grizzly bear. Blue was dealing hands for a game of poker.

  “Suit up and I’ll deal you in,” Blue said, nodding toward an old steamer trunk full of silk scarves, velvet jackets, strange hats—like the stuff Viv was wearing.

  “Suit up?” she said.

  “We’re playing strip poker.” Caspian went on to explain, and Mira realized it was the tamest version of strip poker imaginable. It involved piling on clothes from the costume trunk, so there was very little danger of getting naked unless you wanted to. Mira set to work creating a winning ensemble, hoping she could bury her guilt in ridiculous clothes and stop thinking about what a jerk she’d been to Freddie.

  Blue was sticking a villainous fake mustache to his lip—skinny, twisty, and black—when Viv joined them, narrow hips swaying, pink cocktail in hand. “That does not count as a clothing item,” she said.

  “It does if you can take it off,” Blue told her.

  “Then my earrings count,” Viv argued.

  Wills came down from the bar and sat between them. “By the time you get to your earrings, you’ll be so drunk you’ll just throw your top off.”

  Viv punched Wills in the ribs, and he grabbed her fist and started wrestling with her. Viv was shrieking, laughing, swatting ineffectively at her tormentor. The tendons were standing out in Henley’s neck. He was mangling his cards like he wanted to mangle Wills.

  Blue pointed to the mark on Wills’s lower back: a bloodred high-heeled shoe. “Not her prince, Silva. Relax.”

  “Cheaters,” Viv accused, once she’d caught her breath. Her cheeks were flushed the same pomegranate color as her lips, and she was tucking her hair behind her ears repeatedly, like she was suddenly shy. Wills pulled Viv into his lap, and she settled there without complaint.

  But not everyone was so content.

  “This game is going to be boring,” Henley said. “All guys and one girl.”

  “Two girls,” Caspian corrected, pointing them out. “See?”