Fated To Die: YA dark retelling (The Retelling Series Book 1)

by TARA GALLINA

  “No.”

  “No?” I keep my back to him, so I don’t accidentally peek.

  “It is in the House, like the riddle says. The House of Isca, home of the royal ancestors. My guess would be the castle library, where all the ancient texts are kept. We need to find it and steal it.”

  I choke on a laugh. “Have you gone mad? The Council resides there, all of the Council and their families. They keep it under lock and key. We can’t stroll inside. There are rules, visitor hours, guards, not to mention the ancient texts are off limits to village folks. It’s not possible.”

  “I’ve waited a century for this moment, for you.” His words are tight with conviction. “It is possible. We will steal it tonight, after you deliver the clothing to the person Fated to Die, if one is chosen.”

  My bottom lip drops at his too casual tone. “Must you speak of death as if it’s part of your daily chores? A person could lose his or her life tonight, his or her family, a loved one, and you talk about it as if it’s one more item to check off our list of things to do.”

  He sighs. “I don’t mean to come across as disrespectful. I can’t put feelings toward something I’ve never known as wrong. Death is not vengeful. It just is. I do not choose for it to happen, nor does my mother. It is a part of life.”

  “It is a part of the curse.” I whirl and pin him with a heated glare.

  He turns away before I can see his face, leaving me to stare at the back of him.

  Breath catches in my throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” I also can’t bring myself to shield my eyes.

  He wears a velvet vest, the color a deep forest green. Black hair with a slight wave brushes the collar of the back of his shirt. My fingers itch with the urge to touch it. Would the strands feel as silky as they look?

  His shoulders stiffen. “You should not be staring at me. Do you no longer care about the rules and consequences?”

  “Of course, I care. It was an accident. I’m angry and when I’m angry I glare. You said, ‘It’s too easy for you to talk to me.’ Well, it’s the same for me in a way. I’m comfortable with you. I even feel safe, as crazy as it sounds, which makes it easy for me to forget you’re my Keeper. Will you punish me for my mistake? You confessed you’re in control of that rule. Am I to expect you will stick to it, even though you believe I am your fiancée?”

  “I …” His voice fades, the indecision in his tone as clear as a bell.

  “You should know, I have expectations for my husband-to-be,” I say. Am I buying into this? Do I want to marry? Before Daceian, I’d never grown close to another male apart from my father.

  “Yes?” he says. “I’m listening.”

  Right. “I would expect the person I marry to treat me with compassion and understanding and see me as his equal in the same way my father cherished and respected my mother.”

  His head turns slightly, not enough for me to see his profile, but enough for me to tell he’s mulling this over. His upper body expands with a deep exhale. “You will not be punished. As my fiancée, you deserve my kindness and my protection. I will do what I must to honor you in both ways. If you will have me,” he adds, and my heart warms.

  I bite my bottom lip unable to contain my pleased smile. His response, while unexpected, is perfect. It gives me hope should we survive this and reach a point where we marry, even though in my mind I haven’t officially agreed to it yet.

  His response also opens the door for something else. “As your fiancée, who you will not punish as you said, I see no reason why I cannot look at you—all of you.”

  He locks his hands behind his back and stands taller. “There is nothing but my request that you wait until I feel you’re ready to know the truth of what looking upon me will bring.”

  I frown. Is his appearance so disfigured that he doubts my feelings for him will remain unchanged? Perhaps, he needs more assurance. “As you know, I struggle with following the rules,” I say, easing him into this.

  He remains stiff. “I do.”

  “Then you’ll understand when I say I am ready to know the truth. I can handle it. Nothing about you will change my feelings. I choose not to wait, so I can see the face of the young man who surprises me, shares things with me, cares for me, is my closest friend, and is to be my future husband.”

  I don’t rush over and force it on him. He deserves a moment to process my decision, maybe even to try and stop me.

  His head falls forward, but he doesn’t disagree or leave the cottage. He stays right where he is, waiting perhaps to see what I’ll do.

  Eyes wide and unblinking, I stroll to him, stopping at his back. His scent envelops me, and my fingers twitch to reach out. “May I touch you?” I ask.

  He hesitates then gives a tight nod.

  I ease my hands onto his back and feel him suck in a breath. His muscles flex beneath my fingers as I explore his shoulders and arms, getting to know him in a way I didn’t think possible. I venture down his back to his trim waist. His vest is soft and the fabric warm from the heat of his body. I lift one hand to his wavy hair, playing with the silky ends.

  His body softens, and his head tilts back a tiny bit. I take it as a sign that he likes it and run my fingers through his hair near his scalp. His breathing grows heavier. Mine does, too. I’ve never touched a boy in this way—never wanted to.

  I slide my fingers across his shoulder and down his arm to cup his hand, so big compared to mine. My skin looks even whiter next to his dark skin. With my gaze down, I focus on our entwined hands and move to stand in front of him. When we’re toe to toe, his black boots to my slippers, I lift my head a tiny bit.

  He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze.

  To stop? Or is it his nerves?

  After a pause and a breath, I continue to slowly take him in, inch by inch. His vest tapers with his waist and expands with his long torso and broad chest. I want to touch him here too, like I did on his back. He’s so real, so human, so male. It fuels my attraction to him. He seems taller, too, but then I’ve never stood this close to him with my eyes open. Deep olive skin peeks out from the collar of his white shirt. My gaze reaches his neck, and I swallow. This is it. A little higher, and I’ll know all of him. I’ll know his secret. “Daceian?”

  “Yes?” His breath brushes my forehead.

  “I want.…” What? His permission? Why am I hesitating? I lift my gaze.

  The room turns black.

  I gasp. “What happened?”

  His fingers curl around mine. “You’re being summoned. It’s dusk, and death has chosen. You can look upon me later. If you still want to. Come, Messenger.” He takes both of my hands and guides me to the door. “We have work to do.”

  Suddenly, my behavior seems silly and childish. I’m not here to play touch and feel with Daceian or to fall in love. I’m the Messenger, a deliverer of death. Tonight, an innocent victim will die because of the curse, and my face will be one of the last he or she ever sees.

  I should be ashamed for acting so selfishly, wasting time taunting Daceian so I can see his face, against his wishes. Am I no better than the villagers who disrespected me?

  From now on, I will only pursue breaking the curse. I will help him steal the book and do whatever it takes to free the village from this dark spell.

  That is why I’m here. That is why I was chosen.

  CHAPTER 13

  It’s lighter outside with the sky caught between day and night. A purplish-gray color tints the woods, giving it an eerie glow.

  His hand and body a misty blur, Daceian entwines our fingers. It doesn’t matter that I know the clothing he wears, the feel of his trim body, or the color and softness of his hair. None of it will help me or save me from the fate of tonight.

  I shake my hand free from his grasp and put a step between us before dutifully bowing my head. “Lead. I will follow.”

  He doesn’t move. “Closing yourself off to me now will not help our situation. I admire your strength and determination, but the riddle sa
ys that together we will beat the curse. Not apart. Not distant from each other. Not on our own. It’s the strength we give each other that will make us successful.”

  I nod, understanding his point but fearing relying on him will make me weaker. For most of my life, I’ve had only myself to depend on. “I want to do everything right,” I admit. “One mistake, and there will be no us. No end to the curse.”

  “I know. That’s why we need to work together.” He takes my hand back in his, and I let him.

  Side by side we walk through the woods. I keep my head down, so I don’t accidentally peek at his mother. Leaves and mud soften the ground under my steps. The scent of the river mixes with the birch and pine trees of the forest. I shiver at what is to come.

  Daceian stops. “Everything will be all right. I’ll be here waiting for you.” He lifts my hand. Warm, gentle lips meet my skin with a kiss. “You can do this.”

  Surprise and pleasure steal me for one small moment. Then the sloshing sounds and a horrid stench fills the air.

  My stomach turns queasy, forcing me to breathe through my mouth.

  “Come to me, child.” The agony in the Hags voice is like the cry of a hundred broken hearts.

  Drawing on my strength, I harden myself against my emotions and greet the Washer Woman. Red stains the river. Water ripples with her moves as she draws near. Her black dress comes into view. The torn hem wriggles on the surface like a tangle of snakes. One of the tendrils brushes the toe of my slipper.

  I almost jump back.

  “Lift your eyes, Messenger. I want to see their color.”

  What? No. “I-I can’t.” My heart hammers. “It’s against the rules.”

  “I give you permission. Now show me.” Her remorseful tone doesn’t match her words.

  Everything in me wants to refuse. What if it’s a trick to enslave me?

  I raise my hand instead, my fingers and thumb positioned to collect. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I am here for the garment.”

  My knees quiver as I await her response.

  “You deny me my wish?”

  Wish? Not an order. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid to break a rule.”

  “And yet, your refusal says otherwise.”

  I tremble and force my arm to stay lifted. Water sloshes, and the garment is thrust into my fingers.

  “Go!” the Washer Woman roars.

  A force sends me backward a few feet. I land on my tailbone with a hard thump. Pain radiates up my spine.

  “Mother!” Daceian bellows from behind me and helps me to my feet. “Quickly.” He ushers me to the trees, mist enveloping his body. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” My chest still pounding, I hustle, as the shirt tugs me through the woods. “I didn’t know what to do. She wanted to see my eyes. Isn’t that against the rules?”

  “Yes,” he hisses and keeps his hands at my waist, guiding me. “She’s testing you.”

  “Why?” My voice rattles.

  “She knows how I feel about you, knows we’re getting close.”

  “To ... ending her?”

  “To ending it all. She’s nervous, frightened.”

  “She feels those things?”

  “And more.”

  The garment jerks us through the trees and onto the bridge to the village. Rows of cottages sit in silence, their windows boarded up with false hope that it will keep the darkness out. Lanterns on poles brighten the cobblestone streets. I glimpse the shirt for the first time.

  My heart stops. It’s small, child size. No. I try to stop, but the shirt drags me forward, my slippers scraping over stones.

  “No,” I cry out. “It’s a child. Look, Daceian. It’s for a child.”

  “Shh. Silence yourself, or else pain will follow.”

  I shudder as tears fill my eyes. “I can’t. I can’t.” The words are quiet whimpers.

  “Silence.” Daceian covers my mouth, hustling to keep up with my frantic pace. “I can’t always save you.” Fear rattles in his voice reminding me of his limitations.

  In some ways, he’s as helpless as I am. I can’t ever forget that.

  The garment stops, and my toes bump into something hard. The step to the door of the child Fated to Die. I want to crumble.

  The door swings open.

  A thin man with gaunt cheeks gives me, and then the shirt, a pain-filled look. “Thank the Blessed Ones,” he utters in ... relief?

  I don’t understand.

  “Come. It’s this way.” He gestures for me to enter.

  I glance at Daceian, standing to my right. Is he invited, too?

  “He can’t see or hear me,” Daceian explains. “You have to go alone.” He gives me a gentle nudge, low on my back.

  The shirt tugs. I stumble up the step and into the warm house. Dim lights reveal a room full of people. Family? They sit on plaid couches and chairs, their expressions expectant, like they’ve been waiting for me.

  The man leads me to a small bedroom. A pale, scrawny boy lies on a bed. Beside him sits a tired-looking woman, his mother, I assume from the way her arms cuddle around him.

  “Finally.” Relief sounds in her voice, too. To her son, she says, “I told you the Washer Woman would be merciful this time. Soon, you will be at peace. No more pain. No more sickness.” She brushes damp hair from his forehead.

  The shirt lurches, drawing me to the side of the bed. My arm shakes.

  The boy gazes at me. “Th-thank you.” He lifts his hand to touch the shirt. Before his fingers brush the material, he whispers, “I love you, Mama and Papa. I’ll see you again.”

  “We love you, too,” his mother whimpers through a sad smile.

  His father puts his hands on her shoulders. A moment later, the boy vanishes along with the shirt.

  His mother’s head drops to the now empty bed with a sob, but the father looks at me. “For two years, we’ve watched our son suffer in pain with no relief in sight. No cure. Today, you’ve answered a long-time prayer. Thank you for being the one to free him.” He draws in a ragged breath and casts teary eyes toward the ceiling. “My son has found peace. Finally, he has peace.”

  Emotions slam into me, jolting my soul. They’re thankful for death? His son was ill, incurable, in pain. I understand, but still, I struggle to wrap my head around the heart-wrenching ordeal.

  Not knowing what else to do, I nod and leave the room.

  The father’s voice echoes through the home. “He’s free at last.”

  A collective gasp sounds in the room as I head for the door. The people are now hugging and smiling in rejoice.

  “Thank you for saving him.” A grandmother figure cups my hands in hers and kisses them before letting me go.

  I can barely feel my legs when I step into the street.

  Daceian is there, wrapping his arms around me in support. “How are you?”

  “I … I feel like I did something good.” I let out a breath. “It should be wrong to feel this way, even though I understand he wanted death. They all did. It’s still death.”

  “It is just death,” Daceian says in a calm voice. “When you remove the good and bad from it, you can accept it for what it is, a natural part of life. Even those who do not want to die find peace in it. The spirit moves on to a better place, better than you and I can imagine. We grieve, but they are free and at peace.” He brushes my hair behind my shoulders and wipes my damp cheeks.

  “For so long, death was an evil part of life for me and my family. The not knowing and assuming the worst. To think everyone is in a better place, eases the hurt.” I put my hands on his cheeks and stare at his misty face. “Thank you for teaching me this. From now on I’m going to picture my mother in a better place, perhaps surrounded by glorious gardens. I want to share this understanding with my family, so they can find peace in her death, too. Then maybe they won’t worry about me should I not ever return to them.”

  Daceian’s moist lips touch my forehead with a kiss. “I promise to do everything within my power to keep that
from happening. Now, let’s steal the book so we can finish the riddle.”

  I freeze. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Now is the perfect time. The Council and their families hide in their rooms afraid of the curse like everyone else. The castle won’t be as guarded as usual, the halls should be empty, too.”

  “Should?”

  “Come.” He takes my hand.

  We follow the cobblestone streets to the far end of the village. A warm breeze, perfumed with jasmine from the gardens surrounding the castle, flutters my hair. A few strands stick to my neck and arm, the humid air mixing with my nerves, and making my skin clammier. With all the mist around his body, I would think Daceian’s skin would feel clammy too, but his hand is dry.

  “Why haven’t you tried to steal the book before?” I ask.

  “There’s no point in knowing something that can’t happen. I’d rather not torture myself. Now that I found you, I have a reason.”

  My cheeks warm. How can he make moments like this sweet? I hold his hand a little tighter.

  Moonlight breaks free in the sky, and the castle appears as if a blanket of night was lifted. Silver cascades down one side, brightening the turrets and giving the white stone a shimmery glow.

  Unease thrums beneath my skin, urging me to turn around and run. The gate is drawn, the guards tucked safely inside as Daceian said they’d be.

  “How do we get in?” I ask. Scaling the high walls aren’t an option.

  “With this.” He pulls a gold key from his pocket. “It’s a skeleton key that can unlock any door in the castle.”

  “How did you get it?” I follow him to the back of the castle, where an alcove in the stone exterior reveals a hidden door.

  “My mother,” he answers.

  “How did she get it, and why would she give it to you?”

  “I’ll tell you back at the cottage, after we’ve stolen the book and are safe.”

  Since we’re about to break into the castle, I don’t argue.

  Daceian unlocks the door and pauses, his eyes wide with shock.

  “What?”

  “It worked.”

  “You were worried it wouldn’t?”