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

by TARA GALLINA

  I keep my arms raised, my hands helping to guide the way as I stumble to the side of the cottage. Soft light shines through one of the bedroom windows, aiding my journey the rest of the way.

  At the back of the cottage, a massive tree trunk comes into view. It must be as wide as the cottage. Without the light from the bedroom window, it’s too dark for me to tell how wide.

  Now that I’m here, I don’t know how to proceed. Like before, I use my hands to help guide me. With my fingers touching the thick bark of the tree, I circle the massive trunk in search of … a door? A hidden room?

  The trunk is solid. Did I miss something? I must have.

  Trying again, I round the tree and get the same results.

  Did the plant lead me astray, or do I have the wrong oak?

  No. This has to be it. Once more, I circle the tree. I keep one hand on the trunk and wave my other arm in case what I’m looking for is around the tree versus on it.

  Again, I find nothing.

  Panic builds in my chest. My fingers curl into tight fists, and I fight the urge to scream. I have to go back and ask the plant to explain—if it can. Argh. Whirling around, I take a few steps and smack headfirst into something hard.

  Ow. I rub a bump on my scalp, happy to find I’m not bleeding.

  What did I run into? Nothing is around me. Not that I can see. To be safe, I raise my hand and feel the air.

  My fingers whack into a solid object. I clutch it and inch closer. With both hands, I follow the line of a hard, smooth surface in the shape of a rectangle. An identical object is above it and another below. If only I could see.

  I reach higher and find a fourth rectangular object. What could they be?

  Stairs. I gasp. I found stairs. Either they’re invisible or dark enough to blend in with the night.

  Now to climb them without breaking my neck. Hoisting up the full skirt of the dress, I plant my feet on a lower step and get my balance. There appears to be no railing.

  That’s all right. I can make it to the top. Carefully, I climb the steps until I come to what I think is a door. My fingers slide along smooth wood until I find a handle. Turning the knob, I give the door a big shove and almost topple inside.

  A room fit for a king appears before me. Murals depicting the rise and fall of Isca decorate the high ceilings. Princess Bretta is among the drawings, Queen Alys, too. Both of them are so beautiful. The Stone Beauty statue is there, and a baby wrapped in a gold blanket. His dark hair and skin, and placement at Bretta’s feet, lead me to believe it’s Daceian. Dark clouds surround the castle. Butterflies with blue and green colored wings flutter underneath them as if to push the clouds away.

  Rich wood panels line the walls. Gold carpet covers the floor, matching the gold lush bedding. Velvet wraps the tall headboard. Bookcases line one of the walls. In the corner, a single chair joins a round table, scrolls and tomes scattered across the top. Tales of Isca. History of Isca. The Dark Realm. Mystics and Spells. A few books lie open on the floor and bed, as if Daceian had been studying them. Had he left abruptly?

  A red jewel embedded in the wood paneling draws my gaze. It’s near the door, on the only wall without furniture. The gemstone shimmers with light. I run a finger over its glowing surface. Hazy images appear on a screen of smoke. The village. The manor. The library in the castle. Daceian stands in the center of the large room.

  Air freezes in my lungs. The image withers like it’s about to fade.

  “No!” I cry out and plant my hands on the wall.

  The image steadies.

  Mr. Dunn, the head Councilman, stands across from Daceian, talking to him like he can see him. I thought he wasn’t visible to people in the village. Mr. Dunn steps toward Daceian, his posture threatening. The fact that he can see Daceian baffles me, but his rigid demeanor concerns me more. I’ve only known him to be a kind, wise, elderly man who looks after the village with the greatest of care. Sure, he’s strict about the rules, never bending them in the slightest, but he does it with a heavy heart, or it appears that he does.

  This version of him is near unrecognizable. He even looks taller and younger. His features seem sharper, his visage one of pure evil. Ice fills my veins and I shiver.

  Mr. Dunn withdraws an object from inside his coat. Silver sparks from the tip of a knife. He lunges at Daceian.

  I shriek as Daceian dodges the strike. For his old age, Mr. Dunn moves with the agility of a young man. His features shift as if years are suddenly erased from his face, even his hair darkens from its usual white-ish gray. Something about his younger appearance seems oddly familiar.

  Mr. Dunn lurches forward with another strike. Daceian wrestles to keep the blade from touching him. He jumps away when it comes close to scraping his body, like he fears it, which makes no sense. Daceian is immortal.

  Mr. Dunn attacks again, the knife at the ready. Daceian grabs his wrist and twists the blade away. He kicks the Councilman’s feet out from under him. They both go down, with Daceian landing on top. Neither man moves.

  My heart stops beating. Where’s the knife? I don’t see it.

  Mr. Dunn wriggles and pushes to his feet while Daceian lies motionless on the floor.

  “No!” I cry out and beat the wall. “No! No. No.” The last one is a whimper.

  My legs give out and I crumple into a pool of tulle and roses. Tears drench my face as I watch, waiting for Daceian to move, to breathe. “Wake up, Daceian.” I claw at the wall. “Wake up.”

  His body remains lifeless.

  A sob rips from my aching chest. “It’s not real. It’s a trick, an illusion. He’s not dead. He can’t be. He can’t.”

  The image turns frosty and disappears.

  I hit the wall. Slap it, smack it, punch the wood until my knuckles burn with pain.

  “No.” I get up, determined to prove the image wrong. “It’s not real,” I shout to the room. “He’s not dead. I’m going to prove it.”

  I clutch the door handle. The knob won’t turn. I grip it with both hands, groaning and twisting to no avail. “Let me out!” I kick the door.

  The wood doesn’t even rattle. Anger burns under my skin. “Let me out!” I shout with more force.

  Silence echoes my words. Again, I grip the door handle. Hiking up my skirt, I brace a foot on the wall and push with my leg while pulling with all my strength. My fingers slip and I fall backward landing on the floor with a thump.

  I stand and try again, and again, and again until my arms are weak and I’m out of breath.

  “Why are you doing this?” I cry and crumple to the floor. “What if he needs me to save him?” Tears burst from my eyes and my chest aches like a hole has been carved in my heart. “I can’t lose him. Please.” I force myself to my feet and grab the handle one last time. “Please open.”

  The door doesn’t budge.

  A feral scream rips through the room unlike any I’ve heard before. It’s not until my throat burns that I realize it came from me.

  Light flashes followed by a thunderous roar that shakes the room. A charge pulses in the air. The hair on my arms straighten the way they do during a lightning storm.

  I scurry across the floor to the table, hiding underneath. Why is the room acting this way? I thought it was linked to my cottage or a part of it. Have I been wrong to trust it? Maybe it’s not on our side after all.

  I glance at a nearby book open on the floor. The picture on the page resembles Mr. Dunn when his features had shifted to a younger man.

  I slide the book to me and read the cover. The Dark Realm.

  Air catches in my throat. I flip through pages in search of more pictures or information on Mr. Dunn, stopping on an image of a silver knife like the one he pulled on Daceian.

  It’s mystical, charmed by dark magic. The blade is forged of graphite from the mines in the Dark Realm. It’s the only weapon that can kill the Washer Woman and destroy the curse, but only if a non-virgin delivers the strike.

  Our interpretation was wrong. I can’t ki
ll his mother unless—oh gosh. Is that why the cottage dressed Daceian and me in formal wear? If we had married, we would have consummated the nuptials and I would no longer be a virgin. Perhaps the cottage is on our side, and now it’s angry because we—I—resisted the idea of marrying Daceian.

  Not because I didn’t want to, but because it wasn’t how I imagined. I changed my mind but by then, it was too late. Daceian was summoned and never returned home. Home. Is that what this place is to me now? Without him, it will be my doom.

  What if the images on the wall were true? What if he did go to the castle and now, he’s … he’s. …

  I hunch forward with a sob. Tears slide down my cheeks. One drips onto the page of the book, darkening the word poison. I blink and wipe my eyes, reading on, horrified by what I learn.

  The blade is poisonous. Any puncturing of flesh contaminates the blood stream, resulting in death. There is no cure.

  A whimper breaks free. I cover my mouth with a shaky hand as my heart shatters like glass, the pieces embedding in my lungs and ribs.

  “Please.” I crawl out from under the table, refusing to accept this as my fate. “Please let me out. I need to help Daceian. I’ll bring him back. I won’t let him die.”

  I tug on the door handle, praying it will open this time. The knob doesn’t even turn.

  Anger replaces my sadness. “You can’t keep me here. I won’t stop until I find a way out.”

  I scan the room. My gaze stops on a dark window near the side of the bed. I grab the chair and carry it over, ready to beat the glass with it until the window breaks.

  The door flies open. Daceian staggers inside, holding his torso. Blood stains his shirt and fingers. In his other hand, he holds the knife.

  “Preya,” he breathes before collapsing to the floor.

  CHAPTER 19

  I race to him and cradle his head in my lap. His body quivers, and his skin is pale, clammy, and cold to the touch.

  “Tell me what to do,” I say, fighting tears.

  His lips tremble as he speaks. “I had to do it. I had to get the knife.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me? I could have helped.” I brush damp hair from his forehead.

  “Too dangerous.” His teeth chatter. “He had to draw it on me, try to kill me. It was the only way to get the knife.”

  Emotions war inside me, leaving me torn. I want to kiss him and tell him everything will be all right, but I also want to scold him for his reckless behavior.

  “You shouldn’t have gone there. You’re dying. The knife is poisoned. The book says there is no cure. I’m so angry with you, Daceian. If you die, I will not forgive you. I will not.”

  “But you will live, and your sisters will be free.” He brings the knife to his chest as if to give it to me. Then his eyes close.

  No! I shake him and lift my face to the ceiling. “Tell me what to do!” I beg the room.

  Daceian coughs, and his eyelids flutter. He whispers, “The plant. It will give you what you need.”

  I yank the bedding onto the floor and gently move Daceian’s head from my lap onto the gold material. “I’ll be right back.”

  Outside, the moon brightens the woods enough for me to see where I’m going. However, the staircase is still invisible. Careful not to fall, I gather the skirt and make my way down one step at a time. On the ground, I race to the front of the cottage and shove open the door.

  The leaves on the plant jump at my sudden arrival. I explain what happened to Daceian, praying the plant understands my fast words, and beg for an answer, for a cure.

  It sheds a large leaf shaped like a bowl.

  Gather sage, hemp, and sap near the oak tree in the back of the cottage. Put them on the wound.

  I search the shrubbery around the wide oak and find the herbs, gathering each in the bowl-shaped leaf. Do I need to mix them? I don’t have a pestle, and I don’t want to waste time asking the plant for instructions when I’m so close to Daceian. My mind made up, I climb the steps to his room.

  He’s in the same place I left him, trembling and coughing.

  “I’m here.” I use my finger to mash the herbs as best I can and then drop to my knees to apply them to the wound.

  Daceian winces, and gold smoke wafts from the gash on his side.

  He twists and writhes like he’s being burned. Each agonizing moan tears at my heart. I want him healed, not suffering more. The skin around the wound turns red and veiny, spidering out to his heart.

  I hold his arm and stroke his hair, offering what little I can do to soothe him. “It will go away soon. I promise.”

  I hope. Truth is, I don’t know.

  His muscles clench so tightly he starts to convulse.

  “Stay with me, Daceian,” I murmur through silent tears. “I love you. I love you so much. You are my light. Stay with me.” This can’t be it for us. It can’t.

  Finally, the tremors fade, and his breathing slows. Color returns to his lips and skin as his body relaxes in my arms.

  “Daceian? Are you with me?” I kiss his closed eyelids, the corners of his mouth, his lips and caress his cheek with the tip of my nose. “Please say you’re still with me?”

  “Always,” he breathes.

  Relief floods me. “Thank the Blessed Ones.” I don’t know what I would have done without him. Unable to stop myself, I plant kisses on his lips over and over again, happy he’s alive. His mouth grows warmer with each press of mine. His lips start to move, and he joins me in the kiss. I should stop and ask him how he feels, but then his hand slides into my hair at the back of my head and I’m lost. His taste is different, sweeter, as his tongue meets mine. I want to drown in it, drown in him.

  He’s opened my heart to feelings I didn’t know existed. I thought I knew what love was before he almost died. Now, I know just how deep love can go. Losing him would be like losing a part of myself. Curse or not, I would have never been the same.

  No wonder Father never healed. He loved my mother that strongly. I saw it between them every day until she was taken from us.

  I want the girls to know that kind of love. I want them to know Daceian and learn that sharing your heart with the right person can make you want to change the world. They deserve that. I deserve that and so does Daceian.

  Seeming as desperate to cling to me as I am to him, Daceian deepens our kisses. He pulls me under his body and covers me with his weight.

  “Are you strong enough for this?” I murmur between kisses. “You have just healed.”

  “For you, I am strong enough to do anything.” His lips meet mine with a slow and tender kiss.

  I melt, and the world around us fades until my fingers brush his damp hair and clammy skin. “Are you sure you’re well enough to do this? I can wait.”

  He lifts his head, his cheeks pink, eyes aglow with love and desire, assuring me he’s more than fine. “Do you think I would take you here on the floor when you deserve the softest bed and the ceremony you so desire?”

  “I think I would deny you nothing.” I sweep the back of my fingers across his cheek.

  His lips twist into a bright smile. “Your words are the sweetest I’ve ever heard. I am blessed and grateful to have earned your love, but I will not have you forsake your virtue for me.”

  A pit forms in my stomach. “If not for you, then no one. I am to be your wife. My virtue is yours. The cottage was trying to tell us that. I found a picture of the knife in one of your books. It says only a non-virgin can make the kill. We were wrong.” I scamper out from under him and get the book. The page is blank. How? I’d left it open on the image of the blade. I flip through the pages, frantically searching for the image. “It’s gone.” I kneel beside Daceian, the book in my hand. “It was in here, I swear, but now I can’t find it.”

  He touches my hand. “It’s bespelled. Every time I read it, I find something new, though I’ve never been granted information about the blade.”

  With a wince, he pushes himself upright and sits with his back propped
against the foot of the bed. His cheeks look pale again and his lips are slightly blue. “I thought you were healed. Do you need more herbs?” I set the book on the floor and reach for his shirt to check the wound.

  He catches my wrist and kisses my palm. “I meant what I said. I am truly blessed and honored to have earned your love. I will take it with me from this life into the next and will watch over you when I’m gone.”

  I pull my hand back. “What are you saying?”

  He draws in a deep breath. “I’m dying. The herbs will sustain me for a short time, but they will not save me. Eventually, the poison will reach my heart. Mr. Dunn made that clear, and when it does—”

  “Don’t.” I turn away, my hand shaking as I smother a sob. I can’t hear him say it. Not now, not when I thought he was safe, when I had hope and a plan for our future.

  “There’s more.” Daceian’s voice is low and steady. I don’t look at him. “Mr. Dunn is the Mystic who set the curse. He must be killed, Preya, or killing my mother will be for nothing. He’ll conjure a new Washer Woman to keep the village under the curse. It’s the only way he can maintain his reign. Without royal blood, he has no claim to the throne. Being head Councilman gives him the authority he so craves.”

  Something shifts in me. I can’t be this open, loving person filled with emotions and do what must be done. No more tears. No more praying for help. If I am to do this—alone—I need to be the old Preya, Stone Beauty, but colder, harder. It’s the only way to protect myself and the people I love.

  I imagine armor around my body, shielding me from hurt and pain. Curse be damned.

  I turn to Daceian. “How much time do you have?”

  His gaze moves over my stiff posture, and his lips curve with a frown. “A day or two is my guess.”

  I swallow the lump suddenly lodged in my throat and stand. “I need to go.”

  “Where?” Panic flashes in his eyes. He lurches to his feet, winces, and grips his side. A second later, he drops onto the bed.

  “Daceian!” I hurry to him, hating that he’s in pain.