Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae)

by Tessonja Odette

  Throwing my head back, I erupt with laughter. “You think my father will be grateful to have me returned unharmed. Me!”

  He frowns, eyes narrowing to slits. “That’s the entire point of phase two,” he says, although his tone is stripped of bravado. “If phase one fails, we target someone back home who desperately loves our captive.”

  It takes several moments to sober from my laughter, and when I do, I can still hardly form my words. “That may have worked for you before, but it won’t with my father, I promise you that much.”

  “It’s actually never worked before,” the fae at the bureau whispers, scratching his dark beard.

  The alpha burns him with a glare. “That doesn’t mean we won’t try. It’s a solid plan.”

  “You picked the wrong girl, wolf man,” I say, shaking my head as my laughter renews. “There’s no sacrifice small enough that my father would make for me.”

  Especially if he thinks I’ve landed in yet another scandal. I keep that part to myself, of course.

  His face burns beet red beneath the scruff, lips peeling back into a snarl. “Then you can simply rot in here forever!” With that, he turns and stalks out the door, hobbling on his staff. His two henchmen follow, eyeing me with disdain before they turn off the light and close me into darkness.

  8

  In the absence of my adrenaline, fear, and even my momentary amusement over the wolf fae’s ridiculous plan, all I feel is cold. It seeps through my bones, chills my legs where my dress and petticoats have absorbed moisture from all the snow I traipsed through while running from the wolves. Strands of my damp, dark hair have come loose and are plastered to my cheeks. I can hardly feel my sodden feet in my boots, which might be a blessing, for I’m sure they will ache when feeling returns to them.

  As my eyes adjust to the dark, I crane my neck this way and that, taking a deeper investigation of my surroundings. There are two large windows, both of which have the heavy curtains drawn shut to block the light, allowing only the palest haze to creep through. At the edge of my periphery, I see a bed, one that was probably once elegant with its four carved wooden posts and its thick brocade blanket. However, I can tell even in the dim light how dusty it is.

  I scan the rest of the room, noting the bureau, hearth, wardrobe, wash station, sitting area, all equally as unused and unkempt. It makes me wonder if these wolf fae have broken into an abandoned vacation home and took up residence to plot their vile schemes. I still can’t imagine what would possess the wolf creatures to go through the trouble of trying to tease a sacrifice from a human. Is it just for fun? Is this what the fae do when they’re bored? Or is there an actual reason?

  And don’t even get me started on that despicable alpha wolf. Even in this dark room, I can still see that stupid smirk, hear his grating voice when he tried to dictate the ransom note. Fool. They’re all fools.

  Ugh. I suppose I’m the bigger one for being caught by them.

  The door creaks open, making me jump with a start, pulse racing as I steel myself for the next confrontation. Light shines from the hall, casting the figure who enters the room in shadow. I frown, seeing how much shorter this one is than the three I met before. The figure lifts a hand toward the wall, and the lights in the room begin to glow, orbs of light hovering above several sconces that look like oil lamps. But like the electricity in Vernon, I know it comes not from oil but from the ley lines that traverse the land. Fae magic.

  The figure shuts the door and leans against it, a tray in his hands, eyes wide and assessing. That’s when I realize it’s a boy. A young boy, looking no older than eight. Dressed like the street urchins I saw in Bretton, he wears too-short trousers, worn boots, fraying suspenders, and a tan shirt that was probably at one point white. Upon his head of overlong hair is a gray cap, sitting just above his pointed ears.

  I look from him to the tray he carries, which holds a glass of water and a heel of bread. It hasn’t been nearly long enough for me to feel any kind of desperate hunger, but the water makes me realize how dry my mouth has become. Pulling my lips into what I hope to be a comforting smile, I say, “Is that for me?”

  His brows furrow over his dark eyes as he approaches. “Try to escape, and my packmates will get you as soon as you reach the door. Try anything with me and I’ll bite your arm off.”

  The smile slides from my lips. This must be one of the smaller wolves I met during the feigned attack. Which means, boy or not, he’s dangerous.

  He sets the tray a few feet in front of me, then skirts around the chair to the back. I feel the ropes begin to loosen from around my wrists. “Remember, I bite,” he says with a growl, but I can’t help noticing the mild tremor in his voice. As if he’s…afraid of me.

  With my hands free, I lift my arms, careful to make no sudden movements as I place my hands in my lap. Everything in me wants to shake them out, to stretch, but the wary look in the boy’s eyes has me trying to keep as still as possible. If he says he’ll bite, I’m partial to believe it.

  Giving me a wide berth, he returns to the tray and hands it to me. As soon as I take it from him, he darts back, teeth bared.

  For a few silent moments, I hold still, my gaze locked on his. Then, when his posture begins to relax, I slowly reach for the glass of water and bring it to my lips for a hearty gulp. In this moment, it tastes better than the most decadent wine. With a sigh, I replace the glass on the tray and return my gaze to the boy. His eyes, however, are no longer on me but the heel of bread, his tongue visible at the corner of his mouth. His face looks softer, younger, vulnerable.

  Perhaps he isn’t so dangerous after all. Perhaps he’s…hungry. Keeping my voice level, I ask, “Would you like to share my meal with me?”

  “No,” he quickly says, his look of yearning replaced with a scowl. “I hate human food. It’s dry and disgusting and a disgrace to the unseelie.” Despite his firm tone, his words sound cold and rehearsed.

  I lift the heel of bread, frowning at it. “You’re right, this bread does look dry. Very flaky too. And is that…” I bring the bread to my nose and sniff. “Is that butter? Oh, this is too rich for me. I can’t eat it. I should simply tear it up and throw it away—”

  “No!” He takes a step forward, hand outstretched, before he gathers his composure. “I…I’ll bring it back to the kitchens.”

  I suppress my grin, instead keeping my expression open and innocent. “Why don’t you eat it for me?”

  His eyes turn down at the corners as they lock on the bread. “I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to watch you eat, replace your bindings, and return the tray to the kitchen. That’s all.”

  “At least share it with me.” I tear it in half, finding it still warm, and inhale. “Oh, that’s good. You know what? I was wrong before. This isn’t dry at all. It’s moist and buttery and everything bread should be. Here.”

  He looks at my outstretched hand and the bread inside it for only a second before snatching it from me and tearing into it with his teeth.

  I take a modest bite, finding the flavor surprisingly satisfying. Perhaps my praise hadn’t been in vain after all. I watch as the boy scarfs down his last bite, then I casually ask, “How was it?”

  “It was all right,” he mutters.

  “You ate it quite fast. Are you well fed?”

  He glares. “I eat just fine. I just…I like bread, is all.”

  “I thought human food was disgusting.”

  “It’s dry and gross,” he says in a rush. “Wolves are meant to eat fresh meat from fresh kills.”

  “Yummy.”

  “It is.” His expression falters, glare slipping. “When I’m a wolf, that is.”

  “When you’re a wolf,” I say, tilting my head to the side.

  “My unseelie form,” he says. “In my seelie form…well, I like bread better then.”

  Unseelie. Seelie. I take the words and filter them through everything I’ve heard about the fae. If what I’ve learned is true—about the terms being the preferred definiti
on of what some humans call lesser fae and high fae—then his wolf form must be unseelie, and his humanoid form must be seelie. Until now, I assumed the fae were strictly one or the other, not capable of shapeshifting between the two at will. That goes far beyond the glamours I’ve heard about. Why wasn’t any of this mentioned in the pamphlet I read when we gained citizenship to Faerwyvae?

  I take a small sip of water, determined to finish my meal as slowly as possible; I’ve already learned something from this conversation, which tells me I could find out even more if I keep the boy talking. “What’s your name?”

  He lifts his chin in defiance. “We don’t have names.”

  I furrow my brow. “Why is that?”

  His lip quivers for a moment, before he says, “We don’t remember them. His Majesty calls me Scrappy.” The last word is muttered so quietly, I almost miss it.

  However, I’m fixated on the term His Majesty. “And who is this royal majesty you speak of?”

  “The king,” the boy says like it should be obvious.

  “Who exactly is…the king?”

  His eyes widen. “You already talked to him. He’s the Unseelie King of the Winter Court.”

  I pause with a piece of bread halfway to my mouth. The boy looks fully serious, but he can’t be. This is just another part of the game, a crew of trickster fae with false personas. “Let me guess. The white wolf with three legs? The alpha male who walks with a staff?”

  The boy nods.

  “He isn’t actually the king though, right?”

  “No, he’s the actual king.” He crosses his arms, jutting his lower lip. “I can’t lie, lady.”

  The blood leaves my face. I avert my gaze to my tray, taking a keen interest in my next piece of bread while I puzzle over the information I’ve gained. The fae may not be able to lie, but does that count if one believes false information? Surely, that grizzled creature is not the king. My new king. I go over everything I’ve heard about the royals of Faerwyvae, particularly the Winter Court. I know each court is ruled by two royals, a seelie and unseelie king or queen, and all humans and fae living in that court owe allegiance to both. Either can be petitioned, but as I understand it, most humans deal with either the seelie ruler or the court’s human representative. But even if humans have little to do with the unseelie king, wouldn’t the people of Vernon know if he lived nearby? That he’s a wolf? Looks like a crazed mountain man? And what about his name? I’m sure it’s been mentioned…

  My mind draws a blank.

  It reminds me of when Imogen and I were talking yesterday. She mentioned that little is known about the unseelie king, but when she went on to say more, she just stopped talking and seemed a bit lost for a moment. I thought nothing of it then, but now…what in the name of the saints is going on here?

  I chew my bread and wash it down with more water. “So, when you say you don’t remember your names, does that include the king?”

  He nods.

  “Then how do you know he’s truly the king?”

  The boy shrugs, unconcerned. “We just know. He’s been king forever. Longer than that, probably.”

  I eye him through slitted lids. “So, you remember he’s the king, but not his name. How is that so?”

  Another shrug. “It’s the curse. Curses are stupid and they do stupid stuff.”

  I tilt my head back. “Wait, the curse?”

  “Yeah, are you gonna eat that?” His eyes are locked on the last bit of bread.

  Part of me wants to continue eating so I can keep him here longer, extend our conversation. I still have plenty of water left for that purpose, though. “Go ahead.”

  He takes the remaining bread and stuffs it in his mouth whole.

  I lean forward. “So, about this curse.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he says, words muffled through bread.

  “Surely, it affects you too.”

  “Yup.”

  “How, exactly, does it affect you?”

  He releases a grumble. “It’s so boring and dumb.”

  I bat my lashes. “And yet, I’d love to hear about it.”

  “Fine.” He plops down, folding his legs beneath him. But as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, a knock sounds at the door, sending him scrambling back to his feet. He yanks the tray from my lap and nearly throws it on the ground in his haste, then moves to the back of the chair to replace my bindings. Thankfully, he doesn’t tie them nearly as tight as whoever tied them before. Once the deed is done, he gathers up the tray and darts for the door. “I gotta go, bye!”

  “Wait!”

  He pauses, fingers on the door handle, and meets my gaze with suspicion.

  Now that I have his attention, I’m not sure what to say. All I know is this boy could be an ally. And I most certainly could use all the allies I can get right now.

  I give the boy a warm grin. “Will you try to get me a bigger piece of bread next time? That way we’ll have more to share.”

  His face brightens as he nods.

  “Oh, and if you don’t like the name the king calls you—Scrappy, is it?” He frowns. “Yes, I see. Can I call you something else? How about…Micah?”

  For a second, his face breaks into a vibrant smile before he steels it behind a mask of nonchalance. “It’s okay, I guess. For a human name.”

  “All right then. Micah, it is. My name is Gemma.”

  The knock raps on the door again, harder, and the boy rushes out. This time, I’m locked in the room with the lights left on.

  Alone, I ponder over the conversation, my mind whirling to make sense of it all. The boy—or Micah, as I’ve named him—has given me a lot to think about while adding so many more questions. I’m certain if we speak more, I can glean something to use as leverage to get me out of here. Primarily, I need to know more about this supposed curse and if the alpha of this pack truly is the king. Both make for unsettling complications, but ones I must understand if I’m to navigate them. For I will navigate them. If I can save my family from poverty using some simple calculations and the execution of a solid plan, then I can escape…whatever this is.

  For starters, it’s time to get out of these damn ropes.

  9

  My conversation with Micah was just what I needed to clear my head. Uncertainty still looms over me, and fear continues to rake its claws down my back, but at least the boy has shown me that the fae can be reasoned with. At least a hungry fae who likes bread. That means there’s hope for the others, right?

  With my determination fueling my resolve, I twist my wrists in my too-loose bindings, shifting my arms, my shoulders, until finally, the ropes fall away. I shake out my arms, massaging my wrists, and then begin worrying at the knots in the ropes around my ankles. Once those are freed, I rise on unsteady feet, my muscles screaming in protest with every move. I wince as pain pinches my toes, and when I try to take a step, my feet make a squelching sound in my shoes.

  With a groan, I sit back down and unlace my boots, then peel off my soaked hose. I shudder, the cold further seeping in from my damp dress. Glancing around the room, I find no sign of my coat. Only then do I recall taking it off to stanch the white wolf’s false wound.

  Well, if these crazed wolf fae are trying to kill me, then this is certainly one way to get the job done. Without a fire and dry clothes, I’ll surely get hypothermia. The thought quickens my pulse.

  On bare feet, I cross the room to the wardrobe and fling open the doors. I have very low expectations that I’ll find anything useful inside, so I’m pleasantly surprised when I find it stocked with a gray wool cloak and three dresses. They smell slightly musty, but upon further inspection, they appear in good condition. The cloak is long and thick, basically begging me to wear it. I remove it from the hanger, then turn my attention to the dresses. My hands fall on the fabric of the first, and I pause, taken aback by the softness beneath my fingers. Perhaps I’m just cold and anything would feel luxurious, but I can’t help puzzling over the smoothness of the fabric.
The style of the dress is unfamiliar as well, with its long, flowing, multilayered skirts, the long sleeves that flare out at the wrists. The bodice is loose and low-cut both front and back and doesn’t seem designed to wear with a corset. Despite its strange and elegant style, the color is a dark green and unadorned with lace or frills, giving me the impression of something meant for daily wear.

  A glance at the other two dresses tells me both are similar to the first but in differing shades of green. Without a second thought, I take the first from the hanger and strip out of my wet dress and corset as quickly as possible. My bare skin pebbles as the cool air of the room meets my flesh, but relief comes as soon as the new dress is over my head. Luckily, I don’t require assistance to finish dressing, unlike with the gowns I normally wear, and can easily reach the closures at my lower back. Despite the loose design of the dress, the fit is a little tight, but I can hardly find it in me to care. Not when the layers of silky-smooth fabric hug me in a blanket of warmth. Next comes the cloak, which I secure over my shoulders with a gold leaf-shaped clasp.

  Fully dressed, I close my eyes and release a sigh. At least now I can panic less about hypothermia. I’m not sure how the wolves will react to me sneaking around and taking liberties with the wardrobe, but that’s not my biggest problem right now, is it? Right now, I must take inventory and make note of my assets.

  I have a room and dry clothes, I think as I stalk the perimeter of the bedroom. I’ve been given food and water. And I’m in the process of making Micah my ally. If they’re feeding me, they probably don’t intend to kill me. Yet.

  I reach the bureau and rifle through the drawers, hoping for some kind of weapon. Even a letter opener will do, but no such luck. All I find is paper. Not even the pen was left behind.

  I abandon the bureau and examine the hearth, which is empty and without any means to start a fire. Then I inspect the bed, looking beneath it and behind the pillows. I can’t help thinking about the stories where the captured heroine makes a grand escape utilizing a rope of tied-together sheets. Considering the length and thickness of the two sheets, the brocade-covered down blanket, and the wool throw, I’d have to hope for a very short drop to traverse if I’m to have any luck with that.