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

by Tessonja Odette

  “I saw,” I say, tone flat. “Anyhow, I also suggest you consider the stoic gentleman. He has the benefit of being quiet and aloof, speaking only when he chooses and coming across as confident and out-of-reach. Imogen will love the challenge of winning over such a man, and you will be able to…well, continue to do what you do.”

  “And what is it I do?”

  “Well, a moment ago you were brooding silently at the fire, which is suitable for the stoic gentleman. However, you must maintain better poise when in the company of our target. And you must behave with far more propriety to pull it off.”

  He rolls his eyes and turns back to the fire. “Propriety, my freezing foot.”

  I leave my seat at the bureau and approach his chair with slow, hesitant steps, careful to keep my voice steady as I say, “You’ll need a haircut and new clothes too.”

  He all but leaps from his chair, rising on his staff to face me. “You cannot take my hair.”

  I pause, folding my hands at my waist. “If we are to present you as the desirable Unseelie King of Winter to a human prospect, you must look the part.”

  He takes a step forward, eyes wide with something akin to…fear. “You will not present me as the Unseelie King of Winter. You will present me as no king at all!”

  “That wasn’t part of the bargain.”

  “Well, it is now. I will have your promise or be done with you. No one will know I am the king.”

  “My entire scheme hinges upon you wooing her as a king.”

  He shakes his head. “I forbid it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want anyone—neither human nor fae—knowing where to find me. I told you before, not many fae know about my curse, and humans are kept completely ignorant. They know they have an unseelie king, but not who I am, and the curse keeps them from thinking of me too long. This suits me well, for the unseelie ruler isn’t required to interact with humans unless they choose to. That’s how I want it to stay. I want no petitions coming my way, no human artisans seeking me as their patron, no fae begging for a place in my household. No…no one shall see that this…that this…” He purses his lips, leaving the remainder unsaid. It isn’t hard to guess the rest, for it’s written all over his face. That this is what I’ve been reduced to.

  This puts a huge wrench in my plans, but I can’t say I don’t understand. I know what it’s like to try and keep others at arm’s length, keep them from knowing who I truly am. Who I truly was. It does spark a question, though. “If the curse makes you easy to forget, how is it I haven’t forgotten you?”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “You know about the curse now. It’s the same with the fae. Those who know about it are less inclined to forget me, although my name is lost to all regardless. Can’t you see how detrimental that could be? If too many people learn about my identity, my curse, my location…I’ll lose all sense of privacy.”

  “Very well,” I say with a sigh. “However, this only makes the need to make you presentable far more important. I’m sorry, but your hair must be tamed.”

  “But…it’s all that keeps me warm.” He brings a hand to the tangled golden-brown tresses. “I have no fur on this despicable body.”

  “That’s what clothes are for. When I have your new wardrobe made, I’ll make sure it’s warm.”

  He mutters a string of curses under his breath. “Remind me why I’m letting a human girl make demands of me?”

  I square my shoulders. “Because we made a bargain and I’m basically your last hope.”

  “If this scheme of yours doesn’t work, I’ll have your head.”

  I ignore that, keeping to myself the fact that if this doesn’t work, he’ll be dead. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. Besides, if this doesn’t work, I don’t get paid.”

  Silence falls between us, and I’m about to return to the bureau when he says, “What will you do with the money? When the curse is broken and I hand over twenty thousand quartz rounds, what do you plan to do with it?”

  I consider lying for a moment but settle on the simple truth. “I want to go home.”

  He furrows his brow. “Home?”

  “To where I lived as a child. Isola. It’s a warm and beautiful country, one I was forced to leave when…when my mother died. The money will help me buy passage out of Faerwyvae and perhaps purchase property in Isola.”

  “What will you do there?”

  “Have a farm, like the one I lived on when I was little. Perhaps raise horses.”

  “Will you take your father? This Richard Bellefleur you so greedily stopped me from trying to con?”

  My fingers clench into fists at the mention of my father. “No. He is the reason I seek financial independence. I will go to Isola alone.”

  He studies me, eyes boring into mine as if he seeks to see straight through them and into my thoughts.

  I give him a pointed look. “This is what I mean about staring.”

  He throws an arm in the air and turns around. “Infernal human.”

  “No, it’s good practice,” I say gently. “Here, let me explain how to amend the situation next time.”

  Grinding his teeth, he turns back to face me. “Amend the situation,” he mocks under his breath.

  “If you’re caught staring by a woman, or you find your gaze locking with someone for longer than, say, three seconds, you have two options. If you play the stoic gentleman, you must turn away at once. Show no embarrassment, but you may allow yourself to seem affected, disconcerted for merely a beat. As if you’d been captivated by her beauty but must turn away, lest your stare burn her. Then go about your business. You know, back to brooding and such.”

  He shakes his head. “This is stupid.”

  “The second option is the rogue. When the rogue stares at a woman, he need not look away at once, but he must turn the stare into something else. Not a bashful smile, but a devious hint that you know you’ve been caught staring and you like it.”

  “What is this devious hint supposed to look like?”

  I shrug. “A subtle smirk, perhaps. It must be convincing, though. It can’t look like a sneer and it must not be so obvious that everyone around you catches it too.”

  “Well, isn’t that just simple as a snowflake,” he says, tone heavy with sarcasm.

  “It’s probably not at hard as you think.”

  “If you’re so smart, why don’t you show me yourself?”

  I open my mouth, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Well, I’ve never played the rogue before.”

  “Surely, you’ve been played by one, at least.”

  The statement strikes me like a blow to the chest. His words were said with no malice, no scorn. It was likely nothing more than a clever turn of phrase, but it is painfully true. Played by a rogue indeed.

  He must sense my shift in mood, for he lowers his voice, tone gentle. “What I mean is you must have seen this smirk in action before. I want to see it.”

  I breathe away the memories that threaten to invade this moment, lock them back where they belong in the recesses of my mind. “Oh, fine,” I say. “Now, look away for a few seconds. When you meet my gaze, watch what I do.”

  He does as told, rolling his eyes as he turns around, then slowly finds my gaze again.

  When our eyes meet, I allow them to lock. One, two, three. Then, letting just a corner of my mouth lift, I slowly turn my head, breaking eye contact at the last second possible. I look around the room, then drop the act and return to face him. “See?”

  His expression is blank, eyes fixated on my lips. Then they slowly rise to meet mine, and once again, he holds my gaze for far too long. I lift my brows as a silent cue, and he sighs. Quirking his mouth in something that looks closer to a snarl than a smirk, he breaks eye contact and looks away.

  I’m forced to hide my laughter behind a cough. “It needs practice, but you got my hint at least. For now, I suggest you play the stoic gentleman and simply look away.”

  “Care to leave my parlor yet?” he says
through his teeth.

  “I will take my leave,” I say. “But first, I want to call you something other than Your Majesty.”

  “Your Majesty will do. Goodnight.”

  “Come, now. If I am to hide from Imogen that you’re the king, I can’t introduce you as such. You need a proper name. One that makes you sound like a refined gentleman.”

  “I have a name.”

  “But you do not remember it.”

  He stalks toward the hearth, pacing before it, brow wrinkled. “I’ve tried so hard to recall it. Sometimes I think it’s there, right on the edge of my mind. I can almost hear it ringing in my ears. Something like…Floyd…Farris…Varis…Elvis…”

  I bark a laugh. “Elvis?”

  He growls and shakes his head. “Freeze off.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, smothering my laughter. “Can I give you a name then?”

  “I doubt you’ll take no for an answer.”

  “That’s true.” I take a few steps closer, squinting at him while I try to find a name that matches his face. Not the wild mane of hair or frizzy beard, but the man beneath all that. The one with wine-colored eyes who likes to brood by the fire. “Elliot Rochester,” I finally say.

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “Rochester is the name of my favorite brooding hero from one of my most beloved novels, The Governess and the Cursed Palace. And Elliot…well, Elliot just seems to suit you.”

  He shuffles over to his chair and returns to his seat with a huff. “Fine.”

  I cross the parlor and stop at the door, looking back at him as he drapes a blanket over his lap and pulls his chair closer to the fire. With the memory of laughter still tingling my lips, I can’t help but think perhaps the wolf king isn’t the worst after all. Maybe he does have a chance at wooing Imogen Coleman. “Goodnight, Elliot Rochester.”

  “It’s Your Majesty,” he grumbles. But as I enter the hall, I’m almost positive I hear him mutter, “Goodnight, Gemma Bellefleur.”

  16

  All sense of ease, triumph, and hope I may have felt last night disappears as soon as the sun rises. I wake with a start, bolting upright in my new bed and my new room with nothing but dread filling every inch of my being.

  I know what must be done. It is my own scheme that makes me do it. And yet, the thought of returning to town makes my knees quake.

  Throwing off my covers, I force myself out of bed. My bare feet meet the chilly flagstones, and I make a mental note to add several rugs to my list of essential purchases for the manor. I cast a glance at the hearth, finding it has cooled to embers overnight. When I returned from the parlor last night, I was surprised to find a fire had been made and my bedding changed. My sodden boots had been left by the fire and my wet clothes taken away, hopefully to be washed. Even though I’ve yet to appoint anyone but the cook to an official position, it seems someone has started taking initiative.

  I wrinkle my brow at my boots. They are likely dry and warm from being left by the fire, but my feet still ache from running in them yesterday. Thinking better of it, I turn to the wardrobe instead. Last night, I inspected the bottom drawer and found some nightdresses and thick hose, which I now wear. This time, I rifle through the drawer above it and retrieve a pair of wool gloves, a fur caplet, and a soft, close-fitting, fur-trimmed hat. The fur on both the caplet and hat is a rich brown, softer than any fur I’ve ever felt before. I must admit, the king’s ambassador has excellent taste.

  Setting aside my new findings, I open the wardrobe and investigate the shelf above the dresses. There I find three pairs of boots. All are far more durable than mine are, made from supple black leather and lined with fur. The soles are wide and textured for traction. I try one on, doubting they’ll fit, but I find they are close enough. The ambassador, it seems, has long narrow feet, making them just slightly too long for me. I fetch a second pair of hose from the drawer, which will hopefully help me fill the extra space in the boots, and then take out the same dark green dress and gray cloak I wore yesterday. As I pull the dress over my head, I feel a rush of panic at the thought that my unusual style of clothing could draw even more attention than I like. Luckily, the cloak will cover most of the dress, leaving nothing but the hem of my skirt visible. The caplet, hat, and gloves are modern enough.

  Fully dressed and feeling much like an armored soldier ready for war, I do what I do every time I prepare to leave home and enter town—I go to the window. Unlike my view from the townhouse, here I see nothing but mountains and trees. All at once, my anxiety dissolves beneath my awe as I take in the frosted treetops, the gently falling snow, the pale sky brightening beneath the rising sun. Then, just like yesterday, my attention snags on something in the garden.

  There, in the same small courtyard I saw him in yesterday, sits the king—my newly named Elliot Rochester. This time, I know it’s him, for that hunched posture and unruly mane of hair can no longer be mistaken for anyone else. I peer closer, studying the hang of his head, the slump of his shoulders. His fingers clasp something small and red.

  A rose petal.

  My mouth feels suddenly dry; seeing him in the garden holds a whole new significance that was not there yesterday. Because today I know the truth—that he holds not a simple petal, but a day. Another day ticked off his life. Another day closer to the curse coming to claim him.

  It’s enough to draw a lump rising to my throat, but I swallow it down. I have enough of my own to worry about.

  He turns his head, and in yet another echo of the day before, he seems to be looking right at me. This time, however, I don’t dart away. He doesn’t avert his gaze either, which doesn’t surprise me; I doubt last night’s lesson has yet to sink in. So I hold up my hand and offer him a curt wave. He slowly straightens his shoulders, lifts his head a little higher. Then returns the gesture.

  Under my breath, I say, “Time for phase one.”

  The morning is still early by the time I reach the market square, making the sidewalks easy enough to navigate. Luckily, I’ve yet to be intercepted by anyone I know. However, I’ll need to speak to at least one undesirable person before my visit in Vernon is done, but I can’t stand to think of that just yet. There’s another meeting I’m determined to orchestrate first.

  As I near the bookshop, I can almost smell the paper calling to me, hear the books whispering my name. My heart yearns to answer. The pain of turning away from the shop and crossing the street instead feels like the deepest betrayal. But I didn’t come to Vernon for books.

  Stopping outside the unfinished Verity Hotel, I take a deep breath. I have no clue if this part of my plan will prove successful, but I must try. Wrapping my false persona tightly around me, I open the door and enter. Sounds of hammers immediately fall upon my ears, the ground beneath my feet coated in sawdust and debris. I knew the hotel was unfinished, but I hadn’t expected it to be in this much disarray. From the outside, it looks nearly done.

  I follow the sounds of construction but see no sign of anyone. “Hello,” I call out. “I need to speak with someone.” The pounding of hammers is my only answer, so I continue to follow the sounds. Finally, I step into a wide-open space where the work is amplified to a roar. Every inch of the towering perimeter is lined with scaffolding from floor to ceiling, crawling with bodies busy at work. Some are painting while others are finishing trim on elegant walls. Orbs of blue light flutter about, brightening the space and illuminating certain areas for the workers.

  My mouth falls open. Those orbs of light…are they…fae creatures?

  I’ve heard of wisps but have never seen them before. Never would I have imagined seeing them working alongside—

  “What are you doing here?” I whirl to face the source of the female voice and find a woman with copper hair—the same one Imogen and I saw two days ago. Her vibrant green eyes bore into me, her brow furrowed. “This isn’t a public construction site. You must leave.”

  She reaches for my arm, but I step back, lifting my chin and squaring my shoul
ders. “I came to speak with someone.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asks, not unkindly.

  “No, but I come on behalf of my employer, who is someone of great importance.”

  She quirks a brow. “Who is your employer?”

  I consider my words, wishing the king wasn’t so adamant I keep his identity a secret. Still, he never said I had to pretend he was inconsequential. “My employer is a fae royal. I am not at liberty to discuss his identity with you, only to follow his orders. And for that, I must speak with the fae in charge of this hotel’s design.”

  She narrows her eyes and says nothing as she studies me from head to toe. In turn, I do the same. It’s then I notice she’s wearing the same chartreuse coat as before. Up close, the brocade looks even more elegant than it did from afar, with turquoise skirts of shimmering silk peeking from beneath the bottom hem. Unlike most of the women in town, she wears her hair long and loose like wild copper waves. She may look human, with rounded ears and average stature, but she certainly doesn’t style herself like one.

  “Who are you?” A fae male comes up behind the copper-haired woman, squinting at me while he rubs the lenses of horn-rimmed spectacles on his burgundy silk cravat. He’s perhaps an inch or two shorter than I am with dark hair and a stout build. I recognize him as the fae I’m looking for, the one Imogen had referred to as the hotel’s interior designer.

  “I’ve come to speak with you on behalf of my employer.”

  He replaces his spectacles. “Ugh, let’s get away from this infernal racket. My ears are about to melt off my head.” Turning on his heel, he stalks off in the direction I came from, and the woman follows after. I make haste to catch up as they weave back into the main foyer then down a hall at the other side. Here, construction appears complete, with plush carpet, intricately painted walls, and elegant light fixtures. The hall opens to a modestly sized room with several round tables and chairs. This must be the dining room.

  The woman and the fae head for a table laden with tea and pastries. The fae sinks into a chair, sulking into the backrest. The woman takes the seat next to him and pours a cup of tea.