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

by Tessonja Odette

  With every word, the warmth of having been seen melts away. Not that his rant invalidates his irritation; I just now realize it isn’t personal. He may be angry over my situation, but it’s less about empathy for me and more about his disdain for humankind. And he has a point, one I can’t argue with. Why should I, anyway? Why should I expect him to be anything other than he is? He is fae, after all. A fae who hates humans. Still, I can’t ignore the twinge of disappointment that tugs at my heart.

  Elliot stops pacing and shakes his head. “You expect me to be cordial to Imogen after telling me all that? She should rot for bringing up such a distressing topic.”

  Warmth threatens to return to my chest, but I breathe it away and square my shoulders. “Yes, Elliot. Defending me will only get in the way of our plan. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. Focus on wooing Imogen.”

  “Wooing Imogen.” He scoffs. “You know what? This plan is absolute puppycock.”

  I’m about to argue when his choice of swear echoes in my head. Then a bubble of amusement rumbles in my chest. “Elliot, did you just say puppycock?”

  His lips pull into a frown and he crosses his arms. “So what if I did?”

  “Let me just make sure I heard you right. You said…puppy-cock.”

  He shrugs, his face flickering with a hint of embarrassment. “It’s a human swear. I heard it used tonight by that awful Mr. Davidson. A vile swear, too. No one has any right to take a young wolf’s genitals in vain, but I figured I’d give it a go.”

  I cover my mouth but my laughter only grows.

  His eyes deepen into a glare. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s poppycock, Elliot. Poppy.”

  “Well, that makes no sense at all! Since when does a poppy have a—never mind. Don’t tell me. Humans can keep their freezing swears all they like.”

  His annoyance only makes me laugh harder, and soon I’m doubled over with it.

  “Go on, keep laughing at my expense.”

  I manage to recover my posture and risk a glance at the king through my tear-filled eyes. Expecting to find him glowering, I’m surprised to see the corners of his lips twitching as if my laughter is becoming contagious. I cover my mouth and try to hold my breath, but my next laugh comes out with a snort.

  That is what breaks him. His eyes crinkle at the corners, mouth open wide as a deep, bellowing laugh erupts from him. This, of course, only undoes all my work at trying to settle down and has me in a fit again. The next thing I know, Elliot has closed the distance between us, standing just a pace away. “I don’t know what we’re laughing about,” he says, his voice rich with mirth.

  “I barely recall the reason myself.” My tone comes out light and high, something I rarely hear from my own lips. It reminds me so much of happier times with Mother. My heart squeezes, but it isn’t painful; it feels more like a bittersweet parting hug than a clenching fist. Finally, I begin to sober.

  Elliot’s eyes are still crinkled when I meet them. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, with just a hint of frivolity. “I like the sound of your laughter.”

  My pulse quickens at that.

  “It reminds me of wolf pups playing.”

  Of course it’s wolves. I grin, but my bittersweet feeling remains. And if I’m being honest, the bitter has overtaken the sweet. Is it that I resent his hate for humans and his preference for wolves? Why should I? A wolf is his true unseelie form. It’s what he’s fighting for. What I’m helping him fight for. Why does that give me a sinking sensation?

  “Come,” Elliot says, shaking me from my thoughts. “There’s something I want you to see.”

  24

  Elliot leads me back toward the entrance to the garden, then down a path that takes us between a row of neat hedges. A few more steps and we enter a small courtyard I’ve only glimpsed from afar. It’s the king’s rose garden. I turn in a circle, taking in the poorly manicured shrubs that line the courtyard, brambles weaving through each bush. Finally, my eyes land on a blush of deep red—the final rose.

  He extends his hand toward the flower, expression grave. “This is the rose that will either allow me to break the curse or kill me.”

  What a morbid thing he’s brought me to see. And yet, I can’t deny I have questions about it, as his statement has left me a bit puzzled. I bite the inside of my cheek before I ask, “If the rose counts down the days until the curse claims your life, why do you say it could also allow the curse to break?”

  His tone is deep and somber. “When the sacrifice is ready to be made, the one making it must pluck the rose and state aloud that they willingly and of their own volition sacrifice their greatest treasure. If there were more roses left, it could have been any of them. But now,” he glances again at the rose, “this one is my final hope. And my final doom.”

  My stomach feels heavy, weighed down with dread. “Why did you bring me here?”

  His eyes flick to mine, a frown tugging his features. “You shared something painful with me, so I figured I’d return the favor.”

  That brings a sad smile to my lips. “That’s kind of you.”

  With slow steps, he approaches the stone bench. Then, after bending down to brush a layer of snow off the surface, he takes a seat to one side. “I come every day to find my fallen petal, and each day I take my petal with me and keep it in a glass in my room.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I take a seat next to him. “Why? Isn’t it painful to watch the days count down like that? To collect them?”

  “It is,” he says. “And yet every day I return, hoping that the countdown will slow and give me more time to break the curse. By some magic, however, the daily petal always seems to know when I’m here and is sure to fall right before my eyes, taunting me.”

  “That must be very difficult for you.”

  “Not as difficult as being in this body.”

  Once again, a bitter ache floods my chest. “Why do you hate humans so much?”

  He looks at me with a smirk. “You mean, aside from the obvious reasons you’d agree with?”

  I give him a pointed look. “Yes, Elliot. Aside from those things. Why do you have such a strong prejudice against my kind? I’m sure humans have given you ample reason, but I want to hear what exactly those reasons are.”

  His eyes fall back on his rose, then grow unfocused, his lips turning down at the corners. “I was but a pup when humans first came to the isle,” he says. “Back then, humans were visitors on our land, and they acted accordingly. They respected my kind. Revered us, even. But as time went on, more and more humans came, and they shifted from awed visitors to determined settlers. They built homes, claimed lands that were never theirs. Tensions grew more dangerous until they resulted in the first war.”

  The first war. That was over a thousand years ago, from what I’ve heard. And to think Elliot was alive back then! This youthful man sitting at my side—but no. Despite how human he looks in his seelie form, he isn’t a man at all, but a separate species. As much as I know the reminder should unsettle me…it doesn’t. It amazes me.

  Elliot continues. “I was what you’d call a teen back then. Somewhere between a pup and full-grown. My parents fought in the war, which spanned—” He pauses, blinking a few times.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It seems that’s one of the memories that has been taken from me by the curse. I can no longer recall how long it lasted nor how it ended. And yet, right in the middle lies a memory as clear as yesterday.”

  “Are all the memories the curse has taken like that? In random order?”

  “As far as I can tell. Of course, I only realize what I’ve forgotten when I try to summon the memory. I can’t even imagine how many things have fled my mind without notice.” He shudders.

  “Go on,” I whisper, more to distract him from his chilling train of thought than anything.

  “The thing I do remember that happened in the middle of the war solidified my opinion of humans for good. I already considered the
m my enemy, but I respected them, recognizing their drive for survival and proliferation of their species. That, at least, I could understand.” His hands, propped on his thighs, balled into tight fists.

  “What happened?”

  “Iron,” he mutters like a curse. “Humans discovered the fae weakness for iron and began using it against my kind in the battles.”

  So, the stories are true. Fae are vulnerable to iron. I know pure iron is forbidden in Faerwyvae, but until now I hadn’t known if it was due to superstition or truth.

  “My parents were killed in one of those early battles with iron before we knew just how devastating an injury from the metal can be. You see, short of beheading or the removal of our hearts, fae can survive almost any injury and eventually heal from it. Iron injuries, however, are far more devastating. If iron is embedded in our flesh too long, it will poison our blood and kill us.”

  I glance down at his leg, his trousers hiding all signs of the prosthetic he wears. “Is that what happened to you?”

  “I’ve been injured by iron several times, and yes, the bullets that tore through my leg were iron. But I fear not even a lesser metal could have saved my leg. There wasn’t much left when—when—”

  Again, he blinks.

  “Another memory forgotten?”

  He nods. “Someone tended my leg and I remember being furious about the amputation. That’s all I remember.”

  I furrow my brow. “Fae healing doesn’t include regrowing limbs?”

  He shakes his head, and a lock of hair falls over his eyes. “Anyway, my parents were killed in battle. Many lives were lost, so I am not unique in that. However, when I found out about their demise, I sought to avenge their deaths. I hunted down the hands that made the killing blow and I…I found them.”

  He brushes a hand through his hair, moving it from his forehead to reveal the haunted look in his eyes. Everything in me wants to lay a comforting hand on his arm, the way he did for me, but I can’t bring myself to move.

  His next words come out quiet. “I knew they were my parents’ killers because...because they were wearing their skins.”

  Bile rises in my throat. “Their skins?”

  “To a human, I’m sure it looked like nothing. Two men with wolf pelts draped over their shoulders, lifeless canine heads still intact, worn like hoods to rest upon the humans’ brows. But to me…”

  It isn’t hard to imagine the revulsion I’d feel if I saw someone parading around with my dead mother’s skin like that. A lump rises in my throat, straining my words. “Saints, Elliot, that’s awful.”

  He meets my eyes, and I see his are glazed with a sheen of tears. “Humans are unable to distinguish between unseelie fae and a regular animal. And part of me understands, I honestly do. I too must hunt and eat and survive. I can’t expect humans to have the same ability the fae do, to know at a glance the difference between people and prey. But then there are times when a human knows a fae creature is a person…and still fails to see us as such. And after tonight’s display at dinner, I know that disrespect extends even to the seelie fae. In this form, I am but a prize, a spectacle.”

  His words strike me like a blow to the heart. They’re too potent. Too accurate. I hastily wipe my cheeks, catching a few errant tears. “You’re right,” I say. “In fact, humans treat each other like prizes, property, and spectacles maybe just as often. Perhaps that will make you feel better.”

  “It doesn’t make me feel better.” His voice is cold, flat. “It makes me angrier.”

  My heart sinks as I search for words. While I deeply understand his stance and relate to it personally, I’m also desperate to alleviate his disgust in my kind. In…me. I angle myself toward him. “Elliot, you’re right about humans. We are at times just as you’ve witnessed. But there’s so much more to us, and not everyone carries my species’ worst traits.”

  He shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “Even after being on the receiving end of humankind’s vilest ways, you seek to defend them? You seek to convince me human society isn’t as bad as I think?”

  I study his face for a moment, recalling everything we spoke of tonight. My mind drums up images of dinner, Imogen’s smug grin, and painful memories of my past. For a moment, I want to take back my sentiment, tell Elliot he’s right. But that would be a lie. For alongside these darker aspects, I know brighter ones exist. I find them in my sister Nina, in the kind bookseller, Mr. Cordell. There’s even potential in people I don’t know well, like Imogen’s stepsister, Ember. As much as I desire to rid myself of Vernon and escape the clutches of its society, there’s a part of me that knows—if I tried—I could find admirable people here.

  I place a hand on Elliot’s clenched fist. Holding his gaze, I say with all the conviction I can muster, “Yes, Elliot. There is good in humankind.”

  For several moments, we fall into a frozen silence. As each second wears on, heat begins to flood my cheeks, the realization of my hand on Elliot’s striking me harder and harder. It seemed vital in the moment, a way to drive the strength of my statement, but as his fist remains firm beneath my palm, I can’t help but recall how revolted he was at Mrs. Coleman’s incessant touches. Terror sends my pulse racing, but I’m too embarrassed to make any sudden moves.

  I’m about to slowly pull away when his fist turns suddenly soft, his fingers yielding as they turn upward to lace through mine in a gentle hold. A sad smile tugs his lips. “I’m starting to think it’s possible that what you say is true.”

  My heart hammers against my ribs as his eyes burn into mine. Where once his stare felt invasive, it now feels…different. Still dangerous, but in a new way I’m not sure how to explain. It sends a flurry to my stomach and makes me forget how to breathe. Yes, this is a dangerous feeling indeed.

  He runs a thumb over the back of my hand, and the caress seems to radiate up my arm and down to the rest of my body. His lips part, but no words come out.

  Like a magnet, I find myself leaning closer, as if that could draw out what he’s neglecting to say. Or perhaps it isn’t words I’m drawing forth but something else. Something about his lips—

  A flutter of movement has our eyes darting toward the rose. There, drifting in a slow, sinuous arc back and forth, a red petal falls to the snow-covered floor of the courtyard.

  Elliot grows rigid. Slowly, he rises to stand, his hand slipping from mine as he walks toward the rose. “That’s…unusual.”

  “What?” I stand and come up beside him, finding my knees wobbling like jelly. I’m grateful for the chilly night air, as it helps cool the fire that’s invaded my cheeks after our…whatever that moment was.

  “I already saw a petal fall today.”

  My mind is slow to comprehend the significance of his words. When I do, a flash of panic washes over me, but it’s quickly replaced with logic. “I’m sure it’s after midnight by now,” I say calmly. “Technically, it’s a new day.”

  He releases a relieved sigh. “You’re probably right.”

  Remembering he likes to take each fallen petal with him, I crouch down to retrieve it. With careful, reverent moves, I lift the petal, its texture smooth and silky beneath my cold fingers. It’s unsettling to think I’m basically holding a day of Elliot’s life in my hand. A day that could be one of his last if his curse isn’t broken.

  Ever since we made our bargain, I’ve been determined to try my hardest at making our scheme work. Even when I had my backup plan—however ill-conceived it was—my main intent was breaking Elliot’s curse. All because it would serve me well in the end, those twenty thousand quartz rounds buying my freedom and independence. But now…now something has shifted inside me. I’m still eager for the financial benefits our bargain will bring, but almost as much—no, equally so—I want to save Elliot’s life.

  A fire burns inside my heart, my determination fusing with my desires. I’ll make Imogen break this damn curse if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll see Elliot regain his life, his freedom, his wolf form. And I’ll claim my freedo
m too. For the first time since we made our bargain, I truly feel its importance from both sides.

  I’m about to stand and hand the petal to Elliot when I notice a hint of red peeking from beneath a light layer of snow. I brush it away, revealing another petal. My blood goes cold. I continue dusting away the snow until I reveal the cobblestone floor. And five petals along the way.

  I spread them out in my palm, then look up at the king. His face is pale, his eyes wide and distant. “I thought you said you collected each petal daily?”

  “I do,” he whispers.

  Rising to my feet, I drop the petals in the king’s trembling palm. Ice fills my heart. “What does it mean?”

  “The petals are falling faster.” He meets my eyes. “I’m running out of time.”

  25

  I hardly sleep that night, and the slumber I do find is fitful at best. My dreams are laced with vicious, falling rose petals and Elliot’s horrified expression.

  As soon as the rising sun begins to brighten my curtains, I give up on rest and go to my window. Drawing back the drapes, my eyes immediately seek the rose garden. I’m not surprised when I find Elliot there, sitting on the bench with his shoulders slumped. Did he even try to sleep? Has he been out there all night?

  When we parted ways, I begged him not to dwell on the five fallen petals too much. Until we can establish a pattern over the next couple days and analyze it with a mathematic equation, we can’t be certain this isn’t just a fluke. But, judging from the amount of red I see spread over the king’s palm, a few petals have already fallen anew.

  With my newfound determination steeling my resolve, I hurry to dress and rush from my room. As I head downstairs, I’m surprised to find several of the wolf-people loitering in the hall. All are dressed in their new clothing, and some appear to even have taken Elliot’s lead in getting haircuts, but they seem stifled by an anxious energy, their normally fierce expressions now so subdued. In the corridor leading to the garden doors, I find Gray and Blackbeard leaning against the walls, whispering to each other. They straighten when they see me.