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

by Tessonja Odette

  Imogen takes his arm with enthusiasm, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings as she presses close to his side. My breath catches at the sight of them touching, seeing her hand placed exactly where mine had been just last night. But why should that bother me? It’s just a hand. An arm. Simple contact.

  Simple. Until it’s not.

  “I most certainly would!” Imogen says. “Does your garden have any of the Winter Court’s famous snow-loving flowers? I have yet to see a single fae garden planted in Vernon.”

  “It’s mostly hedges,” he says flatly. “There is very little magic at the manor.”

  Her face falls a bit. “Oh. Well, I do love a well-manicured hedge. Will you show me?”

  His eyes flash to mine, and I can almost see the word help pulsing within them. However, I’ve learned my lesson about interfering when Imogen is around. He’s on his own.

  He holds my gaze a few seconds longer, then it’s as if a shroud is lifted from over his face. In the blink of an eye, his expression transforms from dour to radiant, and he turns a warm smile to Imogen. “Yes, I will show you.”

  Side by side, they turn around and head for the back gardens.

  “I suppose you’re stuck with me now,” Ember says.

  I turn to face her with surprise, having almost forgotten her quiet presence. Something about her gentle manner calms my nerves, stills my aching heart. “Come, we must not fall too far behind.”

  “No, of course not. For that would be highly improper.” Her tone is sweet yet subtly mocking in a way I don’t think I could ever pull off myself.

  I look at her with fresh eyes. In the short time I’ve known her, I’ve found her far more likable than her stepsisters. And the more I’m in her company, the more I recognize the silent rebel hiding inside.

  Linking arms, we trail behind the couple, keeping them in sight but not sound, just how I’m sure Imogen prefers.

  “This is the only reason she brought me,” Ember says. “Well, two reasons. First, so I would be paired with you if her grand scheme were to come to fruition and she managed to snag an invitation to converse with Mr. Rochester. Second, so I would pose no threat in attracting your employer’s attention.”

  I frown, assessing the girl at my side. She wears a heavy overcoat in a pastel pink, fraying at the hems. Today’s bonnet is white patterned with daisies. “How old are you, Ember?”

  “Seventeen.”

  So she’s a year younger than Imogen and a year older than Clara. “Why does your family treat you so poorly?”

  “Well…” She hesitates, as if searching for words. Then a crash erupts behind us, and Ember surges forward, almost falling. I startle, pulling away from her. She whirls around and I do the same. But just as I do, a weight strikes the front of my cloak. Chunks of snow slide off the wool and fall to the ground at my feet.

  I lift my eyes to find Micah, head thrown back with laughter. Two other heads, then a third, peek from behind the coach, a tree, and a hedge. “Attack!” shouts Micah.

  All four children spring forward, grinning wildly while they hurl balls of white ice. With a shout, I scurry back, panic heating my cheeks. Ember, however, dives to the ground and gathers snow inside her gloved hands.

  “What are you doing?” I ask her, barely dodging in time to avoid an icy missile thrown by one of the boys.

  Ember hurls her makeshift ball of snow and strikes Micah in the chest. I expect him to react with anger, but he…laughs. Ember squeals as another child—the girl—hits her with a ball to the shoulder. “You’ve never had a snowball fight?”

  “No.” I dodge another ball. “What in the name of the saints is it?”

  Ember hurls another ball. Then another. “It’s fun, Miss Bellefleur. My parents and I always did this when we went on holiday here in the Winter Court when I was little. Try it!”

  I glance from her, expertly shaping fluffy snow into a solid orb, to the children, unrestrained joy lighting their faces. With a grimace, I crouch down and try to mimic Ember’s motions in creating a ball, grateful I wore gloves today. I’m surprised to find it’s easier than it looks, requiring nothing more than pressure to get the snow to clump together. Ember and I rise to our feet at the same time. Her arms are loaded with several balls, and she laughs with every hit she both gives and receives. I throw my first ball, which lands at one of the boys’ feet. He sticks out his tongue in a teasing gesture, then throws a ball that barely misses my face.

  I crouch back down, my lips spreading wide as I create more ammunition. Ember bends down to do the same, only to get struck in the head. She laughs as she falls to the side, then quickly returns to her efforts. When we stand, arms laden with snowballs, something unusual catches my eye. I glance at Ember, finding streams of long, lustrous, turquoise hair streaming around her face. Her bonnet appears to have been knocked away. When her eyes meet mine, I see their color for the first time. No longer shadowed by the bonnet, they too reveal the most striking shade of aqua.

  I’m so surprised, I’m not able to dodge the next strike, and a snowball hits me in the neck, sending icy moisture dripping down my front. With a yelp, I return the attack, and soon we’re all dusted with snow and ice, our laughter ringing over the front lawn as we continue our battle.

  “Ember!” A shocked voice comes from behind, startling me and my blue-haired friend. We turn to find Imogen, still clasping Elliot’s arm, eyes wide and furious as they shoot daggers at her stepsister.

  Ember stops and holds Imogen’s gaze for a few moments, defiance flashing in her turquoise eyes. Then, with a sigh, she fetches her bonnet from the snow and replaces it on her head, tucking every strand of hair out of sight. The mood is clearly broken, and the children disperse, none daring to continue our battle.

  Imogen gathers her composure, plastering a fresh smile over her lips. “Oh, Gemma, I must tell you the great news.”

  “What is it?” I ask as they walk toward us.

  She removes her grip from Elliot’s arm to clasp her hands excitedly at her chest. “Mr. Rochester has agreed to host a ball. Here at the manor!”

  My eyes widen. “Is that so?”

  “Apparently,” Elliot says through his teeth, lips stretched into a grin that doesn’t match his eyes.

  “He’s so gracious,” Imogen says. “With the Verity Hotel’s ballroom still under construction, Vernon’s social season has yet to truly begin. But this—this—will be perfection. We mustn’t invite the whole town, of course, for I assume the ball will be held in the dining room. It’s spacious enough, but certainly won’t suit a large crowd. Besides, do we really want everyone there?”

  “Certainly not,” I say dryly.

  “I cannot wait. I’ll draw up the invite list this afternoon and send it back in the evening. Then we only have to wait for Friday.”

  “Friday,” I echo. That’s five days from now. Five days to plan a ball. I glance at Elliot, seeing the resignation in his face. That’s when I remember the rapidly falling petals. Perhaps a ball is exactly what we need to secure Imogen’s attachment. There’s nothing more romantic than dancing. Which is, of course, why I’ve sworn never to attend a ball again. Good thing I’ll be working this one and not dancing at it.

  “If it’s too soon to hire proper musicians,” Imogen says, “we can just have Ember play the pianoforte. She’s tolerable enough.”

  I frown. “Won’t Ember want to dance?”

  Imogen turns her nose to the air. “Of course she doesn’t.”

  I meet Ember’s gaze with a raised brow. She in turn gives me a crooked grin and a quick roll of her eyes that Imogen is too busy staring at Elliot to notice. “I’ll be happy to play, should you want me,” Ember says.

  “See, it’s settled,” Imogen says. “Now, there is much planning to do. I’ll need a new dress and shoes. Oh, and the guest list, of course. We should be going so I can get started.”

  “It was so good of you to call on me today,” I say.

  Imogen’s brows knit together, as if she can�
��t comprehend my words. Then, as if seeming to recall the false pretenses she visited under, she smiles. “Yes, so wonderful it was to see you today. And you as well, Mr. Rochester.” She faces him with a curtsy, then stands before him, the hem of her skirts and coat swishing as she sways expectantly side to side.

  Elliot looks to me for help, so I tap the back of my hand, then pucker my lips slightly. His gaze rests on my mouth for a beat too long. Then, with a shake of his head, he returns his attention to Imogen. Gently taking her hand in his, he lifts it slowly, then bends down to plant a soft kiss on the back of it.

  A flash of anger strikes my core at the sight of his lips brushing her flesh. I breathe it away.

  “I shall see you Friday,” he says, then releases her hand.

  “I’ll dream of it every waking moment,” Imogen says wistfully. It seems to take some effort to pull her gaze away from him, but she eventually does and then stands before me with a nod. “Gemma, you can expect my lists tonight.”

  I return the nod, and Imogen takes Ember by the arm. Their footman helps them into the coach and closes the door behind them.

  I exhale a heavy breath and watch as the carriage drives away. “That went well.”

  Elliot comes up beside me. “That went terribly.”

  I turn to face him. “How so? This ball is exactly what we need. By the end of it, she’ll be so smitten, she’ll never want to let you go.”

  His jaw shifts from side to side. With one hand on his hip, he runs the other over his jaw. Finally, he says, “I don’t know how to dance.”

  I’m taken aback for a moment. Such a fact never occurred to me, but I suppose a fae wolf would have very little need to learn human dances. “That is a problem,” I confess. I turn my gaze back to the departing carriage, an idea forming in my mind. “I think I have a solution for that.”

  27

  Two days pass, and another five petals fall each day. This makes the math easy, and if the pattern continues without further increase, then we have approximately sixty petals and twelve days left to break the curse. Feeling the strain of our ticking clock, I’ve poured all my efforts into preparing for the upcoming ball. If I have my way, it will mark the night Imogen falls firmly in love. And if things go even better than I hope, it will be the day I move onto phase four—telling Imogen about the curse and what she must do to save her beloved.

  The thought sends my mind reeling. Will the ball truly be enough to make Imogen willing to sacrifice her greatest treasure? I know the exhilarating effects dancing can have. I also know Imogen’s desperation for matrimony will amplify her romantic feelings, but…for the love of the saints, is this scheme crazy?

  No, it will work, I remind myself. Imogen will do anything if she thinks it might secure her a royal husband. She will break this curse.

  I repeat it like a mantra as I head to the dining hall, buzzing with a mixture of anxiety and excited anticipation. The next few hours could make or break the success of the ball and Elliot’s ability to impress Imogen.

  I enter the dining room, finding it bright and open with the late morning light streaming through the windows and illuminating the marble floor. The table and chairs have been pushed to the far wall, leaving the space open and ready for the dancing that will commence in three days’ time.

  In one corner of the room, I find Foxglove standing before a grand pianoforte in a rich mahogany. Ember sits at the stool, turquoise hair streaming down her back while her fingers fly over the keys to create the loveliest melody. Her bonnet lies discarded on the seat next to her.

  As I approach, the music wraps around me and I feel some of my anxiety begin to wane. Hope takes its place and I feel my shoulders relax, the corners of my lips twitching upward.

  When Foxglove catches sight of me, he extends an arm toward the instrument and waggles his brows. “Do you like it?”

  Ember ceases playing and turns on her stool to face me, her face bright. “Miss Bellefleur!”

  “Please, call me Gemma,” I say, then grin at Foxglove. “I love it! It will be perfect for the ball.”

  “Yes, well, since the hotel decided to go with a white pianoforte instead, I was happy to see this one put to use.”

  “I’m so grateful you had one on hand. And I’m happy you both could come today. Ember, I was worried you wouldn’t have any luck getting away.”

  “Mrs. Coleman and my stepsisters are shopping for dresses today,” she says. “They will be gone until evening, I’m sure.”

  “And I’ll have her brought home well before anyone notices,” Foxglove adds. “So long as we can get started soon. Where is Mr. Rochester?”

  “I believe Amelie is still helping him choose what to wear to the ball,” I say.

  He scoffs. “Surely, it shouldn’t take him this long. Ah, there he is.”

  I turn to find Elliot entering the room with Amelie. He’s in his shirtsleeves and trousers, and his grimace tells me just how much he dreads what I’m about to make him do.

  Foxglove assesses Elliot from head to toe, a frown tugging his lips. “Mr. Rochester, I thought you’d want to practice in full attire.”

  Amelie crosses her arms. “He refused,” she says, “but he did allow me to pick out what he should wear to the ball.”

  “Very well,” Foxglove says, waving him over with no small amount of impatience. “Come on, then. Let us get started.”

  Amelie comes over to the pianoforte and props her elbow on the side. Ember offers me a smile before facing the keys. “You can sit next to me if you’d like,” she says.

  I take her up on that, picking up her bonnet and setting it in my lap as I take a seat. Foxglove and Elliot move to the middle of the room and face each other. Elliot pales, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than at a dance lesson.

  Ember starts right into a song, her fingers dancing expertly over the keys, and Foxglove begins demonstrating some basic steps. Elliot stumbles to mirror his moves, every motion stiff and awkward. While he’s become quite graceful walking with his prosthetic, the unfamiliar dance moves seem to set him back to limping. But as the music lingers on, I find Foxglove to be a most forgiving instructor. Ember continues to play, restarting the song when Foxglove asks her to or switching to new ones as Foxglove tries to demonstrate other dances.

  I watch the dancing pair with a smile, my heart light at the sight. Soon, Elliot seems to forget his apprehension and finds a true rhythm alongside his instructor. I’m surprised to find a smile beginning to tug his lips.

  His grin grows wider as his eyes lock suddenly on mine. Blushing at having been caught staring at him for once, I avert my gaze and turn my attention to Ember’s fluttering fingers. “You play most beautifully,” I tell her.

  “Thank you. I do adore music. My stepfamily doesn’t allow me to play much, so this is a treat for me.” The whole time she speaks, she does so without missing a single beat.

  I remember the bonnet resting on my lap and glance at her. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why do you normally hide your hair?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s what Mrs. Coleman wants. She doesn’t like how the color draws attention to my heritage.”

  “Your heritage?”

  She meets my gaze for a moment before returning her eyes to the piano keys. “I’m half fae. My mother was from the Wind Court.”

  “Oh! I had no idea.”

  “And that’s how Mrs. Coleman wants to keep it.”

  I frown. “But why?”

  “I’m not sure myself. Shame. Jealousy. She was only married to my father for a year before he died, and the wealth she gained from his death is quickly dwindling away. She resents me for merely existing.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “I get by.” Her song comes to an end, and her fingers slide from the keys. For a moment, a flicker of sadness tugs at her expression. She brings a hand to a locket I’ve never noticed before, fumbling with it idly while her eyes unfocus.

  My stomach sinks. “I’m sorry. I sh
ouldn’t have pried.”

  She blinks a few times and replaces her smile. “It’s not you, Gemma. That song…even the happy ones remind me of my parents. They loved to dance.”

  I want to tell her I understand, that I too have lost my mother, but Foxglove’s voice steals my attention. “I think he’s fully learned the gallopade! Come, Miss Bellefleur. Take my place with Mr. Rochester. I need to judge his dancing from afar so I can make any other corrections.”

  I blush, my pulse quickening. “Oh, I couldn’t. It’s been ages since I’ve danced.”

  “Amelie, then,” he says.

  I’m almost disappointed when she accepts and strides forward. It’s not that I’d hoped Foxglove would have pressured me just a bit more, but now I feel like perhaps I should have agreed. It’s to help Elliot, after all.

  Foxglove steps away from Elliot and Amelie takes his place. I watch as Elliot takes Amelie’s hand in his, then places his other on her back. She, in turn, places a gentle hand on his shoulder. Foxglove adjusts his spectacles and assesses them, then steps forward to make a few corrections. No matter what he tries to do, Elliot’s arms remain stiff. “Whatever,” Foxglove says with a huff. “I suppose you will appear more natural with practice. Now, begin.”

  Ember starts a new song with a similar beat as the last, and Elliot and Amelie begin a sliding skip to the side. Elliot nearly trips, but Amelie helps him return to the beat, ever patient and smiling. Just like with Foxglove, soon Elliot seems to grow comfortable, finding the rhythm and performing the slides and turns with increasing ease. His eyes begin to crinkle at the corners, and the next time he nearly trips, he simply laughs it off and connects to the beat again. Even his arms begin to lose some of their stiffness. I must say, he’s really not a terrible dancer.

  Imogen will be satisfied indeed.

  A sinking feeling comes over me, and I watch the dancing pair with fresh eyes. Where his hand rests on Amelie’s back, it will soon grace Imogen’s. Where his smile shines down upon Amelie, it will soon charm my nemesis. Rage and revulsion—and…is that jealousy?—swarm my heart. But why? Why should I care? Do I wish it were me in his arms? Do I wish it were me he’s planning to woo? Of course not! I cannot be the one to break his curse. As determined as I am to save his life, there’s no way I can sacrifice my greatest treasure—freedom and independence—regardless of the cost. It must be Imogen, for what could she possibly treasure but gowns and gold and jewels? She’ll lose nothing but her pride when this is all over, but me…I have too much at stake.