Rumpel's Prize (2 page)

He was absolutely right. Paragraph one thousand, two hundred eleven of the
Book of Lore
said:
Interfering in the good work of another magical entity is punishable by law to the very severest penalty
.

She clapped her hand on his wrist and narrowed her eyes. “The law says ‘good work.’ I don’t trust you, devil. In any case, I’ve never much cared for laws or rules. If you know me at all, you’d know that to be a statement of absolute fact. I’ll do what I must, I always have.” She punctuated each word, daring him to deny it.

Everyone in Fairy knew she’d often danced across the lines of black and white, and though she’d now managed to firmly reclaim her true form thanks to Siria’s duplicity being found out, she’d gladly and willingly accept any curse when it came to protecting the lives of those she loved.

The only reason Shayera had never been assigned a godmother was because of a horrendous oversight by the assigning manager of Godmother, Inc., a technicality Danika believed they’d have time to work out. She’d never meant for the girl to be unprotected and well Rumpelstiltskin knew it.

A blast of white heat exploded beside her foot, shooting up sparks and making her momentarily loosen her grip on him.

His visage was as equally menacing and hateful now as it’d been jovial just seconds ago. “Do not goad me, woman, for I swear you shall lose, and I’d hate to think of a world without you in it.”

Then without a backward glance, he peeled off, kicking up large chunks of red dirt and debris as he drove the last bit of distance into the normally quiet hamlet.

Danika gathered her hands to her breast and hugged herself as the sky cleared and the birds once again filled the woods with the sound of song, a sense of dread filling her bones.

“Oh, Gerard, I fear I cannot help you this time.”

Rumpel paid no mind to the heads popping out of doorways, watching with large, round eyes as he drove past. They knew who he was and knew why he was here. He was the dark imp.

Pack of fools
. If they only knew.

Though he’d worked hard to establish the moniker through the years, it didn’t mean he relished it either. All feared his power, and he’d never really understood why. True, he’d rolled a few heads in his day, and perhaps even thrust a blade through a heart or two, but they’d deserved the deaths they’d gotten.

His deals were fair and always honest—if the participant signed the line, they knew exactly what they were getting into. He refused to feel sorry for being honest; it simply wasn’t his way.

Just at the end of the cobbled lane sat a well-appointed white brick chalet with a straw roof and a red oak door. Surrounding its entire perimeter—front, sides, and back—was a thick hedge of red roses.

Something about the placement of the home struck him as odd almost immediately. It seemed to have an isolated feel to it. Even though there were plenty of homes along this street, humans mingled on lawns and in shop fronts, but all of them seemed to keep their distance from this house in particular.

As though there was an invisible barrier surrounding it. The home was pretty, he supposed, so far as human dwellings went. But all the eyes staring on—and there were many—seemed to glower, not at him, but at the house itself.

Shrugging the thoughts off as little more than fancy, Rumpel licked his front teeth. He’d tasked Aeric with searching out the names on his list, and now Rumpel was down to the last three out of fifty. To say he was feeling disgustingly dejected would only be putting it mildly.

Maintaining this calm façade was far from easy; if he didn’t find
the one
soon he’d be sorely tempted to begin a reign of death and bloodshed the likes of which Kingdom had never known before. He was a man not to be trifled with, ever. One foul, bloody decision eons ago shouldn’t continue to cost him as it did. For a man of his power, being so bloody powerless was a sensation he was not familiar with and did
not
relish.

A small boy played beside the stoop that led into the house. His head jerked up at the sound of Rumpel’s motorcycle. The child stood and walked up the front of the hedge. He couldn’t have been older than ten, maybe twelve. With a thick head of blond curls and deep brown eyes, he didn’t appear to be in the least bit afraid as he stood there waiting for him to approach.

It wasn’t uncommon for a child to show no fear of him. Usually only adults cared about such things as rumors and innuendos. Pulling up beside the curb, he killed the engine, giving Genesis a final pat to her chrome tank before sliding off. She purred beneath his touch.

“Boy.” He jerked his head at the door. “Where is your father?”

“My name is Briley, and he’s not home,” he said in an even, measured tone, curiosity flitting briefly through his eyes when he turned his stare briefly at the bike. Then he blinked and his lips turned down. “But I don’t think you’re here for my daddy, because Daddy would have told me about you, Rumpelstiltskin.”

Shocked at the perceptiveness of the boy, Rumpel frowned. Only briefly, mind you. It was rare that he was taken aback by someone, especially a youngster.

But there was something about the child, a mannerism that was just slightly odd. Not bad. Just different. A slope to his eyes, a sort of perpetual youthfulness about him that hid a keen intellect.

“You’re not from here, are you?” Rumpel asked, studying the boy.

Briley toyed with a red petal. “Kingdom, you mean?”

“Aye.” Rumpel walked closer, noting the boy’s scrubbed-and-polished appearance, the well-pressed blue shirt and tan shorts. He was a well-cared-for child and clearly much beloved.

“Nah.” He shook his head, riffling fingers through his hair. “Well…” He shrugged and giggled. “I came here a long time ago with my Aunt Betty and Uncle Gerard, but I was born in a place called
Miss-ouri
.” He stressed the word as if he had to taste it through to pronounce it correctly.

“Earth. Indeed.” He smiled. “Well then, Briley, it is good to meet you. Might I come in?”

“No.” He shook his head swiftly. “And don’t bother trying to come in without permission because Uncle Gerard made a witch cast a spell on this bush so that it would rip someone to smithereens if they tried.” His smile was sweet and innocent and Rumpel’s lips twitched.

The child amused him.

“Briley!” a female’s voice cried out. “Get away from him. What are you doing here?” A raven-haired beauty came trampling down the steps, latching her hands onto the child’s shoulder and dragging him swiftly to her side.

Her eyes were a deep, chocolate brown and were easily seen behind a horrid pair of owl-shaped lenses. She shoved at the sweaty strands of hair clinging to her forehead, tucking it behind her ears. Her body was slim but strong. Tanned calves peeked out from beneath the long hem of her gauzy day dress. She dressed in a rather matronly fashion for one so young, but she’d do in a pinch he supposed.

“Well?” Her nostrils flared as she glared prettily. “You have ten seconds to answer me before I get my husband to toss you square on your ass!”

Hiding his disappointment that she was not Shayera, although clearly the mother, he recovered quickly enough. “Ah, Ms Caron, I take it.” He held out his hand and waited for her to take it.

Instead she glared at it, then back at him. “I know who you are, Rumpelstiltskin,” she said in a tone laced with frost. “Danika told us you might come. Briley…” She looked down at the boy. “Go along inside and play with your cousin.” She patted his cheek with obvious fondness, but the moment the boy skipped away, she was once again the furious mama bear.

“Of course she did.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not exactly sure what that bug told you…”

“You’d dare to insult my friend and then come here and think I will… what?” she snapped, tossing up her hands. “Just hand you my daughter? You must be touched in the head.”

Finally, the man of the hour came tromping down the steps, obviously alerted by the sounds of his wife’s squawking. Gerard was a thickly built man, much broader than Rumpel himself, but size could be misleading.

Well… depending on what one was referring to, of course.

The infamous lothario—who was now apparently reformed—draped a protective arm across his Chihuahua of a wife and glared black daggers at Rumpel. “Rumpelstiltskin,” he growled with such a strong French accent that Rumpel knew the man was shaken.

Curling his nose with disdain, the Frenchman glared at him. Undeterred, Rumpel glanced between him and his wife. “You know why I’m here. I can either do this outside, or we can speak in private. Your choice.”

Gerard wanted to pretend his indifference, but the slight uptilt to his jaw and the quiver of his pinky finger spoke volumes. He worried about what exactly Rumpel meant to say. What secrets he would spill in front of his dear wife. How pathetically funny. Rumpel would have sworn the first time he’d met Gerard that he’d never see the day the man cared for anything more than his long list of conquests.

Chuckling, Rumpel shook his head. “Oh, my dear woman.” He turned to Betty. “I fear your husband has been greatly remiss in sharing our truths.” Whirling back to Gerard, he smirked. “Have you not, Caron?”

Clenching his lips, Gerard jerked his head toward the house. “Let’s take this inside, demon.”

He was no demon, and yet everyone insisted on calling him that. It’d ceased ruffling his feathers several hundred years ago.

“Yes, let’s,” Rumpel agreed and the thorny rose hedge parted as if by magic—which it obviously was, clearly Briley had not been lying—to allow him safe entrance.

Betty clutched at Gerard’s hand. “What’s going on, honey?”

He shook his head. “Not out here,” he whispered.

“Embarrassed about me, Caron, are you?” He chuckled. “Afraid the world might know you’ve gotten yourself entangled with the devil himself?”

Hissing, Gerard spun on his heel. His broad chest heaved as he glowered at Rumpel. “Do not make me regret inviting you inside. I should rip you limb from limb for daring to intrude upon the sanctity of my—”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Rumpel made the hand motion to indicate someone blathering on, and then with a flourish stepped to the side so that Betty could walk up the steps before him. “After you.”

“Ugh!” She growled, shoved into his shoulder, and stomped up the steps.

Lips twitching, Rumpel rubbed his shoulder as if she’d wounded him. “When a man tries to be gallant, women cry foul and call us misogynistic; when we make you open your own door, you scream that chivalry is dead. I confess I do not understand the opposite sex sometimes.”

Betty slammed the door behind her, shutting both him and Gerard out. Turning to him, the burly Frenchman shook his head. “Leave her out of this,” he said. “I do not know what you’re about, but spare her the humiliation at the very least.”

Holding up his hands, Rumpel shrugged. “I had no intentions of dragging her into it, though I doubt she’ll be content to let you have the ultimate choice in the matter as the situation is a rather sensitive one.”

Hand on the knob, Gerard looked as though he wished to say more, but with a hard jerk of his head, he opened his home to him.

The inside of the house was as handsomely appointed as the exterior and filled with blond, burnished wood floors and furniture that was designed to be comfortable as opposed to opulent. A crackling fire burned in the hearth, and lavender and other flowers hung drying upside down from the rafters above them. In short, it was a home built with love and made to be lived in.

“I’m in the kitchen, Gerard,” Betty cried out from the next room in a voice that still bore a tinge of exasperation.

Gerard led the way and gave his wife a chaste peck on the cheek before sitting at the carved wooden eating table. He gestured at the seat in front of him. “Sit,” he said with lifted brow, never taking his eyes off Rumpel.

Taking a seat, Rumpel watched as Betty busied herself pouring steaming water from a black iron kettle into three mugs. No one said anything as she added a spoonful of sugar and a squeeze of lemon to each cup. The aromatic fragrance of Earl Gray tea filled the quaint space. The kitchen, just as the rest of what he’d seen, had a homey, lived-in feel to it.

The cabinets were whitewashed and distressed, and a black baker’s rack was full of bowls brimming over with apples and large loaves of bread. A thick wedge of yellow cheese, still partly dipped in wax, sat on the counter. Clearly he’d interrupted lunch.

A mug was shoved into his hands. He looked up.

“Here,” Betty said without any attempt at civility, a fact he was oddly grateful for. Usually he was greeted either with fear or extreme obeisance, both of which disgusted him. He preferred truth every time.

“Thank you.” Inclining his head, he used the silver-handled spoon on the table to stir the sugar. “Don’t worry, I won’t take up much of your time.”

Betty sat on Gerard’s lap, eyeing him over the rim of her mug as she sipped at it.

“So speak.” Gerard tapped his fingers on the table, ignoring the tea Betty had set before him.

Even knowing this wasn’t a social call, Rumpel took a sip of tea and moaned in appreciation of the robust and citrusy quality of it. After a moment, he shrugged. “I’m here for your daughter.”

“I’m just sure you are, you sonofabitch.” Betty slammed her mug down, sloshing the contents onto the tabletop. Patting her knee softly, Gerard took the mug from her clenched hand and took a swallow from it himself.

“Mm. Yes.” Rumpel thinned his lips. “I know this is messy and probably not at all what you expected, but I’m here to collect.”

Now it was Gerard’s turn to lean forward. “I’m no fool, imp. I understood what I signed years ago would someday be called due, I get that. But how could you possibly believe I’d be willing to give you my daughter? My contract stated—”

“Yes, yes.” Rumpel waved his hand. “That in exchange for my causing several highly influential and powerful patrons of a one Madam Flurry to forget you’d ever bedded her, you’d swear a single day of fealty to me. Semantics.”

“Semantics!” Betty pounded her fists on the table. “Okay, one, I was pissed at Gerard for not telling me about that deal.” She gave her mate a withering glare before inhaling deeply and patting her chest. “But considering the fact that he did that with you fifty-two years before he met me, I can hardly hold it against him. However, the contract’s terms are explicit;
he
is the one who owes you a day of fealty, not Shayera.”