The Dark Queen (The Dark Queens Book 5) (2 page)

With a startled yip, she backpedaled, hugging the awkwardly shaped mirror tight to her breast and staring at him in wide-eyed shock.

The man—who sat upon the rickety seat of a Hackney led by two tired looking old mules—was dirty. His face smudged with dirt, grime, and sweat. His dark hair matted to his head and held tight with a dingy green ribbon. He wore a patchwork vest over a threadbare, yellowish—which must have surely once been cream—colored shirt.

He sneered, showing off several missing teeth. “Ye almost broke my wheels, you wench!”

She looked, and sure enough, there was a wide swerve in the muddy trail. Blinking, confused by his anger and his manner she shook her head. “I’m...I’m sor—”

“Save yer sorry, female.” He said, and immediately his harsh tone shifted into something more lecherous. His lips turned from a hard, nasty line to a lascivious leer. His gaze turned from hard to slow and measuring, she shivered under his intense and gimleted stare.

Fable had been studying the above all her life, she knew women’s fashion and knew she’d dressed the part of a noblewoman. Because that’s exactly what she was. Her father was king of Seren, in the above or the below that meant something.

Her cloak was frost-white colored and threaded through with swirls of silver that winked like fairy light as she moved. Her dark hair had been caught up in a loose and feminine bun, highlighting the sharply sculpted planes of her cheekbones.

She’d worn no face paint, but then she needed none. Fable wasn’t prideful, but she knew her beauty was exotic and unique. The flare of interest in his dull brown eyes was immediately evident.

Wetting his thin lips, he curled them into a lewd twist. “Well, now aren’t ye a fine bit of feminine flesh.”

Biting down on her back teeth she notched her chin high. Fable knew that if she called out to Calypso, her grandmother would come in a heartbeat and smite the rat with a mere flick of her dainty finger.

But Fable had learned one thing growing up, the blood of her father and mother flowed through her veins, she was not powerless. Notching her chin, she gathered her courage and looked him straight in the eye.

“Apologize,” she said in a clear, but not near as strong a voice as she would have liked.

His nostrils flared, and his Adam’s apple rolled as his slight belly shook with laughter. “Excuse me?”

“Were...were you never taught not to speak to a lady that way?” Her heart fluttered and her fingers tingled with a case of fear and nerves.

Again he wet his lips, but this time, he released the loose reins in his grip and moved as though he meant to step down from the Hackney.

As a princess, Fable had never known a day of impoliteness in her life. And if the male had only been cruel, she’d have overlooked it, but the intent to do her harm burned through his mean, little eyes.

Planting his hands on his hips, he spread his thin legs wide, perhaps to show off the bulge in his trousers.

Her pulse beat loudly in her ears; she tried to swallow the thick knot of her fear in her throat. She could not lose control of her powers. Breathing steadily through her nose and pushing it out between her lips, she counted slowly to ten in her head, trying to calm the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

Hand reaching down to his bulge, he gently stroked himself as he asked, “Have you ever sucked, woman?”

Fingers digging into the mirror with such strength that she snapped two of her nails, she opened her mouth, ready to say...only goddess knew what when the sharp neighs of more horses cut through her tension.

“Get away from her!” Another male thundered.

Fable, now more than upset, was ready to crack and let loose her magic on both men. It was only her first day on the above; she couldn’t fail already. She couldn’t go back home with her tail between her legs; she had to prove to her parents that she was capable and as able as they, but one look at the still nameless male and the words died on her tongue.

The male sat upon a white and noble steed. Golden haired with deep blue eyes, a sharp nose that was just shy of being too beakish—but fit his square-jawed face perfectly—and with a ready smile shining with bright white teeth, he could be none other than the king of the Enchanted Forest.

“Sire!” The rat-faced beast whimpered, dropping so sharply to his knees that even Fable couldn’t help but wince at what would surely be bruised knees in the morning.

Only once rat face had bowed did she realize that she stood still gawking at the king like a simpleton.

“My lord,” she said softly, and gracefully bowed. Or as gracefully as she could manage, refusing for even a moment to release her grip on the mirror.

“Go.” Was all the King said.

But Fable knew he’d not said it to her, when rat face, with a silent nod, whipped up his reins, flicked his poor animals, and raced away as fast as his crooked wheels allowed.

“Look at me, woman,” the king said, and Fable did, heart beating like a wild thing in her chest as she fell a little more in love with him.

Never could she have imagined that the king of the enchanted forest would be so handsome. There was a little silver beginning to show at his temples, but his shoulders were wide and powerful looking, and his grip on his horse’s reins sure.

She’d come with the expectation of finding an older male, well beyond his prime. King George had been ruling the enchanted forest for many decades now; his wife had been in her early fifties when she’d passed, which was very young by Kingdom standards.

There had also been rumors surrounding her death. How could such a young woman in the prime of her vigor have died so suddenly? Death did not come easily to Kingdomers, though it happened, it rarely occurred due to natural means.

“Are you hurt?” George asked softly, cutting through her musing.

Just then more horses carrying riders—no doubt the royal guard since they were all dressed in white armor and carrying golden scabbards—came galloping over the grassy knoll.

“Sire!” the lead rider cried, “you should not race so fast, it is not safe.”

Holding up his hand for silence, the king shook his head. Immediately the lead guard snapped his mouth shut, looking stunned to see her standing there. He had a neatly trimmed, black goatee and sharply raised dark brows, which made her think him akin to the devil in looks.

Not at all unpleasing to the eye, though King George was more her type.

“Lady?” George said again, gently.

Shaking off her own stunned stupor, she nodded. “Yes. Yes, thank you, King George, I am well.”

His smile grew radiant, and she knew she was halfway to being in love with him already.

“And what, pray tell, are you doing out here in my woods all alone? You look like a woman of stature and means.”

Implied, but unspoken was that noblewomen should never walk about on their own. Which Fable found to be rather archaic thinking, but he was so handsome, and she was quite smitten, so she shrugged it off. He was a king after all, and they tended to be a tad old-fashioned, she should know; she’d lived with one all her life.

Smiling gently, she nodded. “I am a woman of stature. You are correct. Though I am not of the above.”

His eyes widened for a moment, and then his entire face broke out into a smile. “You must be she. The princess of shadow and night.”

It was her turn to be shocked. “You...you know of me?”

Though knights surrounded them, it felt as though the world had slowly faded away to only him and her. Fable was aware of nothing other than the sound of his voice and the beat of her heart.

“I believe all of Kingdom has heard of you, Fable, daughter of King Sircco and granddaughter to both Hook and Hades. Though I must say, your beauty far surpasses even your legend.”

“Good gods,” she couldn’t help but mumble, planting a hand on her burning cheek.

He threw his head back and chuckled, causing his own Adam’s apple to roll. But unlike the revulsion she’d felt for rat face, the sight of his enchanted her. If Auntie Aphrodite had been here, she was sure there’d be little hearts floating around her and George.

Was this true love?

Mother said that when she’d first seen father she’d felt the powerful magic of true love beat through her soul. That was how love worked in Kingdom, immediately and powerfully when two destined souls met.

Her smile grew bright, sure that she’d just met her perfect, other half.

“And may I ask, if I might be so presumptuous—”

As if a king ever needed to ask for permission, she chuckled softly to herself but said nothing except to nod for him to continue.

“—if you had any plans for tonight?”

She’d come to the above with one intention only, to find the king and make him fall in love with her. So far her plan was coming to fruition. Little did she know that she too would feel the pleasant sting of it.

“No, my liege, no plans at all.”

With a gentle roll of his hips, George caused his horse to canter slowly toward her.

“Charles! Come and take this ladies mirror from her and carry it safely to my home,” George cried.

The lead guardsman came up to her then, and his look was serious and intent. He really was handsome, up close she could also tell that he had unnaturally long lashes for a male, her heart fluttered a tiny bit. Though that emotion was nothing to what she currently felt for George.

Happily she lifted the mirror to him.

“My lady,” Charles said slowly when he got near enough to take it.

And when he grabbed hold, his fingers gently brushed hers. Not in an obvious manner, but in a way to catch her attention. She looked up at him with a question only to note that his eyes had taken on an emotion she couldn’t quite place.

Steady.

Studious.

Fearful?

She blinked, sure it had only been an illusion of light and shadow, because as soon as he’d taken the mirror, he bowed his head and turned, his features looking as distant and implacable as before.

But she quickly forgot her unease when the king gave her his hand.

“Please do me the great honor of being my guest this evening,” he said, and she was more than happy to oblige.

“Yes, I will.”

One night soon turned to two. Then three. A week. A month. And in next to no time the banners had been raised.

King George had found his new bride, and her name was Fable of the Seren Seas—the fairest of them all.

Sadly, the night of the wedding was the last night of joy she’d know for a very, very long time. 

Fable

“L
et me out of here!” She screamed passionately, kicking at the door with her slippered foot in her fearful desire to leave the tower.

“Ye heard the King!” The rickety voice of George’s mother cackled through the thick walnut doors. “Ye’ve been a bad, bad girl, Fable, and needs be punished.”

She sobbed, shaking the handle impudently, knowing her meager strength could do nothing against the magick holding it fast.

The only crime she’d committed this morning had been to remain in her robes, laid up in bed rather than greet him as the rest of the castle did at the start of each day. Fable had felt pain in her head, and had taken too much of the witch’s “healing brew” she’d felt weak and helpless and unable to rise and had known much too late that Brunhilda had put something into the potion to make her sick as she was.

“You know he wouldn’t like this!” Fable screamed louder as she heard his mother’s footsteps retreating. “If he finds out what you’ve done to me! He’ll—”

Immediately Brunhilda returned, moving fleet of foot—much faster than an aged crone of a millennia should. Or at least that’s how old Fable judged her to be the one time she’d caught Brunhilda transform from a woman of moderate years to something ancient, powerful, and full of the very darkest kind of magick.

Fable had almost not believed what she’d seen, except for the fact that as the months in this wretched castle passed she’d witnessed the witch do other, even more, amazing feats.

“He’d do what, huh?” she taunted, voice sounding as dry and dusty as brittle bones, “we both know who’s the true power here, wench, and it ain’t him and it ain’t you. I own him, always have. Always will. Besides...”

Nails dragged down the door, the squeal sounding like the death throes of a dying swine, and Fable clapped hands over her ears, biting down on her back teeth as she trembled and shook, hating the witch with a fury that rocked her to her very core.

“...we both know there’s nothing you can do about it.
Dark Queen
.” Cackling laughter trailed in her wake.

It took several moments before Fable could even move. Only in the deep silence of knowing she was truly alone, did she finally take a tentative step back. Then another. And another.

Until finally she sat on the edge of the massively large bed covered in the skins of a giant deer and looked around the lonely tower she’d no doubt call home for the next fortnight until George’s return.

Luxury dripped from every corner of the tower. There were fairy globes glittering with green and blue light above her. Artist’s renderings of the previous kings and queens through several dynasties past. Paintings of the Enchanted Forest directly surrounding the castle’s walls.

Stitched together furs from hundreds of sacrificed snow foxes on the black marble floor. A massive table with a silver bowl in its center that would magically fill with whatever food and drink she so desired.

She had a trunk full of the most lush and provocative fashions meant to make any queen appear the grandest of them all at any ball or gathering.

Surrounded by everything, and yet she had nothing.

Blinking back tears, she stared at the thin iron shackle on her wrist. “A gift,” Brunhilda had said, after Fable’s marriage to her son.

She’d never suspected George’s mother of subterfuge. Not the comely woman with a crown of lovely snow-white hair that fell in graceful waves down her back. Not the woman with a face as smooth and unlined as a female in her youth. Not a woman with clear blue eyes whose smile was as open and honest as her sons.

No, Fable had taken that
gift
, smiled her thanks and of her own volition had sealed her doom when she’d locked it around her wrist.