The Dark Queen (The Dark Queens Book 5) (7 page)

She did not doubt the veracity of The Blue. The fairy would demand her due, and knew the only way to ensure she got whatever it was she wanted she’d need to be honest in her dealings with Fable.

Fable’s tongue had twisted trying to repeat the strange words in the strange books filled full of drawings that made her flesh tingle just to run her fingers across them.

She’d thought she’d known what magick was, but holding this leather bound book with depictions of demons and pentagrams, angels, and objects of great and sacred power, she felt fear.

Knew she dabbled in the type of darkness she should never knowingly dabble in. How had a fairy godmother gotten her hands on such a tome? Why did a being sworn to bring about the happily ever afters for the heroes of this world know such evil?

And though a side of Fable hated what she did, she knew she had no other choice in the matter.

“Enough,” Galeta finally said, her voice so deep and thunderous that Fable jumped, so lost in the translation and speaking of the words that she’d forgotten for just a moment that she wasn’t alone.

Blinking suddenly tear-filled eyes, she rubbed the grit from them with her arm and glanced around, shocked to note the twilight pallor filling her room and the fact that her stomach was so empty and hungry that it felt like it ground viciously against her spine.

Groaning, she leaned heavily against the wooden table and shook her head. “How long have we been at this?”

“Hours.”

“But I still could—”

“No,” Galeta petted the head of her now slumbering Earth Shaker, “you cannot. The King comes even now to lay claim to his bride.”

Her laughter was full of wicked humor, and Fable decided that help or not, she did not trust The Blue. Licking sharp fangs, Galeta eyed Fable hard and long.

“What?” she snapped a moment later, unable to bear the tension of such a heated stare.

“Oh, nothing.” Galeta shook her head, causing her curls to bob almost prettily.

In Kingdom, often the most wicked hearts hid behind the loveliest facades.

Fable didn’t buy it. Which clearly Galeta realized, because laughing, she held her hand’s palm up. “You wish to know, fine. I’ve seen your future—”

“You read futures?” Fable asked dubiously. She knew fairy lore and knew that only The Grey generally had such power.

Though there were rumors that Galeta, from time immemorial, had envied the skill and magick of The Gray and had done something awful to the fairy so as to gain the power for her own. Rumors were hard to substantiate in a land full of them, but one thing was certain, The Blue had retained authority over the faes for as long as history had recorded their existence. Which was a very, very long time.

Again a one-shouldered shrug and only a secret smile were her answer. “George will impregnate you.”

Fable gasped, forgetting all about secret assassination attempts and coups for power as her world rocked violently.

“No,” she breathed, as her hands began to tremble.

Galeta nodded gleefully. “Oh yes, a gaggle of them. All beautiful. Some dark, some light. All wicked, and one...one of them will end you.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s not possible.” She held onto the flat of her stomach, curling her fingers into her gown and bunching it tight, feeling both hot and cold, dizzy and weightless. “You can’t know this. You can’t.”

Snorting so loud that The Blue woke her dragon—who shook his head and belched a fiery burp before settling back down—Galeta laughed. “I can, and I do. I learned all I could of you Fable of the Seren Seas once I discovered our paths entwined.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Flitting those demonic blue wings that sported a massive moth’s eye on each, she drew closer to Fable’s side, before drawing a sharp nail along the corner of her jaw. She hissed as her flesh split like a thin ribbon beneath that wicked touch.

“I have my reasons, and they are not yours to know.”

Fable desperately wanted to know why but sensed the Fairy would give her nothing more.

Finally, the nasty smirk slipped off the fae’s face, and she said in a hard growl, “You must take this.”

Tipping her palm over, a bottle in the shape of an apple suddenly appeared there. The glass was a deep red so dark it almost looked black, and every so often would glow like the pulse of a heartbeat.

Wetting her lips, Fable took an involuntary step back. “What...what is that?”

Ruby red lips curled upward as Galeta stroked the bottle’s stopper and said in a dark, deadly whisper, “Your salvation. And your ruin. Drink it.”

She thrust it into her chest. But Fable wanted no part of it. Stumbling back another step, she shook her head hard. “I’m not going to take that. Are you insane? What will it do to me?”

Just then the echoes of someone climbing the stairwell pricked Fable’s ears, and she knew without being told that George had made good on his threat and was coming for her.

Swallowing hard, angry, upset, and terrified, she stared wide-eyed at the fairy who now flew within a foot of her face and said softly, “No babies for you, Fable. Ever. That is the price you’ll pay for drinking this.”

She gasped, throat squeezing tight because the thought of never bearing a child, it was almost too painful to consider.

There were too many questions without answers. Like, how did Galeta know this? Was it even true?

Learning of George’s true colors made her never want to bear one of his, and knowing what Galeta had told her, that one of her offspring would be the death of her—whether true or not—had infected her with fear.

But she had hope of escaping, hope of someday being her own woman again. “Never?” she asked, voice reed-thin and scratchy.

Galeta’s only answer was a terrible laugh. She tossed the vial at Fable, and without thought, she snatched it from the air, terrified of it crashing to the floor.

The footsteps grew louder.

“Decide quickly, darkness, for soon the matter will be taken out of your hands entirely.”

Soon George would be here. Soon he’d force her to mate, and like Galeta said, she’d no longer have a choice in the matter. The thought of bearing George’s children, of knowing that they’d be as trapped here as she, as Snow...it wasn’t her eventual murder that decided her, but the fate of the beloved children she’d never know that steeled her nerves.

This could all be a lie.

A scheme concocted by a cold, and unfeeling heart. But time was not on her side, because if this was true, she had only seconds left to decide.

With a sinking heart and trembling fingers, Fable uncorked the bottle, tipped it up and drank deeply.

The thick fluid tasted of burnt cherries and made her gasp as she swallowed, feeling as though she’d consumed living flame.

Galeta vanished in a puff of silvery-blue snow crystals, the echo of her laughter chilling Fable’s soul.

Tears burned her eyes.

The door opened.

George stood on the other side, holding only a lit torch and dressed in his kingly robes.

“Now,” he said deeply, “take off your clothes, female.”

~*~

T
he nights were the worst.

George had come that first night and every night since. He was not a sweet and caring lover. He did not hit her, but he did not tend to her either.

He’d enter her, whether she was physically ready or not. Give several hard thrusts before grunting a release, collapsing upon her for a quick rest, and then resume his task over again.

He was like a man possessed, consumed with her bearing him a child. A male heir, he’d always say.

It didn’t take long for Fable to understand that he came to her out of duty and nothing more. No doubt by Brunhilda’s lead.

Sometimes Fable thought it would have been preferable to feel wrath or anger come from him, as opposed to the oppressive nothing she got.

He did not kiss her. Did not hold her. He simply shoved his cock into her with no regard to her comfort or pleasure.

There were never any sweet words whispered, nor even petting of any kind.

But those nights were not the worst.

No, the worst was when George came to her room so drunk and half-cocked that he’d require help to “finish.” Charles, his ever-devoted knight, would guide George’s sometimes semi-flaccid penis directly into her.

Tears of shame would run down her face, and all she could do to get through it was to look up at the ceiling and pretend that it was all just a horrible, terrible nightmare.

And when it was done, and George had spilled his seed and collapsed in a heap beside her snoring heavily, Charles would give her a look that would split Fable’s heart in two.

Pity.

And she hated him for it.

The days were better and made all the tortures of the night somewhat bearable. Galeta, as promised, returned every day. Now, months in into her training, Fable felt stronger.

The other day she’d created fire with nothing more than a spell.

She’d laughed and then cried, sensing the end of this miserable time here. And as she grew stronger, it became harder and harder to hide just what she could do. Every night that her bastard of a husband came to her she wanted to hurt him, end him.

And the need for that revenge only grew stronger and stronger within her.

But Galeta cautioned her not to. That she was still nowhere near as strong as Brunhilda and should the witch learn what Fable was really up to trapped in this tower of stone, she’d end it all.

So Fable forced herself to lie still and take the abuse, repeating to herself over and over that when she was finally strong enough, she was going to make them all pay.

Now, six months into her training, Fable was so lost in the learning of the newest spell—a killing curse—that she did not at first hear Galeta’s words.

“Snap out of it, darkness!” Galeta snarled, shoving Fable so hard that she practically stumbled over her feet.

Frowning, and furious, she glared at the miniature woman. “What?”

Galeta’s eyes were wide and with a flick of her wand, she vanished the book, herbs, and poisons now littering her worktable.

“I said, the witch comes.” And then, just as she’d vanished everything else, so too did The Blue leave.

Fable had just enough time to twirl in surprise when the doors were tossed wide and landed with a violent bang against the walls.

Brunhilda, dressed in a moss green gown that fit snugly to her body, eyed the room critically, and Fable trembled, terrified that somehow the witch would know what had actually transpired just beneath her nose.

Knowing that to act guilty would make her look guilty, Fable instantly transformed into a thing of regal and arrogant beauty.

With the power she learned came now a new and innate strength she’d never known she’d actually possessed.

“What do you want, witch?” she hissed.

Snapping frosty blue eyes toward Fable, she lifted her nose and glared. “I’ve come to have a long overdue chat with you, woman.”

She crossed her arms beneath her flat chest, causing them to swell and look bigger than they actually were. Brunhilda had wildflowers threaded together to create a garland upon the crown of her head.

Fable recognized Snow’s handiwork and had to gnash her teeth not to say anything. Little Snow hadn’t come to visit Fable in near a month now, and it worried her that she’d not seen the girl. Not only that but why was Snow creating garland wreaths for a grandmother she loathed? A terrible, sinking feeling wormed its way through her gut.

But until she grew stronger, she knew there was nothing she could do for the child.

“About what?” she asked crisply.

Brunhilda, without requesting permission, entered the room and snapped her fingers. Causing the doors to slam behind her with a thunderous thud.

Fable didn’t flinch.

To the witch’s credit, she did not beat around the bush or mince words. “You’re not pregnant. You should be pregnant.”

The way she said it.
Should be
, Fable knew instantly the witch had indeed spelled George’s seed.

The pain of not bearing children no longer bothered Fable, and she was suddenly grateful that Galeta had given her that potion. Snow’s mother had died, it was easy enough now to see that Brunhilda had definitely had a hand in her demise. Laughing on the inside, she said softly, “Some women can’t get pregnant quickly.”

Brunhilda snorted. “Aye. Some can’t.”

It was obvious by the way she spoke that she didn’t believe Fable.

Lifting her brows, she shook her head. “Is there something you want to say to me, Brunhilda? Something you know that I don’t?”

The dowager’s smile was vicious and cruel. “I know you’ve done something, little bitch.”

Fable couldn’t quite hide the smirk. She sniffed and shook her head. “What could I have possibly done?” she lifted her wrist, showing off the damnable cuff still locked tight. “I have no magick. No one comes to me.”

Not entirely true, but again, the witch didn’t need to know that.

“Are you saying I’m more clever than you are?” Fable’s words were sugar dipped in venom.

Fire burned through Brunhilda’s eyes, and a snarl transformed her pretty face into that of a monster’s. “Once I figure this out, and I will, you will pay, darkness. Mark my words.”

“Get out of my room,” Fable said unflinchingly.

Brunhilda stood exactly where she was.

Curling her fingers tight to her side, knowing she was still no match for the witch, Fable screamed, “Get. Out. Of. My. Room!”

The dowager stood there only a second longer, before snorting, turning on her heel and with a snap of her fingers, opened the doors and walked out without saying another word.

Fable sank to her knees the moment she was alone again, trembling not from fear, but from such a fierceness of rage that she thought she’d be consumed by it.

“Good on you, darkness. You will be a fine queen someday,” Galeta said, startling Fable with her return.

Clenching her jaw, and snapping her own fingers to slam the doors shut and locking them this time, Fable glared up at the fairy. “I learn this magick so that I can leave here, I am no queen and I will not—”