Briar Blackwood's Grimmest of Fairytales Page 12

  “Should the Lady see us—the consequences!” Myrtle said.

  Ash clapped the fan shut and slapped it twice on the palm of his free hand. Then he made a quick mid-air star with his hand. “Cover your eyes,” he said. Then twinkling sparks floated lazily from between his palms and covered the armoire. The light specks multiplied until the entire thing was illuminated.

  Briar felt the heat of his magic, and at the peak of its brightness, the specks detached and drifted back to Ash’s palms leaving no trace of the armoire behind. He snapped open the fan, as though he had barely exerted himself, and busied himself with fanning again. Briar and Dax uncovered their eyes and blinked at each other.

  “Did you see anything in that mirror?” Myrtle asked. She sounded positively ill.

  Briar shook her head. “I think it was just my imagination.” Poplar glanced at Myrtle with a worried expression.

  “You needn’t concern yourself with anything here. There are indeed shadows and memories of shadows in this place,” Myrtle said. “But shadows and memories have no substance. They’ll never harm, unless you beckon to them and linger in their presence. And in this place, after all, they are nothing but ink, in a picture, in a book.”

  It sounded convincing enough. But Briar could hear the sense of worry clutching behind their soothing words.

  “Tomorrow morning your journey begins, so sleep soundly.” Myrtle took Poplar by the elbow and ushered her out the door.

  “Sleep well,” Poplar said, wiggling her fingers goodbye. Ash followed behind, but lingered in the doorway for a moment. He seemed to be pondering something.

  “Is there a bathroom around here?” Dax asked him.

  “Just down the hall, seventy-seven doors to your left,” he replied.

  Dax looked like his face might slide right off. But he marched from the room, determined. Briar listened to Dax count each door aloud, until his voice finally faded in the distance.

  Ash watched Dax traipse down the hall with his dark-lined geisha’s eyes, and when he was far enough away, he turned back to Briar. He closed the door with care not to make a sound, and leaned his back against it. Briar noticed drips of sweat on his forehead and his eyes shifting left and right.

  “I could lose my head for this.” His voice trembled a bit. “Know that there are stories within stories, young Briar.” He looked up at the Blackwood gallery, and nodded at the strange portraits.

  Briar remained silent, but found it odd that Ash would choose to tell her this separate from Myrtle and Poplar. She wondered if perhaps he could read her thoughts, and then she wondered if maybe all three of them could do so.

  “Trust no one,” he said. “The wheels that turn are immense and a thousand-grooved.”

  “What do you mean?” Briar asked.

  Ash seemed not to hear her, but stayed true to his task of warning. “Do not tarry long in the Realms. The longer you stay, the more there will be forgetting.”

  “Forgetting?” Briar could feel her pulse rising. “Forgetting of what?”

  Ash reached into his kimono and pulled out a shiny black stone. He handed it to Briar and said, “Keep this with you at all times.” It felt smooth and cool in her hand. Then she noticed a strange design etched onto the top that looked like a sixteen-pointed star wreathed by twining dragons.

  “Won’t Sherman teach me to use the trinket?” she asked.

  “There are some sorceries that go beyond trinkets,” he said. Then he clenched his red-bowed lips. “Even masters have their limits.”

  Briar heard Myrtle call from beyond the door. “Ash, come along.”

  “Keep it with you. Keep it hidden,” he said. Then he darted away.

  Chapter 15

  Briar slept fitfully that night. She dreamed that she was wandering down the flickering candlelit halls of the birdhouse. She wore a long, stiff gown. White, maybe, gold perhaps, and of a heavy brocade, it was certainly something from another age. She held a candelabrum as she passed by the locked hallway doors, and she thought she heard muffled cries from behind them. A distinct voice gasping or whispering said something like “save us,” amid the general murmur of hundreds, perhaps thousands of other voices.

  Then the chaotic din sharpened and distinct voices took prominence. It was as if she was able to hear all of them at once with the bracing clarity of a cold spring. They were calling her name, some of them spoke in a strange, throaty language. Over and over the voices tumbled across her like cold ocean waves, begging and pleading with her.

  She tried a door, but it was locked. Then she tried another and another. Far into the distance, she saw a dark shadow float into a particularly tall doorway. In a blink, Briar found herself facing it, reaching for the knob. It turned without resistance. But just before she pushed it open to see what might lie beyond, she paused, hearing the whir of a spinning wheel and a woman’s dark laughter.

  She awakened with a gasp and sat upright. It was already morning and the sun shone in bright golden ribbons through the arched window. It didn’t matter that the room felt cheery; Briar found herself tamping down a growing sense of foreboding. She looked up, and the gallery of odd paintings loomed overhead, seeming almost to leer at her.

  “Well, look who’s decided to join the living,” Dax said. He came through the door with a silver tray piled with scones, black currant jam, butter, and steaming tea. “Sleep okay? Oh, wait what am I talking about? You’re the sleeping beauty—you should be giving seminars or some shit like that.”

  Briar rubbed her head and then tucked her long black hair behind her ears. “Yeah, well I guess a wicked queen with a poisonous prick would know. Are you just getting back from the bathroom?”

  “Ooh snap, Your Majesty. Let’s put it this way—considering the crazy-ass shit in your life, I think it’ll be easier if I just invest in some adult diapers—” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway. When I got back, you were already out. I couldn’t wake you for anything. It was creepy.”

  Dax plopped the tray on the bed. “I tried to kiss you to see if that might work its magic. But alas—”

  Briar wrinkled her nose. “That’s the story of my life.”

  Briar grabbed at a scone and stuffed her mouth. “Oh my God, Dax,” she said. Her mouth was still full. “Have you tried these? They’re fantastic.”

  “I’m still not used to this magic shit,” Dax said. “Poplar just wiggled her fingers and buh-bam! This whole tray appeared. At least she didn’t give us anything she found in one of her mouse-traps.” Dax split one scone open and let some butter melt between the halves. He slathered one half with the black currant jam and bit. “Hello lover. Will you marry me?” he asked the scone. The two laughed together and it felt good to laugh again after going through so much.

  Myrtle knocked on the doorframe and entered. “Good morning,” she sang. Poplar and Myrtle entered dressed in their usual, biddy attire. Sherman was wrapped around Myrtle’s shoulders as always. Ash then straggled into the room, now dressed in a Renaissance hunter’s garb. He had a leather strap across his green fitted vest, black velvet short pants, and a black cloak.

  “I trust you’ve rested well,” he said. He focused his gaze on Briar, then his eyes flicked quickly to Myrtle and Poplar on each of his sides.

  “Yeah, sure,” Briar said.

  “Well, that makes one of us,” Sherman said. “Honestly, this whole idea simply exhausts me.”

  Briar threw her thigh-high stockings over the side of the bed and was shocked to see them. Before going to bed, she had slipped out of her theater costume. But magically, she was back in her usual cinched up black Victorian dress. Her black hoodie and grunge boots were neatly placed on a trunk at the foot of the bed. Briar was amused at how comfortable she had become with these kinds of magical changes.

  “I hope you don’t mind, dearie,” Poplar said. “I just thought you should dress comfortably for the road.”

  Dax sat looking like a deflated bounce house. “I did not see that coming,” he said.

  Bef
ore Briar stood, she checked a pocket at her hip. She had slipped Ash’s protective stone into the dress pocket, but it was now there in her Victorian gown. She felt her neck for the key pendant.

  “It is time to say goodbye,” Myrtle said.

  Poplar began blubbering into a lace handkerchief. “We’ve only gotten to know her,” she said. “And now she’s off.”

  Rapidly whirling her hands in a clockwise manner, Myrtle made a design that was as intricate as fine lace. Amid sparkling lights, a revolting black widow spider, the size of a Chihuahua appeared between her hands. “Mittens will help,” she said. The spider dropped to the floor with a dry papery sound and it approached Dax, clicking its legs along the floor.

  “What the fuck?” he said, backing away.

  “Mittens is perfectly harmless. She has been the family locksmith for generations,” Myrtle said. “True, she has sucked the life out of a victim or two. But not since little Miss Muffet, right, Mittens?” She reached down and stroked the hideous thing’s back and it hunched up in pleasure. Then it clicked around and made a high-pitched screech.

  “So what are we supposed to do?” Briar asked.

  “Oh, this is useless!” Sherman snapped. “She’s never used a locksmith before.”

  Poplar stepped around the bed with Briar’s shoes and hoodie. “Don’t worry about Sherman. He knows to be on his best behavior while you’re away—or he’ll make a lovely winter muff for some common in Nepal.” Once Briar decked herself in her garb, Poplar ushered her to the infinite, candlelit halls. Dax hurried behind them and Mittens scuttled close on his heels. “I need a really big can of Raid right now,” he said while eyeing the repulsive arachnid.

  Myrtle urged Briar on. “All you have to do is pick a door,” she said. “Mittens will do the rest.”

  “With our luck, she’ll pick the door that leads straight to Lady Orpion’s chambers,” Sherman said.

  Ash then entered the hallway and he gave Briar an encouraging nod. “It’s your first real magical act,” he said. “Take the trinket off, but leave it on its chain. Let it dangle before you, close your eyes and just breathe. You must rescue the boy and find the book—so hold these two knowings in mind.”

  Briar looked back at Dax, who smiled but shrugged his shoulders. Briar closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She imagined Leon, and a vision of him in a cage flashed like a sudden strobe in her mind. Suddenly she felt a pull from the key on the necklace. She opened her eyes and saw she was standing before a small round door that only reached as high as her knees. She saw the key, defying gravity, outstretching on the chain, pointing toward the little door.

  She looked back to tell the others, but saw that they were all standing a long distance away. It was strange how she had wandered so far, when it felt as though she had only taken a step. Mittens was lying in front of the door and made another small cry as if to acknowledge her selection.

  Without having to say more, Mittens crawled up the wall and stuck two of his long black legs into the keyhole. The mechanisms inside the lock made a metallic tinkling noise. Then the spider took on a strange luminescence until it became translucent. Like a wisp of smoke, he floated into the door lock. Once he was inside, the door illuminated and also became translucent.

  Briar shaded her eyes but looked through her fingers. Through the door she saw a series of cruddy boots standing on a wooden floor. Then there was a distinct sound of a latch unlocking. The little door solidified again and then it opened wide.

  Dax, Sherman, and the others ambled down the long hallway. They arrived out of breath. “Very well then, Briar,” Myrtle said in a tone as bracing as crisp, tart apples. “Listen to Sherman. Follow your intuition, and speed your journey.”

  Dax spoke up. “Uh, won’t our friends notice that we’re gone?”

  “What friends?” Briar asked.

  “I stand corrected,” Dax said.

  “In one world they will know your presence; in the other, you are already forgotten,” Ash said. He gave Briar a brief but meaningful gaze, and she recalled what he had said about forgetting.

  “I wish I’d done this before my last math test,” Dax replied.

  Myrtle straightened her neck and leveled her chin so that it rested on her high collar. “A word of warning, Briar,” she said.

  “Uh, hello? You’re warning me now?”

  “Whatever you do, never open the Book of Cinder and Blight or read from its pages. That would be—an unfortunate situation.”

  Briar nodded, and then Myrtle pulled her close with her black gloves. At first Briar thought it might be another part of her instruction, but realized it was not Myrtle’s characteristic business-as-usual, but an offering of affection. Briar realized in that moment, that that might be how it feels to be cared for— maybe even loved. Myrtle stiffened up again and dusted off invisible specks from her red suit.

  “Oh, how could I forget?” Poplar said. She reached into her drawstring bag and handed Briar the cell phone. “You never know when you may need this.” Briar took the phone with a wide grin. Poplar too embraced Briar and began sobbing. Then she threw her arms around Dax.

  “Are we all done now?” Sherman asked. “I’d like to get this over with so I can see where Miss Ingrate has landed us.”

  Poplar stood back and snuffled.

  Sherman sat up on his hind legs for a moment, then without saying more, he darted through the door, disappearing on the other side. Myrtle gave another nod of encouragement.

  “Briar has the trinket, so hold hands to pass through the door safely,” she said.

  So Briar and Dax knelt down and crawled through the doorway, while awkwardly holding hands. Before they knew it, they were scrabbling on the pitch-stained floor of a smoky old tavern. Briar stood upright immediately, and almost knocked her head on one of the ceiling’s low-hanging wood beams. She brushed off her knees and helped Dax to stand.

  Sherman was already seated at the bar, leaning forward into a tankard of something that smelled like rotting death. But she had a hard time seeing him clearly, as the room was enveloped in a haze of burning tobacco, and woody herbs. There was a filthy finger-smudged door just a few paces away behind where Briar stood.

  “Don’t speak,” Sherman said in a hushed voice. He turned his head slightly, glancing—just for a flash—at a hulking, warty old woman who was seated at the end of the bar. Under his breath Sherman ordered the two of them to sit. Briar grabbed Dax by the arm, and together they found stools next to Sherman.

  “Where are we?” Dax asked from the side of his mouth.

  “The Horn and Hold Tavern,” Sherman said. He showed a bit of fang from the side of his soft red muzzle as he spoke.

  A man tending the bar had black scaled skin, the color and texture of a rattlesnake. He stared at Briar and Dax for a moment with his neon green eyes. “What’ll it be?” he asked. A slim forked tongue flicked out from between his green lips as he spoke.

  “Whatever she’s having,” Briar said, jerking her head toward the warty woman. Sherman shook his head, disgusted, and he placed his snout into the tankard before him.

  “Two squished beetles it is, then,” the bartender said. He began grabbing at a container full of shiny black insects from behind the bar with his two sets of arms. Briar watched with a woozy expression as the man placed several handfuls into a mortar and with his free hands, began to pulverize them into a gooey mess.

  The room was a stage for the strange. A group of ghosts dressed in shrouding hoods played a card game at the far end of the room. Wisps of spectral smoke from their phantom stogies arose and disappeared. A hairy winged bat-like creature played the harpsichord near a wooden staircase. Several disfigured witches in black conical hats stood in a group near the keyboard player. They wore tattered, old-fashioned under-garments, and thigh-high stockings. They tried to look enticing to the various male patrons.

  “Here,” the bartender grumbled. He slammed down two tankards. Briar refused to look, but when Dax spied several beetle le
gs dangling from the rim of the mug, his lips quivered with nausea. The Bartender wiped a mug with his several hands and a filthy rag. “That’ll be six Forge for the lot of ya’.”

  “My dear sir,” Sherman began. “Forge is the currency of the Lady Orpion and the kingdom Scarlocke.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I beg your pardon, but surely that is not the currency of the entire Realm.”

  The bartender laughed and poked a bear that was snoring, his head laid on the bar top. “This joker thinks Forge is only Orpion’s money. Ha!” He turned to Sherman. “Mister, I don’t know where you’ve been, but Forge is all there is, see?” Then turning back to Briar, he slammed one of his four hands onto the counter. “Like I said, that’ll be six of ’em.” Briar looked at Sherman who hunched and buried his face in his mug. The bartender moved in closer and leaned his four arms on the bar in front of Briar and Dax. “Hey! We got moochers here?” He began to crack his knuckles and clench his black scaly fists.

  The door at the back of the bar burst open, and in marched a dozen troopers. They were oversized wolves outfitted with masked helmets and inky leather breastplates, just like the two that Briar had seen in the spinning wheel room. Each soldier carried a spear as long as he was tall.

  The bartender backed up and pressed himself against the ornate framed mirror behind him. He watched the troopers file in, and a bead of sweat formed on his brow. The wolfguard paraded in unison, a well-drilled militia. They knocked over a witch and the others of her kind squealed and leapt aside. One slid off the harpsichord and landed with her rickety high heels thrown in the air. Another pretended to use her broom to sweep the floor in a corner. The ghosts playing cards glanced over their shoulders at the commotion and then evaporated. Their playing cards scattered and their phantom cigars puffed out of sight.

  The wolfguard created a formation around the hunched old woman at the end of the bar who was bent over into her drink. Sherman hopped off the barstool and backed toward the door. Briar and Dax followed him, backing slowly.