Naughty Fairy Tales Volume II

Handsome and the Beast-1

A rain-soaked figure kicked its way through the door, sending a spray of splinters and water across the newly-mopped floorboards.

“Welcome home, Mom,” Quinn said, not glancing up as he prepared a rabbit for dinner. He resisted the urge to sigh despondently at the now-dirty floor he’d have to wash again. Mother’s already riled up; there’s no need to set off her temper by complaining.

The home he shared with his mother was modest: only one main room that served as kitchen, living room and foyer with a small bedroom off the side. Quinn was proud he was able to keep it spotless, despite his mother’s constant efforts to be as abusive and inconsiderate as possible.

Quinn’s mother, Beatrice, was not to be trifled with. She was short and advanced in years, but had a mean streak and a way with a belt that had served her well as a widow with two children. She also had a history of selling off her kids when her bill at the pub went too high. Quinn barely remembered his sister, only a vague memory of angry, raised voices from the other room. But the day fifteen years ago when his mother left with his sister and came back with four goats and a victorious smile was always branded on his memory. He got a postcard from his sister every year or so, telling him she was all right, but she never answered Quinn’s pleas to take him in. After a few years, he stopped asking and instead concentrated on making himself so invaluable that his mother could never afford to sell him.

“Quinn, get that supper finished!” Beatrice growled through yellow teeth. She dropped her muddy shawl to the floor in a heap. “Listen while you cook. I’ve got some good news for you.” She turned her head to the side, wringing out her long grey hair. The puddle forming at her feet was muddy with a greasy sheen.

Shit. Quinn’s blood ran cold. The last time his mother used the phrase ‘good news’ was when he lost his sister. I can only hope she got at least six goats for me.

“Your old mother has come across an opportunity for you, my boy. I was having a lovely walk in the woods when that terrible storm struck.”

Quinn tried to keep his face neutral. Beatrice was a notoriously-frequent customer of the town pub. Her ‘walks in the woods’ weren’t so much a bit of fresh air and exercise as a misdirected drunken stumble and everybody knew it. Quinn knew correcting the point would only enrage her.

“I found an abandoned castle and took shelter until the worst of the storm passed.” She looked at the mud, the puddle, and the soaked cloak in the entryway and pointed with a gnarled finger. “Clean this up!”

Quinn jumped to action, mopping up the mess. “I’m glad you found shelter. That storm was beastly.”

“I’m sure you were worried sick.” Beatrice spat. “You didn’t even think to come find your own mother in such a thunderstorm. I was thinking of you!” She sat down at the small wooden table in the middle of the room and gestured for Quinn to bring her meal. “There was this top-notch bow mounted on the wall next to a full quiver of arrows.” Beatrice picked at her teeth with a dirty fingernail. “Can you imagine? Like some kind of useless decoration! Clearly it would be better used to put food on my table.”

Oh s**t, she stole it. Quinn handed his mother a plate of rabbit and cooked vegetables, turning to wipe down the kitchen counters behind him. An impressive new bow would be amazing, but Quinn’s shoulders tensed. Beatrice was a wily old hag, but there must have been consequences to looting a stranger’s home.

“The storm settled down and I was done having my rest so I figured I’d just take the bow and go.” She shoveled food into her mouth as she spoke, sending bits flying across the table. “These people arrive out of nowhere. Some fancy broad with an insane temper...”

Look who’s talking. Quinn grimaced.

“...and that weirdo who’s always coming to town. Mira?”

“Mirror?” Hope rose in Quinn’s chest. Mirror lived somewhere out in the forest surrounding their town, occasionally visiting to shop for supplies. She was enough of a regular to be a familiar face, but enough of an outsider for the townsfolk to give her a hard time. Quinn always admired how kind and patient she was in the face of some of the more idiotic comments that came her way. The fact that Mirror was an absolute knockout certainly didn’t hurt.

“Whatever. Silly name, silly girl.” Beatrice stood and poured herself a glass of something brown and so strong it made Quinn’s eyes water from across the room. “Apparently the castle was not as abandoned as I thought, and the owner was unreasonably angry at my presence. Bitch.” She took a quick sip of her drink, her face contorting at the taste. “The Mirror girl said something about you and her mistress being a good match, so I figured, that was that.”

“What was what?” Quinn’s sense of foreboding grew with every word.

“You get to keep that fancy bow I wanted for you, but you just have to use it at the castle.” Another sip disappeared down Beatrice’s throat. “The castle where you will be living.” The brown liquid vanished in a gulp. “Forever.”

“You sold me for a bow?” Quinn wished he was surprised.

“No!” Beatrice smiled warmly. “No, my boy, of course not. I sold you for this!” She lifted a large pouch, heavy with shining gold coins.

That’s worth way more than four goats. It was a strange and sad victory, but Quinn was ready to take it. After twenty-five years of neglect and a***e, a change—even indentured servitude to a stranger—sounded like blissful relief.

“f**k it,” he finally spoke, throwing down the dirty rag in his hand. “I’ll go.”

Sophie pulled the magnifying mirror close to her face and grabbed her tweezers like a weapon to pluck at the stubborn black hairs; they never disappeared, no matter how many times she grasped at them.

Fucking curse. f*****g wizard.

A lady didn’t speak such obscenities out loud, but she could think them plenty inside her head. Sophie’s mother had aggressively coached her in what a lady should be: beautiful, aloof, demure, honed. Like a knife. “A lady is like a scalpel: sharp, yet beautiful.” Not exactly the advice that every little girl expects to learn at her mother’s knee, but with her family long gone, all she had was the memories of guidance from long ago.

Nothing had prepared Sophie for the curse ten years ago.

Fuck. f**k. f**k. The words felt good inside Sophie’s head, the hard consonants punctuating her pulls at the last three hairs. She smoothed her fingertips under her chin, smiling at her reflection. Her brunette hair was piled in stylish layers on her head, her eyebrows twin sickle moons, and her bright red mouth looked petite and feminine rather than the maw of a drooling beast. Thank you, makeup gods. She sighed and put the mirror down. She had less than two hours to appreciate the feeling of being beautiful until the curse caught up and turned her beastly again.

“He’s riding up to the gate,” Mirror said, opening the door without knocking. Nobody else in the castle would dare to open her door, but Mirror was an exception to just about every rule.

“Are you sure about all this?” Mirror asked, pulling the door closed so nobody else would hear. “When I vouched he was a decent guy, I didn’t really think you’d make a deal with that horrible woman to buy him. Come on, do you think he could really break the curse? There have been so many suitors. They’ve all failed. Have you ever considered that maybe—”

Sophie raised a hand, cutting Mirror off before she started on the same old rant about how Sophie was misinterpreting the curse. Mirror hadn’t been there. Mirror could never understand what it felt like to live with powerful magic affecting every moment of her life.

“I know you mean well, Mirror, but please shut up about your theories.” Sophie took one last critical look at her reflection and stood, straightening the skirts of her dress so they fell in graceful silken waves. “This one is Number Thirteen. Isn’t thirteen a lucky number?”

“No, it’s not,” Mirror said, sighing deeply and crossing her arms as she frowned at her mistress. Sophie raised an eyebrow at her, an invitation for Mirror to speak her mind. The woman would be insufferable until she had the chance to say her piece.

“I just think this whole thing is a little barbaric. You seriously have to date these guys by having them imprisoned here? Wouldn’t it just be simpler to go into town, hang out at a few bars, or go to some harvest festivals?” She walked forward to massage Sophie’s shoulders, her fingers feeling amazingly persuasive, and Sophie let out a small moan as she leaned into Mirror’s hands. “You know, just meet people the normal way? Do you really have to keep up with this incarceration-until-love deal?”

Sophie pulled away from Mirror. “You forget, I’m not normal. I would be a revolting beast by the time I got to town, you know that. What man would possibly fall for something so hideous? I do what I have to do.”

Sophie could hear the sharp clop of horseshoes on the cobblestones leading to the castle. He was here. She clamped down on the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach every time a new potential curse-breaker arrived. None of the first twelve had broken her curse through acts of true love, and this one would probably be no different. Still, Sophie couldn’t stop the small ball of hope that grew in her chest as she dreamed about finally living free.

“You never know,” Sophie said, as much to herself as to Mirror. “He might just be the one. What’s this one’s name again?”

“Quinn,” Mirror said.

“I like it. Sounds like gin. I’ll remember that one.” Sophie couldn’t have another repeat of the debacle of Number Nine, when she screamed out Number Eight’s name in bed. So embarrassing. “Go open the front door, I’m ready.” Sophie said, heading out to the top of the stairs.

“Yeah, right. I forgot your dramatic entrance. Just don’t trip over your feet this time,” Mirror said, smiling slightly.

“I only did that once,” Sophie hissed. Number Five; she was never going to live it down.

“Twice,” Mirror said, skipping down the stairs on her practical flats before Sophie could pull Mirror’s hair in retribution.

Sophie ducked behind a column, listening to the sound of Number Thirteen—Quinn, like gin, she reminded herself—knocking on the door and Mirror ushering him in. Sophie waited a moment so her guest could take in the richly decorated entryway with the large portraits of her family, the lush imported carpets, the golden molding around the door frames, the silver candlesticks, and the ornate grandfather clock. Then she glided out from behind the column and descended the stairs.

Sophie opened her arms wide, aware of how the movement pressed her breasts higher in her corset and made each of her arms look delicate and feminine under her draping sleeves.

“Welcome to my humble abode. I hope you will enjoy your time here,” she said, dipping her voice to a husky purr. Men loved a husky purr. It was in all the books on seduction. “Mr. Quinn, I am honored you have come to stay here.” Men also liked being complimented.

As Sophie got a closer look at Number Thirteen, she felt her forced grin broadening into a more genuine smile. This one was gorgeous, the most beautiful by far of all the suitors who had failed to break the curse: tall, curling brown hair, a strong chin, muscles for days, and eyes bluer than a sky in spring.

Hello there, pretty.

“My dear friend, Mirror, tells me you are as kind as you are handsome,” Sophie said, stifling a flinch. Too much, too desperate. Oh god. Trying to cover, she held out her hand for him to kiss.

Quinn glanced at Mirror for a second before planting a kiss on Sophie’s fingertips that made delightful tingles shoot up her arm and down to her core.