Withering Rose (Once Upon a Curse Book 2) Page 5

But after that I have nothing.

  I'm blank.

  My eyes open slowly, and I gasp as I'm blinded by the bright light of day.

  The sun.

  Warmth seeps into my skin, and I relish in the glow. I'd forgotten how glorious it was just to sit in that radiance, to let the heat wash over me. I've lived in the dark for so long, surrounded only by light that buzzes to life at the flick of a switch. I sit up, basking in the yellow tint blanketing the room.

  My eyes go wide as sleep fully fades, and I'm awake enough to take in my surroundings. I'm resting in the center of a four-poster bed, underneath a gauzy canopy, surrounded by gray. But it's not the lifeless color of concrete that I've come to loathe. It's alive, grainy and laced with layers of various shades, the color of rock. I marvel at the sturdy stone walls, the likes of which I have not seen in a decade. A carved wooden armoire fills up the wall to my left, and the other is decorated with a marvelous tapestry, depicting a wolf howling into the moonlight. A bright crackling fire catches my attention, drawing it to the ornate marble fireplace. In those flickering flames, my imagination begins to see something else.

  Water springs to my eyes.

  I blink it away, but the overwhelming nostalgia remains.

  For a moment, I wonder if my sister will run through the door, if this past decade has been a terrible dream. But I don't need to glance down at my mature body to know the truth.

  This room looks like home, but it isn't.

  There is only one place it can be.

  The castle of the beast.

  Intrigued, I jump from the bed almost instantly and race to the window, opening it. The world smells wet with morning dew, fresh and vibrant. In the back of my mind, the magic fizzles to life, but after the torrent I released yesterday, there is no yearning pull associated with it. Instead, the magic is there waiting, and I realize I could use it just for fun, just because I want to. But the idea is forgotten as soon as my eyes take in the sprawling town below.

  Rows of stone cottages twist and turn in haphazard lines, following winding streets. A crumbling wall encircles the city. And beyond it, everything is white. The land is covered in snow. Tall pine trees are encased in frost. Mountains sweep into the sky. The town is nestled in a quiet valley, and there is nothing but endless wilderness in the distance. I didn't realize how crisp the air was, but now that I have, goose bumps rise along my arms. For the first time, I notice the white cloud forming just beyond my lips as I breathe.

  With a shiver, I close the window and let the heat emanating from the fireplace replace the cold I let in. My eyes, however, are still focused outside. I don't realize what I'm looking for until I see it.

  Movement.

  A furry animal walking on all fours.

  A wolf.

  And over there, a bear.

  My eyes dance from spot to spot, roaming from animal to animal, to the many predators living in peace with one another. Gray wolves, black bears, russet foxes, and even an ivory snow leopard.

  I truly am in the realm of the beasts.

  And they entrance me.

  Is one of them the king? Is one of them my savior from last night? Is one of them the man who touched my face with such affection that my cheeks burn at the memory?

  I have to know.

  I have to find out.

  The jeans and T-shirt I was wearing last night are dirty and rumpled, but they'll do. My arms though are still chilled, and the jacket I had on is nowhere to be seen in this immaculate room. So I open the armoire, smiling when I notice the gowns hanging inside. Velvet trims. Crystal buttons. Pearl adornments. Lace sleeves. Jeweled overlays. I breathe in the beauty filling the closet, too afraid to even touch the fabrics lest they fall apart beneath my unworthy hands. I haven't seen dresses so lovely since my mother was the one wearing them. I never thought I would see anything so perfect again.

  But it's too much right now.

  A memory I thought I'd forgotten burns to the surface. My mother watching me with her hair twisted and twirled atop her head. Pins rest between her beautiful lips, and her face holds a mix of concentration and love as she takes the small crown from her head and places it atop mine, securing it into place. And then we turn into the mirror, matching in our majesty. My eyes sparkle just like the diamonds decorating the full skirts of my very first big-girl dress.

  My mother's face is clearer in that moment than it's been in ten years.

  My eyes burn, forcing me to blink the memory away. No matter how hard I try to hold on, the image fades. I'm no longer a little princess with her mother. I'm back to being a lost young woman unsure of her place in the world.

  I close the armoire, leaving the gowns untouched.

  Maybe another time, but not now. Not yet.

  There's a wool blanket resting over a chair by the fireplace, and I take that instead, wrapping it around my shoulders. Not as graceful as the cloak I was searching for, but it’s soft and comforting and exactly what I need.

  When I reach the door, the knob doesn't turn. At first, I think it's jammed. But the more I twist, the more obvious the truth becomes. It's locked.

  A long time ago I loathed being proper.

  Then the world changed, and I learned to always follow the rules.

  But being in a place that so reminds me of the world I left behind has awakened a little voice I haven't heard in ages.

  Go!

  My younger self whispers across my mind

  Go!

  And I want to. I so badly yearn to explore.

  So I glance around until I notice a little flowerpot on top of the fireplace. Magic stirs beneath my palms. For the first time, I give in to that light hunger. I use the magic just because I can, not because I'll be ripped apart if I don’t. The tingling along my fingertips feels like an old friend I haven't seen in a while. A vine creeps over the edge of the pot, a vine I've brought to life. I urge it on, lending a little piece of myself as the ivy continues to grow and elongate. It twists down the side of the fireplace, over the wall, closer and closer. I focus my attention and push the stalk through the hole of the lock, making it wider and wider until cracks appear in the wood from the strain. An ounce of pain stings my chest, a tiny piece of time being stripped away, but I hardly notice the ache. I'm not using very much magic so the price is not high, and it's easily endured.

  When the metal crunches, warping, I pull back on the vine. Listening to me as though alive, it recoils, withdrawing from the lock and attaching to the wall with the rest of the ivy I've just grown. In one quick motion, I halt the flow of magic, controlling it easily, and reach for the knob.

  It turns.

  I push the door open, allowing a smile to widen my lips, proud when I realize the curve of my lips holds a confident edge. Glowing with life in a way I haven't for years, I make my way down the hall, eager to explore.

  I don't run into anyone as I wander. Indeed, the enormous castle is silent. I meander from room to room, running my hands over dusty tapestries, taking note of how many beds look like they haven't been disturbed in years. Fireplaces are cold. Windows are coated in a thin layer of grime. Even in the bright light of day, the castle is dark. I open curtains as I walk, breathing life back into the stale space, coughing as clouds of dust steal my breath away.

  Where is the beast?

  Where are his servants?

  Why does this place look barren and forgotten?

  Why would a king full of magic live in ruin?

  The answers don't come as I continue to walk, just more questions.

  Every so often, I pause as the ghost of a sound makes its way to my ear, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. The whisper of panting breath. The scuff of paws on stone. The swish of a tail accidently rubbing against the side of a door. Someone is watching me. But when I turn around, no one is there. No animal. No man. Nothing.

  The squeak of my sneakers on marble echoes loudly as I make my way down the grand staircase leading to an expansive ballroom. Cobwebs wrap around the chan
delier hanging overhead, leaving beautiful metalwork shrouded behind a network of white. The candles look as though they haven't been lit in years. But still, when I see them, another scene comes to mind—a dazzling ballroom sparkling with the light from a hundred quivering candles leaping from mirror to mirror, catching on diamond gowns as they swirled in dance, and sinking into the golden molding decorating every ounce of the room.

  I was too young to attend the balls my mother and father used to throw, but my nursemaid usually let me sneak onto the balcony overlooking the ballroom. I would sit there for as long as she would allow, watching the beautiful women in their glittering gowns, wondering when I would get to join them. But my favorite part, the part that now makes my heart ache with longing, was watching my mother and father dance. The world outside of them ceased to exist as the music swelled, and they moved in perfect sync with one another. Their love was tangible, creating a glow just as obvious as the candlelight. I remember smiling as I looked down from my secret spot on the balcony, sitting with my head pressed firmly against the banister, leaning as close as I could, wanting so much to be a part of it.

  Before I realize what I'm doing, my eyes are closed, and the world is no longer silent. In my mind, I hear an orchestra playing a hauntingly beautiful melody, a song from somewhere deep inside my soul. My feet move. My body sways. My arms curve. I spin on my toes, dancing, completely carried away by the music and the memories playing on and on in my head.

  Laughter shatters the illusion.

  I stop abruptly, dropping my arms as my eyes widen, and I turn toward the noise. Breath skipping, I spot a man at the top of the stairs. A scream bubbles up my throat, but I catch it, swallowing it back down as I fight the urge to run.

  He is the definition of darkness.

  A black cloak drapes over his shoulders, sinking all the way to the floor, blanketing him in ebony. A hood hangs low over his face, covering it in shadows. I can't see any of his features. All I notice is the breadth of his wide shoulders, the sheer size of him.

  The beast.

  And he is laughing.

  At me.

  I step back as shame burns my chest. He is a king. And I am just a girl lost in daydreams, dancing with ghosts. I suddenly feel stupid as I stand before him in sneakers and jeans, clutching the wool coverlet around my shoulders as though it is a lifeline, as though it is my shield. I must look like a mess. I never even ran my fingers through my hair, never searched for water to clean my face. I've come here to beg the help of another royal, another magic user thrown into a new world. I came here to be his equal. I should have put on a dress. I should have presented myself in a way befitting my station in life. I should have taken the time to turn myself into the princess I once was, instead of settling for the pauper I've become.

  And then I notice he is still laughing.

  At me.

  At my expense.

  And that little girl I heard before comes back.

  How dare he mock me! How dare he!

  My anger stirs. She's right. How dare he laugh at me after bringing me to his castle and locking me away with no food, no explanation, no greeting. How dare he sneak around in the shadows, watching me secretly, waiting until my most vulnerable moment to present himself. How dare he mock me when he is the one hiding beneath a layer of fabric, too afraid to show his face.

  How dare he!

  I brace my feet, straightening my shoulders, standing taller as I face him.

  "Princess Omorose Bouchene," I say, surprised at the strength of my voice and how easily the language of my old world rolls off my tongue. And then I curtsy, presenting myself with far more confidence than I feel.

  He remains silent, watching me from the shadows of his hood.

  The quiet drags.

  I can't stand it.

  "And you are?" I ask, words coming out sharper than I'd intended. But I keep the annoyance burning in my gut, embracing the newfound source of strength.

  "I thought you knew," he murmurs, voice rumbling like a storm in the distance, ominous and foreboding.

  I swallow, forcing myself to whisper, "The King of Beasts."

  He laughs, a wicked, savage thing. The hairs on my arms stand despite the warmth of the blanket draped over my shoulders.

  "You sound afraid."

  It’s not a question.

  I wonder if he can smell my fear.

  "I'm not," I say, but the words are airy, hardly audible.

  The beast relaxes his pose, slouching against the banister and crossing his arms over his chest. The movement causes his sleeves to ride up, and I see his skin for the first time. His forearms are starkly pale against the dark fabric, but my eyes are immediately drawn to the raised, ridged lines crossing over his flesh. He tenses, flexing strong muscles, and I realize they are scars etched like cracks along his porcelain skin. Before I can gawk more, his arms drop back to his sides and he stands swiftly. The sleeves fall back down, masking him in black once more. But the memory lingers.

  "Well, you should be afraid, Omorose." He growls my name like wild thunder. "You should be very, very afraid."

  I sense movement from the corner of my eye.

  I don’t want to look. I know it will just feed into whatever this beast has planned for me. But a shiver works its way down my spine, growing stronger as terrified anticipation mounts. I'm not a brave person. Not really. No matter how hard I try. And when the scrape of claws reaches my ear, I jerk my head to the side, searching for the source of the noise as panic clenches my muscles.

  Wolves.

  A pack of wolves with dark slate fur creeps closer, all eyes trained on me. Predators slowly stalking their prey.

  Another sound catches my attention, and I spin to the other side, stomach in my throat. Two giant black bears emerge from the shadows, lips pulled back to show their sharp canines.

  I hear another sound, but I don't wait to see what it is.

  Fear takes over and I run.

  The last sound that filters into my ears as I exit the ballroom is his laughter, dark and more dangerous than any of the animals I've left behind.

  No one follows.

  They let me go. And I recognize the display for what it is, a warning.

  It worked.

  It’s only when I get back to my room, panting and out of breath that I realize I completely forgot about my magic. I was so terrified, so much the coward, I didn’t even think to fight back. I ran immediately. I chose fear over strength, as I always do, but this time it hurts more because I could have used my magic, I could have showed him that he didn't scare me. I still could. But my limbs are shaking, and I don't have the strength to turn around and face him. I barely have the strength to cross the length of the room before collapsing onto my bed

  As I curl my knees into my chest, lying on my side, I eye the broken lock on my door. Then my gaze travels to the ivy still wrapped across the wall.

  I funnel my magic into those twisting vines and wrap them securely across the entry. Locking the animals out. Locking myself in. Doing the beast's job for him.

  I stay in my room for days, too afraid to face him again, haunted by the idea that my father was right. That I should never have come here. That coming here was the biggest mistake of my life.

  Every so often an animal pauses outside my room. The click of paws is unmistakable, as is the low growl. I wait until they've left before cautiously opening the door and retrieving the little bag of food left behind. Usually they give me apples and dried meat. Once there was a loaf of crudely baked bread. I won't complain, not if it means having to leave my room, which I don't. So far, my screaming bladder has been the only source strong enough to force me to leave the sanctuary of these four walls. I found the washroom at the end of the hall on my first day here. The twenty-foot walk to that room is the farthest I'm willing to go, and I don't let my thoughts linger on why there are always fresh buckets of water waiting for me when I need them.

  Mostly I lie on the bed, watching the fire or lookin
g over the town below. The only joy I've found since arriving is in finally being able to use my magic freely. The walls of my bedroom have come to resemble a jungle. Ivy vines cover every inch of the stone. Beautiful pink and yellow flowers break up the monotony of green. Today I decided to focus on adding roses to the décor. The deep burgundy buds have just begun to open up. My namesake. But they remind me too much of the dying flower at the center of my soul, marking the toll the magic is taking on my life. So with the flick of my wrist, I change them to white petals, crisp and clean to match the snow just beginning to fall outside the window.

  I don't think I'll ever tire of the warm tingle that washes over me whenever my magic is being used. I've become used to the light pain that follows. I hardly feel it anymore. The awe that lifts my heart when I bring life into the world overshadows everything else.

  I know I promised my father I would try to get rid of it. But it's my birthright. It's beautiful. It makes me feel like part of my mother is still alive, is still with me. I'm beginning to believe that fifteen short years of having magic, of being able to use it, would be better than a long lifetime without it. But where would I spend those fifteen years? In this room, hiding? I can't live the rest of my life at the base. I can't live it here. I'm not sure there is anywhere in the world that is safe for me when the magic still runs through my veins.

  The sound of thudding boots pulls my attention away. With one last glance toward the newly grown ivory petals opening up to welcome the sun, I roll off the bed and walk to the door, pressing my ear against the wood.

  The sound of footsteps grows. I furrow my brows, confused. Is it the beast? Is there another human here among us?

  The stranger stops before my door. I wait, holding my breath, unable to fight the trickle of fear making its way across my chest.

  But then the stomping returns as the man walks away, turns around, walks back, walks away, turns around, walks back.

  Is he pacing?

  Is he…nervous?

  I almost yearn to crack open the door and take a peek. The curiosity itches, taunting me. The stranger stops outside my door once again. The world goes quiet.