Rumpel's Prize Page 7

  Panicked, Shayera grabbed at the cloth-swaddled body that lay lifeless on the sidewalk. No one stopped to help, but plenty of eyes were looking on in bright-eyed disbelief. Shayera patted the child’s back, afraid to turn it over for fear of what she’d see. But there was no response.

  “Why did you do that?” Shayera snapped as she patted the baby’s back harder.

  The old woman was screaming as tears fell from her eyes. “My baby! My baby!” That’s when Shayera noticed that the poor woman’s left foot was tilted at an odd, gruesome angle.

  Her hands were frantically waving at the bundle in Shayera’s hands and Shayera’s heart shattered as she finally turned the swaddled child over. Then her eyes swam with tears because there was a large purple bruise on the side of the babe’s head and blood slid from its ears.

  “Oh, baby, no. No.” She moaned and feathered her fingers along its dented little skull. “Oh no, child, sweet child. Oh please, baby,” she choked out between tears because she knew there was nothing that could be done.

  A fall like that should not have killed the little one. It should not have. How had this happened?

  “Give me my baby!” The grandmother screamed, and blinking herself back to reality, Shayera handed the beautiful little girl to the sobbing woman, who crooned and cradled its head to her breast. She rocked back and forth, completely oblivious to the pain of her broken foot.

  Brenna’s laughter was growing louder; she was braying like an ass and hugging her arms to her chest. “Did you see that, Red? I only tripped them. Wow, what a freak show, yeah?”

  Fury filled Shayera so that she was washed in it, bathed in its deadly glow. “You killed that baby!” She pointed back at the huddled woman.

  “Oh c’mon, Red.” Brenna held up her hands. “It was a fluke, I just tripped her. You can’t be mad at me.”

  There was no thought or reasoning to what Shayera did. One second she was standing, shaking with the heat of her anger, and the next she was on top of the girl with her hands wrapped around Brenna’s neck.

  The girl’s eyes were bulging, but not with fear—no, with a horrible smugness like she knew, knew Shayera wouldn’t do it.

  “You’re not bitch enough to kill me,” Brenna gasped out as Shayera’s fingers squeezed just slightly tighter.

  Tears streamed down her eyes for the loss of the child, for the loss of that innocence to this horrible little monster underneath her. The cries and taunts of the boys of her village, the ugly faces of mother’s whose expressions said she was a whore no different than her dad had been, all that hate, hurt, it mingled with this moment and Shayera knew that she could kill Brenna.

  She could end her. Her own hate was passionate and strong and it would be nothing, to choke the life from the girl.

  “Do it,” Brenna snarled, trapping Shayera’s hands back against her throat despite their loosening. “I ain’t got nothing in this life! Nuthin’.” She spat, and when the wet slime landed on Shayera’s nose, the red of fury tried to come upon her once again.

  But in that moment she thought not of her mother or her father, but of Briley and how he’d feel if he ever discovered what his Shay Shay had done.

  Deserved or not, the dispensing of justice wasn’t something that Shayera could ever take upon herself. The girl would have to pay for her actions, but not because Shayera was her judge, jury, and executioner.

  “I hate you for what you’ve done,” she gritted out and her hands shook as finger by finger she released the girl’s slender throat. “But I won’t kill you either.”

  The second she released the girl, and just as she made to stand, Brenna’s hand reached out and smacked her so hard and fast across the face that she cried out in pain and humiliation, grabbing hold of her cheek.

  “You lose, bitch!”

  And then the scene disappeared and she was in back in the room of stone. Her cheek was on fire and the wetness of Brenna’s spit was still on her nose. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she gasped, completely overwhelmed by the experience.

  And as the adrenaline pumped through her system, she covered her eyes and kneeled, and then, pressing her face to the cold stone, she wept.

  Later that night after Shayera had eaten a bowl of the most creamy and divine tomato soup she’d ever had and taken a long hot bath, Dalia brushed her hair out at the vanity.

  “I failed,” she said miserably, staring at her still red-rimmed eyes. She’d only just stopped crying an hour or so ago.

  “I heard, miss.” Dalia’s strokes were gentle and even, helping somewhat to soothe the still-frayed edges of her nerves.

  Shayera made sure to keep herself as muted as possible as she dropped her head to her arms, stroking the waxed smoothness of the vanity with her fingertips. “I don’t think I can do this, Dalia,” she whispered beneath her breath. Just the memory of that child still made her breaths shudder through her chest.

  “Miss, if I may.” Dalia dropped to her knees, peeking up at Shayera, her smooth ebony skin flawless even through her frown. “Perhaps losing isn’t such a bad thing.”

  She sniffed. “Rumpel told me this morning to not lose. And yet my very first test I failed miserably. The worst of it is I’m not even sure how. He wouldn’t even look at me afterward. He just stared straight ahead and when I tried to engage him—”

  Sighing, Dalia swept at an errant curl slipping into Shayera’s eye. “I realize you don’t know me well yet, but I like ye. In many ways you remind me of me sister, and so I tell you this with the hopes that you’ll listen. Lose. Every test. Lose them all, Shayera. Believe me when I tell ye these are challenges you do not want to win.”

  Eyes wide and nibbling on the corner of her lip, Dalia looked nervous, and that more than anything made Shayera worry even more.

  “But what happens if I win? Doesn’t winning mean I get to go home? If I lose, that’s bad. Right?”

  Inhaling deeply, Dalia rose to her feet, brushed at her black gown, and shook her head. “Do not ask me those sorts of questions. I’m telling you more than I even should.”

  The dull pain in her head continued to throb and she moaned, wishing for a moment that she was four and able to run into her mother’s arms. The only saving grace to this was that whether she failed or won, her father was safe and in the end that was all that mattered.

  The other thing was that even though the game had felt so real, it wasn’t. Though her heart still ached with the loss of the child, in reality, there’d been no child. So as much as it hurt, she was okay.

  “Tell you what, you need a pick-me-up.”

  Scrunching her eyes, she shook her head. “I need bed. I’m tired.”

  “No, miss, if I may be so bold…”

  Lifting her brow, Shayera waited.

  “You’re heartsick and need to take your mind off today’s test. Would you like to smile again?” Dalia’s own was large and gentle.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, but the girl was grabbing her hand and tugging.

  “Up. C’mon now. I think you’ll like it.” She waggled her brows.

  Unable to resist her gentle teasing, Shayera growled an okay. Tonight the wardrobe had given her not just a silk gown but also a robe, and true, there didn’t actually seem to be anyone around other than Dalia, but the way the girl materialized from thin air made Shayera believe they could see her even if she couldn’t see them.

  “Fine.” She tightened the golden sash of her hunter-green robe and, slipping on sandals, shrugged. “Take me away.”

  “Come then.” Dalia held out her hand and Shayera understood that the maid wanted her to take it.

  Still not fully comfortable touching skin to skin, she gritted her teeth, tamped down the charm until it was almost nonexistent, then took Dalia’s hand. A tingling rush of heat slipped through her palm, traveled along her bloodstream, filling and rushing through her body like a wave and making her gasp as a mirage shimmered before her eyes.

  In less than a second she was as immate
rial as her maid sometimes was. She could think, but she couldn’t speak and desperately wanted to as the sensations of moving through cold stone, hard woods, and diaphanous silks pulsed against her. She was free-floating atoms, nothing more than frenetic cells buzzing and rubbing frantically together. She was everywhere and nowhere. All things and nothing. The sensory overload of blurring colors, scent of sulfur, whistle of rushing air, it was too much.

  And then they were there, wherever there was, and she was gasping, sucking sweet flower-scented air into her lungs because she was whole again and she could feel the silk of her gown caress the flesh of her body as she held on to her chest and took just a moment to gather her quivering, nervous self in order.

  “You all right, miss?” Dalia patted her back.

  She laughed, because if she didn’t she might pass out. “Fine, let’s just never do that again.”

  Giggling, Dalia spread her arm. “Well, whaddya think?”

  The entirety of Rumpel’s castle was coldly beautiful, but she hadn’t ever felt truly at home. Not until this moment. The room was done in soft shades of rose and seafoam green. The walls weren’t the typical, cold black stone as the rest of the place, here there was wood, and the world smelled of cedar, and there was the crackle and snap of a flame in a hearth. Rich, woven tapestries depicting scenes of maidens frolicking and dancing decorated the walls. Here there was no furniture; what there was was a wooden dais not much higher than five, six inches at most off the ground. It was a good twenty or so inches wide and at its center was a patina-stained bronze bowl, inside of it nothing more than water.

  Frowning, she turned toward Dalia. “What is this?”

  “It’s where you learn your happiness. This room is yours to enjoy whenever you need it.”

  “Are you leaving?” she asked as the girl turned.

  “I’ll be back when you need me.” Then she vanished in a puff of smoke.

  Sitting cross-legged, not really sure what she was doing but longing for just a moment of joy, Shayera peered over the bowl. The room was dark, too dark to see a reflection. And yet she did, in exacting detail—from the freckles scattered along her nose and cheekbones, the fullness of her rosebud lips, the coppery red of her hair, and finally to the ivory of her skin.

  For a moment she thought that maybe the riddle of the bowl was in her reflection. That it was showing her that happiness could only be found within herself. But maybe was overthinking it, because slowly the view changed and no longer was she staring at herself but at a dark gray pall.

  Dalia had said the bowl would help her find her happiness, but what did the gray mean? And perhaps it was just a strange play of shadow upon light, but did there seem to be something hidden within the veil? A figure of some sort, something small, not very large? She cocked her head because she could swear it wasn’t her eyes deceiving her, there was color there. Something red and bright.

  Frowning, she studied it as she would a puzzle, so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear or sense the presence of another until a loudly clearing throat made her gasp and twist around.

  Rumpel wasn’t standing but rather sitting on a chair that hadn’t previously been there. The flames of the hearth danced behind him, and he looked more devilish to her than ever before.

  Startled, she scrunched the open ends of her robe together. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, more from fright than anger.

  His calm demeanor and half-curled lip was much less menacing than they’d been earlier in the day after she’d returned from her game. He was wearing a loose-fitting black shirt and scuffed jeans, his blond hair hanging long around his face, and Shayera had the terrible urge to do something wicked to him.

  He held a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand, his booted legs were splayed out, and he slouched just a little. No longer did he look like a prince, but rather a dangerous, tempting, sinful man.

  Her father had sat her down one night and told her about the urgings, the cravings she’d get, because being a siren might make her dangerous to herself and to others. He told her to never trust that inner call, to ignore it because it wasn’t her but the magic within her.

  She knew she was leaking pheromones, felt the musky, flowery scent of her desire reaching out to him, and when his amber eyes flashed with fire, she knew she had to get herself under control.

  But the desire to crawl across this carpet, stripping one bit of clothing off at a time, and then when she got to him to touch his flesh, to shove his shirt up, to lick her way up the flat part of his stomach to his chest and across his Adam’s apple… It was growing stronger, making her feel weak and faint and humiliated.

  Calling forth the image of Briley’s sweet face, she turned her gaze to the side and trembled as her body called her energy back.

  “So that’s it, Carrot.” His voice had grown an octave deeper, making her nipples scrape the silk of her gown almost painfully.

  Biting down hard on her lower lip, she kept her eyes closed.

  “Why you hid yourself in potato sacks, anything to keep the comeliness of your form hidden.” His chuckle was throaty and pulled at her insides. “Look at me, siren.”

  Finding her center again, the calm she always felt when she thought of her sweet cousin, she turned toward the devil.

  “Kiss me, woman, you know you want to.” He took another swallow of his drink, allowing his lips to linger on the glass for a moment, letting the sheen of brandy glisten for just a second before licking it away.

  A sound like the mewling of a kitten spilled from her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut as blood rushed her cheeks. He was so far out of her league, beyond her comprehension. “I’ve never teased you, Rumpel. I will not do it now. You know what I am—you cannot touch me.”

  The overwhelming woodsy scent of man and moss-rich forest enveloped her. Somehow his chair was closer to her now, his black boot within her line of sight.

  “That is why they feared you in that hamlet, why they gazed on you with scorn.” It wasn’t a question. “I should kill them all.”

  Her gaze snapped up. A part of her thought he might be teasing, but the brimstone burning in his fiery gaze and the cold sneer twisting his lips made her think that maybe he wasn’t.

  “Why? You do not know me. My honor means nothing to you.”

  Setting his cup on a small tea table that suddenly materialized beside him, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together. “A siren is akin to a goddess in this land, a treasure beyond all things. I collect that which is valuable; I honor it, cherish it…”

  “You lock it away.” She shook her head. “Hidden away behind glass cases, never to be handled or loved. There is no honor in hoarding such value so that it can never be seen or enjoyed by others.”

  He cocked his head, not seeming angry at her apparent disregard for how he handled his property, but intrigued. Curious even. “And yet, if I lent it out, what is to say it would not be destroyed? A treasure is only as valuable as the person guarding it makes it.”

  She shrugged. “So here you sit, in this castle in the sky surrounded by untold wealth and beauty and completely alone. How is that any better?”

  He scoffed and then sat back, flicking his hand at her. “What would you know of it anyhow?”

  Narrowing her eyes, she said quietly, “Was that real? What happened today?”

  Earlier she told herself it couldn’t possibly be. But sitting in front of him now, what if it had been more than a mere game? Was he capable of setting something that sinister into motion, just to test her?

  When he said nothing, she shrugged. “Tell me, Rumpel, did that child really die?” Her voice shook at the last part—she could still recall the sightless, innocent gaze.

  Brushing a long finger across his cleft jaw, he shrugged. “And if it wasn’t? What then? Would the outcome have been any different? Would you have killed Brenna if you knew it really didn’t matter?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, and though
shame crowded her bones, the lie could not pass her lips. “I’m not a killer.”

  “Aye.” His look was studious, as if he wasn’t regarding her outer shell but viewing her soul. Weighing it and finding it lacking.

  Unable to continue holding his predatory gaze for another second, she glanced down at the carpet under her feet and wanted to growl because she’d just let him establish himself as alpha.

  The only way to successfully manage such a volatile and sharp personality was to maintain equality. Glowering, she forced her gaze back to his.

  His eyes danced. “But did she not deserve it? Deserve to die for what she’d done?”

  Again she sensed he was testing her, judging her, and Dalia’s words rang in her ears. That she should lose. But he’d warned her to never lose. What was right? Who should she listen to? Who stood to gain the most? Because she had no idea what his ultimate endgame was, she had no idea where she stood at any point. It was maddening.

  And in the end the only answer she could give was an honest one because the fact was she had no idea whether she’d already lost or won. The test hadn’t made sense when she’d returned and it still didn’t.

  “In that moment I believed she did. But taking a life won’t bring another back. It would only make me as evil as she was.”

  A smile curled the edges of his lips and she wet her own as an image flashed through her head of him taking her. Slamming her against him and forcing her lips to part for his hot, questing tongue.

  Groaning, she clenched her fists and his chuckle set her rattling nerves on edge.

  “I could ease your aches and you mine, Carrot, you need only ask.”

  “Shut up,” she mumbled, perhaps not the most witty of comebacks, but he wasn’t good for her equilibrium. Witty flew out the window like a drunken bird when he was around.

  “As you wish.” He grabbed his tumbler again.

  “What is this about? Why am I here? What are these tests? I’ve failed one; likely I’ll fail the others… So why keep me?”