Fairytales Slashed, Volume 2 Read online

  Fairytales Slashed: Volume 2

  Megan Derr

  Sasha L. Miller

  In this second volume of fairytales, see what happens when magic is put to the best and worst of uses. In The Beast, a beautiful but spoiled young man is attacked by a dark faerie seeking vengeance... vengeance that destroys the young man's world, and leaves him hideously disfigured and afflicted by a terrible curse... The Wizard's Tower is the story of a soldier who receives a letter informing him his brother has gone missing, one of many victims of an evil wizard. But when he arrives in the village where his brother lives, all that remains of the wizard is a lone tower and a strange young man...

  The Huntsman faithfully serves his King, guarding the forest that surrounds and protects the castle. But the peace his kingdom has long enjoyed is shattered when the King returns home early with a new Queen on his arm, a woman of great beauty and terrible magic... Sleeping Beauty tells the story of a poor, young teacher desperate to save his sister, the only family he has left. But her disease is rare, and the cure beyond their means, and the only chance at saving her requires a terrible price...

  Book Details

  Fairytales Slashed, Volume Two by Megan Derr & Sasha Miller

  Published by Less Than Three Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  The Beast edited by Samantha Derr

  The Wizard's Tower edited by Alice Montrose

  The Huntsman edited by Michelle McDonough

  Sleeping Beauty edited by Megan Derr

  Cover designed by Lainey Durand

  www.laineydurand.com

  This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Electronic Edition December 2010

  The Beast Copyright © 2010 by Megan Derr

  The Wizard's Tower Copyright © 2010 by Sasha Miller

  The Huntsman Copyright © 2010 by Megan Derr

  Sleeping Beauty Copyright © 2010 by Sasha Miller

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-936202-52-2

  Table of Contents

  Fairytales Slashed: Volume 2

  Book Details

  The Beast

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  The Wizard's Tower

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Epilogue

  The Huntsman

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Epilogue

  Sleeping Beauty

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Part Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Megan Derr

  Sasha L. Miller

  The Beast

  Prologue

  Alcor loved the smells of a party, even if they would set his head to throbbing in a few more hours. Even when they did, he would enjoy them until exhaustion finally snatched them all away and ended the revelry by force.

  For now, he basked in the sweet-sour smoke of the dragonweed someone had brought, the way it made everything too sharp, too bright. Dragonweed brought faerie sight, the saying went, for it was the reclusive faerie who knew the meaning of true decadence.

  Mingled with the dragonweed was the scent of wine and ale and stronger spirits, the smell of rich food—and the smell of some of it burning as the laughing group by the fire tossed some random bits into the flames to watch them burn.

  He could also smell lust, musky and salty and sharper than even the dragonweed. He could smell it on the half-naked men collapsed on the long sofa with him, smell it on himself, smell it on the pretty little thing whose lips were wrapped around his cock.

  Somewhere in the mess he could hear his father singing in his sloppy, drunken way, strong voice, for once, unsteady, the verses breaking off at random so he could recount the tale of his grand victory for the millionth time. The pungent scent of his black violet cologne mingled into the mess of scents, as well.

  Alcor's own cologne was sweeter, softer, and by now mostly lost to the other scents in which he had drowned himself. He smiled in drugged contentment as a bit of dragonweed, crudely wrapped in cheap paper, was put to his lips. Pulling it in, unbothered by the bitter flavor of the smoke, he let it out slowly.

  Knocking away the hand of the giver—yet another pretty boy brought in to entertain and pleasure him—he pulled him into a slow, thorough kiss even as he thrust lazily into the mouth of the one between his legs.

  He came with a shudder and pushed both the boys away with a sigh. Shoving off one of the drunken fools beside him, he took over most of the sofa and stretched out languorously, lacing up his pants again only as an afterthought.

  The haze of smoke and myriad other scents made him sleepy, but the dragonweed kept him from falling asleep just yet.

  But even drugged he could feel eyes upon him. Two sets of eyes, and it had not taken him long to find either that watched.

  He did not know either and did not care if they wanted to watch him—or join him, which would be amusing for at least a little while longer. The first one he had picked out of the crowd still sat where Alcor had first seen him, in a chair in the farthest corner of the room. He did not move overmuch, merely sat and sipped at some dark wine. He had long black hair, neatly tied, and his clothes were elegant and rich without being showy. Where everyone and everything else in the room seemed to move, he was still. Where all else was bright and gaudy, he was dull and somber. Handsome, but in the way a statue of a man might be handsome.

  The other man was stranger still—pale gold hair, long and loose. He was slender and delicate looking and dressed in clothes that, while respectable, were old-fashioned and close to being described as tattered. Noble, from his bearing, but one long-fallen on hard times. He was quiet, but not in the same way as the first one. More—where the revelers were noisy and busy, the first man was a statue. This man—Alcor could not put his finger upon it. He seemed calm, perhaps.

  He was drawn from his ponderings as something warm and soft and pliant crawled atop him. Laughing, Alcor permitted a kiss, then pushed the eager thing away, laughing harder as the man he had shoved off the sofa took immediate advantage of his sudden lapful of pretty.

  Alcor returned his gaze to the table where the pale-haired man was sitting and saw he was now walking toward the corner where Alcor lazed. Up close, he was far more than pretty—Alcor might actually have described him as breathtaking, even if the hair was untidy and the clothes quite tattered indeed, and he was obviously awkward and shy and uncertain. An admirer, most likely.

  He sat up and invited the pale stranger to sit, but the man only shook his head. Around them, many of the others had noticed the odd man and were watching—some covertly, some blatantly—to see what Master Alcor would do with such an out of place stranger daring enough to approach uninvited.

  "My lord," the stranger greeted, voice quiet but still somehow heard over the din. "I came to wish you a happy birthday."

  Alcor laughed. "Indeed, why else would you come? Are you making yourself a present, pretty? That is a gift I would accept and enjoy, unless you are as tattered as those sad clothes you wear."

  "No, my lord," the man said quietly. "I have brought gifts, however, if you would bu
t accept them."

  Alcor lifted one delicate brow, the pleasant buzz of the dragonweed fading beneath the peculiarities of the stranger. "The only gifts I care for are great treasure or warm, eager flesh riding me hard. But let us see your gifts, then."

  The man licked his lips and held out a small wooden box that Alcord had not noticed until that moment. It was made of some dark, reddish wood, carved with figures and shapes that he could not quite distinguish in the smoke-hazed light.

  Wondering if perhaps there was some great joke at the end of all this, he took the box with an amused grin. He fumbled briefly with the catch, the gold gleaming brightly and somehow hard to grasp—or perhaps that was the dragonweed.

  At last he managed a victory, however, and flipped it open. He had half-expected to find some perverse toy, something he could make full use of after stripping the stranger bare and spreading the man over his lap, something to tease and torment before finally giving the stranger his cock.

  What he saw, however, he could make no sense of. Three objects, each more amusing than the last. The first was a dagger made of silver with a hilt of gold and sapphires. It almost seemed to glow, and he thought he saw markings in the blade itself, but when he looked more closely he saw only silver.

  "Loyalty," the stranger said quietly.

  Alcor laughed and cast the dagger aside, then picked up the next object—a small crystal bottle with a delicate stopper, filled with some clear liquid. He could not tell if it was the contents or the crystal which sparkled.

  "Protection," the stranger said.

  "Oh, yes," Alcor said with another laugh, "perfume to protect me. These are not treasures." He threw the crystal bottle over his shoulder, uncaring as to where it landed and picked up the last object in the box. A single rose of a deep, rich red. The color was beautiful, to be sure, but a rose was a rose. Alcor yawned.

  "Love," the man said. "I would give you all three, if you would accept them, instead of—" He motioned to the room, the occupants, and the gaudy displays of wealth and decadence.

  Alcor let the rose fall to the floor. "I can find trinkets anywhere, pretty, but thank you anyway."

  The man frowned. "I know they seem but humble trifles, and my timing is poor—but they are more than they seem, and they are offered out of love."

  Alcor laughed again and reached out to snag the man, draw him down and close. He smelled like honeysuckle, though Alcor was surprised he could smell it at all. "Love, pretty? Love is for fools and fairytales. Do I look a simpleton to you? If you are not going to offer me pleasure, then I have no need of you. Take yourself off and give your love to someone foolish enough to take that bait. You are pretty, but not that pretty."

  Then he let the man go, roughly enough that he stumbled and fell down awkwardly on his ass. Around Alcor everyone roared with laughter, calling out their own jibes and taunts before slowly returning to their smoking and drinking and fucking.

  When Alcor looked up again, the pale-haired stranger was gone. The wooden box still lay on his lap, and Alcor tossed it aside in favor of drawing up the eager little thing he had rejected before, shoving the boys face to his crotch and making it clear what he was meant to do with that delicate, pink mouth.

  Before anything could come of it, however, the boy was shoved aside, and Alcor was yanked roughly to his feet. He bellowed in outrage, but stopped short as he met cold, violet eyes. The dark-haired man. "W-who are you?"

  The dark-haired man said nothing, merely tightened his grip on Alcor's hair and dragged him away from the sofa and across the room to where Alcor's father had bent a dark-haired boy over a table and was fucking him enthusiastically.

  His father stopped when he saw Alcor and the dark-haired man. Alcor tried to speak, but the man twisted his fist, pulling hard at Alcor's hair, making him cry out—and the he felt the cold, sharp point of a dagger at his throat.

  Alcor's father pulled out of the boy and cast him roughly aside, absently refastening his pants. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "A life for a life," the dark-haired man said and drew the dagger lightly across Alcor's throat, drawing a thin thread of blood. It trickled hot and sticky down Alcor's throat, though he felt completely cold and entirely too sober. "You took my family and my friends—now I will take yours."

  "You—" His father made a choked, garbled sound, his lunge across the table turning into a clumsy, awkward slump. "Who—"

  Alcor could practically feel the dark-haired man grin and swore as the knife at his throat cut a little deeper. "Next time, make certain we are all dead."

  "Filthy dark fae," his father gasped out, but the anger in it sounded somehow weak and pathetic, as if his strength was being leached away.

  "Indeed," the dark-haired man said coolly. "You were warned to leave us in peace. Your wife and daughter have already suffered. They died slowly, and their screams…" The smile was back in his voice. "Sweet."

  "Bastard!" his father gasped out, obviously struggling to move against some force keeping him in place.

  "No," the dark-haired faerie said. "I am, or was, a true prince. Now I will make all of you pay for your selfish, greedy ways. Did you enjoy the castle you stole from me? I hope you did, because that will it make all the sweeter when you burn with it."

  Only then did Alcor realize the smoke he was smelling was entirely too strong; only then did he realize the haze in the room was not right for dragonweed. He could see in his father's face that he had only just realized too.

  And only at that moment did the screaming begin.

  Then the world turned into a hideous nightmare as smoke turned into flame and the smell of burning food and dragonweed became the scent of burning flesh. Screaming and shouting and sobbing filled the air as people began to realize what was wrong, as they tried to escape and found they could not. One by one they fell victim to the fire that quickly consumed the room. Alcor tried to close his eyes, but could not—he could do nothing but stand and watch everyone in the room burned alive.

  When he started screaming, he did not know, but he screamed until when his voice no longer worked, until smoke and ash seared his throat, ruined it. Smoke burned his eyes, and he could feel the fire and yet not feel it, not quite.

  Eventually, it seemed only they three were still alive. Then his father started burning, and Alcor found he could still scream. When nothing remained of his father, Alcor felt cold steel at his throat and then he mercifully felt nothing more.

  *

  *

  *

  Part One

  He stood before all that remained of the life he had known. Nothing but ash and burned bits of wood, here and there chunks of stone that had not quite succumbed to the intense, destructive heat of faerie flames. A thousand emotions made him forget for a time that he had not eaten in three days and that his entire body ached with a pain like no other.

  He remembered nothing.

  Well, that as not entirely true. He wished it were, because having no memories would be so much easier than what he did have. He remembered the smell of burning flesh. His father's screams. His father burning. He remembered dragonweed, that it had been his twentieth birthday. He recalled the man—the dark faerie—who was responsible for it all.

  After that, he remembered an eternity of pain, hands holding him down, rough rope keeping him in place despite the way they added wounds of their own, cold things smeared over his body, nasty things poured down his throat.

  Nightmares. He remembered so many nightmares.

  Worse still had been the waking. No nightmare could compare to finally, truly waking up to the hell that was his new reality—a reality in which he was too scarred, too ruined, too hideous for anyone to bear looking upon. He had found a mirror, in the depths of the monastery where he'd been taken, and dared at last to look upon his own reflection.

  He had promptly been sick and since then had not been able to stomach food.

  Gone was his beautiful, long blue-black hair. It had finally begun to grow in agai
n, but it was white and coarse. His one remaining eye was still green, but that single bit of health and color could not overcome the horror of the rest of his body. Burn scars over the whole, accented by cuts and rope scars where he had apparently struggled throughout the healing process. He did not remember any of it. And though the hair on his head had returned, such as it was, it would grow nowhere else.

  Across his throat, the crowning touch, was a livid scar put there by a cursed blade. He remembered that blade, the way it had felt hot-cold as it sliced his throat. He had not known, then, that it was cursed. They'd told him that after he woke up fully aware of himself at last.

  In slicing his throat, the dark faerie had cast his terrible curse—to live as the dark faerie had for so long: reviled, rejected, unwanted, unloved, hated, feared, and all that he had been forgotten by all who had known him.

  To live nameless and alone, loathed by all, and unable even to die unless the curse was broken.

  The monks had healed his body and eased his pain as best they could, but only for the sake of their duty. They had not shoved him out the door in the end, but neither had they seemed unhappy to tell him goodbye.

  He had asked them how the curse might be broken, but when he heard the answer, he had wished he had not. It was nothing but nonsense. Love, the monks had said. He had angered a dark faerie something fierce, and the curse upon him was the kind reserved for only the cruelest of transgressors.

  Alcor wished the dark faerie were still alive, that he might kill the bastard himself. If anyone should have been cursed, it was his father—

  He immediately stopped thinking about his father, the memory of burning flesh and screaming making him almost grateful that he had no real need to eat—he could not die, not even of starvation.

  Just over a decade ago, his father and his small army had wiped out the dark faerie from that part of the world. Victorious, they had taken over the castle and surrounding land to make of it a small village. There they had lived from the time Alcor was eight.

  Obviously they had missed one, but why had the faerie cursed Alcor and not his father? He'd only been eight years old when his father had slaughtered the dark faerie, and that at the bidding of the King. Why was Alcor left a cursed monster while his father—