With a Kiss (Twisted Tales) (27 page)

Hobs turned from me to stare into the fire. “It used to be better here,” he said in an undertone, “before the treasures were stolen. Not that we haven’t had our problems. There have always been those who had a connection to the Otherworld, spilling secrets, exchanging ideas, giving mortals ill-gotten powers.”

“You thought the Skinwalker was one of them?”

“Yeah, the guy who peeled off his face at the Okanogan golf course. It just seemed too big a coincidence that it happened so close to you. Then when he showed up at the park, I knew.”

“Who?”

“You saw that big black dog?” he asked.

Quite honestly, the Banshees had almost swept that from my mind. “I . . . I thought maybe he was some big faery pet or something.”

“He’s one of the cursed.” Seeing how serious Hobs was, I believed him. “These Otherworldly are humans who work with stolen magic. They’re dark creatures who will destroy you and me, everything if they have a chance. They hate us for existing. It was the ultimate betrayal when one of our own made a deal with them.”

“Hobs, you’ve got to tell me. Does this have to do with Babs?”

“It has to do with all of us. The four treasures are what give us our powers. Dagda’s cup, Lugh’s wand, Nuadha’s sword, the sacred Stone of Fal. Without them, the Sidhe will fade out of existence. The worlds will end.” I glanced down at the story that had caused him to talk this way.
Rapunze
l, or more accurately Ratis. This prophecy actually stated a name. The others were just guesses as to their identities. “The prophecy has been filled,” Hobs said in a dull voice. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

The story had ended. The words were all in and accounted for. Printed across the bottom of the page in bold letters were the words:
The End
. My gaze slipped from the words to his solemn face. “You know something about this story, don’t you?”

He nodded. “It was said that Ratis betrayed the kingdom by selling the four treasures to the leader of these cursed, and for a measly price . . . love.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Does it matter? Now that the treasures are gone, our powers will dwindle to nothing. It’s only a matter of time.” I studied the drawing of Ratis in the book. Her hair was long and golden, just like I was familiar with in the original story. Only this time, she had been locked up in a tower in the middle of the city.

Hobs refused to look at the story. “We knew we were dying without the treasures, but she wouldn’t tell us where they were, wouldn’t reveal her secrets. The Twelve from the High Court banished Ratis’ handmaidens to the Otherworld where they would forever mourn the loss of the treasures. You’ve met them; those are the Banshees. Then the Twelve confiscated Ratis’ powers and clipped her wings.”

“Wings?”

“She’s from Gorias,” he explained with a shrug. “Of course she had wings. The Twelve then sent the Dones d’aigua, her own people, to guard her in the tower.”

I studied the elaborate depictions of the creatures, part bird, part women. The graceful guards circled the tower that stretched out into the heavens. Their glorious wings glinted in the sun, their eyes hopeless. It was vengeance that provoked Ratis’ life sentence, not justice. Locking her up wouldn’t have brought back the treasures.

“And after all this,” Hobs said, “Ratis was found innocent of the crime. Now that it’s too late.”

“Can’t you save her?”

“It’s not a prophecy anymore. Nobody saved the princess. The end is the end.”

I skimmed through to the bottom of the page—Ratis had died in her tower. The treasures of the Fae were in the hands of some unknown perpetrator, and no one could save the innocents of this crime. The prophecy had the stamp of fulfillment.

Hobs met my eyes. “Our faerytales aren’t like yours. We live in a world where heroes die.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Hobs could die. Bugul could die. And Babs? With difficulty, I kept myself from freaking out. None of us were safe. “You knew Ratis was innocent, didn’t you?”

“I had been told that . . .” He shook his head. “Let’s just say that you can’t trust what you see, or hear.” Hobs was being cryptic again, and I saw the faint panic in his expression when he stared into the forest.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

 “I can’t hear anything.” He pulled away from us, which was disappointing, and not just because I had been stealing his warmth for the last half hour. There was something comforting about his presence. He dug through the backpack for the faery gifts. “No birds, no sounds—except us. Bugul?” He exchanged glances with the Leprechaun, who had lunged to his feet and paced the campfire with his club. “I think we have some Grim on our hands.”

Oh, no—Grim! I held Babs tighter. It sounded . . . well, grim.

“Kobolds and Shades,” Hobs explained. “They’re the worst things in these woods. The most terrifying sound in the Sidhe isn’t the growl of a wolf. It’s the beautiful sounds: the song of a siren, the laughter of a brownie. The danger is not knowing the enemy until it’s too late.” He sounded like he spoke from experience. “C’mon, we’ll build the fire higher.” He sprinkled something on it, and its smoke sucked into the flames and disappeared. In an instant, the fire turned into a huge blaze. I tried to shield Babs.

“It won’t burn you,” he said. “Get as close as you want. You can even sleep on it.”

No. Way. It smelled awful. Bugul wrinkled his nose and tried to wave it away. “Yeah,” I said. “The smell will lead them straight to us.”

“Nope, it repels them. Frog’s breath. It’s perfect for camping.”

Bugul snorted. Clearly, he’d had enough of us and our nymph magic—and I thought I was uptight. I tilted my head at him. “Bugul, I can feel your disapproval clear from over here.”

“At least you can’t hear it.” Hobs slushed around the circle of snow that made up the edges of our campfire, peering into the darkness to the woods beyond. He listened for a moment in the silence until he was satisfied. “I think we’re safe, for now.”

I watched the firelight play with the gold highlights in Babs’ hair. I didn’t want her to be anyone in those faerytales. They were depressing and terrible. And yet, it was critical that the princess know her name. If not, the results might be just as bad as those other faerytale prophecies. Maybe worse. “Cinderella,” I guessed half-hazardly. “She’s sleeping near the ashes.”

Hobs gave a short bark of laughter and settled back next to us. It immediately warmed me up. “We’re talking about our princess, right?” he asked. “She doesn’t clean up after herself at all.”

“Well,” I tried to figure it out. “We have to prove that she’s a princess first . . . like the
Princess and the Pea
. Everyone will have to know she’s real because of her sweetness and sensitivity.”

“Sweetness? Sensitivity?” He looked like he would laugh again, but then he thought better of it. “That has possibilities.”

But it wasn’t enough. I quickly flipped through the pages of the book, remembering what Hobs had said before. Her whole story had a very
Rumpelstiltskin
feel to it. A baby was stolen. I found the faerytale and carefully smoothed down the rough page. As soon as Hobs saw it, he stiffened. Good. I was onto something.

The identity of what used to be a manipulative troll with a secret name now seemed obvious. Rumpelstiltskin was the Otherworldly, a dark and loathsome creature from a different land. As I read, it seemed the Otherworldly had great power over the queen. Instead of turning straw into gold, the creature had something else the girl wanted—the four treasures. Without it, she could not rule the Sidhe. That, at least, was spelled out.

I read the prophecy with building dread. According to this, the queen would make any deal with the Otherworldly to get what she wanted, even a child. It was part of their bargain. My insides felt hollow when the truth sank in. I knew exactly who that child was.

Of course the Snow Queen would try to trade Babs to the Otherworldly. It was a convenient way to get rid of the only girl who could take her down. Was that why the Otherworldly had sent that dog to spy on us in the park? Maybe the Otherworldly thought he could get Babs without the queen and keep the four treasures too. The only puzzle stumping me was why Babs meant more to the Otherworldly than the four treasures. Well, she was to me, but that was irrelevant.

I took a deep breath and closed the book. The original faerytales were safer. “We just have to put the clues together,” I said. We had to save Babs from this fate and give her a name so she stood a chance against Rumpelstiltskin. So, what did Babs and the other princesses in these tales have in common? Most of them had a Prince Charming. He always saved them. It wasn’t a very girl-power way of thinking, but I didn’t care.

“I have an idea,” I told Hobs. I wasn’t sure how he’d take this, but I was desperate. “We need to figure out who her Prince Charming is. If we know him, we’ll know her.”

“That’s easy.” I was glad to see that Hobs wore his wicked grin again—it meant he was on my side. “It’s me.”

I laughed. I probably shouldn’t have, and at his usual ironic look, it cut short. “No.” I shook my head a little too vigorously. “No, c’mon, you’re not even charming.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t think I’m good enough for a princess? Oh, I know—you don’t think she’s good enough for me.” He was teasing me, and I didn’t like it. Hobs looked too cute when he did that, and when something like this was coming from his mouth, it was just wrong.

“Knock it off.”

“I can’t tell you who our princess is, but I can tell you who I am, and I’m sitting right here in front of you. Check the book if you like.”

I swiveled to Bugul for confirmation. He sulked next to the fire, but he didn’t deny it. I felt my heart plummet. It was true then. The nymphs had called Hobs a prince. The Merrow had called him the son of a queen. And now he was meant for the princess? So, why was that so upsetting?

Hearts were so . . . stupid! I felt like Hobs had cut mine out and threw it into that ridiculous fire made of frog’s breath. I was so through with him.

Chapter Seventeen

My grief! My grief! that bitter hour drained the life from me;
I thought him human lover, thought his lips on mine were cold,
And the breath of death blew keen on me within his hold.

—
Ethna Carbery,
The Love Talker

T
he sun was hot on my shoulders, caressing the bare skin on my arms. It felt like it would never snow again. I lifted my head to the sky. Instead of blue, it was the most brilliant white I had ever seen. It bathed the world in white. Nothing in the Otherworld compared to it.

The Otherworld? Was that a dream? Wait. The Sidhe. That was the place that didn’t seem real, so why did home seem so far away now? I wandered through a grove of trees in a white dress, my toes sinking into the soft, wet dirt. A deep sadness filled me, and I tried to remember why.

I had never been to this grove before, and yet it felt so familiar. Hobs called my name and I circled to see him standing there behind me. As soon as I saw the expression on his face, I remembered something about being sad. I had lost him somehow, but that seemed impossible, now. Here he was, looking as calm and carefree as he had the last time we had been together.

His hand found mine. The contours of his palms felt natural against my skin and I tried to recall why that was wrong. He wore white too, blending into the air until I began to suspect that the evil hag had gotten to us and we were dead. He kicked my bare foot mischievously. I kicked him back and he laughed. No, we weren’t angels. My stomach rumbled in hunger, another reminder we were very much alive.

Hobs smiled down at me, the wind blowing against his white shirt. He plucked a pomegranate fruit from a tree and cracked it open, peeling out three seeds. “Eat. They won’t hurt you.” He brought the seeds to my lips and I clamped my mouth stubbornly shut against it. In mock exasperation, he chucked the seeds at me and I ran from him, laughing.

My dress caught the wind. I felt free, though it wasn’t too long before I was back in his arms. He swung me around until he held me tightly. My laughter cut short at his intense expression. I was drawn to it. With a sinking in my stomach, I realized my sadness had something to do with how I felt about him.

He studied me in return. “You’re so beautiful.” I was shocked that he was so solemn and he laughed, making that sound tragic, too. He smoothed my dark hair from my face. “It’s been so long,
Leannan Sith
. I’ve always loved you . . .”

I woke up from his confession with that same strong hand warming my fingers. “Do you want to go home?”

Feeling groggy, I opened my eyes. The spell of sleep was immediately broken. I didn’t know why I had been expecting Hobs. Well, I
had
been dreaming about him, but the man holding my hand in the dim morning light was gorgeous. Not that Hobs wasn’t attractive, but this man took my breath away. He had coal-black eyes and sand in his hair. Uh yeah—sand. Something was wrong.