“Good boy.” I tap him on the top of the head with the blade. A mock ‘knighting’ of him with death before bringing the sword back to his throat. “Now look at her. I want your eyes on her as you die. I want my mother to be the last thing you see in this life.”
Because he was the last thing she saw.
“I did this for the king,” he whispers brokenly.
“And I’m doing this for my mother.” I push forward. Slow. Purposeful. Relish his horror as the blade slices clean through, the tip scraping against bone. “Save your almighty king a place in hell, you worthless fuck.”
He gurgles on a mouthful of blood. It pulses from his neck to spill down his ugly tabard. I watch with bitter satisfaction as his life puddles at his knees. Watch until his eyes go vacant. Only when he slumps forward do I pull free the support of my weapon and allow him to fall.
Disgusted, I kick his body away from my mother lest his departing soul soil her.
I drop to my knees beside her, landing in her blood. I lift her limp, still-warm body and cradle her against my chest. Her soft brown eyes, so much like my own, stare through me, blank. Hollow. The memories of her every smile, every laugh, and every nuance of her wonderfully dynamic face are brought back to life as memories feed the ravenous fires of revenge.
To destroy the man who took everything I love from me.
To leave him as broken as he broke me.
I smooth a tangle of sticky hair from Mary Kincaid’s lovely face, avoiding the slice along her throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you.”
I couldn’t have done much against the king’s garrison. At best, I’d have fought off a few of the soldiers before they overpowered me. Maybe that would have given my mother enough time to run. To escape into Blithe, where the witch’s curse might have concealed her long enough for them to finish destroying Leeds and take their leave.
At worst, we’d have died together.
These are possibilities afforded to a fool dwelling on should haves and would haves. Gingerly, I place my fingertips on her lids and close her eyes. John came looking for Rapunzel, but he’ll never find her. No one will. No one but me.
For whatever reason, I discovered her tower. Maybe Sybil indeed led me there, to Rapunzel. But it’s only a matter of time before John finds Sybil. And when he does, he’ll break her. It’s what the bastard does. Knowing what I do about John, he’ll hurt the witch until she tells him everything about Rapunzel.
By then, it won’t matter.
I’ll already have stolen her.
Rapunzel is mine. She’s always been mine. Mine to love when we had the luxury of adolescence. Mine to punish for turning a blind eye while my father’s life slipped from his body. This destruction—my mother’s death—never would have happened if the selfish bitch had come away with me years ago.
Rapunzel made a choice. She hid in her precious tower while Rygard suffered for her decision.
Now she’ll pay for the consequences of her choice.
* * *
My feet remember the way,trekking me through Blithe before my mind catches up to each step. Nothing’s changed. Not in all these years. It’s as if time froze in this cursed forest. Every branch still twists like broken arms protruding from the trees, pointing away from the glade. I should have heeded the silent warning when I followed that damned cloaked figure to the tower.
My mind gets turned around more than once the deeper I go, but my feet move me toward the Merrie River. I drop to the muddy bank and dip my hands in the rushing water. I scrub away my mother’s blood, and the dirt of her grave caked under my fingernails. But the more I wash, the darker the stain on my soul. It takes everything I have to fight against the fury and grief dragging me down to a dangerous depth.
I stand and stretch to my full height, remembering when I was a boy and stood almost in this spot the day I found the tower. When I pretended a stick was a sword, and the future held a wealth of possibilities.
The day my life forever changed.
I clench my jaw and grind my teeth, the hot humid air a blanket wrapped around me. This forest even has a different smell than the others I traveled through. Its perfume is decay instead of life. Sybil’s spell is a thick, invisible swamp as I tread lightly over the rotted remains of Peddler’s Bridge.
Back on solid ground, I break into a run, batting aside gnarled branches and leaping over rotting foliage. All seem to claw at me by Sybil’s hands, no doubt. The closer I get to the glade, the harder it is to focus on my intent to reach Rapunzel. I know this path by rote, but I slow my pace. Think for a moment. Do I turn left or right? All the while, my temper rises. Rage and hate bleed together, but when the tower’s single silver spire comes into view, I bare my teeth in a feral snarl and forge ahead. The rest of the imposing circular structure materializes from its black roof down to each gray stone.
But I stay focused on the solitary window.
That empty window that stares out at the forest.
I stop yards away from the grim bane of my existence, a hand hovering over my sword’s hilt. “Rapunzel!” My roar claps like thunder in the clearing.
I won’t allow her to refuse me.
