Page 13 of Blood of the Fairest

Call it survival instincts or being a wimp. It's all the same to me.

At the end of the passage, it becomes a spiraling stone staircase. The flickering shadows from more sconces and the utter silence are starting to give me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies as I ascend the stairs.

Finally, I reach another door.

At least, it looks like a door. Once I open it and step through, I realize the other side of it is a massive mirror. When I press on the beautiful rectangular frame surrounding it, the mirror clicks shut to perfectly conceal the entry to the secret passage.

"Aha. You must be the magic mirror to my evil queen," I tell the glass.

Then I scan my new surroundings.

Holy shit.

This opulent gothic bedroom is straight out of a dark medieval fantasy movie—carved mahogany furnishings, a tarnished silver chandelier overhead, plush ornate rugs, and stone walls hung with elaborate tapestries of apple trees and stained glass. Lit candelabras and sconces surround the room, glowing softly. Heavy curtains are pulled over three large cathedral-like windows on one wall.

Across from the secret-passage-mirror is the biggest bed I've ever seen. It's luxurious, with four carved posts canopied and draped in sheer dark blue fabric. Turning slowly, I take it all in—a grand set of double doors, another door, a wardrobe, a big vanity with a wash basin that's already calling my name⁠—

I come full circle, stopping to stare at my own haggard, dried-blood-covered reflection in the mirror. Lifting a hand, I touch the place where the tattoos on my neck are gone.

Come to think of it…

Quickly, I slide the bolts into place on the double doors to lock any more murderous creeps out. I approach the mirror again, shucking off the blanket and stained dress as I go. The chemise follows, pooling on the ground.

"Whoa," I breathe, skimming my hands over my arms, left hip, and the other places the ink is gone.

Some of them, I'm sad to see gone. I feel almost naked without the tattoos I chose.

But I don't exactly miss the other ones.

Then my gaze zeroes in on my tits, and I heave a sigh.

Damn. It took months for my nipples to heal after getting them pierced. I was finally working up the nerve to show them off somehow this summer, like in a no-bra tank top look.

Not that it matters, I guess. This isn't really my body. I mean, it's my body down to my beauty spot, but it's not mine. This is the evil queen's body, and I need to get back to mine in my own world.

I wonder if I somehow swapped with the real queen and she's hanging out in my body right now.

Enjoy the barbells, bitch.

Unless…maybe she's just dead.

Except as someone who's read the old fairy tales more times than I can count, I know how Snow White's story goes. At the end, the magic mirror tricks the evil queen into going to Snow White's wedding, where she's punished by dancing to death in red-hot iron shoes.

If the real queen somehow died at the hands of the Three Stooges instead…does that mean I'll be forced to dance to death now that I've replaced her?

I shiver. Hell, no. I'm going to get back to my world before that can happen.

But in order to do that, I probably need to figure out how I woke up here in the first place.

As my fingertips continue gliding over all this inkless skin, I address my reflection with determination.

"All right, think hard. How the fuck did you even get here?"

An absolute Adonis appears in the mirror.

"We both know all too well how I came to be trapped in your mirror, Reinhilde."

4