Page 2 of Blood of the Fairest

The third man sighs. "Poor princess. I wonder if that girl shall ever be found, now that this monstrous bitch has bit the grass."

"Worry not for Snow White," Otto reassures them. "I have already begun tracking her down."

Snow White?

Back the fuck up. If she's the princess, and I'm the queen…

Did my subconscious seriously fancast me as the evil stepmother from the Brothers Grimm fairy tale?

Wow. Thanks a lot for this flattering self-portrait, Brain.

Lip Smacker takes another loud swig and burps. "You what? How?"

"I've sent Leon to search for the one they call Grendel's Bane. Ever heard of him?"

"The Grendel's Bane, Huntsman of the North? Who hasn't heard of him?" the first voice scoffs in disbelief. "But why would you send Leon out looking for that monster hunter? Everyone knows he doesn't take kindly to anyone, let alone us Isenmerians."

"Two nights ago, I saw the queen speaking with him outside the castle gates, alone. Next day, Snow White was gone. I'd wager anything she hired him to get rid of the princess—twisted his arm somehow. If Leon finds that huntsman quickly, Matron willing, he may find Snow White."

So not only am I the evil queen in my subconscious, but I've also already hired someone to kill Snow White?

I get it, Brain. You think I'm a bitch.

Since I'm now wildly thirsty and this dream still contains approximately zero sexy celebrity crushes, I give up on it turning into something fun. It's time to wake up.

Except when I try to rouse myself, my surroundings don't budge. The cart rolls on as the men laugh about the queen being "vainer than Ayna," whatever that means.

I try to wake up again. And again.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Oh, shit. Is this some kind of hyper-real dream from my new prescription messing with my head? I've heard that happens to people sometimes.

Is that why I feel so foggy and off, like there's something I'm forgetting?

Perplexed, I sit upright, pull the blanket off my face, and turn to squint at the tunic-clad backs of the three men riding the horses pulling this cart. They have a serious case of tunnel vision as they gab and take turns nursing a flask. None of them notice that the dead queen they're hauling away is wide awake.

As wide awake as anyone can be inside a dream, anyway. Cue the Inception music.

This old-fashioned horse-drawn wagon rolls along a wide dirt road past a thick forest of spruce trees to the left and hilly stretches of tree-dotted countryside to the right. Some snowdrifts linger at the bases of tree trunks and in the pockets between hills. Curling mist drifts leisurely across the landscape. The air is crisp, the sky a soft spring grey as it seems to debate between snow and rain.

Taking it all in, I'm both proud and disappointed.

Way to go, Brain. You could make all this but not Michael B. Jordan or a younger George Clooney? Or hell, shoot for the stars and send me both. You know I'd be down to try a threesome.

The dream still isn't responding to me.

One of the three murderers starts to turn his head as if he's about to check on the body in the wagon. Quickly, I lie down and fling the blanket back to cover my face again.

The cart lurches to a sudden stop.

"Oi, take a look at that. Five open graves in Isenhold's cemetery," Otto muses.

"Must be for that condemned family. People will let their hearts bleed for anything, even northern rabble. But what of them?"

"Why don't we just toss the queen's corpse into one of those, pile some dirt on top, and leave it unmarked? Saves us a trip, and the townsfolk can just blame the sexton's shoddy work."

The other two creeps agree with Otto's plan. The cart jostles violently like it's rolling over rougher terrain before it comes to a standstill, the clopping of hooves stalling.