Blood of the Fairest (Grimm Fragments #1)

1. Verena

Verena

I don't know why I'm supine with a thin blanket draped over me as men chat somewhere up ahead, but I do know one thing: they think I'm dead.

And they couldn't be happier about it.

"Told ya that poison'd work!" one man crows. The rhythmic glugging of a seasoned alcoholic follows before he smacks his lips and grunts, "After all, that peddler swore a single drop could kill even a faerie!"

"Watch your words, lest one of the faeries overhears and curses us just when our trouble's over," a second man's voice warns.

"Besides, just because this bitch is finally dead doesn't mean we're over the mountain yet.

We still need to figure out where to dump her corpse so not even the witchfolk can give her a kind burial. "

The fabric resting over me tickles my nose. I wrinkle it a few times to combat the itch, frowning in the dimness under this thin blanket as I try to get my bearings. Somewhere nearby, I hear the clopping of hooves.

A third, nasally man speaks. "Let's go to my cousin's farm north of Grellheim.

He despises this man-eating harpy as much as anyone.

All we have to do is drop off her corpse, and he'll cut her up and mix her in with the slop for his pigs to chow down on.

Not one bone of her will remain for the witchfolk to collect. "

Faeries, curses, witchfolk…

This is obviously a dream, but when did I fall asleep?

Vague, murky excuses for memories surface when I wrack my brain for clues about where I am in the real world. A nagging awareness scrapes against my mind, as if before I must've dozed off, I was in the middle of doing something that I should remember.

But I'm curious to see what direction my imagination will take this strange scenario. So I stay still under the blanket and wait for the dream to change into something fun, like a sex dream.

Not with these three creeps, though. Like any modern lady of good taste, I like my fictional men a little murdery—but I draw a line at them murdering me, even if it's just a dream.

Plus, the pig slop thing? Ew, pass.

"We can't take her corpse to your cousin for slop!" Lip Smacker exclaims.

"Why not?"

"Her blood, you oaf. You've seen what nightmarish sorts of things just one drop of it does to people.

Who knows what it would do to those poor swine?

Besides, the witchfolk won't collect the bones of someone like her—that's why we've got to dispose of the queen ourselves without anyone else catching wise, remember? "

So, I'm a queen in this dream? I don't mind that.

All right, time for this queen to get railed. Bring on the romance.

Except no matter how hard I try to convince my subconscious that any number of my celebrity crushes could absolutely be into me if only in my dreams, none of them are manifesting to whisk me away for a hot date.

Tragic.

The third voice drips with disappointment. "Ach, right. Shame, though. Digested and shat out by pigs would've been a most fitting end for this bitch. Don't you think, Otto?"

"Indeed, it would've been," the scratchy second voice agrees. "How sickening it is that the most striking beauty in all of Isenmere was in truth a living horror. Alas, she was but a sinfully wicked creature sent from the bowels of hell to drain the life from men."

Hey now, that's not bad. I might make that last sentence my next tattoo if I can remember it when I wake up.

A horse whinnies, and whatever I'm lying on jostles slightly. Am I supposed to be in some kind of…horse-drawn wagon? What a weirdly specific scenario to dream up.

When Lip Smacker loudly offers one of the other men his flask, I realize I'm also thirsty. Really thirsty. I should probably wake myself up, down a big glass of water, and get back to…whatever I was doing.

What was it again? I feel like it might've been important.

"Think we'll be suspected of offing the queen?" the third man asks.

"Nah, no one would dare accuse us, three of her Favored.

But Schultz will be fuming when he finds out what we've done," Lip Smacker adds.

"Not about her being dead, of course—he'll thank the Crones that we've managed it.

It's only that he wanted to question Queen Reinhilde about the princess's disappearance. "

Oof. Kudos to whatever dark, demented corner of my mind this dream pulled a name like Reinhilde out of.

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.

The next time the men speak, they're further away from me, clearly examining the grave.

"This'll do nicely," Lip Smacker proclaims.

"Someone's even left a shovel behind for us to use. The Matron has blessed this day!"

"Indeed. Pass me that mead again, would you?"

Wakey wakey, Verena, I urge. Time to rise and shine and rejoin the land of the living.

Still nothing.

Fuck it. Clearly, whatever they've prescribed me is keeping me under for a while. I'll just have to get away from the Three Stooges and find something more entertaining to dream about until I naturally wake up.

Peeking out under the blanket and over the edge of the wooden wagon, I get a better glimpse of the murderers. They all look a couple of years younger than me—and from what I can see, all three of them are surprisingly good-looking. They're distracted where they stand gathered around an open grave.

But speaking of distracted, as soon as I see the cemetery we're in, my mouth drops open.

I'm surrounded by glass headstones. Some are clear. Others are stained or etched. Even more are wreathed in flowers or sculpted into the shapes of people or animals. There's so much glistening glass, it's mesmerizing.

Dozens of tombstones catch the light of the sun now peeking through the grey clouds overhead, flooding the cemetery with a kaleidoscope of colors.

It's the most breathtakingly eerie post-death memorial I've ever seen.

I want to keep staring, but I'm on the verge of one of those classic buried-alive nightmares, so I get a move on.

Sliding quietly off the edge of the wagon, I stand and immediately curse my subconscious for putting me in this heavy-ass long-sleeved purple velvet dress. Not only is it impractical, but I'm also barefoot—and my toes are already freezing.

Is it possible to get frostbite in a dream? Yet another question for Christopher Nolan.