Trial of Curses and Fae (Into The Labyrinth #1)

Chapter 1

Alette

The leather strap slaps against my back again, and I grit my teeth. If I cry out, my grandpa will only whip me harder. If I show any weakness, he’ll find a way to make this worse.

I wait, but no strike comes. Yet, I don’t move from my crouched position on our barn’s floor. This is sometimes part of the game. He lets me think it’s over, and I stop tensing, only for more blows to rain down on me.

“Alette,” he says my name in that disappointed way he always says it. “You’ll remember today’s lesson when you’re in the village tomorrow. You'll do better. Won't you?”

The arms I have wrapped around my chest squeeze harder. “I will, sir.”

Even though I know what he really means. He means I won’t make a mistake. Here at the farm. Or when I go into town. Mistakes have consequences. Everywhere.

He sighs. “Put your shirt back on.”

I grab it from the stable floor, ignoring the hay that clings to it, and yank the rough cloth back over my head, biting down on a hiss as the scratchy fabric glides over my injured skin.

When I’m proper, I rise to my feet on legs that tremble and keep my head lowered as I try not to look at my grandfather.

“Alette.” Now he says my name with amusement, which means he’s about to tell me a familiar story, a reminder of why I need to make sure I keep him and my grandmother happy.

“You were, what, four or five when your mother died? And ten when your dad got sick? Just a little ten-year-old left alone in a cabin in the woods, left to die. At least, you would’ve died if your father’s letter hadn’t reached us in time.

Your grandmother and I gave up everything to come and live in this shitty little cabin in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and keep you alive.

Your grandmother even wasted her time schooling you at home so you’d have enough intelligence to keep this farm running.

And for what? For nothing. You should be focused on repaying that debt, not making our lives harder. ”

He’s said these words so many times. So many times that they circle around in my head like water in an eddy in a river.

Until I’m not sure any more which way is up and which way is down.

I was ten years old when I buried my father.

I was alone in these woods. But wasn’t I better off?

When my grandparents came, didn’t everything get so much worse?

Then, I wasn’t just caring for myself, I was caring for them, and nothing I did was ever good enough.

Nothing.

I’ve been obedient to them since day one. Never questioning. Never arguing. Always following orders exactly how they’re given. And yet, I’m constantly punished. Constantly whipped. Usually for things outside of my control. Like the chicken.

Or maybe it is my fault. I’m really not sure anymore.

“We saved you,” he says, emphasizing the word saved. “And every day since, you've failed to show us the gratitude we deserve.”

I chance a look up, disgusted by the man before me. But I am thankful to see a man who looks nothing like me. His hair is white. His eyes are dark brown. And his once-muscled frame shows signs of his age, as his shoulders bend and skin hangs from his frame.

My father had avoided his parents. I never understood why until I met them.

But during his dying days, he must have decided that having their help was better than no help and sent for them.

He must have been sure of his decision. So I need to honor his wishes.

I need to endure whatever my grandparents do to me, knowing that my dad knew best.

I must need them.

“That chicken never should’ve died.” He repeats the accusation he’s thrown at me a thousand times since some predator got into our coop and killed it.

“If you’d done your job properly, it’d be alive, and we’d have enough eggs each day.

But now, not only will you be getting the supplies when you go to the village, you’ll be bringing back a new chicken too. ”

Everything inside of me tenses. “We don’t have enough to trade for a chicken.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, the leather strap hanging from his hand as if to remind me that the pain can start again, any time he wants. “You’re a beautiful, young woman, Alette. I’m sure you can think of something you can trade for the chicken.”

I have a feeling I know what he means, although I don’t want to imagine that I’m right. Still, a chill rolls down my spine all the same.

“Who should I ask?”

He smiles. “Start with the whore house, I’m sure they can steer you right.”

I’d never been to the whore house, but I knew what they did there. I knew it wasn’t a safe place for women. My father had always told me to stay away from it, but I guess I don’t have a choice now. Not that I’ll actually do what my grandpa is implying.

“Mr. Grady!” a familiar man’s voice calls out.

One of our few neighbors steps into the doorway of our tiny barn.

It’s Mr. Clay, a man in his fifties. He has brown hair peppered with white, a large nose, and cold eyes.

My father never let me be anywhere around the man when I was little.

He said he didn’t like the way Mr. Clay looked at me, which, neither did I.

But my grandfather seems to like him. He’s been having him come over more and more lately.

I don’t like it. I assume that because Mr. Clay has better, richer lands than ours—a thriving farm even in the mountains—that my grandfather wants something from Mr. Clay.

I’m just not sure what Mr. Clay wants from us, even though I have my suspicions.

“Hello, Mr. Clay,” my grandfather greets, tossing the leather strap on a nearby hay bale before walking over and hugging the other man. “It’s good to see you.”

Mr. Clay’s dark eyes move to me and roam from the top of my head down to my toes, lingering on different areas.

Areas a gentleman wouldn’t linger on. Instinctually, I take a step back and touch the dagger at my side, even though I don’t know why.

I’d never use the thing. At least, not against any of them.

They finish their hug, and then my grandfather frowns at me. My spine tightens, and my heart starts beating rapidly. I’ve done something wrong. I can’t have done something wrong. I already upset him. I already let the chicken get killed. I can’t… I can’t…

“Alette.” Now my name is an angry growl. “Come greet Mr. Clay and give him a hug.”

I don’t want to. Touching Mr. Clay makes me feel sick. But I could never disobey my grandfather. I could never willingly upset him.

I step across the hay-strewn floor with feet that feel made of lead until I reach Mr. Clay.

He yanks me into his arms and presses me fully against him as he hugs me.

His hands wander over my back, and pain explodes from the touch, but then his hands move to my butt.

Every muscle in my body tenses, and I fight the urge to pull away and slap him.

If I slap my grandfather’s friend, I have no idea what my grandfather will do to me, but I know it’ll be bad.

After a moment, he lets me go. Smiling, he looks me up and down again. “You’ve grown, Alette. You’re what…?”

“Twenty-three,” I finish for him, feeling numb.

“Twenty-three.” He licks his lips. “Too old to still be unmarried.”

Maybe I am. I just can’t seem to care about it. But the thought swims away. Everything goes silent in my mind. Silent in my body. It’s a thing I do sometimes. I go somewhere else. Here, nothing can hurt me. Nothing can touch me.

A hand closes around my wrist and pulls, bringing me back to the present. “Alette, let’s take Mr. Clay into the house and get him some tea.”

“Yes,” I tell him automatically. The answer is always yes.

“Did you have to whip her again?” Mr. Clay asks.

“Not too hard,” my grandfather rushes out.

Mr. Clay laughs. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind. It’s easier to break something that’s already broken.”

I walk with shaking legs back to the cabin as the two older men follow, talking and laughing, but I don’t hear their words. I’m somewhere else. In town with my dad. Playing cards with Marta as the sun sets. Laughing with the village children.

As I pass Mr. Clay’s horse, I see Stephen, his young farmhand, sitting on a rock while holding onto the horse’s reins.

He stiffens when the two men walk past, a familiar look of fear passing across his face.

Our eyes connect, and I wink at him. I check behind me to make sure the men didn’t see me, then fishing into my pants pocket, I veer just a little off and slip the little carved horse I’d made for him into his hand. He smiles, and I rush away.

I open the door to the cabin, and the two men walk in.

I take their hats and hang them up. My grandmother, who was at the table, stands.

She’s wearing a simple brown dress made out of a rough material, one of the few fabrics that we could afford.

Her gray hair has been swept up into a knot, and her wrinkled hands grip the back of her chair as she smiles, too widely, at Mr. Clay.

“Mr. Clay,” she greets. “Welcome.”

I sweep around all of them and start the water for the tea boiling over the fire, stirring up the embers in the fireplace and adding another log to really get the fire going.

They sit at the table and begin talking, but I go to the special place in my mind again.

I go to the village, my only safe space now, and picture everything about it.

The people. The places that are so different from this lonely farm.

There, I feel… something different. Something warm and wonderful, and not at all like the cold, jagged feeling I’ve had here ever since my dad died.

“The tea!” my grandmother snaps.

I jump a little, unsure of how long I’d been in my mind.

I add the tea leaves to a sieve and pour hot water through it into each of the cups, add a little milk, then serve each mug to the three people at the table.

But even before I set the mugs down, I get a crawling sensation on my skin. They’re watching me. Staring. Smiling.

“To be honest, I’d wanted someone younger,” Mr. Clay says slowly.

“With how small she is, she looks younger,” my grandmother tells him hurriedly.

“She could easily pass for fourteen,” my grandfather says, eagerness in his voice.

“Is she smart?” Mr. Clay asks, stirring his tea.

“Not so smart as to be a problem for you,” my grandmother says, smiling widely.

“And her temperament?”

“As obedient as an old dog,” my grandfather answers proudly.

I don’t like what they’re talking about. Not that what I think matters.

I step back and sit near the fire, afraid to be further noticed by them.

Afraid to make a mistake. Tomorrow I get to go to the village.

My grandparents are too old for the trip now, so it’s just been me these last few years.

I pretend that it’s just like all my other chores.

If they saw that I enjoyed it, they’d find a way to ruin the trip for me too.

All I have to do is stay out of their way until then, and I get that feeling again, the one I love, at the village, with the people I care about. That warmth. That happiness.

They all stand from the table, and Mr. Clay and my grandfather shake hands. My grandfather says, “It’s a deal then. Three chickens, two pigs, and a cow.”

“A deal,” Mr. Clay says, and his dark gaze sweeps to me again, a flicker of something like delight in his eyes. “I’ll be back in seven days to collect her when she gets back from the village.”

Wait… what?

I look at all of them in confusion as my grandfather and Mr. Clay release hands.

“Who is he collecting in seven days?”

Mr. Clay just looks at me and smiles.

My grandmother smacks me on the back of the head. “This is none of your concern.”

I have a bad feeling about this deal and what they’re talking about, but something inside of me won’t let me dive deeper.

It’s like touching a hot stove every time my mind starts to put the pieces together, and I accept it, knowing I really don’t want to know.

There’s no way I can accept that when I get back from the village, somehow, my life can actually get worse.

They head outside, and my grandmother’s eyes narrow as she motions for me to follow.

Outside, Stephen waits beside Mr. Clay’s horse, small and unmoving.

He’s a boy Mr. Clay took on as a helper when he was much younger and couldn’t be more than eight-years-old now.

Every time I see his mop of dark hair and cautious face, my heart aches.

He’s so young. Too young to be sold to a rich farmer and torn away from his family.

I can’t even imagine what he’s been through.

“Stephen!” Mr. Clay snaps.

Stephen leaps to his feet… and straight into a pile of mud, scattering it all over Mr. Clay’s pants.

Time seems to freeze. I see the look of pure horror and fear on Stephen's face, and I’m moving forward before I can stop myself.

Mr. Clay lunges for him, fury in his expression, and I’m there in an instant, standing between them.

Mr. Clay looks surprised.

My grandparents look angry.

“Get out of the way,” Mr. Clay growls.

I stand up taller, even though I feel small and frightened inside. “No. It was an innocent mistake. Just let it go.”

“I decide how I handle my farmhands. Me, and no one else,” Mr. Clay tells me, bringing his face inches from mine.

Nothing feels right. I’m breaking all my careful rules of survival. I’m drawing my grandparents’ attention. I’m doing something I know will make them angry. There will be consequences for this, and they will be brutal, but I still can’t move out of the way.

Mr. Clay stands up taller and glares at my grandparents. “Seems she needs more training than you let on. Two fucking chickens, not three.”

Then he climbs onto the horse. Reaching down, he yanks the kid up behind him, and they ride off, kicking mud at us as they go. And as they disappear into the trees, whatever possessed me to stand between Mr. Clay and the boy evaporates, and I’m trembling.

“Go into the barn and take off your shirt,” my grandfather says, anger in his voice.

Closing my eyes, I nod and reach for that quiet place inside me, where my body fades and my mind slips to somewhere else. Somewhere warm. Somewhere soft. Somewhere full of love.