Once Upon A Curse: 17 Dark Faerie Tales Read online

  “All you need to do is write your name down,” he said as the contract and pen reappeared in her hands.

  She held the sheet against her leg in her urgency to find somewhere to sign.

  “When will this all happen?” she asked as she handed him the sheet.

  He folded it and tucked it away. “Go home and go to sleep knowing your entire life is about to change.”

  She couldn’t leave quickly enough, smiling the whole way.

  “So, what do you think, boss? She worth the effort?” the small scaled demon asked as he came to stand beside him. The young man he’d appeared to be minutes ago bearing roses was completely gone.

  “I think so, Bobber,” the devil said as he smoked his cigar and watched her disappear toward her apartment.

  Ana woke the next morning and had to think back to the night before. Had that been real? Had she really made a deal with the devil? Stood in front of a crowd as they cheered?

  She grabbed a hairband from her nightstand and pulled her hair into a ponytail, or tried. That was the first sign things were off. Every day, she did the same thing. She got up and put her hair in a ponytail and the band wrapped around her hair three times. Now she barely was able to wrap it twice.

  She got out of bed and walked over to the mirror above her dresser. Her hair still looked like hers, but she’d grown more of it overnight. Her skin was glowing like she’d just gotten back from a sunny place that left a warm glow. Her eyes that had always been a dull blue seemed brighter. She still looked like herself, but a much-improved version. Maybe last night had happened.

  She showered and changed, wondering what today would bring.

  When she got to the ballet company, she wasn’t the only one to notice. Her fellow dancers were all looking at her and whispering behind their hands.

  “Ana?” She turned to see Scott, one of the lead soloists, who’d never spoken to her before.

  “Hi.”

  “You look…different. Did you do something?” he asked as his gaze kept running over her features, as if he couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference.

  “Nothing,” she said as she tried to repress the smile of attracting the attention of the best-looking dancer in the company.

  He nodded and said something about maybe grabbing a coffee after the practice before he left.

  “Maybe,” she said. She made her way with the rest of the dancers as they went to the stage and prepared for their guest.

  An hour later, Ana stood on the sidelines of the stage as Marcum, the guest choreographer whom she’d been hearing about for months, appraised the dancers moving before him.

  His ballets could skyrocket a dancer to stardom, but that wouldn’t happen if she was never seen. As she stood, watching her chance of being in one of the most anticipated ballets in the ballet corps’ history fade, she wondered again if last night’s meeting had been a dream.

  The group of dancers switched places with another group of names called. It was the last group to go, and she hadn’t been called to join them, so she knew it wouldn’t be. She saw the looks. They all knew. Mr. Bink would allow her to stay, but it was going to be at a high cost. Marcum would never see her dance.

  She heard some scuffling, and the curtain that shielded the side of the stage where she was standing suddenly came down. A group of her fellow dancers seemed to have gotten caught up in it. The material ripped with a horrific sound, and then was joined by Mr. Bink’s voice as he demanded to know what had happened.

  Mr. Bink glanced over at an annoyed Marcum and told the group to silence and the dancers to restart.

  Without the cover of the curtain, Ana couldn’t stop herself from looking over at the handsome Marcum, praying somehow he’d notice her, and more convinced than ever last night had been nothing but a desperate delusion.

  His dark eyes wandered away from the dancers until he was staring straight at her. She turned away, thinking he must have sensed her staring.

  “Who’s she?” he asked, loud enough that everyone heard him and Ana looked back.

  He was staring at her with an intensity that was nearly unsettling.

  “She’s not one of my best,” Mr. Bink said with a dismissive wave.

  Marcum kept staring at her, ignoring Mr. Bink. “There’s something about her. I want to see her dance.”

  “Ana, step forward,” Mr. Bink barked. “Do the solo from Swan Lake.”

  Ana’s insides tensed. She couldn’t do that solo no matter how many times she tried without tripping at some point, and Mr. Bink was more aware of that than anyone.

  But this was her chance and she had to nail it. Then she thought of last night. Things were supposed to change. If it were real, this would be her moment.

  The dancers cleared the stage, some giggling as they did, since many of them had seen her try and perform this dance before. She took her position and the piano started to play and she let all her worries drop, her lifelong insecurities and every negative word she’d ever heard, and leapt across the stage as if she were born to dance this part. The music took control of her body as if driving her on some other level. She leapt and turned with flawlessness that would’ve put even Maria to shame.

  The music stopped as she finished with her chin tilted up and froze. There wasn’t a sound to be heard, not even breathing. Had she botched it? She’d felt so natural, so fluid.

  She looked around and saw nothing but shock, except from Marcum, who was smiling. He began to clap.

  Chapter 3

  Five years later

  “Ana, darling, you look beautiful tonight.”

  Ana looked up at Marcum’s handsome face as he came to stand beside her dressing table.

  “Are you ready for your performance?”

  She toyed with the engagement ring that he’d given her a month ago. She always left it on until the very moment she had to go onstage. “With you beside me? Of course I am.”

  He walked over and took the empty chair beside hers. “After the performance, there’s some people who would like to meet you.”

  “I thought tonight would just be us?”

  “We’re only going to meet them for a quick drink. They might be willing to fund that new ballet I’m creating for you.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek before saying, “You know no one can get enough of you, including me.”

  There was a knock at her door. “Ana, it’s time.”

  She tugged off her engagement ring and handed it to Marcum. “I’ll see you after.” With a kiss, she left to head to the stage.

  In five years, she had metamorphosed from a mediocre ballet dancer with no dating life to speak of to the reigning prima ballerina in the world. She was engaged to a man so handsome and charming that even after a year of dating and having a ring on her finger, she still found herself staring at him.

  There was only one thing marring her life, and that was a memory of a night five years ago. What was the cost going to be? Had it ever even happened? What if she’d imagined the whole thing? After all, did the devil really even exist?

  She heard her cue to enter the stage, and as she stepped out, she felt the excitement and adoration of the crowd wash over her. She let it take away all of the unwanted memories of contracts and souls.

  He took his front-row seat as the show began. This would be her last performance, so he figured he might as well enjoy it. After all, she was his creation. And surprisingly, he’d found he enjoyed being around her.

  When the curtain started to rise and the seat beside him hadn’t been taken yet, he had a bad feeling he was going to get an unexpected visitor.

  God strolled in, so predictable in a suit of pristine white, and sat beside him.

  “God,” he said to the unwelcome newcomer.

  “Lucifer,” God replied.

  God crossed his arms and settled in, watching as the performance began. Anastasia came dancing across the stage, looking as if she were weightless in her movements. He took a sip of his champagne as he watched her, apprec
iating the beauty of her lines.

  She’d risen to stardom overnight, her brilliant dance form catapulting her to fame, not just within the ballet world but until her name was known by everyone. It was a done deal as soon as she’d signed.

  “You did well, Lucifer,” God said, leaning in as he said it.

  “I did.”

  “So tonight is her last?” God asked.

  Here it came. He really knew how to ruin a good time. He had been raining all over his parade for millennia, sometimes even literally. Hell, they’d needed an ark once.

  He turned to watch God. But why her? Yes, she was exquisite now, but only with his help had she become that way. There was really nothing special about her.

  “Do you really need her? Another soul when you have so many?” God asked, his eyes still on the stage.

  “Yes. I do. What’s it to you?”

  The devil saw how God was watching her and the sadness there. “Her family has been praying for her. I wanted to try and help them out.”

  “Why would they pray for her? Her life has been fabulous.” Only the devil and God knew the truth behind her rise to fame.

  “Her grandmother knows what she did,” God said.

  The devil did a quick mental search before the woman clicked in his head. That was why Anastasia’s soul had felt so strong. She had a small taste of that old woman’s strength. Her grandmother was nearly ninety, and what a soul on her. Strong as an ox, that lady was.

  “So? What do you think?” God asked. “Maybe let this one slide?”

  Devil shook his head. “No can do. I’ve got a signed contract. I start letting people off because of a few prayers and who knows what crazy ideas they’ll come up with?”

  God nodded, as if he’d figured as much, and then stood and straightened his suit.

  “You’re not going to stay for the rest of the show?” the devil asked.

  “You know, I’ve never cared for your endings.”

  “Just remember—she called me.”

  “I know,” God said, and then walked away.

  The devil leaned back and watched the rest of the performance. She was exquisite, but she should be. She was young enough to have another five, maybe even ten years of her career left. He did enjoy watching her dance. Maybe he should allow her to live a while longer. Either way, he wouldn’t cut short the performance, so he had time to think it through.

  By the time she was done, even he was moved by her. The emotion, love and dedication she sank into her craft was unparalleled. He realized this hadn’t been all him. It had always been there. Maybe she hadn’t needed him as much as he thought? Maybe she only needed the confidence he’d given her to become what had always been there.

  He watched as she stood front and center and a bouquet of roses was placed in her arms. Her eyes scanned her adoring audience and then landed on him. Her smile widened.

  He returned the smile as he sat back and waited for her to take her final bow.

  Or maybe not.

  The dancers left the stage and the audience started to leave. He got out of his seat and made his way back to her dressing room.

  She greeted him with a smile as he walked back in, and he dug into his pocket.

  “Here’s your ring, darling.”

  Ana took it back, a smile settling on her lips as she slid the ring back onto her finger.

  “Marcum, I’ll just be a moment to change.”

  He nodded and settled on a small couch along the wall. He watched her move about the dressing room and realized he couldn’t kill this woman. Something strange had happened while he amused himself with her these past five years.

  A flick of his fingers and she’d be dead. He had the signed contract that gave him the right. Yet he couldn’t do it. He, the devil, couldn’t kill her.

  She was standing by a rack of clothes when she said, “Where are we meeting these people for drinks?”

  He shook his head. “I canceled it. Let’s just go home and be alone.”

  She smiled and nodded. “That sounds perfect.”

  “There’s a couple of things we should talk about,” he said, as he wondered how adaptable she’d be. All the humans said that a good relationship was based on trust and honesty.

  “About what?” she asked, looking concerned.

  “Nothing too big. How do you handle warmer climates?”

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  No Gift of Words - Annie Bellet

  The gibbous moon hung over the crowns of the baobab trees as Afua slipped from her cot and headed up the cliff road to the house of the witch. Red clay wet with the night rains slapped beneath her heavy feet, her hurried strides belying the fear curling in her belly. It was a dangerous thing to steal from a witch.

  But after tonight, she would no longer be called Sahona, the frog. Afua had always brushed off the insults, thinking that she’d grow like her friend Talata had grown, tall and graceful. Afua stayed squat, however, with a pointed face like a chameleon’s, blotchy skin, and bowed legs more suited to a lemur than a young woman.

  She turned up the steep path above the village, glancing down toward where the moonlight glinted on the rice patties below. The witch, Mpamonka, was said to be the most beautiful woman on the Island, renewed by the magic in her fitaratra, a jug carved from lightning in the beach sands far to the west. Thinking about her half-formed plan, Afua shivered, though not from cold. The forest closed in and the path grew narrower, the red clay turning to coarse grass. Shadows danced, silver and black, and somewhere a night bird called warning.

  The witch’s hut stood beside a mountain spring that welled from the rock and dropped off the cliffs into darkness. Biting her lip hard enough to taste blood, Afua hovered at the edge of the clearing against a mango tree and listened. The forest shifted and sighed around her, insects buzzing and leaves rustling. No human sounds found her ears. With a deep breath, she walked forward. No more feet slapping against the soil now.

  The fitaratra hung from a silk cord on the side of the hut. Once she’d seen it, the vessel seemed to call to Afua, its slender clarity shining as though it were soaking in the moon’s light. “No more Sahona,” the power whispered. “Become the most beautiful woman in Vazimba.” Afua would be Hanuhane, admired, beloved.

  Her fingers closed on the thin glass and the cool water beaded on her dark skin. She lifted the vessel down, stepping away from the curtained door, not daring to breathe. Afua backed away until her calves touched the smooth stone surrounding the spring.

  With a silent prayer to Zanahary, she tipped the fitaratra to her lips and drank deep.

  Fire lit in her belly as though she’d eaten a handful of ants. Afua bit back a scream and dropped the fitaratra. It shattered on the stone, slivers of moonlight flying in all directions. A woman’s scream broke the night, coming from the hut.

  Afua ran. Warm blood flowed from tiny cuts on her arms and legs and cheek. She held herself as she went, coughing and spitting. Shooting pain burned its way down her thighs and she fell, curling into a ball in the mud. She felt as though someone were pulling on her very skin in all directions.

  “Girl! Thief in the night,” a woman’s voice sounded above her.

  Afua forced her eyes open and saw the witch, more like a shadow of a woman than the true form in the darkness. Afua opened her mouth to speak, but only moans came out.

  “Why have you stolen my potion? Why have you bro
ken my jug?”

  Afua licked cracking lips and shook her head. She wondered if the witch would kill her. She wondered if she were dying anyway. But she clung to the hope that the potion was working, clung with her last sane breath.

  “I did not,” she said, forcing the words out like stones across her twisting tongue. “I am sick, I came for healing.” It was easy to lie to a shadow in the forest.

  “Liar,” the witch said and she spit into Afua’s face. Her saliva was sticky and smelled of vanilla. “Since you like lies so much, I curse you to always tell them. And since you are so clumsy, everything you hold shall slip from your fingers like grains of sand through a seam.”

  “No,” cried Afua, closing her eyes against the horror and the biting pain. She tried to explain. She only wanted beauty, an end to the mean sideways glances and snide words, a way to regain her friendship with beautiful Tatala. The words stuck in her throat and she found only lies rising like bile to take their place.

  “I will release you,” the witch said, walking away, “when you are able to apologize to me and mean it.”

  “Azafady, miala tsiny aho,” Afua sobbed, curling around her splitting skin, her ant-filled belly. But she knew now the curse had hold, because she could say the words, beg forgiveness but she didn’t mean them. The truth coiled like a snake deep in her heart and whispered as the fitaratra had. Any price for beauty.

  She slipped into unconsciousness; the false apologies murmured over and over like a prayer in the dark.

  The raffia ropes cut into Afua’s shoulders as she dragged the plow along another row, slogging through the cracking mud of the fallow paddy beneath the hot sun. Last row before she broke for a meal, but the thought brought her no joy. She reached the end and shrugged the harness off using her elbows and chin to assist.

  Talata, Zaza, and Alakamisy were already resting in the shade of the mango grove when she reached it, their clean legs stretched out on the soft grass, passing around a jug of water.