Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback

Bells chime at her ankles. She swirls the wine in her glass, never taking her eyes from my face. She dips a finger into the glass, sucks ruby droplets from its tip, then slides it between her legs.

Blood pounds, deafening me; my cock aches. I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Freedom?”

“Hmm.” The witch arches an eyebrow, weighing me.

The words tumble now, a babble that may or may not be a

confession. I don’t know what I want; right now, I can’t think past desire.

“I’m sick of George controlling the purse strings. Our parents left the money to all of us, but he acts like he’s in charge.”

I’m breathing hard, harder than I should be.

“Seven brothers in all, yes? And you’re the seventh?” Even phrased as such, it’s not exactly a question, but I nod. “And a sister?” I nod again. I haven’t told her anything she doesn’t already know.

At last, Circe relents. She lowers her leg, tracing her toes down my chest, and through the hair on my stomach. When she plants her foot on the bed, her legs are slightly parted, welcoming.

I crawl to her, ashamed of myself, and not caring. Thirsty, hungry, eager, I suck the lingering ghost of wine from between her legs. Her sex tastes of cinnamon and copper—a penny placed on my tongue for silence. The witch winds her fingers in my hair.

“Interesting,” she says. “When I asked your brothers the same question, they all wanted power.”

Folding wings tight, I dive, trading the clean smell of cloud and wind for smoky, roasted nuts, horse shit, and overflowing trashcans.

Whatever else I may be, whatever else I’ve done, there’s always this: I ? 288 ?

? A. C. Wise ?

will come when she calls. What kind of brother would I be otherwise?

Not the brother she deserves, certainly. I took her gift, and threw it back in her face. All because I fell in love with the sky, and when she came to save me, I refused.

Just before I hit the ground, I pull the trick the witch taught me and change. It’s not a rational thing; it’s just a different way of thinking— trading feathers for skin. But it gets harder every time.

It hurts more each time, too. Bones splinter and twist, going from hollow to full. Feathers draw blood, pulling out of my skin. The weight of my body nearly crushes me. Then I’m standing, panting, in gray clothing the same color as pigeon feathers. Which, if you look at them just right, are so many colors it will break your heart.

“Hi, Sis.” I lower myself to the bench beside her.

My voice is rough. It cracks on human sounds, my lips, too, and I lick blood.

Liselle doesn’t say anything. She hasn’t spoken in at least fourteen years. Maybe more.

Her down coat is too big. Inside it, her wrists are thin, and her shoulders hunched. She reaches into one of the pockets, and it almost swallows her hand before she pulls out a note pad and a stub of pencil. She scribbles, tears off the sheet, and hands it to me. Her eyes, too large in her face, remind me of ice creeping in around the edges of a pond, freezing toward the center.

Liselle’s scrawl is childish, unapologetic. Even cruel. Or maybe it’s just because her fingers are stiff with the cold.

I’m dying.

I turn the note over, read it again. There’s nothing else, just the stark words, charcoal as the sky.

“What?”

Liselle doesn’t sigh, doesn’t make a sound, but I see the impatience as she scribbles again, and passes another ragged sheet my way.

Cirrhosis. No transplant=dead.

Liselle turns away, and scatters a handful of breadcrumbs from the bag in her lap. Pigeons squabble at her feet.

? 289 ?

? The Hush of Feathers, the Clamor of Wings ?

“We’ll get you help. We’ll fix this.” I grab her wrist.

She shakes me free, and this time she nearly tears the sheet in half handing the paper to me.

NO.

I stare at the blocky capital letters. “What do you mean, no?”