Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback (28 page)

changed into an oversized wolf in the night, or was a ghoul wearing

the rotting limbs of the victims—it was high time that people risk

their lives for justice. Invariably, everyone else was just as reluctant as he had been the year before when it wasn’t his child being taken

from him.

Justus regretted having been so complacent until last year, when

his sister, Gudrun, was chosen, but he wasn’t about to embarrass

• 237 •

• Castle of Masks •

himself by demanding that the folk from his and other villages help

with his revenge. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that he might go in

his sister’s place—and as soon as he had the thought, he began his

preparations.

The coach was black, and so were the four stout horses that drew

it. Their breath ghosted through the crisp air, but the driver’s didn’t.

Justus’s heart pummeled his chest—was it true, that the Castle of

Masks was served by the undead?—but after a moment he saw that

the man simply had a thin wrap over his face.

“My name is Valfrid,” the man’s voice creaked.

“Karin,” Justus said, forcing his voice into a higher register.

Valfrid offered a hand to help Justus into the carriage, and Justus

took it as daintily as he had practiced for the past year. Valfrid closed the door as Justus settled on the cushioned bench. The lock clicked with finality, trapping Justus in a garish display of wealth. The carriage walls and ceiling were painted with murals of woodland beasts chasing and

fleeing. Instead of simple canvas shades, there were real glass windows set in iron grids that couldn’t be kicked out by desperate maidens.

Justus peered at himself in the reflection. At first he saw the

captivating young lady Valfrid must see—but after only a moment his

eyes adjusted and he recognized himself, shaved and painted, but the same old Justus. Even though he’d often been teased that he looked like Gudrun’s younger sister, Justus was still nervous about his disguise.

Thoughts of his sister filled his belly with familiar fire. He spent the next few solitary hours fantasizing about his coming triumph,

caressing the scarred hilt of the cutlass through a strategic tear in the folds of his skirt. He would look for tools he was more familiar with—he was no swordsman—but a blade this size was comforting

nonetheless.

When they arrived, Valfrid helped Justus out of the carriage and

led him to a small side door. Above them, the walls of the castle

glared down with hundreds of green eyes. Justus prepared himself

for halls lit by sickly green witchlights, but the lantern in the entry hall glowed a normal yellow.

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• Cory Skerry •

His eyes immediately fell on the opposite wall, to a strange tapestry of pale leather, the uneven pieces stitched together by an unskilled tailor. Justus might never have realized the skin was human if not for the ghastly masks haunting every wall.

The hole-eyed faces of dozens of slaughtered women stared at

him, through him, beyond him. Some of the masks were lacquered

to retain the quality of the face paint; someone had painstakingly

styled the hair. Justus’s stomach twisted like a scared rabbit as he recognized some of the tortured faces as those of girls from his own village, now stretched over wooden frames and dried into an eternal

expression of horror.

The eerily reverent display of death surrounded him on every

side, even from the back of the door as it swung closed. He did not

see Gudrun’s face, but he had time only to glance over the collection before Valfrid set a gaunt hand on Justus’s arm.

“Come,” the servant said, guiding Justus into a long, dark hall.

The door at the end was plain dark wood, marred by a halo of

deep slashes around the knob. It looked as if someone had tried to

hack it out. Valfrid opened the door for Justus, who stepped through to meet the Greve of the Castle of Masks.

The castle’s master lay curled in front of an enormous stone hearth.

A pattern of scars zigzagged over the mound of shadow outlined by

the flames, and as Valfrid lit the lamps, Justus could see more and

more of the monstrous Greve.

Each ragged square of his motley skin was that of a different

animal. A patch of silvery wolf fur covered his massive shoulder, and on his right flank was a scrap of feathers that might have come from an owl. When the Greve rose to his feet, he stretched like a cat, the firelight glistening on his pelt. Beneath a raccoon tail, his anus was surrounded by white sheep’s wool.

“Valfrid?” the Greve prompted. Justus was no longer concerned

that his voice would give him away; the deep, rumbling bass of the

Greve’s voice made any human sound dainty in comparison.

“Greve, may I present Fröken Karin, of Östbrink.”

• 239 •

• Castle of Masks •

It suddenly occurred to Justus that the wolven-snouted monster

before him might be able to smell the salty reek of a man’s sweat,

even under layers of perfume and powder.

Shaken, Justus murdered his curtsy. He rose to find the Greve

scrutinizing him. The castle’s master was perhaps seven feet tall.

“May I call you Karin?”

The sight of the towering Greve shattered Justus’s cultivated rage,

reducing it to common, cringing fear. This was not a disfigured

nobleman with unclipped nails and teeth filed to points, a deranged

freak who considered himself a beast, but a real monster. The Greve

could have lifted the carriage outside with his bare hands and thrown it as easily as a basket.

Justus fingered the handle of his cutlass, warmed by his body heat.

If the blade could even cut that thickly scarred hide, a mortal wound would take more strokes than Justus would have time to deal.

Time. Justus needed to plan, to spot a weakness in this imposing

adversary and wait for a proper opportunity.

The Greve still waited for a reply. “Yes, Greve,” he blurted, demurely bowing his head. Justus’s mouth continued, against his better judgment.

“And what shall I call you?”

The Greve grinned, baring a vicious fence of teeth. “
Monster
is fine. Would you like supper, Karin?”

Justus wanted to say no, wanted to be locked in a cell with iron

bars between him and Monster, but he should study his opponent,

and moreover, he should eat when he could. It would keep him alert

and strong. “Yes, Monster. Thank you.”

Valfrid whispered away, and Justus found himself alone with a living nightmare. Monster’s muscles rippled as he settled onto his haunches, clearly a more natural position for his mutant body. “I hope the ride here was pleasant?”

“As pleasant as I imagined,” Justus answered. He hadn’t intended

to sound bitter.

Monster laughed, rich and silky but unbearably loud. “And the

castle? How did you imagine my home?”

• 240 •

• Cory Skerry •

Worse smelling
. Justus shrugged, his terror getting the better of him. He did not wish to hear that laugh again, and neither did he

want to hear a roar.

They sat in silence until Valfrid arrived with a tray filled with

roasted pheasant, potatoes, carrots, freshly baked bread, and new-

churned butter. Justus found he was hungry despite his fears. With

every bite, he imagined he was eating Monster.

And I will, when I succeed. I’ll carve a steak from his steaming
carcass and roast it in the castle courtyard. I’ll kick out one of the
panes of green glass to use as a plate,
Justus thought.

Valfrid did not return with a plate for Monster, and Justus’s

satisfaction melted away, dragging his appetite with it.

“Monster, where is your meal?”

Monster laughed again. “Don’t fret, Karin. I only eat my guests if

they misbehave.”

Justus inhaled unexpected hope. Gudrun was always a dutiful

woman—might she have survived? “Oh? Will the others be joining us?”

“They all misbehaved.”

Justus closed his eyes. He should have known.He shed silent tears

for Gudrun, his beautiful, vivacious sister. She was never going to

paint another ink mural on the whitewashed cottage wall, never fight for the first dipper of well water or call him “Padda” again. Had this awful creature abused Gudrun before her death? Forced himself on

her, hairy and cruel and wild? Did he tear out her perfect white throat with his teeth? Justus suppressed his sobs, because while the tears

helped his cause, any accidental noises might betray his masculinity.

He’d cultivated a habit of silencing even involuntary sounds.

“Don’t be so upset,” Monster coaxed. “You look obedient.”

“Yes, Monster,” Justus said, swallowing hard.

“I’m sure you’re very tired. Valfrid will take you to your chambers.”

Justus turned to find the lanky servant waiting at his elbow. Eager

to leave Monster’s overwhelming presence, Justus wrapped his shawl

tighter and hurried after Valfrid, who locked him in his room with a sharp iron click.

• 241 •

• Castle of Masks •

A large looking glass held court on one wall, over a table with a

high-backed chair; a cozy bed with a billowing silk canopy occupied

one corner; tapestries of flowers and pastoral scenes obscured the

walls. In this one room of the gloomy castle, the stone had been

painted white. Roses withered in a vase, their table too near the fire.

Justus thought he would feel safer once he was alone, but now

he was haunted by the ghosts of every lie he had told that day. This ridiculous scheme had gotten this far, but for all he knew, Valfrid

had suspected his secret from their first introduction. They could be merely toying with him.

Justus padded to the window, peering out at the other lights

across the courtyard. Behind one green pane, a girl carried a basket of laundry. She paused to offer a beautiful smile, and nearly dropped the linens when she waved at Justus. Her simple gesture calmed him

long after she had disappeared; even in this horrid museum of death, people went about their jobs, and sometimes they were clumsy.

Justus slipped from his dress, bundled into his wool pajamas, and

ducked under the covers of the massive bed. The cutlass he tucked

under the pillow.

As he drifted off, he wondered if Gudrun had slept here, and

before her, how many others. Tomorrow he would look for his sister

among the masks in the foyer.

Justus slept poorly and was up early. He changed into his dress again, and he was shaving in front of the mirror when Valfrid knocked on

the door.

“One moment,” he said, hurriedly scraping off the last traces of

the salve and hiding his shaving instruments. When Justus opened

the door, the kohl with which he’d lined his eyes was still smeared

from tears and a night’s sleep, but at least he had no stubble.

“This is Rigmora,” Valfrid said. “She’ll help you dress for breakfast with the Greve. She doesn’t hear or speak, but she’ll do a better job than I would.”

A girl with too many freckles watched from just behind Valfrid’s

• 242 •

• Cory Skerry •

shoulder. Not the cheerful laundry girl, which disappointed Justus,

but Rigmora possessed an air of quiet capability. She guided Justus

back to the chair by the looking glass.

The smeary, tear-stained makeup of the night before disappeared

under Rigmora’s careful application of a rag and cool water from

the corner basin. She happily combed Justus’s ringlets into a glossy cascade that poured forward over his shoulders.

When she finished, Justus looked more feminine than he had

upon his arrival, and with a sigh of relief, he followed her down to breakfast.

Monster crouched at the end of an informally short table, his bulk

housed in a large seat crowned in antlers. Rigmora led Justus to a

much smaller chair and curtsied to Monster before disappearing.

The windows in the dining hall were among the uncolored few

in the castle, and sunlight spilled in swathes across the table and

floor. When Monster asked how Justus had slept, Justus had the wit

to parrot his answer from the night before.

“As well as I imagined.”

Monster’s mismatched eyes squinted in mirth—one a golden

glittering yellow, the other an entirely black orb.
A snake and an
owl
, Justus thought. When Monster reached for a jug of filmjölk, he exposed a raw, red wound just below his ribs. He chugged the filmjölk, then patted his muzzle clean with a napkin. A moment later, Monster

turned to grab a plate of smörgås, and Justus noticed a matching

wound on the opposite side of the beast’s torso.

“What happened?” Justus asked, gesturing. Monster only stared

until Justus added, “You’re wounded.”

“Oh yes, I suppose I am. I don’t feel it.” Monster’s grin displayed a few morsels of breakfast, but Justus didn’t turn away.

“How did it happen?”

“Being a hunter is perilous.”

Justus rolled his eyes, annoyed at Monster’s arrogance, and said,

“Matching wounds aren’t a common result of hunting.”

• 243 •

• Castle of Masks •

“And what would you know of hunting?” Monster asked.

“More than most,” Justus said, nettled into exposing himself. Even

as the fatal words escaped his painted lips, Justus cursed his pride.

“My brother taught me well,” he added, but he wasn’t sure if made up for his slip of tongue.

Monster leaned forward, propping his chin on one massive, hand-

like paw. Strawberry syrup smeared his curved badger claws.

“Oh? How intriguing. Can you prove this?”