Fairytales for Wilde Girls (29 page)

 

Isola and Dusk Ride Out

The wind bit at Dusk's flanks as he rushed through the night. Isola clutched his neck and blinked through his rainbow mane, and his coat was as chilly as she'd always imagined. His hooves on the forest floor beat a steady elfin drumming, a Spanish bolero.

Strange vines hung in the foliage, ropey as a cloud of nooses. Dusk galloped onward; Isola could feel the stretching sinews in his flanks, the roiling of oily bones beneath her. The branches seemed to clutch at her hair and the unicorn's tail. Spiders had sewn a great web in the scrub so thick that Dusk was wrenched to a jarring stop, panicky hot air puffing about his nostrils.

‘Hush, hush, it's okay, hold on!' Isola pulled out Ruslana's dagger and leaned down to slash at the silvery webbing. Dusk gave a frightened whinny. ‘Dusk, it's all right, don't move!'

She cut through the web entangled round his forelegs, and Dusk hurried forwards through the darkness, his Zeusian-thundering mimicking the thud of their racing hearts.

Isola didn't recognise this part of the woods. Here, toxic-red coloured flowers had sprouted on fallen logs and moss, and as Dusk trampled them, a great exhale of red smoke billowed up.

A sudden weariness overcame Isola. Cool, molten lead seemed to bubble up in her brain fluid and trickle down through her, settling and solidifying in the lowest hollows of her limbs, and she slumped comfortably against Dusk's neck, winding her fingers in his mane. Dusk slowed his canter to a trot, veering sideways as though about to keel over. Isola's grip on her dagger slackened, and it pierced the palm of her hand. She jerked upright, blinking in confusion, then whipped out Alejandro's silk cravat, leaned down and covered Dusk's mouth. She held her breath and pressed herself to his soft mane. Sensing the moment they passed through the field of smoke and flowers, they both took a great gulp of air, feeling startlingly awake.

Up ahead a long unbroken wail seemed to bend through the trees towards them. Isola shied away, remembering the hallucinated sirens in the school chapel, but Dusk wouldn't be swayed from his path. They emerged into a slight clearing, and there was Pepito, James's red-rust car, crushed like tinfoil against a tree, its horn blaring continuously. The windshield had buckled inwards. Blood dripped steadily from the car door and down the roots of the old willow.

‘James!' cried Isola, but Dusk cantered on, huffing in displeasure when she tried weakly to climb down. Just then the dewy light from his horn fell upon a figure standing in their path. Dusk reared up in fright and Isola almost fell.

It was Alejandro, drugged and dazed, eyes staring unseeingly. He parted his pale lips and froth dribbled down.

Dusk tossed his head, kicking out at the Spaniard blocking their path. Isola cried out in fear but Alejandro merely collapsed back into the leaves, his body convulsing with poisons, and Dusk took the chance to leap over his shaking body and gallop onward.

‘It's not real, he's not there,' Isola muttered, her voice lost in the rush of wind, tangling in the unicorn's mane. ‘It just means you're getting close.'

Animals were running with them now, emboldened by the unicorn's presence. Streaks of red darted between his hooves as foxes rushed through the undergrowth. Rabbits flooded from their burrows and birds fluttered down from their hiding spots. They were followed by jewel-bright owl eyes and panting wolves on padded paws. Snakes slithered over fallen leaves, scuttling rats clicked their claws on the rocks and bats clouded the sky – they were all clamouring her arrival, urging her on with howls and yips and cooees. The old-soul trees were swaying, creaking encouragement, and flowers hiding underground for months finally poked their bell-heads through the grass, their buds spreading and their clear voices adding to the others, a chorus of
la-la-las.

Children of Nimue joined the entourage. The straw-doll wood imps hurried after her; she could hear the gentle calls of the phoenixes, their songs accompanied by a hot gush of air in their direction. White feathers from the swan-men drifted to line the path ahead, and Dusk's hooves thundered them into the earth.

The wildness entourage accompanied them all the way to the source of the sickness that poisoned the woods, pausing in the tangle and the gloom. In the centre of the clearing, the Vigour Mortis tree was blacker even than the midnight backdrop, its great naked limbs sprawling, sap bleeding through the bark. The moon was a bite mark in the inky sky, nestled between the oak's topmost branches.

The surrounding trees rustled themselves to ease the sudden silence. Isola fell lightly from Dusk's back and patted his flank. He retreated into the trees, his horn dimming, the true moon reflected in his watchful black eyes.

‘I guess this is it,' she said aloud, drawing an arrow into the bow and lighting the tip with James's prized cigarette lighter. The flame caught in a great burst, and she drew back the string, pointing it at the imagined heart of the Vigour Mortis tree.

She released the string just as something heavy crashed into her. The arrow speared the earth at the tree's base, and Isola hit the ground, then rolled over.

It was Florence, her ruined face half-hidden behind her matted hair. ‘LEAVE!' she screamed, as they both scrambled to their feet.

But Isola wasn't going anywhere. She understood now that the witch was Florence's terroriser, the way Florence was hers. It had to end now. It had to be done.

‘Florence, listen!' she yelled, pushing the girl away from her. ‘If I kill the witch, you'll be free! She's keeping you here, remember?'

‘Remember?
' echoed Florence in a bellow. She swung her fists, catching Isola heavily on the jaw and knocking her off her feet again. ‘Ha! Why should I?
You
don't!'

Isola looked up to see the flash of the glass cross in Florence's trembling grip.

‘But you
have
to let me kill –'

Isola rolled to the side as Florence brought the mirror shard down like a stake towards a vampire's chest. The glass plunged and stuck in the earth; Florence struggled with it for a moment before ducking to miss the blade swinging towards her. Isola kicked her savagely and then their positions were switched: Florence empty-handed on the forest floor, and Isola standing over her, clutching Ruslana's dagger. Chests heaving, both girls glared at each other, unmoving for a long minute.

‘Go on, then!' spat Florence. ‘Try it! What can
you
do?'

Isola lowered the dagger. ‘Mama Sinclair's right,' she said simply. ‘You're not my enemy.' She turned her back on the ghost girl, going back to the bone-weapons she'd dropped. She stooped and lit the second arrow tip, then drew back the bow.

‘What are you doing? Don't you
dare
–'

Before Florence could finish, the second arrow hit the Vigour Mortis tree, and it burst into instant, screaming flames.

‘NO!
MOTHER!
' Florence howled. She leapt up, her fingernails scrabbling at Isola's back. Her skeleton fingers caught hold of the steel-bar ribs through Isola's dress, jerking her backwards.

A flash, a scream, a spurt of blood.

Blood edged the mirror shard in Florence's dirty fist.

 

The Bright Eyes of Annabel Lee

‘ISOLA!'

She clutched at her face. Blood bubbled under her hand, running from her right eye. The shout had come from somewhere in front of her, and automatically, Isola stumbled forwards into familiar arms.

It can't be, it can't be, it can't be –

‘It is,' said that voice, tight and tense with worry, and she hadn't realised she'd spoken out loud, and yes, she felt secure with Bunny and with Edgar and with Mother but not
safe,
not completely protected, not like this.

She parted her fingers, squinted up through her left eye, blinking the world back into focus.

‘You are all right,' said Alejandro quickly. ‘It will all be all right, princess, I promise.'

Where have I heard that before
? Isola wondered, feeling somewhat dazed. She peered around the clearing, blinking rapidly to flush the stars from her vision.

Her princes. They weren't slain. The storybook brother-princes hadn't reached their own sister in time, but Isola's protectors had come for her, and for the first time in
so
long –
far too long
– she was glad that she wasn't written down, that she hadn't been dreamed up like some sad French fairytale, and the dragons hadn't won yet.

The clearing felt so full, and her chest seemed to swell, a lovely pain and pressure against the bands of her rib-birdcage, and she didn't mind the hot bolt of pain in her eye, or the indistinguishable screeches of her haunting behind her, or the pinched, terrified faces each brother-prince wore – they had come for her, and she was
happy.

‘Stop!' Isola heard Florence shriek in her wrecked voice. ‘Let
go
!'

In her peripheral vision, she spotted Florence struggling against Ruslana's iron grip. The Fury released her, only to shove her backwards into the Wish-You-Well. With a great splash and a glitter of gold scales, Christobelle knocked Florence off her feet with her powerful tail, and together the mermaid and the Fury pinned the ghost at the water's edge.

‘The dust!' said a squeaky voice above Isola's ear.

A pink blur – Rosekin! – danced fretfully around Isola's head, and Alejandro plunged his hand into Isola's pocket, cradling her face with the other. Isola felt her hand prised gently away from her right eye and heard a sharp intake of breath before something grainy was dribbled into the socket. She flinched, but already the hot flow of blood down her cheek had slowed to a trickle, and she watched Alejandro untie the silk cravat from her wrist, looping it tightly around her eye, clotting up the wound.

The rush in her head was passing; she felt steadier, more solid, and Isola passed her one good eye over the princes again. All but Jamie had returned to her side – they were slightly smoky, a magician's illusions, more unreal than ever. A diamond shone on Alejandro's starched cuff, another in his eyes, which crinkled with concern as they gazed upon her.

‘Isola,' said Grandpa Furlong in his gentle cadence, and she closed her uninjured eye for a moment, letting the sound of her name on a prince's lips wash over her.

‘LET ME GO!'

Isola snapped her eye open – Florence was shouting, her struggles against Christobelle and Ruslana violently renewed, and before another word was said, Isola had torn herself from Alejandro's grasp, landing on her knees at the reedy bank. She lifted her hand and hit Florence as hard as she could. ‘What is wrong with you?' she bellowed, even as Florence screamed back in hysterical rage. ‘What have you
done
to us?'

‘Isola –' said Grandpa Furlong again, the reprimand against violence clearly climbing his old throat.

But Isola raised a hand. ‘
What?
' she growled at the girl.

‘I – just – wanted – your –
attention
!' wailed Florence, struggling uselessly against the iron grips of the Fury and the mermaid.

‘Well, you've got it now, Florence – whoever you are.' Isola loomed closer to the captive spirit, trying to penetrate that stringy dark hair with her glare. ‘What is it you've been trying to tell me?'

‘Isola,' said Alejandro suddenly. ‘Wait, I think I –'

‘No – no, I don't wanna!' Florence cried out, and writhed in the mud.

Isola paid heed to neither. She grabbed Florence by her hair and pulled the shrieking girl up and into the firelight from the crackling tree.

And at last that loathsome hair tumbled off her ruined face, which was lit orange in the night, and Isola gasped, stumbling back as the face of her tormentor was revealed.

 

Death Masks

‘She looks like me,' breathed Isola. ‘Why – why does she look just like me?'

The princes flinched in collective shock. Florence wailed anew and tossed her hair forward, crouching to the ground and screaming into her knees. Ruslana, unable to stop herself reacting to a girl in obvious pain, reached out to touch the screeching ghost, then pulled away again.

‘Oh,
querida
,' moaned Alejandro quietly.

‘Alejandro!
Why does she look like me?
'

‘I –' The Spaniard swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed down into his collar. All of the princes were eyeing him, rage beginning to colour their frozen expressions. ‘I only just realised – she – it is a –'

‘My darling,' said a sweet voice behind them, ‘haven't you figured it out yet?'

Isola and the princes turned around. There, leaning against the flaming tree, was the lanky figure of a woman. She stepped away unharmed from the blackening trunk, smiling angelically at Isola. Her wild hair was scrubbed around her head, and she wore a black halo of berry twigs and leaves. She had a loop of dead faeries as a necklace, floral wrist cuffs. She had wild hair like the Lady of the Unicorns, her glass feet spiderwebbed with cracks like the waking Beauty's. She was dressed in a long gossamer skirt, her waist-cinch woven from pond reeds and sparrow bones.

Isola stumbled backwards. ‘I know you.'

‘And I know you,' acknowledged the wood witch with a graceful curtsey, slipping fluidly free of the devouring flames and standing silhouetted in red.

‘You're my heroine,' breathed Isola. ‘You're Lileo Pardieu.'

 

Daughter of the Séance

‘What is this?' cried Isola. ‘What's going on? Why are
you
here?' She pointed an accusing finger at Lileo.

‘It will be all right.' Lileo the wood witch smiled. ‘I promise.'

That phrase again.

‘Mother!' howled Florence, and Isola flinched away –
what
? – Christobelle tightened her grasp on the dirty doppelganger girl, sloshing up the muddy pondwater.

Lileo took a step towards Isola, a curious wonder in her eyes. She didn't seem to have heard Florence's cry. ‘I'm here because you summoned me, remember?' she said gently, in a voice like bells on red ribbon. ‘The séance last summer? You wanted me here, Isola – especially after you saw that boy jump to his death on the television.'

Isola felt the choked breath of the trees, the quiet terror in the animals watching in the dark. She tilted her head back, to the stars amongst the tangled canopy of a dying wood. ‘But, I–I didn't want
this
!'

Lileo eyed her curiously. ‘Then what
did
you want from me?'

The princes hadn't moved, and Isola wondered what they were waiting for. Moreover, what was she waiting for them to do? This wasn't the showdown she'd expected; her weapons so far had been futile against the witch, who wore the face of someone Isola idolised, like a porcelain death mask. She looked around at Florence, who, under the muck and the great red handprint she'd left, suddenly seemed something to pity and not be frightened of at all. ‘I never knew you had a daughter,' she murmured.

‘Of course you knew,' corrected Lileo. ‘Darling, you
are
my daughter.'

The crackling of the burning oak tree filled the silence.

‘You're not my mother!' Isola snarled, suddenly defensive of the woman being eaten alive by illness at home. ‘You're a dead storyteller! I have a mum, and yeah, maybe I
used
to wish she was you, and maybe she's not the parent of the year, but she's still mine and I love her!'

‘You do?' said Lileo, who appeared honestly touched at the sentiment. ‘Truly? Oh, Isola. Even after everything I put you through?'

‘YOU'RE – NOT – MY – MOTHER!' Isola bellowed, and she threw Ruslana's dagger as hard as she could at her. The wood witch caught it easily, dropping it to the forest floor without even examining it.

‘But I am,' said Lileo sweetly. ‘Darling, you must remember –'

‘Do you?' Florence interjected.

They all looked down at the girl in the mud with her dark hair and striped stockings and torn black dress. A girl so unlike Isola in every way but her face.

‘Do you remember?' Florence said hoarsely, left eye fixed wide on Isola. ‘What happened when you were ten?'

‘When I was ten?' Isola repeated blankly. Hadn't Bunny asked her the same question – what had she told him then?

‘REMEMBER!' Florence shrieked, her static voice exploding like a star, a great rush of wind.

Isola's hair and dress whipped around her and she felt an electric current flood through her brain. And through her own bloodied right eye she saw it – a film playing in her head, taking her away from herself.