Snow's Lament (21 page)

Max had done the best he could with the hand he’d been dealt.

But I couldn’t deal with the hand I’d been given. Nor could I do my best by him right now with my emotions frayed like an old electrical cord.

“She took me because she needed me, Snow. Not because I wanted to go. I was forced.” His words were rushed and desperate. “She’d just killed my wife, and even though it tore me apart and I wanted nothing more than to collapse on the ground and let her kill me, I needed to do better for Lana. Maleficent trusted me to see her daughter safe.” He headed to the door. “I did what I needed to do to keep her safe. I could not always fight her magic. And…” he paused, “yes, it was sometimes easier to stop fighting and
feel
something for a change.”

My broken heart crumpled into ash once again as he continued to speak.

“I will never defend her actions, Snow, but I have empathy for the things she’s done. Broken hearts can drive us to do things—terrible things. I will never be able to atone for the things I’ve done, regardless of whether or not I was compelled. But my love for you was true. I fought her for as long as I could, but eventually, I saw another side to her. In the end, no matter the atrocities we commit, we all have some humanity left. It’s the only thing to keep us from going mad and ending it.” He bowed his head and stared at his feet. “I hope one day you can at least understand the things I’ve done, and while asking forgiveness might be too much, perhaps hold some empathy for the villains surrounding you. Every person can be a villain when pushed too far. Until then, I will hold you in my dreams.” He tapped once on the door jamb in finality. “Farewell.”

Tears blurred my vision as Max left my room, and my life. So many things I wanted to say and stubborn, stupid pride wouldn’t allow me to. I wiped my tears away, wiped my nose on my Gods awful disgusting shirt, and sat there staring at the wall, lost in thoughts of what could have been for entirely too long.

A week later, I was able to get out of bed without the overwhelming urge to cry or throw something. Thanks to Maleficent’s healing, my feet were back to normal and I could walk without excruciating pain. Alas, there was no cure for wounds to the heart, so I was stuck dealing with that on my own.

I padded into the kitchen for breakfast and all three of my friends abruptly paused, spoons up to their mouth and wary expressions on their faces.

“Relax. I’m just here to eat.”

Belle’s fork clattered to her plate and she stood abruptly, almost knocking her chair out from underneath her. “I can get it for you.”

“I’m fine.” I wasn’t lying. I was skinnier, a little more depressed, and a lot angrier at the world and myself, but I was fine—for the most part.

She sat back down, but kept a concerned eye on me. Maleficent and Robin’s gazes never left me as I grabbed a banana and a cup of coffee and joined them at the table.

I was uncomfortable under their perusal, but tried not to show it. “So, what’s up?” I asked after the silence dragged from uncomfortable to downright awkward.

Maleficent finally broke with her trademark no nonsense personality. “We were all concerned you were going to waste away and die in your room, and none of us wanted to clean up the mess.”

I blinked. “Belle brought me food.”

“You didn’t eat hardly any of it,” she said reproachfully.

“But I appreciated it.” My mouth formed a grimace of a smile.

Robin shrugged. “I thought you could stand to lose a few pounds myself.”

Horrified stares from Maleficent and Belle practically cut slashes into Robin’s skin, but I did exactly what he wanted me to. I laughed. Borderline hysterically, but I still laughed.

“Nothing like a good heartbreak to get you into skinny jeans, I always say.” I knocked shoulders with him.

He clinked my coffee mug with his. “Bloody right, lass!”

We finished up our breakfast, me a little weak from being unable to eat for the time it took me to try to get my shit together. When we had eaten our fill, I told them what was on my mind. I’d had a lot to think about when I was lying in bed bemoaning my life and even more tragic taste in men.

I wasn’t the kind of girl who felt sorry for herself very much, and this was one of the few time something had affected me so deeply. Once I decided to get up, I made the decision to go full steam ahead. I was the kind of person who needed to be doing something—something good for myself, good for my friends, or good for the world. It was high time I got over myself. Yes, I had a home on Earth, but it had never really been my true home. The true place where I belonged was right here. Inside of my palace. Inside of my home. With my friends and maybe, eventually, someone who could love me without trying to kill me. I was tired of fighting battles I wasn’t sure I could win, even though I knew those were probably far from over. This was a battle where winning meant everything. Even though we hadn’t won completely, most of us were here, together, and in one piece.

But not all my friends were here, and that was ultimately the main reason I had gotten me out of bed. Max might not have been directly responsible for Cyndi, but he was indirectly responsible for it, and since he hadn’t bothered to gallantly offer to get her back, it fell on me. I still wasn’t one hundred percent sure she wanted to be saved because of that weird freaky chemistry between her and Rumple, but if the look on her face before she was taken was any indication of her true feelings, I’d be remiss not to at least try. It would be up to her to make the final decision to return with us or try and make a life with him. I couldn’t imagine her doing that without some serious soul-searching on his part, but I tried never to judge someone’s relationships by the other partner’s personality. I’d come home with a complete psychopath and my friends had been supportive, even though they all had kept a wary eye on him. Sitting here now after everything, I knew they’d been right to do so.

Robin reached underneath the table and pulled out my holster, my Sig, and the pack where I’d kept Rumple’s fake curse. “About bloody time you came to your senses. We’ve been sitting here with our thumbs up our arses for days!”

I gaped at all my goodies and a warm, fuzzy feeling—the first in a long while—spread through my body. These were the people who got me.

These people were my tribe.

Even though I was still in my pajamas, I slid my shoulder holster on, slid the gun inside, and strapped the rest of my gear on. I looked ridiculous, but I had a plan. A functional, happy Snow was a Snow with at least some semblance of a plan no matter how half-assed it ended up being.

I felt a fierce grin spread across my face as I looked at my friends. “Who the hell is ready to go rescue a possibly distressed damsel?”

The ancient being sat perched comfortably in a tree close to the queen’s dining rooms and watched as the fair beauty strapped on an odd assortment of weapons while still wearing her nightclothes. Strange, pink nightclothes, but sleepwear all the same. Her hair stood on end and she looked a tad unhinged, but few could deny the proud beauty of the warrior standing before him.

He was tired. Tired of the world. Tired of the wars. Tired of the killing, but there was something about her he never tired of watching. Although he was feeling slightly voyeuristic about his new hobby, he justified it by never watching her sleep or change her clothes while in her private chambers, and by telling himself he was merely invested in her future. It was a strange feeling being so fascinated with someone. Someone who was mostly human until recently, but there was a captivating innocence to her.

She was unlike anyone he’d ever met.

Their paths had converged once, but a prophecy foretold of cataclysmic events to come. Events she was not, and never could be, prepared for. The events of the last few months had been child’s play, although some of them had briefly broken her.

The portals stood open still, and while the dark-haired beauty knew they had to be fixed, her loyalty lay to the friend being held captive by the cursed one. As much as he knew he should be angry with her for her mixed priorities, he found her loyalty intriguing. Yet, he knew it was also dangerous.

She needed to stay alive for what was to come.

Snow White had no idea of the incredible power running through her veins. Power bestowed to her by birth, but also enhanced by the greatest sorcerer to ever live.

Himself.

Merlin watched a moment more, and if someone saw him in that instant, they would see a man with longing etched in every fiber of his being. A man captivated by a fiercely naïve queen who held little experience in much of anything except blind and instant reaction. A slight smile played over his features as he watched her for a second more.

With silence born from millennia of practice, Merlin winked out of the Enchanted Forest and back to Camelot, his thoughts distracted by a smartass black-haired woman and her band of fiercely loyal companions.

Chapter 1

You never know the exact moment your life is going to change forever. For me it was a normal day. I’d just come home from work and plopped on the couch, mentally bemoaning my terrible day when a loud crack and a blinding flash of light ruined my pity party. When everything cleared, and I stopped myself from peeing my pants, a tall, handsome, albeit strangely dressed man stood in my living room, giving me the kind of stare that makes girls all over the world itch to break out their pepper spray.

With a start and a screech of terror, I scrambled up and over the back of my couch, frantically looking for anything to defend myself with.

“Penelope Wilde,” the man said in a cool, clipped British accent. “You look entirely too much like your mother.”

I blinked. How the hell did this guy know my mother? “You are aware of the rules against breaking and entering?” I asked as I slowly poked my head above the top of the couch, wishing I could conjure up a knife.

I was shaking, but my terror had gone down a few notches … mostly because murderers tended not to use theatrics when they planned to wear someone’s skin. I learned that, well not exactly that, during the last semester before I obtained my Criminal Justice degree. I would definitely think he wouldn’t resort to wasting expensive pyrotechnic technology with that crazy entrance to my house if he planned to murder me.

He either wore a costume, or he was really into cosplay. Black tailored pants, shiny black shoes, a long trench coat that gaped open in the front exposing a shiny vest and a black and white striped button down shirt. On his vest hung a pocket watch with a silver chain encoded with strange symbols I’d never seen before. Of course, I only spoke English, but I thought I’d recognize Spanish…maybe even French if I ever heard it. This looked more like gobbledygook, but from the way he stroked it with his long, soot covered fingers, I’d wager it was important to him.

His unruly dark hair waved around his head like a nimbus, enhancing the dangerous edge to his face. He scowled at me, his five o’clock shadow adding to the menacing look about him. But the oddest thing about him was the bizarre goggles perched atop his head, forcing his hair up into wild spikes. They were steampunk style, covered in silver metal and the same bizarre symbols he had on his watch, and were so large they protruded off of his head like one of those giant ant monsters you see in old, cheesy horror movies. Strangely enough, they looked just like the ones I’d seen last weekend when I attended the monthly Renaissance fair.

The strange man gave me a look that made me feel about two feet tall. “As you witnessed yourself, there was no breaking, only entering.” He stared around the room, his gaze flicking from one item to the next as if he were cataloguing everything. I stared at him with a mix of fascination and horror and wondered if he was for real. I was still fighting the urge to run screaming from my home, but there was something about him that seemed familiar even though I knew I’d never seen this man in my entire life. Only this kept me rooted to the floor and engaged in the strange turn this conversation was taking.

“Your home is quite the mish-mash of eclectic things. Do you require funds?”

A benevolent trespasser. The world was full of wonders. “My home is just fine,” I responded with barely there patience. “Can I help you?”

He turned his head back to me, the goggles on his head reminding me of an angry grasshopper. “Quite right you can. I am here because it is time for you to accept your birthright. Your mother has tried my patience over the years, refusing to divulge your whereabouts or anything about you other than your name. Which she lied about, by the way.” His lips curled in distaste. “After all, who would name their child Gertrude Drucilla Smith in this day and age? That woman can be absolutely dreadful sometimes.”

If I had a hammer I would have hit him over the head with it for using too many words in his sentences. I sighed and stood all the way up, brushing the dirt off of my pants on the way. I stood there in a sort of horrified fascination watching this man watching me. I pretended to ponder his statement because I was too scared to offend someone who might be an escaped mental patient.

“My birthright?” My mother was a petite Asian hippie and I’d never known my father. When I was a child I always fancied myself a Mafia brat, or something equally spectacular, but Mom was always tight-lipped about any possible biological father and tended to remain to herself. I grew up sheltered and without the benefit of a father figure. When I was younger it bothered me more, especially during holidays and school events where my friends would have huge, boisterous families out to support them. My mother cut a small, lonely figure at school functions and Christmas time, but I could never deny she’d always been there for me, even when sometimes I wished she wouldn’t have been. But as I stared at him I noticed something strange, a deep familiarity settling into my bones when I looked at him.

Noticing my perusal, he offered me a shark’s smile and a single word. “Indeed.”

My mother had lots of ‘splaining to do. For that matter, so did the world. I either had the world’s craziest loony toon sitting at my kitchen table overdoing the espresso, or I had a man renowned as one of the most brilliant and inventive sleuths…and who was supposedly long dead. Sherlock Holmes. In the flesh. And if that wasn’t crazy enough, this man claimed he was my father.

Of course, it would be super cool to have someone like him as a daddy, but it would also be really not cool to have some mental illness running through the family gene pool. The odds of him being Sherlock were nil. I tended to believe in some fantastical things, especially with a mother who insisted on being called Moonchild, but this one took the cake. So as I sat there sipping my espresso I studied him. There was some resemblance there that interested me, but it could be one of those weird flukes. After all, some people looked like their dogs. Even if he was a major crazy bird, I’d rather resemble him than a toy poodle.

“So this whole I am your father thing. Are you for real? Because you have to put yourself in my shoes and see what I see. There’s a crazily dressed man sitting at my table drinking espresso like it’s going out of style, something that will by the way probably cause you great gastrointestinal distress later, and he insists I’m the product of his loins.”

Daddy Dearest raised one eyebrow over my green
Nerd Life
coffee mug. “Really, Penelope, you make it sound so sordid. The insult on my suit was entirely unnecessary, by the way. You Americans…all of you could use some lessons from the British.” He waved one of his hands. “Back to the point. Your mother and I met many years ago when she was working as an international spy.”

I set my mug down on the table with a clack. “A what?” I’d always been highly entertained by crazy people, but this guy was making some bizarre accusations, and I was again wondering about my safety. My mother might not have been traditional, but if this were true, her secrets were deeper than I’d ever imagined. I wasn’t sure which upset me more, my supposed father in front of me after all these years or the fact that my mother had been lying straight to my face for my entire life.

“Spy, dear. Your mother was quite talented.” His eyes took on a far-away reminiscing quality that made me want to scream.

I texted mom to get over to the house pronto. I didn’t tell her why because, even with her hippie ways, she might have had me committed. But I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t be able to control her curiosity.

My mother, peace loving hippie and all around flower girl, had her hands wrapped around my supposed father’s neck screaming, “You sorry son of a bitch! I told you to never find her!”

Instead of looking scared, Daddy dearest looked amused, even as he tried to wrest my mother’s fingers off. After a moment when I was growing concerned about where I would hide the body, my mother slumped, her long black hair swooping over her thin face. She released my father and sat down next to him on one of my chairs, her expression blank as if over the last few seconds she hadn’t tried to commit murder.

I always knew my family was a little bit off, but when she smoothed down her peasant skirt, cleared her throat and offered to pour him a cup of tea, I was convinced they’d all gone mad.

“Tea, Mom? Seriously?” I stared at her like she was an alien, but Holmes just grinned and nodded.

“It’s lovely to see you, Maggie.” He straightened his scarf — cravat I think they called it these days — and leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He stared at my mother hungrily, but the only acknowledgment of his presence on her part was the two bright circles of color at the top of her cheeks.

She stood and busied herself making her famous herbal blend of tea. Never mind we’d just finished our espressos. To my mother, tea cured all ills. It was like I wasn’t even in the room.

“Mom?” I questioned.

She shook her head once, stiff and unyielding. I sighed. “Both of you have some explaining to do.” Since she didn’t seem to be in immediate fear for my safety, I was beginning to think that some of this completely insane, implausible store was true. Except for the whole Sherlock and international spy thing. I had a good imagination, but I wasn’t ready for Rorschach blots and forcible syringe meds yet.

Silence fell in the kitchen and we both watched as my mother pulled the wet tea bags out of our cups, tossed them in the sink, and set the mugs in front of us. A light, minty fragrance steamed up into my nose – lavender, mint and lemon balm, if I had it right. For anxiety and stress. Mom had nailed that one.

She sat with us, her hands wrapped tightly around one of my good china mugs. Her dark deep-set brown eyes met mine and in their depths I saw regret paired with a spark of excitement. “There are lots of things I’ve never told you.”

I snorted. “You think?”

Her mouth thinned. “Don’t get smart, Penelope. I had reasons for keeping my secrets.” She waved a thin hand at the man sitting next to us. He waggled his brows and took a sip of his tea.

“Yeah. It’s important to know about mental illness in the gene pool.” I was never going to let her live this one down. All those years of wondering who my father was and it was possible the truth was even more fantastical than my childhood mind could have ever conceived of.

My mother gave a long suffering sigh. “There is no mental illness despite … appearances.” She rolled her eyes at my father. “However, there is stark genius and a little bit of madness. Madness as in taking insane risks and finding them exhilarating, nothing that would require meds. At least I hope.” She cut her eyes to him, and he shook his head once. The ever present grin stayed on his face as he stared at my mother.

“Why are you here? Why now?” The pleading in her voice made me sad.

“She is old enough to accept her birthright. I need … someone to carry on my work.” There was an apology in his eyes for her.

My mother slammed her teacup down. I winced, unaccustomed to any show of anger from my petite mom. “Birthright?” she spat in disgust. “You want her to take the reins from you? All you will do is get her killed while you sit idly by playing mad scientist in your lab.”

My heart stuttered. Okay, so she called him Holmes. Plenty of Holmes’ in the phone book. It didn’t mean he was that Holmes. Right? An involuntary tic started behind my right eye. Should I pinch myself to wake up from this completely whacked out dream?

“Holmes?” I echoed. I laughed uncomfortably. “Can you believe he thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes? Hopefully he wasn’t crazy when you did the horizontal mambo, because that would hold an ick factor I’m not quite ready to accept yet.”

Two serious gazes alighted on me. I swallowed, the tea sitting like a lump in my stomach. “Come on. You can’t expect me to believe you. Mom, I’ve put up with your hippie dippie ways for way too long, even accepted them, but I think this might be the time when you’ve stepped over the edge. Yes, he might be my father.” I noticed his eyes crinkling at the corner so I glared at him. “Might,” I reiterated with clenched teeth. “But there is no way on God’s green earth that he is the
real
Sherlock Holmes.”

I knew what I was talking about. I once knew a person in college who fancied himself Thor, spoke in antiquated English and carried around a large hammer any time he thought he could get away with it. It took all kinds of personalities to make the world go ‘round. This person could be just one more joker too serious about his cosplay. I would almost rather it be that and wonder about my mother’s taste in men than any of the other craziness presented today.

“Your suspicions about my origins are quite astute, Penelope. I, too, would be suspicious had someone came in and made outrageous claims about their person. However, my dear, I am quite assured that I am the real deal, as you Americans say.” He looked so earnest and believable sitting there, but his claims were wild and out of this world. Someone could look perfectly normal but be a raging psychotic inside. At minimum, he was delusional.

I looked at my mother. She said nothing, her expression carefully blank. My brows knitted together and I stared at both of them. I could see what drew her to him, the strength of his jaw, the intelligence behind his eyes, even as I wasn’t even a little bit convinced he was the world’s most famous detective. I shook my head and pushed my chair back.

“Penelope.” My mother’s voice was a harsh crack in the otherwise quiet kitchen. She met my gaze, anger burning in her eyes. “You will sit back down and listen to your father.”

A slow burn of anger uncurled in my belly as I stared at the woman who’d lied to me for my entire life. Now she wanted me to listen? To some bizarrely dressed person, drinking tea and making wild claims in my kitchen? Granted, there was more than a passing resemblance, so the odds of him being my father were starting to look a little higher. But Sherlock Holmes? The statistical odds were miniscule.

I thinned my lips and sat back down, my arms crossed across my chest, glaring at both of them.

“You really are most suspicious, dear.” He stared, the swirls of gold in his electric green eyes churning with knowledge and something else I was afraid to name. “I suppose the only thing to do is prove it to you.”