Wickedly Charming (2 page)

His mother had paid for a few spells to improve his eyesight, but the damn things always wore off at the most inconvenient times. He'd been married a year when he got his first pair of glasses—and he'd gotten them in defiance of his entire family, including his wife. But none of them had nearly died on the field of battle, because the damn spell wore off as he was in the middle of hand-to-hand combat with one of the champions from the other side. The entire world went from crystal clear to blurry in a half a second, and he flailed miserably.

Fortunately, in the flailing, he'd managed to disarm (and accidentally dismember) his opponent. It ended well for Charming—in those days, things usually did—making him even more of a hero to his people.

But they didn't know it was an accident because he couldn't see anything.

Not that he ever wore his glasses on the field of battle. His family wouldn't hear of that (and truthfully, the thought frightened him—glasses
broke
at the most inopportune times and in the most inopportune ways. Eye-gouging was a favorite practice in those days—one of the few things the early fairy tales [misnamed stories of his—and other people's—exploits] got right).

He had passed the woman now. For a brief moment, he fantasized that she would look up from her struggle with the PETA signs (why did the gorgeous ones always have a tinge of nutcase to them?) and would see him. She would watch him walk with great interest, as if he were still the Charming of old, thinking how much she'd like to meet him (and maybe how much she'd like to do other things with him).

The very thought made him blush. Then it made him grimace. He didn't do himself any favors by letting his imagination run wild. That had been the problem the first time. He'd seen a pretty, petite girl at a ball—honestly, the prettiest girl he'd seen up until that time—and he'd convinced himself he was in love. He had been in lust, but fairy tales didn't deal with lust. And neither did virtuous king's sons—at least, not in their conscious mind. But the subconscious… well, that was a different story.

Back then, he hadn't known what a subconscious was. Or what failure was.

Or how it felt to be balding and no longer distinguished. Just another middle-aged man with a purple badge, heading into a book fair.

Charming sighed. He tried to put the attractive woman out of his mind. He still had something to look forward to—something he enjoyed greatly. Something he couldn't get back home.

Coffee. Doughnuts. And insight into this season's bestsellers.

***

Mellie watched the handsome man walk the length of the parking lot. She had only caught a glimpse of his profile, but it was classic: high cheekbones, square jaw, aquiline nose. The frame of his glasses was so thin that it looked like an arrow pointing to his stunning salt-and-pepper hair.

He wore what was known as business casual—a long-sleeved shirt and dark pants (no suit coat, no tie) but he still looked elegant. Some of that was the clothing itself; there was nothing casual about it. It was tailored to fit—and fit it did, over a well-muscled back, broad shoulders, and a nice tight—

She shook her head and looked away. If she really thought about it, she had to acknowledge that men were the source of her troubles. From her beloved first husband who had left her a young widow with two extremely young daughters to her know-it-all second husband who stupidly introduced her as a fait accompli to his own daughter starting a resentment that continued to this day, men had been the root cause of her dilemmas from the moment Mellie had hit the public eye.

Of course, she had handled things badly. She always thought that any publicity was good publicity. Little did she realize that once someone had defined you to the media, then it didn't matter how many charities you gave to or how many advanced degrees you had, you would always be the evil stepmother, the wicked witch, or worse, the aging malignant crone.

At least she had avoided that last category—for now, anyway. She felt it hovering around her, like the flying monkeys from the stupid Hollywood version of
The Wizard of Oz
.

She heard a sound and turned. The man behind her was exceptionally attractive. He had pale blue eyes and glossy black hair that fell like a mane around his face. He also left a trail of wet footprints heading west. He was a selkie whose real name she did not (of course) know. He carried his pelt over his right arm and this time he wore human clothing.

He had actually stopped their first protest earlier this year by pulling off his pelt and having nothing suitable on underneath it. (Although she could see why the human storytellers had felt threatened by these creatures from the sea: not only were they preternaturally good-looking, they were also very well endowed.)

“As people show up, will you hand out signs?” she asked. “I need to figure out where we'll stage our protest.”

She shoved the last pile of signs at him, not giving him a chance to say anything, and then she hurried along the parking lot.

Midway there, she realized she was trying to catch that ever-so-elegant man and she slowed her steps.

She had sworn off men decades ago.

She wasn't about to let one distract her now.

The coffee was bitter and only the inedible coconut-covered doughnuts were left. Charming should have arrived earlier. Still he poured himself a cup, grabbed one of the few remaining paper plates, and found a maple bar crammed against the back of the doughnut box. Then he settled into a chair at the back of the room.

The panel was already talking about social media and whether or not it meant the death of the book, a topic that always broke his heart. He understood the importance of stories—he'd been raised on stories. Bards had come to his father's court before Charming could even read. But the best stories were the ones he accessed privately—and a screen never really felt private to him.

Still, he listened politely, getting more and more discouraged, until he finished his maple bar and fled.

The doors to the main exhibition hall were locked, with guards standing out front. The guards didn't look that formidable—two fat security guards in uniform, and several bookish types with their arms crossed, trying to look tough.

Too late for doughnuts; too early to see the books. Story of his life.

Still, he had some time before the exhibition hall opened, so he decided to explore. He knew from his convention packet that there were side rooms, meeting rooms, conference rooms, and the all-important media room where the famous people, from the writers to the politicians/actors/musicians who loaned their names to books, gave interviews about whatever seemed important at the time.

The hallways were unbelievably wide so that they could accommodate crowds and wheelchairs, and yet he was the only person in them, except for the occasional publishing house salesman scrambling to put the finishing touches on a booth. From a distance, he caught the scent of cafeteria food, and remembered that they would all be able to buy lunch here if they were so inclined.

He was inclined, especially after that maple bar. There were no restaurants nearby, and he didn't want to lose his parking space.

He meandered, glancing at computer-generated signs telling him that the small press area was in a building to his left, the affiliated organizations were in the basement, and the media room was down the hall.

The media room was closest. Besides, he had a hunch he'd spend time in the media room and wouldn't in the affiliated organizations area. He didn't want to leave the building—not yet, maybe not ever. This wasn't his first book fair, and he'd learned that he couldn't see everything in the main exhibit hall, let alone everything in the other wings and buildings.

The amount of things published in English alone scared him. In English in the United States. Not counting England, Canada, or Australia. Not counting all the other countries and their own presses in their own languages.

Sometimes he thought of starting his own publishing company back home, but these things tended to spawn more publishing companies, and then there'd be book fairs, and then he'd have to read everything published in the Kingdoms—not just everything
written
about the Kingdoms, which had been going on for centuries.

He felt overwhelmed just thinking about it.

The media room signs pointed to both a flight of stairs and to a bank of elevators. He stopped and looked at the map for this network of buildings. The media room wasn't a room; it was an entire wing.

Which made sense, since most of the programming he wanted to see was held in the media room. He'd had to get tickets ahead of time, sometimes at extra cost, just so that he could see his favorite authors expound on something he probably didn't care about.

Still, he was enough of a geek to want to see the people whose work he enjoyed, even if they were talking about something else. He'd gotten as many tickets to as many events as he could. He'd sit in the back of the room, though, because there would be cameras.

Not that he was famous here in the Greater World—he wasn't (unless you counted that whole Prince Charming thing [every girl was looking for one, or so he was told]). He had simply learned over the years that the camera loved him. He had a bit more charisma than the average author, so camera operators would focus on his reactions to various speeches.

He became the “average reader” nodding and smiling as his favorite author spoke. No one recognized him as Prince Charming. No one even thought he was a celebrity. But for a year or so, he became “Reaction Man”—the go-to guy on
Book TV
. If Charming had been near an author who gave a speech, and that speech was filmed, then inevitably, Charming would find his own face flittering across
Book TV
—laughing, looking very serious, or applauding as the writer said something worthwhile.

Charming hated that. At first, he'd thought it a simple error. Then he saw it repeated over and over again. Then, at one of the smaller book fairs, he overheard segment producers asking if someone could find Reaction Man so that they could actually interview him.

From that point on, Charming hid in the back of the room, in the dark, away from the lights, never raised his hand and—sadly—never asked his favorite writers for autographs at the end of their talk.

But to get that coveted back-of-the-room spot, he had to scope out the room and find the darkest corner. Moments like this were the best time to do so, when no one important was around—especially not the camera operators or the producers.

The wing had several function rooms. He stopped in the hall and double-checked his program. He might have to investigate more than one room.

He would just have to find out which one.

***

Mellie pulled her badge out of her purse. The badge was a disgusting orange, the designated color for “affiliated organizations.” She had registered PETA with the book fair right at the start, although she'd had to use the organization's full name—People for the Ethical Treatment of Archetypes—because (apparently) the other, more famous, PETA was both hated and feared.

Rather like she had been once, for a brief span of her life, back when she was searching for Snow White.

Mellie sighed. She didn't miss those days. In fact, she wished she could wipe them out entirely. But they defined her life, whether she wanted them to or not.

She rounded the building—which was bigger than half the castles in the Kingdoms (uglier too)—and found the double doors leading into the north wing. The north wing, according to her book fair materials packet, held the media room, and the publicity area, and the interview room—all the places she cared most about.

She carried flyers in her book bag. The flyers would get her into the publicity area. Savvy book fair attendees knew to put their flyers in the publicity area
and
on their booth. Especially when their badge category was relegated to the basement like hers was.

She'd tried to get a press badge, which would have given her the run of this wing. She'd even started a newsletter, with book reviews and everything. But the book fair committee—while not exactly telling her she was an amateur, implied it:

Due to the preponderance of regular media
, the refusal letter had said,
we are unable to give more than one hundred passes to smaller media organizations. We thank you for your interest in our fair
.

“We thank you for your interest in our fair,” she mouthed, still annoyed at that. Apparently there were limitations on press, but none on affiliated organizations. If you were willing to pony up the exorbitant fee—damn near ten times the fee for the booksellers (those folks got in almost for free)—then you could have a booth in the affiliated organizations area.

She'd gotten Griselda, Hansel and Gretel's stepmother, to man the booth most of the time. Griselda—or Selda, as she preferred—could talk about their cause without getting furious. She was a true asset. But she had gone through counseling and done lots of work here in the Greater World. Selda wasn't even angry at her former husband for making up all the lies about her. She said such things happened all the time in abusive relationships.

Mellie slipped through the double doors into the loading dock. The media area always got the best loading dock, mostly because it needed a place to safely park the various trucks—including satellite trucks, which got brought in on the second day for the keynote speaker.

This year's keynote wasn't all that spectacular—some bestselling writer who wrote thrillers. In previous years, there'd been former presidents. Mellie had been hoping a former president this time. The former presidents did force the place to have added security, but that didn't matter as much as the added media coverage. Just because one of those former heads of state visited—and they were, in her mind, rather minor, considering they only ruled for a maximum of eight years (why would anyone agree to that?)—every major news organization showed up in droves. And the fair got coverage on all the major channels as well as the minor ones.

No such luck this year. She'd been disappointed when she figured that out. But, she decided, this book fair would be a practice run at a bigger media blitz. She'd convince places to report on her grievances, and then maybe—if she got lucky—she'd become a keynote speaker at one of these things. Her goal this weekend was minor. All she wanted was local press coverage.

Although “local” in Los Angeles was a misnomer. If nothing else, her footage would air on major affiliates from here to New York. If this worked, she'd head from here to the publishing capital of the United States to press her case.

Her breath caught. Beneath it all, she was very, very nervous. She had a lot resting on this.

She really wanted to make a difference in countless lives, and this was the only way she knew how.

She wound her way around cables strewn across the concrete floor, past trucks with station logos emblazoned on the side, past brawny men with droopy pants carrying light and sound equipment up a small flight of stairs.

A number of the men smiled at her as they went by. She still looked good. Her old self—the pre-disaster self—would've seen that as a positive sign. Now she knew it for what it was, a symptom of the world's—both worlds' (hers and this one's)—obsession with beauty over substance.

When she'd had real beauty, she'd had little substance. Now that she was older, she had a lot of substance, but she was nowhere near as beautiful as she had been before.

Although she did have a bit of glamour. A touch of the magical that made her seem larger than life here in the Greater World. She'd learn to use that to press for her cause.

She waited until another group of sweaty men carrying equipment went up the small flight of stairs into the main part of the building. Then she scurried up the steps behind them.

She had a few missions: First, she'd scout out the locations, find the green room, find the interview room, and find the celebrity hideout for the on-air talent consigned to this place. Then she'd see if she could line up an interview or two. If some security guard saw her badge and told her that she didn't belong, she'd pull out her flyers, and bat her eyes, and ask (oh-so-dejectedly) where the publicity room was.

She'd also find the best place to stage a protest. Maybe she'd do it during the keynote speech, which wasn't until mid-afternoon tomorrow. She knew from experience that she could probably store her signs in the loading dock or one of the small, unused closets alongside it.

She stepped into the hall. The lights were brighter here, the air cooler (air conditioning—one of the best inventions
ever
in the Greater World), and the floor softly carpeted. The color scheme left a lot to be desired—whoever thought rose red and sky blue made for a good combination?—but she wasn't the one who had to put all that garishness on film.

She just had to use it to her advantage.

She clutched her book bag to her side, flipped her badge over so that its white back was the only visible part, and made her way to the keynote speech area. First she'd figure out if she had room for a protest there. Then she'd find the interview room.

The hallway was surprisingly empty—no sweaty men carrying equipment, no overly made-up on-air talent trying to find the green room. No one except that elegant man she'd seen earlier.

He stood with his back to her as he peered at the program listing outside one of the function rooms.

His back
was
stunning. She really couldn't get over those broad shoulders, the hint of muscle through the beautifully tailored shirt, the way that it all tucked into the form-fitting pants—

She shook off the thought and made herself look away, her cheeks warm as if she were a young maiden like she'd been before her first marriage.

Of course the elegant man would be down here. He was probably on-air talent. He wouldn't be national—she would've recognized him, even from (especially from?) the back. He was probably the main anchor at one of the local affiliates. They liked their main anchors to have some judiciously silver hair—sometimes they even made the men dye the silver in, so they had that classy salt-and-pepper look.

Male anchors had to look authoritative, but approachable. The knowledgeable, trustworthy guy on the block, not too handsome, but handsome enough.

Or in the parlance of fairy tales: Just Right.

He was Just Right, even from the back.
Especially
from the back.

Her cheeks grew even warmer. She pressed her hands against them, willing the reaction to go away. She didn't need to get all hot and bothered over some local anchor.

Although he might make a good contact. Maybe she could even sweet-talk him into an interview.

She let her hands drop away from her cheeks. She took off her badge and smoothed her clothes. She swept one hand over her hair—it felt like all the strands were in place—and she suddenly felt thankful for that blush. It would highlight her skin (still flawless after all these years) and make her seem more vibrant.