Fable of Happiness (Fable #2) by Pepper Winters

“Ah, ah, ah, what have I told you? No touching unless a guest commands it.” Storymaker leaned forward, his temper cutting through the suave refinement he did his best to maintain.

Nyx and Quell let go of each other, denied every small comfort we had.

“And if I catch you all holding hands at night in that dormitory of yours again, I might just have to take those hands away, okay?” Storymaker grinned, looking at each one of us.

Jareth hissed under his breath. His bi-colored eyes (one blue, one brown) were so fierce and full of loathing, I honestly wondered if tonight was the night he snapped.

He’d tried to attack Storymaker before.

He’d gotten as far as grabbing the bone-handled letter opener on Storymaker’s desk, ready to stab the bastard, before the two guards who were always close by disarmed him and dragged him out of the room.

We didn’t see him for two weeks.

And when we did, he wasn’t the boy we used to know.

He was...soulless.

Storymaker kept his eyes locked on Jareth, waiting, same as us, to see if he’d try to kill him again. A few seconds passed before Jareth unfurled his fists and forced himself to take a breath.

With that breath, Storymaker relaxed back into his chair and smiled like any doting father would. “Right, now that you’re all bathed and fed, it’s time to play. You’re in for a treat tonight, my children. Every single member of our wonderful society is here. It’s our birthday, after all. That means you all get to stay up well past your bedtime. If you get sleepy, feel free to ask for some wakey medicine. We can’t have you falling asleep when you’re meant to be playing games now, can we?”

No one replied, our collective hate thick around us.

“Answer me,” Storymaker commanded. “Tell me you won’t fall asleep and disappoint me.”

We all shook our heads, vowing silently not to fall asleep.

We all hated wakey medicine.

It made our heart race and sweat coat our skin. We wouldn’t sleep for days. We’d hallucinate. It was doubly hard to protect each other when we were all high as fucking kites.

And I couldn’t be incapacitated tonight.

No fucking way.

I’d already killed Wes’s guard. If I didn’t finish this, there would be no second chance.

I’d been hoping for a night like this. Praying to a God I no longer believed in.

Last year, on Fables previous anniversary, only a few guests showed up. Men and women, who had a Fables’ membership, often had high-powered jobs and important positions in society—according to Storymaker and his decree to respect and obey every single one as if they were kings and queens.

It’d been a club they’d all formed, pooling funds to build a house in a place no one would stumble upon. The rules were simple: once a member, always a member. You couldn’t transfer or cancel. Their combined funds kept us operating, each one paying more if a member died and could no longer contribute.

In my eight years of serving, only two members had died.

That left eighteen.

Eighteen guests who’d arrived throughout the day and were getting ready for a night of abuse and gluttony, taking Viagra or doing their hair, preparing themselves in their respective bedrooms.

Soon, we would be taken to those bedrooms.

Shared around.

Enjoyed.

And Storymaker would pat himself on the back for an enterprise well run. Human property well-trained. Slaves well versed in fucking. He would relax in his library. His guards would station beside him.

No one would suspect a massacre.

Staying perfectly still and eyes on the carpet in submission, I traced the butcher’s blade I’d stolen from the kitchen, hidden carefully in my jeans. The chef had been beaten for its disappearance. His scullery maid whipped in the vegetable garden.

But I hadn’t fessed up.

I’d buried it outside by the cucumbers.

I’d waited until I’d counted eighteen guests had appeared through the cave.

And now...

Now, I was going to use it.

Or die trying.





CHAPTER FOUR

THE CLOCK IN THE LIBRARY struck midnight by the time I finished washing away the mud from his skin and hair. The old-fashioned minute hand tick, tick, ticked as I applied antiseptic cream to his cuts, bandaged sore knuckles, stuck butterfly stitches to the lacerations on his chest, and rubbed arnica into fresh bruises.

I’d managed to get some water past his lips, coaxing him to drink even while he remained unconscious. Occasionally, he acted as if he’d wake up. His pulse would skyrocket, his body would wince, and his forehead would furrow. He’d moan in his sleep about games and friends and blood.

His delusions didn’t last long, the tension in his body draining, leaving him catatonic once again. During his episodes, I kept my hands on his naked chest. I murmured to him that he was safe. That I would take care of him. That all he had to do was open his eyes, and I’d do whatever he needed.

He never responded to me, reserving his reactions to whatever dreams haunted him. Eventually, I ignored his mumbles and flinches, focusing on repairing the exterior wounds, and doing everything I could to repair him.

I worried he’d broken a few bones. The heat in some areas and rapid swelling hinted more than just bruises existed.

But until he was awake, I couldn’t know for sure.

And even if he had broken pieces of himself, what did I know about setting bones? I only knew rudimentary things like making a splint for a broken leg and a sling for a broken arm—just enough to get back to civilization for help.