Page 142 of Once Upon a Fable

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 smiledlike 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.