Page 31 of Rumpelstilzchen

Right before she set fire to the cavity in his chest where her magick lived, Rumple’s hatred for her renewed at the insinuation that Boy was his whore. He was so much more than that—he was his Heart.

The brutality of her attack took him to his knees. He braced himself on clenched fists and ground his back teeth.

“No one,” she seethed. “No one is more important than me.”

Rumple heard her hands—gloved in the finest lace and silk—smooth over the thick fabric of her bodice. A telltale sign she was already enraged. Then came the slow inhale as she composed herself. “When I summon you, Pet, you come. Have I made myself clear?”

He didn’t respond. His voice, no matter how compliant he forced himself to sound, would only exacerbate whatever it was that had disturbed her beauty sleep. In all the years he’d known her, Queen Schön had only ever been awake during the twilight hours on two occasions. Once, the night he was indoctrinated against his will into her Collection, and the other, the night she had awaited Rumple’s return after instructing him to kill the father of her newborn son.

“I learned some very…” The small pause sent a chill down Rumple’s spine. “Disturbing news before I retired to bed. A reliable source informed me that a problem I thought had been resolved is, in fact, not.”

Immediately, Rumple’s thoughts drifted to Boy. He reached through his magick until he found his Heart, then reinforced the protective layer of shadows that insulated the throne room from the Queen’s hateful gaze.

“You are to locate someone for me.”

Rumple stared ever harder at the uneven texture of the flagstone floor between his already clenched fists. He would not be baited by her a second time, no matter how trivial her request.

“My son is alive… I need him found.”

His shadows seethed within. The terror on Boy’s face when her summons had ripped Rumple away from him earlier, the fear that one moment had put there—that she had put there—was because she wanted him to find her son? Her supposedly already dead son?

“You will cease any and all other activities until you learn his whereabouts.”

A direct order. Rumple’s fury forced his shadows so far into the hairline cracks in the floor that the stones fractured outward in a sudden web, and he, the monstrous spider at its centre, simmered in defiance under the weight of her compulsion. He refused to be separated from his Heart, yet that was exactly what she had just ordered.

“You are my Shadow, Pet. You will search under every rock, in every lake, and behind every tree in this kingdom, and you will do it now.”

The edges of his vision danced with the red sparks of murderous intent. He hated her. He hated the wayward Prince who wouldn’t stay dead. He hated the huntsman who had failed to kill him in the first place. But he hated her more.

The muscles in his neck were so tense when he nodded his acquiescence that the submission jarred down the full length of his spine.

There was no relief when the Queen closed their connection. No sanctuary in the darkness of his room. She had forbidden him from seeing his boy—had stolen him away from his Heart—and for what? Because her vanity knew no bounds? Because her pride was so great she would see her son, with his skin as white as snow and his hair as black as night, dead for his beauty?

Rumple’s shadows pushed at the confines of the cupola until the wooden rafters of the roof creaked and strained. He would tear the palace apart as though it were a toy for a child were it not for the boy held prisoner in the throne room.

The hollow of Rumple’s chest ached, and he ground the heel of his hand into his pec, but it did nothing to alleviate the ominous throb.

It was an odd sensation, being less than whole. On the one hand, his human form revealed nothing of his drastic action, but on the other, his magick was significantly weakened. Rumple had torn himself apart to protect his Heart.

Tentatively, he brushed over the raw and frayed edges of his shadows. Unbidden, an intrusive thought surged to the front of his mind… This wouldn’t be the highest price he’d pay if he failed to find a way to break the Queen’s hold on him.

Rumple had found his Heart, but he still wasn’t free to claim it—and neither was the boy who housed it safely within him free to wait for Rumple to find a solution. It was as if the hourglass that had once permitted the sands of time to trickle by had been cracked open. Now, instead of the slow and steady drip felt only by him, there was a deluge so large it threatened to drown both him and Boy by daybreak. Rumple had never felt so powerless.

A torrent of frustration and anger swirled inside him. He switched back and forth between his shadowed and human forms. His room in the Tower felt simultaneously too close to the Queen, who he wanted to destroy, and too far from Boy, who he coveted. The walls of the cupola shook once more as his shadows forced the structure further apart. A timber beam slipped from its joint and dangled perilously from the centre hub. It swung restlessly back and forth, much like Rumple’s mind as he rapidly cycled through his options.

Boy’s tear-filled eyes were the last thing Rumple had seen, and it ate at him. He wanted—no, needed—to see him safe and secure before he left on his mission. Especially with Queen Schön awake in the dead of night. What if she betrayed her word to Boy, that she would return at daybreak for the golden thread, and visited early?

If she did, she’d discover his magick—and his deceit—because when he’d used his shadows to screen the countless hessian sacks from Boy’s view, he’d also set them to work, quietly spinning the straw into gold in the background. Neither could he recall the shadows, because then the straw would never be spun, and he would be the one to condemn Boy to death. His anger sundered the hanging rafter from the frame, and the roof on that side sagged heavily into the space.

Rumple settled into his human form once more, his hands clenched into fists, and he braced them on his thighs as the disturbed dust and debris from the ceiling floated around him like a dystopian mist. It coated his boots and breeches where he knelt upon the stone floor, and settled over his hair and bare shoulders like a shroud. With a long exhale through gritted teeth and a tight jaw, he reminded himself that Boy now wore his magick-infused collar. That it would protect his Heart from any immediate attack should the Queen discover his betrayal before his shadows had time to spin all the straw into gold.

But how long could he keep this up? He wouldn’t be able to deny the Queen, not for long, but he only needed to stall until sunrise. Once she had visited Boy, Rumple would know he was safe. Could he hold out against her order that long?

Now was not the time for idleness or hesitation. He pushed up from where he knelt and dusted off the thick fabric of his breeches. His mind made up, he stepped toward the looking glass that now hung crookedly on the far wall of the ravaged cupola.

eighteen

Rumple