Page 6 of Rumpelstilzchen

His heart slammed so hard against his ribs that he feared it might successfully escape his body, and his eyes—now wide open—fixed fast upon the heavy wooden door. Even in the dim lamplight, Boy could tell that the door had been in place since long before he was born, and it would absolutely be there long after he died. But he also knew that even if he threw his whole body weight against it, it wouldn’t budge. So how had it rattled as it had?

The flame flickered once more, and Boy held his breath. He would very much like for it to stay lit now, please and thank you. His relief when it revived was short-lived. Not only did the same tap, tap, tapping sound return, but this time a disembodied chuckle that echoed down the stone passageway outside his cell accompanied it. It raised the hairs on the back of Boy’s neck, and he tried to scoot further away from the door, but there was nowhere else to go. The full length of his spine was already flat against the wall.

A low and menacing voice from somewhere beyond the door crooned, “Everyone who comes here dies.”

Boy’s heart was in his mouth, his ears strained to detect every sound, but he was also panicked and couldn’t think properly. Had the tapping been footsteps? Was it a bored guard who had come to scare him? He would prefer that, probably, because the alternative was not an outcome he felt equipped to handle right now.

When he was certain there was nothing more to be heard, he used his other senses. Instead of the rank stench of sweat and mud that had clung to every member of the Royal Guard he had met so far, Boy could detect the smell of smoke—faint as it was. Then he watched in morbid fascination as thick shadows crept through the small gap under his door. Like searching fingers, they inched over the stone floor and straight towards him.

As if he was their intended target, they made no effort to explore the upturned bucket, nor the webbed spinning wheel. Instead, they wrapped around his worn-through shoe and probed at the split seam. Then higher, to his ankle and too-short breeches with the patched knees and thigh.

They roved up his body with a chilling intensity until they reached his hair, where they flicked the wayward, honeyed strands.

Boy still hadn’t drawn a breath, and stars danced at the edge of his vision.

Instinctively, he drew up his knees and sealed his lips tightly together to stifle the sound of a sob as his eyes filled with tears. Boy couldn’t remember another occasion when he had been so thoroughly invaded. The seemingly sentient shadows snaked their way under his jaw as the first tear slipped down his cheek, and when the two met, they emitted a quiet hissing sound, like eggs in a hot skillet.

Boy had no frame of reference for what that might mean, but his tears served only to fuel the shadows further, and they eagerly searched out more. As the shadowed fingers mapped the contours of his face, Boy—who had never felt so small and utterly insignificant—retreated into his mind.

His whole life, he’d always done exactly as instructed. He’d done the tasks and chores decreed by his father without complaint. When his portion of food had been donated to his older brothers because they had more demanding tasks, he’d accepted. He’d empathised when his family couldn’t pay their tithe, and he’d rationalised his father’s proposal to offer Boy in lieu of payment. Submission came naturally to Boy, but where had it gotten him? Imprisoned in a rank cell where he waited to die. And he had accepted that too, all of it, because it was for the greater good.

But being hurt, and now haunted, while he did so was too much.

When a shadowed finger swept over his lower lip and tried to press its way inside his mouth, Boy snapped. If he was going to die, he’d do so with his dignity intact.

He slapped at the offending appendage and screamed at the top of his voice, “Stop!”

The shadows paused their assault in an instant, and Boy drew in ragged breaths that hitched between bouts of fresh tears.

Time seemed to slow down, until the stillness became oppressive, and then, with a sudden rush, more black tendrils passed under the door. Faster and faster, they didn’t stop. Thick and dark, they oozed in a continuous stream until they entirely filled the small cell.

Boy watched in terrified awe as they slowly coalesced into the shape of a man with smoky shadows where his skin should have been. A long, military-style coat formed around broad shoulders and ended just above the rim of a pair of black leather riding boots. The clothing, made of heavy fabrics in various shades of black that Boy had absolutely no chance of being able to identify, was tailored to fall perfectly.

Convinced that he was moments from death, Boy struggled to tell if he was going to vomit or wet himself. Torn between the two, he scrunched his eyes shut and whimpered.

Gloved fingers moved a sweat-soaked lock of hair from his forehead with surprising tenderness, and Boy’s heart skipped a beat.

Confused, he cracked open one eye and stared straight into the piercing black gaze of the man who now crouched in front of him. Partially obscured by a cowl of shadow, which only added to his intimidating aura, Boy immediately understood that this was a man who was used to being obeyed—despite that, he carried no visible weapon.

Every person Boy had ever met carried a weapon. Even his father and older brothers did, that was just the way of life. You never knew when you might need to defend yourself against raiders and bandits. Given that the man before him commanded the shadows as he did, Boy surmised that he likely had little use for a traditional weapon.

Boy wanted to stare, but it felt like looking into the eyes of a predator, hypnotising and dangerous, so he tucked his face into his knees to hide his intrigue. When the man—Boy knew that wasn’t strictly what he was—straightened from a crouch, the swishing of heavy fabrics displaced the surrounding air.

Boy kept his sight firmly upon the stitched patch of his trousers, wet from his earlier tears, and paid attention with his other senses instead. The smell of smoke was stronger now, and mixed with the animalic scent of leather. Foreign, yet somehow familiar.

“Do you know who I am?” The man’s voice was low and calm, and yet not without a threatening undertone.

Boy did, but he hoped against hope that he was wrong. His brother must have recounted each of this geist’s sordid tales with such attention to detail that Boy was quietly confident he could have recited them verbatim. As he sat here now, face to face with the legendary spirit, the thought of opening his mouth to speak made his stomach churn anew. He kept his eyes downcast and nodded in the affirmative, his answer muffled by his knees, “Sch-Schatten der Königin.”

“And yet, you aren’t afraid?”

“I am,” he whispered. “Afraid.”

Gloved fingers pinched his chin and raised his head, and Boy had no alternative but to look at the geist in front of him. This close, he could clearly see a pair of deep-set eyes that swirled with all the colours of the midnight sky; glossy, long black hair that brushed over broad shoulders when he tilted his head in scrutiny of Boy; and fleeting expressions too mercurial to decipher that clouded a face much older than his. No sooner had he identified one than it was gone. Caught staring, Boy couldn’t help the flush that spread across his cheeks and down his neck.

“What of?” The question caught Boy off guard, and tears once again brimmed in his eyes.

“That I won’t be able to b-buy my family enough t-time.” Boy clamped his hands back over his mouth—he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Keep your mouth shut,” he’d been told. He also hated how uncertainty manifested as a slight stutter when he spoke. Then again, it was his first time seeing a geist, let alone conversing with one, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say and what he wasn’t. Fleetingly, Boy wondered if the Royal Shadow was perhaps used to those who faced imminent death blurting out their most private thoughts. He couldn’t tell, because those full lips didn’t so much as twitch.