Tear You Apart (37 page)

“I’m not marrying him!” Viv said.

The queen pinched the hairpin between two fingers, and pointed the bloodstained tip at Viv. “I can stab this back into your pretty little head and knock you out again. I don’t care if my son takes you to bed like that—it’s not unheard of in fairy tales. So play nice, won’t you?”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

THE TROLL ESCORTED VIV DOWN an aisle littered with rose petals, a sea of guests on either side: fairies, trolls, and Royals dressed in black. Eleven princes, but no sign of Garnet. Jasper waited at the altar, his face as cold as if it were made of stone. A tall, dark-haired man stood beside Jasper, bearing a wicked-looking executioner’s ax instead of the wedding bands. There was no priest.

“Vivian … the fairest bride of all,” the troll murmured. “You’ll make my son a very happy man … eventually.”

The queen followed behind them like a flower girl out of sequence, her mad giggles cutting through the wedding march.

The main hall had been transformed into a chapel. Every chandelier burned bright, and the gold trees shined like tangles of fire. Viv looked for a friendly face in the crowd, someone who might stand up and stop this, but she’d run out of saviors. She was on her own.

When they reached Jasper, the troll released her arm—“Excuse me, Vivian”—and took his place at the altar. The organ hushed.

The queen stayed behind her, poison hairpin in hand. Viv had the urge to tear the pin from the queen’s grasp and stab her with it. But she knew it would be futile; even if she managed to disarm the queen, there were other threats. She doubted the executioner was up there because Jasper had asked him to be his best man.

“Dearly beloved,” the troll began.

“Is this a joke?” Viv said. “
You’re
going to officiate?”

The troll smiled down at her from his place of honor. “Whose deals are more binding than mine?”

The guests chuckled appreciatively.

“We are gathered here this day to join these two fated individuals …”

The troll didn’t waste time waxing poetic about love and forever, sickness and health; he didn’t even present the vows as a question. “You will take Vivian to be your wife,” he said to Jasper. “Now give her the ring.”

Viv kept her hands in fists at her sides.

“Malcolm, help her find her fingers,” the troll instructed—and Viv quickly held out her left hand to Jasper.

“Vivian, you will take my son Jasper to be your husband. Put the ring on his finger. That’s it; no shyness.” Viv did as she was told, and the troll’s eyes flicked between them, his gaze like the dart of a snake’s tongue.

“Wonderful. I now pronounce you man and wife. Kiss the bride, son. It’s the part we’ve all been waiting for.”

With grudging obedience, Jasper lifted Viv’s veil and
touched her lips with a single perfunctory kiss. Viv turned her head away afterward, tempted to spit on the floor, but Malcolm’s presence persuaded her not to. Petulance wouldn’t earn her freedom. She needed to bide her time, and find the troll’s name. None of them would have any power over her then.

Till death do us part
, she thought.
No: Till
your name
do us part
.

The organist resumed playing—a dark song more suited to a haunted opera house than a wedding—and the queen began directing guests to the ballroom. Jasper led Viv down the aisle. The thought that he was her husband and they would have some sort of compulsory wedding night at the end of this made her want to throw herself in the lake.

Banquet tables had been arranged around the ballroom’s perimeter, leaving a large area for dancing in the center. A dais had been set up at the head of the room. The wedding party’s table was there, so that Viv and Jasper could hold court like the Royal couple they now were.

Endless platters of food and drink were brought out: white and red wine, black tea that smelled like smoke, bloody steak, blackened chicken, mermaid sashimi. The newlyweds had been seated at the center of the table, flanked by the king and queen and Jasper’s brothers. Garnet had been excluded, as she was from every family event.

When the king and queen got up to mingle with their guests, Viv let a steak knife fall into her lap, folded her full white skirt over it, and tried to work out how to slip it into her narrow sleeve without accidentally opening a vein.

“Who are you going to use that on?” Jasper asked. “Me?”
He went on sullenly picking at his dinner like he didn’t care in the least if she tried.

“I like to have options.”

“I think you ran out of those when my father pronounced us husband and wife.”

She went on trying to fit the knife inside her sleeve, the serrated edge snagging the lace. “That’s only temporary.”

“You still think you can find his name?”

“Yes. And when I do, it’s going to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“This certainly wasn’t,” he muttered.

“Cry me a river, Jasper.” Viv went back to fiddling with the knife. If he expected her to feel sorry for him because he hadn’t gotten his happily ever after, he was talking to the wrong person. She was only “awake” and mobile because his parents had wanted to see her walk down the aisle.

The shriek of feedback pierced her ears, followed by the irritating sound of the troll tapping his clawed fingertip against the microphone.

“Attention, everyone. I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves tonight. Normally this is the time when I’d give a speech—but I think you’re all more interested in the first dance. Vivian?”

Viv looked up, queasy with repulsion. She didn’t want to waltz with Jasper. She was done with that.

“Don’t get up,” the troll said. “Traditionally the first dance features the bride and groom. But I have a different tradition in mind for tonight. Something very special. We don’t get to do this often.”

“What is he talking about?” Viv asked Jasper.

“Damned if I know.”

“Guards!” the troll bellowed. “Let the show begin!”

The doors to the ballroom opened and four guards and a woman entered.

The woman wore a festive black party dress, all taffeta and sparkles, but that was the only cheerful thing about her.

Lank, dark hair hung in her face. She stood like an attack might come from any side. Bruises showed on her bare arms; red gouges on her wrists glistened where her skin had rubbed against chains or shackles. And she was barefoot.

“There wasn’t room for many of your family members on the guest list,” the troll said in his master-of-ceremonies tone, “but we managed to find this very special lady hiding in our silver forest, waiting for a way home—after she’d poisoned you, I believe. What a lucky coincidence for us.”

Viv looked harder at the woman. She’d been beaten and held prisoner. Her face was hidden, her posture broken, but it was definitely Regina.

The first thing Viv wondered was:
Why? Why keep her here?

Then her mind moved to the Snow White story, which ended with a wedding reception where the evil queen was forced to dance to death in red-hot iron shoes.

They wouldn’t. They were twisted here, but no one followed the Snow White curse to the letter anymore.

Viv scrambled off the dais; the knife went clattering to the floor. “Okay, I get it—you can do anything to anyone! I’ll regret it if I don’t obey! Now stop!” she shouted. “Stop!”—as the troll said, “Someone, please control the bride.”

In an instant Jasper’s arms were around her. “Calm down,” he said. “She’s a murderess, not your mother.” Viv kicked to get free and her feet met silk and petticoat instead of Jasper’s
shins. The wedding dress was too heavy, too bulky; it stopped her as surely as a rope would.

The troll strutted forward with his microphone, hamming it up like a game show host. “You’ve been such an important part of our Vivian’s life, madam.… It’s fitting that you’re here to help us celebrate. Thank you so much for coming—and for failing to escape. Really. We couldn’t do this without you.

“Bring out the dancing shoes!”

The ballroom doors opened again, and this time the executioner entered. He was carrying a pair of tongs in each hand, and each pair gripped a red-hot iron shoe, glowing and steaming in the cool air—and the crowd roared as if for a gladiator.

“Stop!
Stop!
” Viv felt like her voice was one long scream that no one could hear.

Only one of us can survive
, Regina had told her. No, no, she didn’t believe that.…

Sweat dripped down the executioner’s face—that was how long he’d stood in front of the fire, heating the metal until it took on that ruby glow. He placed the iron shoes on the floor. There was a sizzle and hiss and the smell of burning varnish smoked into the air.

Regina looked up. She caught Viv’s eyes and gave her a trembly smile. “You look so pretty, Viv. Don’t cry. You’re supposed to be happy on your wedding day.”

It was Regina’s resignation, more than her fear, that made Viv want to cry. Regina, who’d always fought against the certainty that she would lose, had finally given up. It was as painful a reversal as the day she’d turned from loving stepmom to Evil Queen. There was something about her now that reminded Viv of those sad, early days when she’d stroked
Regina’s hair while her stepmother cried over Viv’s father: that in-between time when they’d no longer had everything, but hadn’t yet lost it all, either.

This was the end of the curse for both of them. Viv couldn’t escape Jasper’s grasp, and the troll had never shown mercy to anyone. She couldn’t stop this, no matter how much she begged.

Viv’s throat constricted as she struggled to speak instead of scream. She couldn’t save Regina, but she wanted her to know.

“Regina! You’re not alone. I’m with you; I won’t leave you. Even if you didn’t want it—you were my mother. You’ll always be my mother.”

She thought maybe Regina smiled then; just a twitch of her lips before she pressed her hand to her mouth and blew Viv a kiss.

“Music!” the troll commanded.

The band began to play.

The guards nudged Regina toward the shoes. They lifted her by the arms and carried her forward, like backup dancers supporting a starlet—then crammed her feet into the hot iron, the shoes that were melting the floor. There was a scream like all the pain in the world, and then Regina went limp, fainted from the shock, before being roused by the intensity of the pain. The smell of roasting flesh filled the ballroom, and the guards were jabbing her with their swords to make her move, shouting
Dance!
until the whole crowd joined in, screaming
Dance! Dance! Dance!
with a bloodlust that belonged in the Colosseum.

The iron shoes were so heavy, and the agony so great, Regina could barely move. She stumped forward one step, then
another, growing clumsier as her feet became lumps of iron and bone. The guards hit her with their swords, spinning her as the smell of burning flesh grew stronger. Blood poured from her nose and darkened her teeth. The screams of the guests were so loud that Regina’s own screams seemed silent—just a gaping mouth, a plea that would never be heard.

When Regina collapsed, the crowd surged forward, pressing in to see every gory detail. Viv joined them, to be near her, to see her stepmother one last time.

Regina lay on her side, face tipped to the ceiling, her hair in Medusa tangles around her head. Jasper’s mother bent down to dab at the blood running from Regina’s nose, then traced her finger over Regina’s lips, like she was painting on lipstick.

“Red as blood!” the queen cried. The other guests cackled their approval. Even the troll laughed—his queen’s madness had amused him for once.

“Very good, darling!”

Viv stared straight ahead and tried to make her face like stone, to keep her fury and despair in check so she wouldn’t fall apart, wouldn’t seem weak in this room full of enemies. Tears crawled down her neck like spiders.

“There’s nothing like death at a wedding!” the troll cheered. Champagne flutes clinked—a toast, not to happiness, but to suffering. The Cursed and their schadenfreude. Bloodlust masked by the reasoning
She deserved it
. Torture as happy ending. Cinderella’s stepsisters had their eyes pecked out by birds. The stepmother in “The Juniper Tree” was crushed and killed by a millstone. The false princess in “The Goose Girl” was stuffed naked into a barrel studded with nails,
then dragged through the streets by horses. It wasn’t anything new; Viv had read the stories a hundred times.

But living it was different.

The corpse was carried out and the cake was brought in: a towering white monstrosity decorated with sugared butterflies instead of fondant. The troll held out the knife to Jasper and Viv, so they could cut their own cake—then chuckled and said, “Maybe not.”

He cut two slices for the bride and groom, opening a vanilla-and-raspberry wound. Viv’s piece was topped with a broken butterfly wing—angled like a fancy chocolate sliver.

“You haven’t smiled all night,” the troll said to her. “I know you weren’t keen on getting married—girls your age prefer freedom to wedded bliss—but I thought your stepmother’s performance would cheer you up.”

“Did you.” Her tone was flat.