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[marieschunne]

A Spirit Away

Chapter One: Deal with the Devil

November 19, 1948

Death was not a rarity among the East End lowlives. But on that November night in which the candles refused to flicker long enough for the poor souls crying for help, one particular tragedy remained a mystery forevermore. It was what everyone could talk about—the details of the deaths, the clues they managed to extract from tongues wagging around the neighborhood. Some even made up stories that were too odd to be true regarding that night for the more mystery, the better.

Truth be told, no one knew exactly how it happened. A woman living at the edge of East End, nearest to the River Thames, claimed she saw shadows running rampant on the streets when she had been up that night to pour herself a cup of water. Another claimed they heard a gunshot… only, everybody heard it as they all had rushed out to the streets to find what had caused the commotion that sent East End into a blasted echo of doom. Those who had time to look at the faces of the poor victims before they were whisked away by the police instantly became the most popular in half of London as journalists seek for them and offered to write a piece filled with their quotes.

What happened that night was a tragedy. It was a result of the sins as they exploded in the air, invisible wisps of its dark elements dancing in the winds. Though the deaths compelled the sins, only a few people knew of the latter. The victims were very respectable in society, they had been so near on climbing the social status towards the upper class when they had been in the middle all their lives. What were these sins that blew out their souls like a strong gust of wind over a flickering hearth?

It was the Devil’s deed, truly. He had chased Parker and Michelle Quinn to the filthiest corner of London with his handsome mask and his crisp suit, as though he was simply a well-dressed businessman and not at all a creature of hell. They weren’t silent either—the Quinns had been screaming as they tried to get away from the creature, begging for their lives and his mercy. But the Devil doesn’t give mercy just as he never cared for kind, humble souls. Perhaps the winds had been prejudiced against the Quinns, for they muted out the screams from the sharp ears of the neighborhood.

The Devil’s strides were somewhat lazy yet fast-paced nevertheless as he descended upon the Quinns, cocking his head aside to reveal his trademark smile. There was something naughty or rather amusing about his smile. It either taunts you or scares you to oblivion. “You have nowhere else to go, Quinns,” he’d drawled, his voice deep and smooth as the velvet night. “You made a deal… many moons ago. You signed a contract. Now, pay me a soul!”

“There was no deal!” Parker Quinn’s voice tore the winds, edged as the shattering glass. “We signed up for nothing!”

It was expected for the Devil to be upset about such lies but instead, his smile grew wider. The Devil loved it when human lies… it was one of the things he could savor like a piece of jarring music. “Are you denying now the fact that both of you had been desperate at all?”

But the wife knew better. Michelle Quinn cowered behind her husband as her arms curled tightly around the baby in her arms. The baby was the one thing that was honest about her, despite every inch of her skin bedecked with the most precious of jewels. She pleaded, “Please! We promise we’ll give you your end of the bargain—simply give us some time, and we’ll be certain!”

“Oh, I see,” he said, sounding more curious than normal. “Have you ever heard the French proverb… les bons comptes font les bons amis? I picked it off a wise, wise man on my old days back in Paris. Of course,” he lets out a dry chuckle, the sound much like a mallet hitting stone, “he didn't have time to translate it before I had his head severed off his shoulders. I figured what it meant not long later and I quite liked it.”

The Quinns didn't answer as they continued to back away, even though they had nowhere else to go as the end of the street was bricked high with a wall fit for a rook’s built. At last, they found their backs hitting contact with it, their eyes widened as it a wave of agony and fear blazed in the whites under the furious batting of their lashes.

“A debt paid is a kept friend was what the words translated,” the Devil explained, as though he was a schoolchildren teacher trying to coax the scared younger ones. “Just give me the child because I don't have all night, Quinns.”

“Don’t let him take our child,” Michelle sobbed in Parker’s ear, hugging the silent bundle tighter against her chest. Then she shrieked at the Devil, “Why should we pay a deal forger who took away what was promised in the first place?”

“Touché,” the Devil considered this. But of course, there was nothing in all eternity that could sway him from his wish. It was more of a show, as the world was always a performance to him. “I promised you I would grant the favor you asked for… I never said you could keep it.”

“Let’s solve this—you and me,” Parker stepped forward, gathering what was left of his courage as he covered his family’s body with his own. “We’ll find a way, another child to sacrifice in our daughter’s stead.”

“So now you are taking innocent lives, yeah?” The Devil laughed, full of mirth and amusement. “And they always blamed sins on me.”

But Parker had made his choice. He quickly turned in his spot and pulled Michelle in his arms, muttering quickly, “Go. Bring Ivy and run. Take her to safety… for both of our sakes. Don’t look back, Michelle. For the love of Gods, don’t look back.”

A beat passed. At last, Michelle gave her husband the barest of nods. The Devil was still laughing—he thought the scene was most amusing in the last few decades that once he started to laugh, it was hard for him to stop. Parker whirled at the creature again, feeling newfound bravery coursing in his veins.

“It’s always the same with Adam’s children!” The Devil howled, clutching his chest as he doubled over. “You are weak creatures. You never learn.”

“We are not weak,” Parker forced out. From the corners of his eyes, he watched Michelle carefully slip into the darkness, where the Devil didn't bother to spare a glance.

The Devil stopped laughing. His fathomless red eyes bored into Parker’s, a wave of familiar anger threatening to rise. “You think you can beat me, mortal?” He growled, pulling up a slim, shining object from the inside of his crisp coat.

It was a gun. Parker would recognize the object anywhere—he had been a fan of many movies consisting of gun props. But to see an immortal creature, much less a creature of hell to wield such a mundane weapon… he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

They all heard the bullet click into place, like a bell of doom pounding against their eardrums. “Just give me the child, mortals. I do not fancy attracting a crowd.”

“Over my dead body!” Parker shouted, charging at the Devil like a bull.

But the Devil had been made from fire, flickering embers of infinite. He was much too quick for a mere mortal as he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. “That can be arranged,” the words had barely escaped the Devil’s lips as Parker’s eyes widened with shock, not quite registering the bloody wound blooming on his chest.

Meanwhile, Michelle, who had seen the scene unfold and had held back her screams was rocking the baby back and forth on the ground, hidden by the walls of a staircase of a nearby building. She had to cup her mouth to stifle her sobs, her fear worse than ever. Despite her faults and her unhealthy obsession with luxury, she had loved her husband very much. It was what made her place the baby carefully at the top of the staircase without a second thought, only that she had to save her husband.

Leaning down, Michelle’s gloved hands found the silver pendant around her neck—the only family heirloom that her middle-class family had passed down for centuries. It was carved into the shape of a phoenix, a reminder that no matter what happened, a strong spirit would always rise from the ashes.

She now clasped the pendant around the sleeping baby’s neck, somehow untroubled by the commotion. Michelle only had time to kiss the baby on the forehead before stepping out of the darkness, back into the dangerous sight of the hell incarnate.

“Ah, there you are,” sighed the Devil, “I was worried I would have to kill all of your look-alikes to simply have my revenge against you lot. You’ve seen what happened to your husband for his disagreement. Now, just hand me the child and get this over with.”

Her voice was shaky at best as she shrieked, “I will never let you anywhere near my daughter!”

For a split second, the universe seemed to come to a pause. Death has always had a great fear effect on any mortals… so why isn’t it affecting this one? Though amused, the creature of hell has no time for their games. He simply rolled his eyes, cocked the bullet back into place, and shoots.

This time, the winds seem to unmute. The whole neighborhood heard the last gunshot, waking them up from the safe confinements of their beds and under the many layers of their blankets. They weren’t exactly the most unfortunate lot, but it had been a cold winter, and sleep couldn’t be much bothered with all the cold biting into their skin.

They scrambled off their mattresses and looked out their windows. People spilled into the streets to discover the most tragic scene of the couple’s deaths—and yet, with no trace of the criminal insight.

It was midnight in the east of London. There were no twinkling lights, only the horror unfolding before their very own eyes.

[marieschunne]

SGE AU: Chapter One

Author’s Note

This story is based on the fiction world created by the very talented Soman Chainani, an alternative universe/fan fiction written by a reader and is not at all affiliated with the original series. This story will not include the series’s main characters (notably Agatha, Sophie, or Tedros) and is focused solely on telling the story of a fictional main character that I made.

Note that I have made changes to some parts/story concepts, as well as including darker themes to better suit on describing the tale of the Evil Queen’s daughter.

Summary

Maeve of Avalon is the princess of the most famous evil kingdom in all the woods. Growing up, she has been groomed by the Evil Queen to become her successor, to continue the legacy of evil.

But it was soon proved to be in vain when the invitation for the School for Good came instead. Her fate was not at all as as she thought; for Maeve found herself trapped in the worst of nightmares and the thin line between good and evil, forcing her to choose between her wicked destiny… or accepting her mother’s wrath.

The room tilted under me as my head spun with disbelief, my fingers clutching the Flowerground ticket—the pressure of my grip on the shining, glossy surface creating a crease on the edges. My name gleamed under the casted dim light from the chandelier above, dripping of oil and cobwebs in which the spiders have long since crawled away to avoid the wrath of my broom. There was no mistaking it, I thought, as my eyes widened and once again ran over the glittering words: Princess Maeve of Avalon; 1 Passage Ticket; the School for Good.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I placed the ticket on the edge of the windowsill where I’d found it earlier. My shoulders suddenly felt heavy… too heavy, as though invisible boulders have been dropped against it. I fell to the ground, feeling the rough surface of the carpet tucked between me and the cold stone floor. Pressing my hand against the bridge of my nose, I struggled to keep the emotions from rising, though it was clear a raging thought appeared in my mind, in bold black letters atop the small words screaming in my head: Mother is going to kill me.

I shouldn’t have opened the windows this morning, though I always do it every day. Even if the letter hadn’t fallen straight to the windowsill for me to find, it would have somehow ended up in my hands anyway, although I doubt it wouldn’t cause a sort of chaos in the castle, not to mention my mother’s bubbling wrath. Ever since I turned fourteen and the date of acceptance came near, Mother would not stop talking about the School for Evil, where my place as a student must have been guaranteed already after the success of Mother’s story. She was the Evil Queen in Snow White’s fairytale who didn’t even bother with burying her stepdaughter or her foolish prince; instead, she had them both cremated and frozen in the dungeon so that whenever she brews a potion of mischief, she could do so while staring at their dead souls.

For years I have been training for this moment—hours spent in the dungeon following Mother’s potion and spell books, creating explosives and capturing doves, putting them in a cage just for the fun of it. When I was seven, I remembered catching a mouse hiding in a small corner near the throne room before presenting it to Mother, always eager to earn her approval. That was when she told me to kill it.

I cried then, refusing blatantly. In return, Mother lashed my palms and killed the poor animal right in front of me. A pitiful soul is unbecoming of a villain. Since then, I never cried; nor did I blink when I saw other creatures getting murdered before me.

What would she do when she finds out about my ticket? Lash me again? Torture me in her dungeon? Kill me before another villain could and cremate me beside my stepsister?

Though ashamed, I don’t want to die yet. Mother used to tell me that to die is a weakness—of course, except for the years catching up on you—and to live is to win in the universe’s game. If she ever discovered the existence of this wretched Flowerground ticket, if she ever found out that her blood daughter is a student of Good—

My hands shot out to the metal ball at the end of the bed, one I used for practice torture, before flinging it at the gilded mirror. The echo of glass shattering pierced my ears, but I could barely hear it over the sound of my pumping heart banging against my eardrums, adrenaline coursing through my blood. If there was anyone I fear most in this world it would be Mother, and should she ever find out that a stymph bird never came to whisk me away to that school, I might as well be doomed.

Suddenly, a hard knock came from the door, snapping me out of my dark thoughts and back into reality. Quickly, I grabbed for the ticket and stuffed it inside my drawer. I barely had time to push the thing shut before the door opens, revealing an ugly goblin that is the castle’s Chief Steward standing in the doorway, her rock grey skin murkier than usual. She sneered at me with her crusted lips, her eyes a muddled green, “the Queen is awaiting your presence at the gates.”

Hiding my shaking fingers, I forced my expression to remain calm. “What for? Is she going somewhere?” I truthfully doubt my ability to remain neutral and not give away the yawning chaos of fear inside me if I were to face her at this time… but do I have a choice?

“It is the weekly trial, girl,” the goblin said, narrowing her eyes as though she could smell my skepticism.

“Right,” I said, straightening the creases of my black sheer skirt. “And it is Your Highness to you, Gill. Or simply princess should suffice.”

Ignoring her dark expression after being scolded, I rushed out of the door without another glance, blood still roaring in my ears.

✧ ༄ ♥ ༄ ✧

“At last!” Mother announced, tapping her long, slender fingers against the carriage door, her red nails the color of her enemy’s blood. Her lips were turned upside down in a frown—an expression between upset and irritated as she sighed, “where have you been, Maeve? The people are anxious for this trial! They demand justice!”

They always do. Under Mother’s rule, the people have grown to be either cruel or cowardice, with no one daring to lift a finger for rebellion. How can they, when Mother was a product of a successful Evil story, read by every single child in the Reader world? Besides, Mother would of crush them into pieces in a blink of an eye.

“I lost track of time,” I mumbled, carefully tiptoeing the apology at the edge of my tongue. Was this why the School Master appointed me as a Good student, instead of Evil? Because he knew that somewhere deep inside, a small part of me cared enough to say sorry?

“Villains don’t just forget about time!” She scolded sharply. “If I were a tad bit late in killing Snow White, she would have been a queen in my stead!”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, forcing my voice to be firm.

She climbed into the carriage first and I followed, feeling the dark velvet of the chair cold as any stone under my skin, keeping the whole aura always in gloom and doom, just as Mother liked. If I were her, I would have added something red, or perhaps a lighter color…

I cringed in disgust. Pink is a color for good princesses. It is a color that should never enter my eyesight.

Not letting my thoughts run any deeper, Mother quickly engaged me in a conversation that always included bits of advice on torture, death, and more misery. Her lips widened to form her trademark storybook sneer, her dark brows arched elegantly. “Only a day more until you must leave for the School, Maeve. Now, remember to make sure that your windows are always open to easier access for the stymph birds. No nonsense of pretending to be asleep in bed; absolutely ridiculous! I was more awake than I had ever been when they took me.”

“What were you doing when they took you?” I wondered, the invisible weight of the Flowerground ticket still pressing against my palm.

“I was carving open my old Gran’s heart—I didn’t need her to pester me while I was at school,” she told me, her eyes far away as her face contorted with satisfaction. My stomach dropped. If Mother was cruel enough to kill her own blood, then what was there to stop her from killing me?

It felt much like pushing myself off a cliff when I dared myself to ask, “Mother, what do you think of the School for Good? What—What if, in some extraordinary case, one of our people was taken to Good?”

She frowned, taking her time to think about it. Probably imagining all sorts of torture for this imaginary Good person—who also happens to be real, and that person is me. “I wouldn’t be able to reach the School for Good to kill that child myself… there are violations set by the School Master. But the family… oh, yes. The family should suffer enough that the child would be too afraid to ever set foot upon this kingdom again.”

I pursed my lips. Now I’ve heard enough. After acknowledging her reply with a curt nod, I inclined my head to look out the window, at the sight of our kingdom. Like the castle, the richer part of the kingdom is dark, built from the smooth ground with precious obsidian and silver. The trial has always been held at the Square, in the middle of the village. Soon, our carriage rumbled down the jagged streets over dirty pebbles down the less fortunate neighborhood. Here, the houses are in ruins, some of the stones crumbling down over roofs and causing a leak to trickle all over the already damp curtains. Iron buckets were placed on the doors after being emptied from the rain that poured heavy last night. I’ve noticed that some of them had enough gall to try and plant flowers, only to have it wither and die on the small boxes placed on their broken, dirty windowsills.

“Such a hurtful sight to my eyes,” muttered Mother, tone tainted with disgust. Her eyes ran critically over the neighborhood that we passed by every week, though I know beforehand that she thought it unnecessary to mend the slum. They must work their way for money; that’s the only way they’ll repair their hideous homes.

Finally, the carriage rumbled to a stop and the door was opened by our coachman: another goblin, this one grim looking. He bowed at us as we descended the small flight of stairs to the Square, where a crowd has already gathered to witness the trial. Every villager must be present for the trial in respect for the Queen and to see by their own eyes just how cruel the punishment if they dared to cross the line.

We approached the dais in which two thrones—one made of great obsidian, and the smaller one of iron—have been placed atop. Mother took a seat first and the people bowed in her presence, no one daring to meet our eyes. Even when I ascended they feared me too, though whereas Mother was full of glee to have her part of the cruelty of the week, my face remained blank; an expression I’ve long mastered to not give away my true feelings.

Perhaps I used to feel sorry for them when I was young. Remorse on their behalf, even. But now I felt nothing; just a cold abyss robbed of emotions. Perhaps if I were taking a more gleeful perspective, the School Master would consider kicking me out of the School for Good?

With that in thought, I plastered on a smile. Mother looked at me suspiciously but didn’t say anything. She lets the people stay like that for a whole minute, relishing in their tired shoulders, before her voice, cold and loud–like a mallet hitting glass–echoed in the Square: “Rise, my people.”

The people rose. While some of the lords and ladies wealthy enough to live in the richer neighborhood stood at the front lines, smiles on their faces in respect for the Queen are displayed, the peasants standing behind them looked as miserable as ever, their faces powdered with dirt and ash. An awful odor hung in the air—the scent of previous corpses whose lives had been taken here before.

At the center of the Square was a stage, which I think used to be a place to house performances instead of a large, hulking guillotine made of wood with a blade at the top, sharper than any knives. Mother made the blade herself—it never failed to perform a kill filled with blood instead of a clean one, since she loves the idea of the townspeople rubbing off the trickles from the Square’s pavement. The executioner stood ready by the guillotine, his eyes that could barely be seen over the piece of fabric covering half of his face examined a large bucket placed under the killing machine, as though contemplating whether it would hold the heads about to be chopped off today.

There was no law in the kingdom; not really. Mother, true to her Evil, lets the streets roam with beggars and thieves, even murderers. They go unpunished if it was not associated with the nobles or the royal family. Trying to escape, however, holds the same level of crime as both, because it meant abandoning the kingdom and its queen.

A senior goblin stepped forward, wearing a ridiculous cap that Mother insisted they wear for the trial as if the whole setting wasn’t horrific enough. “Your Majesties the Queen Grimhilde and Princess Maeve; may I present to you Hal, a slave who was caught trying to escape from the House of Waldorf in which he was employed,” the goblin announced.

A bulky man with thick muscles up his arms dragged a rope behind him in which a man was tied around the neck and made his way through the crowd for the stage by crawling on his knees. Like an arrow, a strange emotion rose inside me, and I battled it back down, disgusted by myself. Why did I feel that way? My hands twitched against the armrest of my throne, as though it was about to spring forward and save the slave from the dark fate that awaited him.

Beside me, Mother roared, “what do you have to say for yourself, slave?”

Does he not have a name? Even in his last living seconds, he would be known as the disobeying slave—never the man that he was inside. I caught myself with such thoughts and held back a wince. Fingers digging into my palm, I watched as one of the lords stepped forward with a look of hidden pride—perhaps to acknowledge the fact that the slave was his—over a mask of disappointment. He announced, “I shall speak for him, my Queen, for he was a property of mine.”

The Queen gave a curt nod. The Lord continued, “this man was found trying to flee to the woods last night. I say there shall not be mercy for this one!”

In reply, Mother raised a hand, shutting him up. The lord dropped his head under the Queen’s hard gaze. “Let the people decide,” she clipped, her eyes roaming over the audience. “What do you say, my people? Do we spare him?” A glint of mirth danced in her emerald green eyes. “Or do we punish him?”

The crowd roared at the last sentence. It was expected as any, especially with the careful watch of the guards surrounding every corner. Mother gave another nod, and the bulky man marched the slave up the stage, where the executioner was waiting, almost eager. We all waited with bated breath as the man was strapped down to the guillotine hole. I could almost see the executioner’s wicked grin behind his mask when he pulled the blade higher.

My face was blank as stone when the blade fell and the man’s screams filled my ears. The music of pure evil.