There once was a sweet little maid, much beloved by everybody, but most of all by her grandmother, who never knew how to make enough of her. Linda was too busy to even speak to her aging mother, so every visit from Sarah was another reason to disinherit the famous actress. Famous being a loose term, at least compared to the star of stage and screen who sired that ungrateful brat.
"Your clothes were beautiful, Gigi," Sarah said as she modeled a navy blue felted Breton Sailor hat. She pulled the netted veil over her face until it barely crested her glossy pink lips. Reaching up with one satin-gloved hand, Sarah petted the vibrant peacock feathers tucked inside the hat's rolled brim. "And they're in great shape too."
"That's because I spent most of my time taking clothes off, not keeping them on. They didn't have time to get damaged," Émilienne Nesbit replied with the lightest, most unobtrusive French accent ever. Gigi is what Sarah called her, since Grandma was far too aging a title for someone so grand. Delicately reclining against the arm of her luxurious silken chaise, Émilienne cooled herself with a fan of purple ostrich feathers and grinned at Sarah. The young girl sat in front of the fireplace of Émilienne's gold and silver boudoir, surrounded by several complete Louis Vuitton luggage sets. All of the fashion that graced the nineteen-forties was scattered about as Sarah eagerly dug through them. Despite the fire roaring behind her, Sarah was still the picture of stark, color-bleached coldness. Her hair caught none of the orange glow, and skin remained pale instead of lit.
She was like a… a… Dalmatian. But there was no reason she couldn't be grander. More ferocious. A man-eater. A beast. Not some house pet.
"I can't believe you were a porn star," Sarah giggled as she gently placed the vintage hat back in its circular monogrammed box. Émilienne clucked her tongue disapprovingly even as she smiled fondly. Sarah had shed her jeans and sweater some hours ago, and was wearing a green shirt dress – a dress that Émilienne wore when she fled Paris for New York. It complimented the pair of black and taupe, high-heeled spectator oxfords encasing her high-arched feet. The dress and shoes were probably the most demure and modest pieces Émilienne owned, but they fit Sarah perfectly. Indeed, the entirety of Émilienne's wardrobe fit Sarah like a glove, and was still resplendent over forty years later. Or maybe the wearer made them so.
"I was an erotica star, my dear. There is a distinct difference," she drawled as she adjusted the feathered collar and cuffs of her periwinkle satin robe, which matched her strappy stilettos. Nearly into her seventies, she couldn't resist dressing like a movie star – even when resting in the sitting room of her large master suite. "First and foremost, I was an opera singer. Carmen was may as well have been written for me. As for the stag films I performed in, well… they are practically family fare compared to those R-rated features your generation pays good money to see. Really, there are better ways to spend a Saturday night."
Draping a mink stole around her shoulders, Sarah shot her grandmother a knowing smile. "Like performing a strip tease for your hunky Bolivian pool boy? I know there's a reason you don't like me coming over Sunday mornings."
Émilienne gasped mockingly and held her manicured hand to her throat in faux shock. "Oh no! My secret has been revealed! I guess I should probably come clean." Leaning forward, she arched her brow and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'm also having affairs with my personal trainer and head chef. They're both Swiss."
It was enough to make Sarah laugh wholeheartedly and with abandon. Her nose wrinkled, her cheeks flushed and she shook her head. "You're terrible! I'm surprised you have any stamina after six husbands. Or was it seven?"
"It was five, you insolent, unpleasant child. I didn't marry Tomé. We only lived together." For ten years. Ah, it was wonderful, living on the Portuguese coast. They toured the globe on the deck of his sailboat. The world was theirs. And then he died, taking with him her heart. Tomé was nice enough to leave her a sizeable income, enough that she could buy herself a mansion near her granddaughter. Though she could've done that with her own money. In addition, to having a celebrated mouth (she wasn't a bad singer either), Émilienne was a shrewd businesswoman, writing her own prenuptial agreements, always including many money-earning loopholes. The fortune Linda Williams amassed could never rival her mother's.
"But you married my grandfather." Sarah took off the mink, putting it back in the case with the rest of her Gigi's outerwear. But she was very slow to take off the gloves. She peeled away the dove grey satin knuckle by knuckle, rolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. One glove fell to her lap as she pressed the other against her cheek. The look in her eyes was far and away, seeing within rather than without. Then she tilted her head towards a painted poster in a gilded frame. It was of a golden woman with catlike brown eyes and hair styled like Veronica Lake, long, wavy, but utterly black. The woman was naked. Covering her breasts were bright crimson letters that seemed to be melting, or even dripping blood. 'La Bête du Gévaudan!' Beneath that "Ça pourrait être mon premier coup d'un soir!" was written in a daintier script.
"That once hung in the waiting room of a whore house," Émilienne said with some pride. "Of course, it was false advertising. I was never paid to have sex, only to do it on film."
How different she looked now! Her skin may not have been wrinkled and creased like discarded Christmas wrapping, but it wasn't smooth anymore. Still, thanks to some skillful plastic surgery, she knocked a good ten years off her face. Several hairstylists kept her hair looking like butter and sugar as opposed to salt and pepper. Being blonde was great fun, and Linda had never been able to pull the color off.
"We looked so much alike, you and I. Of course, I was more exotic than you are. The French are actually darker than Americans think we are, and thanks to pioneers like Josephine Baker, we had no problem being even tanner. I spent many days sunbathing naked on the roof of the Paris Opera House." That said, Émilienne rose from her seat, carefully sidestepping the many boxes and chests that surrounded Sarah. There was one the girl had yet to open, and it was the one whose contents Émilienne was most eager to reveal.
"Gigi, I would've gotten that for you," Sarah cried as she watched her grandmother wobble over to a steamer trunk. The older woman wasn't feeble by any means. The stilettos were just that tall and spiky. Émilienne waved off her concern.
"Don't treat me like some little old lady, ma chèrie. I am more than capable of opening a box." Giving Sarah a quick, knowing smile, she knelt down next to a slightly yellowed cardboard box. A crushed, black satin bow kept it closed, and with a flick of her fingers, it fluttered away.
"Come here child," she ordered as she patted the spot next to her. Sarah crawled over from her spot, resting on her knees. Briefly pausing in her task to brush Sarah's hair over her shoulder, Émilienne tucked her fingers under the box's lid and pulled it off. Placing the lid on the ground, she carefully peeled back several layers of tissue paper.
"It is plain, I know," she said firmly brushed away the last pit of tissue. "But it was made just for me, so it should look wonderful on you. There isn't another like it on the planet. I assure you, ma chèrie!"
Émilienne watched carefully as Sarah pulled out the item. It was plain and of little consequence. She didn't even like it. But its value was immeasurable.
The sleek wool pea coat was the deepest and purest shade of red. It was neither too orange nor too purple. Its shade was primary with no dilution. This coat was red. No, rouge. Likes the lips of a geisha, or the sexiest pair of come fuck me heels. Too bad it was just a coat. Not even an original coat.
"It's beautiful Gigi," Sarah said as she gently pulled the coat from the box. She was eager, but not reckless as she pressed the coat to her chest, arranging it as if she were a paper doll applying a freshly cut pinafore. "But I didn't recognize the maker. Who is Gabrielle?"
"The biggest bitch I ever met. She collaborated with the Nazis. Everyone forgets that because she is ridiculously famous couturiere. Coco wasn't even her real name. Thank goodness she's dead."
The gasp that fell from Sarah's lips was anything but amusing. "This is from Coco Chanel?"
"Yes, Gabrielle designed it. Not of her own choice. I was fucking a rich patron, and he commissioned the coat. Then the Second World War happened, and life in France ended for artistes such as me. At least those who did not sleep with ze Germans."
"I take it this is for me then," came Sarah's dry reply. But Émilienne just tossed her blonde locks and chuckled good naturedly.
"But dearest, all of it is yours! The hats, the dresses, the gloves, all of it!" Waving off Sarah's shock with a flippant gesture of her hand, the aging French actress got back up and sauntered over to her chaise. "But I want you to wear the coat when you leave. Its presence annoys me. I will hold onto the rest for you until you have an adequate wardrobe. Except for the white dress. You will wear that on your wedding."
At this, Sarah stalled still, looking at her Gigi with flat, wide eyes. "What white dress?"
Cocking her head at Sarah's odd reaction, Émilienne considered her granddaughter with a thoughtful frown. "Just a floor length, silk sheath gown. It has no sleeves and a plunging neckline. I wore it to a ball in New Orleans." Said ball was actually a masquerade, but that didn't seem of any importance. The debauchery and meat she engaged in that night was better left unsaid.
"Oh. Alright. I don't want to see it right now."
What a strange, coltish creature Sarah was! To be so bothered by a gown was baffling. Her prom was coming up within the year. Soon the time to dress shop would come. Émilienne was determined to take the girl herself. Irene's tastes couldn't be trusted, and the wicked stepmother was trying her best to be the evil queen. She was so intolerable that Sarah spent most weekends with her Gigi. To be certain, it severely hindered Émilienne's love life, but she was a sucker for Sarah. Besides, Irene could never be an Evil Queen. That title would never belong to such a field mouse. Evil Queens had more style in their toe nails.
"I'm sorry, Gigi, but I have to go home now. I'll miss my train, and I don't have the money for a three hour cab ride." Sarah got to her feet, strangely listless as she navigated the pile of clothes. Émilienne should've felt insulted that Sarah was so nonplussed by a multi-thousand dollar gift. Hell, she could sell the clothes and buy herself a new BMW, or even a Jaguar if she went for a low end model. Something flashy with leather seats and mahogany trim. But she just lumbered over to her blue jeans and black turtleneck.
"Sarah, did I say something wrong? You're in quite a mood."
"No Gigi. I just need to get home," she replied as she quietly stepped into her jeans, tugging them over her long, lean legs. "I'm very tired. I took Toby costume shopping today. He didn't go for Irene's chocolate bar idea. He was determined to be a pirate."
"You should take the boy trick or treating here. He will need a wheel barrow to carry his booty."
"I would, but Irene hates coming up here. You make her feel… inadequate."
Irene was inadequate, but Sarah was determined to at least part as indifferent acquaintances when she graduated and moved to Boston. Or Pennsylvania. Where was she going to college again?
Unexpectedly, Sarah's fingers paused where they were, the tie of the dress nearly undone. "I'm going to college in Worcester, Gigi. I thought I'd told you."
Émilienne blushed at her slip of the tongue. Here she was, doing her best to seem youthful and in control, and she just acted like a senile fool. Damn.
"And I will pay for all of it. Now, leave if you must. You will not accept a ride from my chauffeur?"
"Your chauffeur is seventy years old, and the sun has set. I'll take my chances with the train."
Unable to hide her disappointment, Émilienne crossed her arms and watched Sarah tug on her shirt with a bitter frown. There was no denying that much of Linda's lack of maternal instincts came from her own mother. Both Linda and Émilienne married young, had a child and then promptly lost interest in domestic felicity. The world was just so big, men were incredibly handsome, and material wealth proved too great an excitement. Hearing a crowd scream for one more song, one more waltz was the greatest thrill a woman could experience. Not even sex was more satisfying.
After her marriage to John James Nesbit, an incredibly wealthy distiller from Ireland, Émilienne became a celebrated conversationalist. She was the toast of ladies who lunched in New York city, and their husbands, who routinely frequented her penthouse. All the while, her young daughter, Linda, suffered her mother's infidelities and eventual separation from her father. Émilienne went through two more husbands by the time Linda moved out and married Robert Williams. Only when Sarah endured the abuse did Émilienne take stock of her behavior. And when Sarah turned sixteen, she found a home and mother in her Gigi.
It wasn't an act of charity. Linda's one-time lover, Jeremy… he watched Sarah. With something like lust, but worse than that. To label the look in his eyes lust was to call the Hope Diamond just another gem. At the party Linda threw for Sarah's sweet sixteen, Jeremy was overtly flirtatious with the girl. He looked different as well. More angular, less human. As the party progressed and Sarah visibly grew uncomfortable under his attentions, Émilienne felt the worst part of herself rise to the surface. The part that thrilled in the chase, hunt and kill. The part that sent one of her husbands to the grave.
The part that had been alive and wild in her family for hundreds of years.
"What does it mean, Gigi? The poster."
Gasping, Émilienne shook her pretty blonde head, sending those horrible thoughts away. Sarah was dressed and ready to leave, right down to her scuffed loafers. She was putting on the pea coat, which did wonders for her thickly lashed, green-gold eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry Sarah. My mind was elsewhere," Émilienne breathed quietly. "The quote says, 'This could be my first one-night stand.' Above that, the beast of Gévaudan. I was from Gévaudan, you see, and made for quite the animal. The title is based on a local myth." A myth that had more than a kernel of truth. It had a graveyard full of secrets and half-truths. Not to mention several chewed up corpses.
"But I thought you were from the French Riviera," Sarah remarked with doubtful curiosity. "Your father was a fisherman."
Oh, shit. Sarah was far too good at listening. Floundering for a moment, Émilienne found a suitable lie.
"My mother had to be from somewhere, didn't she?"
Either she accepted the lie as truth, or kept her disbelief to herself, but Sarah smiled, gathered up her purse and walked over to the chaise.
"Goodnight Gigi," she said quietly as she pressed a kiss to Émilienne's rouged cheek. For a quick moment, Émilienne prayed that her granddaughter didn't disturb her makeup, but then she could think of nothing but Sarah's charming, sugar sweet perfume. "Will you be in New York for Thanksgiving? Mom's throwing a party. I'm staying there over break."
A solid lump of fear dropped into Émilienne's stomach as Sarah drew back. Suddenly her feathered housecoat was too hot, too confining. Sarah was going to Linda's. Overnight? With that… that… Whatever Jeremy was?
"No Sarah," Émilienne said quietly, her French accent thickening. Fear often brought her back to the past. "Non, ma chèrie. I have business to attend to."
"Alright then" Sarah responded. "See you soon."
Then Sarah left, hustling through the door. Her black hair swung behind her, appearing brown under the chandelier. The door closed, leaving Émilienne alone with her fire and her boxes. She stood, and began pacing back and forth agitatedly. Earlier that evening, when Sarah arrived, the only plan for the night was a fashion show. Irene, Robert, Toby, Linda and Jeremy were supposed to be distant phantoms, mere ideas as opposed to actual people. But they would not stay away. First Sarah brought up Irene and Toby, and then Émilienne's thoughts drifted to her daughter and the demon that supported her.
Soon, Sarah would be an adult according to the law, and nobody could protect her. She would have to rely on herself. But she was not ready for that. She needed time to be young, time to grow and become a fully realized human being.
Maybe though, she wasn't meant to be human at all. But how to make that happen? Sarah would never choose to live her grandmother's life. It was too sullied, too extravagant. No. No, the best plan was to just attack.
Her shoes were not made for running, Émilienne thought as she stopped her pacing. She would be slow as she walked to the train station, an easy target for any fool with even the slightest skill. Muggers, rapists and thieves could snatch her up without a hitch. However, Sarah could be speedy when she needed to be, as fleet of foot as a doe leaping over the fields.
Émilienne would only need a minute though, just one brief pause. Then she would strike. It was the best choice, really, for everyone.
Kicking off her shoes, Émilienne let her robe fall to the side. She looked to the window and peered through the large pane of glass. The sky glimmered like a sapphire under a waxing gibbous moon. Not quite full, but full enough to see by.
Full enough to hunt by.
"Je suis désolée, ma chèrie. Je vous prie de bien vouloir m'excuser."
Sarah was happy to leave her grandmother's house. For the first time, like, ever. Usually, the mansion was a really nice place to chill in. It was warm and inviting, neither too big nor too small. Gigi was eccentric too, and her decorating tastes more than reflected that. Stepping into her house was like stepping onto a movie set. Everything was so very European and extravagant, to the point of being garish. Her entire downstairs was decorated with statues of naked gold angels, Roman busts and crystal chandeliers. The art was genuine. Gigi even owned a couple of Van Gogh portraits, and several Degas ballerinas.
The place was lousy with red velvet and expensive fur rugs. It was like Gigi didn't know how to be subtle. She was eternally nouveau riche, even after forty years of being wealthy. Hanging around the Nesbit manor made her feel grown up, in a way her mother's Manhattan penthouse never could. Although, Jeremy did his best to make her feel like an adult.
Walking down the cobblestoned driveway, Sarah cast one look over her shoulder at the brick manor house, with its Corinthian columns and numerous bay windows. In the dark, it was ominous and consuming. But Gigi liked it that way. She liked being the crazy old lady living at the end of the road. For this reason, she celebrated Halloween like most people celebrated Christmas.
Skeletons hung from every tree, their knobby, twisted necks hanging from bloodstained nooses. Concrete gravestones were scattered over the large yard, and the promenade was lined by carefully painted and carved ceramic pumpkins. The wrought iron fence was covered in fake spider webs. Sarah nearly got caught in them as she unlatched the gate. She closed it carefully behind her and trudged down the street to the bus station.
Gigi lived in upper class suburb outside of Albany. The name of it was Welsh in origin, and Sarah could never pronounce it, but someday she hoped to live there. It was gorgeous. All of the houses were old and well cared for, and no citizen was too haughty to decorate for the holidays, Halloween included. Most of the yards had at least a dozen jack-o-lanterns, plus all sorts of spooky statues, like witches, gargoyles and mummies. Most of the time, it was way cool to just walk around and take it all in, but with the sun gone and streets empty, Sarah felt like she was being watched everywhere she went.
Thankful for her new, beautiful coat, which smelled like cedar and lavender, Sarah marched resolutely to the bus stop, trying not to think of unpleasant things. But it was hard not to. Her mind kept going back to her last meeting with Jeremy.
Once upon a time, Jeremy was the most incredible and charming man she'd ever met. He amazed her. But then her mother chose him over her, and he became a villain in her young mind. Eventually, his relationship with her mother cooled down, then went out altogether. Linda was simply too much for him apparently, but they remained business partners. Jeremy funded all of Linda's ventures. Linda was a kept woman, for as long as Jeremy would support her.
The last time she saw the older gentleman, he frightened her out of her wits. He was all attention and niceness. He poured her champagne, talked with her, listened to her, and even asked her to dance. At first she was flattered, but as the night wore on, he focused all of his energy on her. He just wouldn't leave her alone. His eagerness to be with her was slimy and wrong.
Worst of all, he looked at her like she was a chew toy. She could see it in his eyes. If she behaved, he would groom her and protect her. But if she did something wrong, he would shake her and rip her apart. Only one other man looked at her in that way, and she didn't like Jareth at all either. Not anymore. At one time, she greatly admired the Goblin King. He was handsome and sophisticated. As the years went by though, she realized he was a horrible man. He wanted her to fear him. To obey and love him. That wasn't normal.
Her Gigi was there though, and spirited her away from the awful birthday party. Sarah was amazed that Jeremy let her go. In fact, he seemed almost frightened by Gigi. Why though? Gigi was grand, yes, and extremely eye catching, but she was in her sixties. She was about as scary as Debbie Reynolds. However Jeremy cowered under her heavily lined, brown-eyed glare. He timidly turned away. Sarah didn't say goodbye to him when they left, but she could feel his eyes on her.
Shivering, Sarah brought her shoulders up, boxing them around her ears. It was suddenly cold, but at least she was halfway to the bus stop. It was only a block away. That wasn't too far. She had to walk through the wooded area of the local park though. Gigi's neighborhood was big on greenery, but it was super creepy around Halloween. Even big girls could be frightened of the dark every now and then. It was the quickest way to the bus, and she couldn't afford to miss her ride. Most days she'd be okay with spending the night at Gigi's, but not tonight. Tonight she wanted to go home.
Eventually the neighborhood ended and the park began. The streetlights disappeared. Only the occasional jack-o-lantern lit her path, their distorted, grotesque smiles leering at her ankles. They looked almost like goblins, creatures she had grown to abhor. She still loved Hoggle, Ludo and Sir Didymus, but weird things began happening after they started appearing in her mirror.
Her hair products and makeup rearranged themselves in her bathroom. Little misshapen handprints appeared on her window. Flower petals scattered themselves on her pillows, and feathers were tucked between her sheets. She knew it was the Goblin King playing tricks with her, so after a tearful goodbye with her very good friends, she got rid of her vanity at their behest, never buying a new one. Fear kept her from putting any mirrors in her room.
The trees above her blotted out the moon, but she could still see the path. Her vision was amazing. The doctor told her so. Navigating the darkened park was easy, even with the creepy pumpkins dotting the path. But something was off. Not wrong, but off. There was a rustling over by the hedge maze, quiet but still present. It was the only noise besides her breathing and footsteps.
Yep, this park had a hedge maze. Rich people could afford whatever they wanted, after all. But the bushes of the verdant labyrinth were barely two feet tall, so a runner could jump over them if they needed to. And at the center of the hedge maze, there wasn't a castle, but a gypsy's wagon. It was a permanent fixture to the park, looking out of place and slightly cheap. Throughout the year, it served many functions. In the summer, snow cones were sold there. Come winter, hot chocolate. But during September and October, it was a fortune teller's hut, funded in celebration of Halloween. Though it was dark, she knew it had green shingles and red wooden siding that was painted and etched with old Celtic symbols. The iron wheels of the wagon were fused to the ground, and at three feet high, they were taller than the maze.
So whatever was in those bushes was either small or low to the ground. Small or not, she walked faster, never looking back. That took energy, energy she didn't have. It really had been a long day. First Toby, then Gigi. The older she got, the less time she had for herself. Or breakfast.
'You're going crazy, girl,' she thought to herself as she slowed her frantic steps. Squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits lived in this park. It was probably something small, like Bambi or Thumper. 'He can't hurt you anymore.'
Not that Jareth had ever really hurt her. She left the Labyrinth without a single a scratch on her body. There were the nightmares afterward, of a cruel king with one mighty backhand. Yeah, he slapped her in her dreams. Only once though. Every other time he just taunted her. Then when Jeremy started… acting weird, she stopped dreaming of the Goblin King. The morning after her last dream, she found a peach pit in her coat pocket. She burned that coat, ending her battle with Jareth.
Or so she hoped. Sometimes, she heard an owl hoot and heels click on stone, but when she'd look around, nothing was there. The Goblin King punished her by putting her sanity into question.
The shuffling persisted, but it didn't follow her. The creature was quite content to scurry around in the bushes, alone in its woodland world. Each step drew her further into the park. Above her head, a light breeze sifted through the branches of large, old oak trees. Dead leaves brushed against each other like bits of paper, falling as brown confetti around her shoulders.
It was almost peaceful. She let herself relax, thinking of the next day. Tommy Williams had asked her out on a date, and she'd agreed. He was older than her by a few years, halfway through his sophomore year of college, and he was sweet on her. His hair and eyes were brown, and in his spare time, he worked as a farrier. While not incredibly handsome, he was still attractive, in a sturdy, dependable sort of way.
Sarah inhaled, sighing her pleasure. The more she thought of him, the more she relaxed. Yes, a date would be nice and normal. And maybe he'd ask her out again, giving her an excuse to ignore her family and… and…
"Dear God, what is that stench?" Sarah stopped in her tracks, covering her nose with the inner fold of her elbow. But it wasn't enough. She could still smell whatever it was assaulting her sense. Her eyes burned, and her skin was crawling. She even tasted it in the back of her throat.
Whatever it was, it put the Bog of Eternal Stench to shame. There a rotten note, a sickly sweet undertone, and this fog of… stale breath and used toothbrushes. It was as if she'd stuck her nose in the mouth of a week-old corpse. Not that she'd ever done that before, but it was the only thing she could think of.
"That's effin' gross," she muttered as she dutifully trudged on, squinting her eyes until they were nearly closed. It limited her immediate view and completely obliterated her peripheral vision, but they didn't hurt as much. Had a sewer line busted or something? It couldn't have been septic tanks. The town was old but updated, kind of like a fixed up classic car.
The stench and darkness misted around her, until only a few pinpricks of light pierced her vision. She knew them to be pumpkins. Suddenly they weren't so bad. With no light and her bearings lost, she wandered along the lane, stumbling over her own feet. The smell grew thicker, closer. Hell, she could find it if she just followed her nose. Was that really the best idea though?
No, it wasn't, but she went along with it. Why? Because she was a girl who traversed the Bog of Eternal Stench, gosh darn it. This stench was nothing compared to a swamp that farted.
Finding the stink was easy. She simply followed each curve and turn, until she was almost at the other side of the park. The smell was traced back to a fountain, a fountain she knew very well. Gigi donated it years ago, a gift to her new town with its funny Welsh name. All of the granite was imported from Egypt. The best stonemasons and sculptors in New York were employed, and together they made a perfect, miniaturized replica of the Trevi Fountain in Rome. Neptune stood in all his splendor at the center of the fountain, while water cascaded down three layers of rocks and ledges. His sea-horses reared and shook their heads in the spray, pulling a seashell chariot.
On any other day, the air around the fountain was heavily chlorinated, to discourage algae growth and duck poop. It should've smelled like a pool, but it smelled like death. Lowering her hands to her hips, she peered into the fountain. The water was clear, she could see the multicolored tiles under the water. Just barely though. Huffing, she peered up at Neptune. He was cold and white, unseeing of the world around him.
"That's funny," she whispered. "Usually this fountain is lit."
Eventually, the stench became too much. It was too bad really. She'd have to call Gigi in the morning and tell her that her favorite landmark was busted.
And then one of the seahorses tilted its head in her direction.
Happy Halloween everyone! This is my gift to you all. I'm temporarily putting 'Rocky Road to Dublin' on hold so I can work on this. I warn you, this is going to be much darker than anything else I've done in the past. I'm putting it at five chapters, but it will most likely be around three.
The inspiration for this story came from the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, but this is not going to be some cute Twilight love story. This is going to get really ugly. I want to delve into Jareth's character this time, as a frightened Sarah would view him. Jareth is a scary guy, and for somebody who doesn't understand how human men act, his 'attentions' to Sarah would probably seem terrifying.
However, he is not necessarily the villain in this story. In fact, he's the Huntsman. But that doesn't make him a good man.
I'm working on the chapter for 'Iris,' don't worry. It's coming.
Review!
By the way, the title of the story is a clue.