Beautiful Freaks: Beautiful Freaks

By Katie M John

She may be beautiful, but she's deadly.

The enigmatic Evangeline Valentine likes to collect rare and supernatural creatures, but her desire to find unique acts for her theatre show has grown into a dangerous and deadly obsession.

Now, her attention has turned to Kaspian Blackthorne, who having just celebrated his eighteenth birthday in a wild and hedonistic journey into the bohemian labyrinth of London's theatre land, has discovered a devastating secret about his own true identity. It is a secret Evangeline Valentine is happy to kill for.

But when a series of terrifying paranormal murders take place in London's West End, Kaspian is not the only one who finds himself entangled in Evangeline's wicked web of cruel intentions. The young and idealistic Inspector Steptree is forced to re-evaluate everything he ever believed was unreal. If he doesn't accept that magic exists, it might just cost him everything.

'Beautiful Freaks' promises an enchanting and darkling adventure back in time to the bohemian and gothic world of Victorian London; with echoes of the works of Wilde, Shelley, Doyle and Stoker, the love story of Kaspian and Evangeline is just one of many captivating strands in this epic 120k word paranormal mystery romance.

***

Katie M. John is the award winning and internationally bestselling author of 'The Knight Trilogy' and 'The Meadowsweet Chronicles'. She has won numerous accolades such as Critic's Choice at the Kindle Book Review, and Reader's favourite at UTOPiA. She was also recently shortlisted for Book of The Year at 'Books Go Social'.

Known for her enchanting, darkling worlds and loveable antiheroes, Katie's works are ideal for readers of Cassandra Clare, Holly Black, CJ Redwine and Sarah J. Maas and fans of the television series, Penny Dreadful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katie M John
• Release date: Feb 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497765856

Book preview

PART ONE

1

LONDON 1899

BOTH THE CENTURY AND its Queen were dying. The winds of change rattled through the streets of the metropolis, leaving its citizens fearful of the coming times. Uncertainty bred suspicion, causing the people to return to the old ways. Mystics and fortune-tellers swarmed out of the city mists and filled the billboards of the now sober dancehalls. Nobody felt like dancing anymore. Gypsies hawked silver charms and lucky heather, and iron-faced preacher-men stood at every corner shouting warnings of damnation. It was a grey world, full of shadows.

The city was a landscape of monsters, both of flesh and brick. Chimneys from a thousand slave factories belched out black smoke; stealing the breath from the lungs and the light from the sky. Workhouses swallowed the poor; asylums the insane. It was amongst this labyrinth of sorrow Kaspian Blackthorne walked.

He was approaching his eighteenth birthday, although he felt he had been an adult for most of his life. His patron, Professor Heartlock, was making arrangements for a small private engagement in celebration of the boy’s coming of age. It would be an interesting evening, although not a very exciting one.

Heartlock was a paranormal investigator – had been a paranormal investigator – he was now mostly housebound. For the past three years, the professor had been confined to a wheelchair following a serious accident whilst in pursuit of a notorious serial killer. That was the official story. In truth, the professor had broken his back falling from the roof of a church in pursuit of a werewolf.

Professor Heartlock had once been a fascinating man to a younger Kaspian, but now his fantastical tales had faded into the sad ramblings of a man full of regret about losing his youth. When he told his tales, the lines between reality and fantasy increasingly blurred, to the point Kaspian worried the old man was losing his genius mind.

Kaspian had been just a baby when his mother and father were brutally murdered by an escaped Bedlam lunatic. The madman had believed William and Eliza Blackthorne were evil demons disguised as respectable people. He’d followed them for months, skulking in the shadows, before striking one night on their return from the opera. Despite there being several witnesses to the violent attack, the murderer still managed to dispose of their bodies so that they were never found. The whole case had been riddled with inexplicable circumstances and so quickly became a national news sensation. The murderer made no attempt to hide or escape; he maintained he was working for the glory of God. Regardless of his belief, they hanged him in front of a large cheering crowd.

With no other relatives, Kaspian had been destined for the workhouse orphanage until Heartlock came to his rescue.

Heartlock had been a good patron, although perhaps a little lacking in his understanding of children and childhood. As such, Kaspian’s nursery had been a study. His playthings, strange scientific apparatus and his childhood stories, great leather-bound texts on religion and the supernatural. It sometimes seemed Heartlock had been set on raising a protégé to carry on his life’s work rather than a young man. As a result, although Kaspian’s upbringing hadn’t been cruel, it had been serious; and although showered in fondness and attention, it had lacked love.

Kaspian pondered his eighteen years as he walked through the evening gloom of the London streets. The rain had forced most people inside, creating the impression that the great metropolis had turned into a ghost town. Kaspian liked walking through the streets at times like this. It made him feel as if he were walking through his own misty and silent empire.

He’d been on an errand for his patron and was now returning, laden down with books. His cargo didn’t stop him skipping over the puddles with an unusual childlike joy, or humming to himself. He was happy and free.

Then he saw her.

She was standing under the streetlight, a newspaper held out in front of her as if she were reading it. Kaspian thought it obvious she wasn’t; she was watching the church on the other side of the cobbled street. He stopped midstride and pulled himself behind a tree; spied on her as she took a pocket-watch from her pocket and flipped open the lid. She cradled it in the palm of her hand and raised it until it was level with her eyes before studying it carefully. This struck Kaspian as an odd way to read the time, most people just looked down with a quick glance, and it led him to believe the device she held was not a watch at all, but another form of apparatus.

He looked over to the church she was watching. It looked empty and he couldn’t fathom what could possibly be of interest. The lights were out, the door locked, and the whole place had the impression of sleeping. He turned his attention back to the woman. She was tall and slender; striking in a slightly over-powerful way. Despite wearing a full, black-silk skirt, the fitted waistcoat and black necktie were manlier in dress than ladylike. He’d never seen a woman like her, although he had heard of ‘her sort’ as Heartlock’s companions would say.

Kaspian took advantage of her intense concentration to move his head around the tree and peer at her more closely. He could see she wore a monocle in her left eye and was at least ten years younger than he’d guessed from the first impression; about twenty-one. She must have sensed him looking at her because she turned towards him and smiled at the rather ludicrous sight of him poking out from behind the tree. Kaspian was already precariously balanced on the tip of his toes, and in an attempt to dash back behind the tree, he stumbled straight into her line of vision. 

He bent down and pretended he’d been about to tie his shoelaces, trying to mask his clumsiness. As he looked up at her from under his flop of dark, wavy hair, he saw she was still smiling at him; a strange reaction to the discovery someone was spying on you. The boldness of her expression unsettled Kaspian in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. When he was sure she had returned to her own secret observations, he scuttled past her and almost ran to the safety of home.

By the time he pushed open the imposing front door, Kaspian carried the strangest sense that something deep within him had changed – that things would never be quite as before.

Good evening, Kaspian, Heartlock said, greeting the boy in the hallway. Is everything alright?

Yes, Sir, he answered, dropping the string-tied pile of books onto the hall table.

Did you manage to get all I requested?

Yes, all of them apart from the Valentine book. Mr. Foxglove said he was sure he would have it by the end of the week.

Mr. Foxglove was one of Heartlock’s oldest acquaintances. He ran a bookshop situated in one of Soho’s shadier alleyways. The sign above the door read, ‘Rare and Precious Books’ which made it sound almost respectable. In truth, the great leather-bound books of poetry and Shakespeare folios were a front for the back room; the place that held real interest for its rather darker clientele.

Although the shop had a small, narrow front, it had a seemingly endless body, which always gave Kaspian the unnerving impression he was being swallowed by a giant snake. Right at its tail was the occult section. Not only did Mr. Foxglove sell occult books, but there were also shelves of other strange and curious objects, which might appeal to the amateur alchemist or necromancer; glass jars of preserved reptiles, grinning skulls, and black candles were amongst some of the more identifiable items.

Kaspian had visited Foxglove’s shop since being a small boy and he was no longer quite so scared, or impressed, by its spooky appearance or its owner. Before Professor Heartlock’s accident, they’d always visited together. It was one of the rare occasions the old man shared any physical affection with his charge. Kaspian would search out Heartlock’s bear-like paw and grip it tightly, afraid the strange Mr. Foxglove might kidnap him and cook him for supper.

Mr. Foxglove had always been ancient, and so paradoxically he no longer aged. He wore a glass eye, but as he’d shrunk with age, it had become too big for the socket and now bulged, giving the impression the eye belonged more to an insect than a man. Even now, Kaspian constantly had to remind himself not to be rude and stare at it because he found it totally captivating. Mr. Foxglove had long lost the ability to stride and now shuffled along the stone floor in a pair of velvet slippers. In all of his years of visiting, Kaspian had never seen the man wear outdoor shoes.

The occult section of the shop had no windows. Before the client entered, Mr. Foxglove would shuffle into the darkness and light the dusty oil-lamps, which filled the room with paraffin smoke, and cast dancing shadows over the books. As a child, Mr. Foxglove had taken delight in teasing Kaspian about his fears surrounding the shop, telling him the shadows belonged to the book goblins. Both men would laugh, and although he knew he was being mocked, Kaspian’s imagination refused to give up the idea – even now he found himself looking for the goblins out of the corner of his eye. 

Today, Mr. Foxglove had already bundled and tied the books in readiness and they were sitting on the counter waiting for collection. Kaspian was grateful for this; not only did it save him time but it also meant he did not have to visit the back room. The books were heavy and twice he had used them as an excuse to stop and rest; once in a coffee shop and once to spy on the strange woman who now haunted the edges of his thoughts.

Ah, well – patience is a virtue, said Heartlock, snapping Kaspian out of his drifting daydream. The professor’s face flickered with disappointment and he started to cough in reaction to the early winter air Kaspian had brought in with him. Heartlock’s aging lungs squeezed and wheezed; it was a sound now as familiar as the sound of his voice.

The old man recovered the pile of books from the side table and placed them into his lap before deftly turning his wicker wheelchair one hundred and eighty degrees and wheeling back towards his study.

Kaspian let out a deep sigh. The sight of his patron becoming so immobile and decrepit added to the increasing sense of heaviness Kaspian believed was attached to the adult world. Even the house, his home since childhood, faded and peeled on a daily basis. It was as if the whole place was a projection of its master’s state. The dust layer deepened, the gloom spread, and Kaspian felt increasingly like he was suffocating.

When Heartlock had been a fit man, the house had been full of fascinating visitors; the sound of hearty, booming laughter and the tinkling of whisky glasses filled the study, which was a hub of academic and scientific progress. It was amazing how quickly a life could decay. 

2.

DISCOVERY

FRANK GREAVES WAS THE last punter to leave the Tall Ship public house. He had no reason to hurry back to his lodgings, which served as a poor substitute for the home he’d once had. In a time when he was young, and life was as it should be for the likes of him, he’d had a job, a hard and physical job, working the heavy theatre rigging for the Albury Play House on Shaftsbury Avenue, but as well as having a certain distorted glamour and a sense of family, it paid the rent well enough for a home built around a plain but loving wife, and a boy, Jack, who would grow up to follow in his footsteps – of that he had been so sure. And yet the cholera that had swept through that part of the city without mercy had stolen everything from him. There was just a week between the loss of his wife and that of his son. His entire future swept away like the tide sweeping clean the beach.

He had taken to drinking. It was the immediate relief to a terrible sadness he could never see ending. In the three years since his wife and child had died, The Tall Ship had become a place as familiar as the bed he slept in on rotation in one of the tenement rooms shared by five other men down on their luck. Five beds divided by three men’s shift patterns. When you were drunk, such things didn’t matter. It was a vicious cycle. The fear of things mattering were enough to turn a lot men to gin. He was not alone – even if he had no one he could call his own. His theatre family had turned out to be as much as an artifice as the worlds he had created night after night – transient and insubstantial.

When he first laid eyes on the magical spectacle in front of him, his first thoughts were that he had come across some spectre or angelic presence, although what an angel might be doing visiting the drunk Frank Greaves in some grimy London alley in the sin-sodden area of theatre land, was a wonder even to himself. He shook his head, hoping he might somehow dislodge the fog caused by the liquor, but all that achieved was a further dizzying effect. He approached the glittering sight, his hand extending through the light mist that heralded the fall of a much thicker fog to come. His breath caught in his throat, seeming unable to make that final exhalation and blocking the inhalation of air. He was drowning on the sheer mysticism of the sight in front of him. It was a statue, made of ice. There in the fog. There in the middle of the alleyway, as if lit from within. With the tip of his nose almost touching the nose of the statue, Frank’s eyes began to focus on the blurred face held beyond the shimmering veil of ice-light. His heart jumped to the blink of an eye trapped behind the glistening vision. He hollered out, desperate to call other witnesses to this terrible miracle.

Hey! Hey! Help! Over here! Over here! he called to the shadowy figures passing through the descending fog.

A few paused and Frank was momentarily hopeful that help was on its way, but the figures soon hurried away from his fretful pleas for help. They were wiser than that. They were not fooled by the theatricals of some cut-throat hollering for help down a dark and misty alleyway. It was much better to pretend the stranger’s pleas for help were nothing more than a trick of the city echoes.

Frank began to run towards the end of the alley, towards the gas-lamps of the main avenue, towards reality.

Help! Help! he called fruitlessly. There’s something...

Frank’s sentence was cut off by the sheer exhaustion of his frightened and labouring lungs. He stumbled out onto the main avenue, rambling something about a frozen angel in the alleyway.

Clearly drunk, rich men in top hats, and proud women in silks, stepped out of Frank’s way, exclaiming their disgust with mutterings and sneers. Out of breath and confused, Frank tried to reach out to some sense of shared human understanding. Grabbing at a woman’s green silk arm, he gesticulated wildly towards the alleyway.

Please come, please come! he begged.

Her screams prompted her moustached and pinch-lipped, willowy company to give Frank a frim kick in the shin, releasing a string of expletives that did nothing for Frank’s cause.

Eventually, the ensuing chaos was broken up with the sound of the policeman’s whistle – and Frank, rather than feel the fear it was meant to create in the criminal heart, felt a moment of relief. Help was coming. Somebody at last would confirm he was not crazy.

ALICIA

THE ICE-QUEEN

THERE IS A BEAUTY TO the streets at that time of night. It is something otherworldly which reminds me of home. The fog is like a white wall of anticipation, or smooth snow – or an innocent heart.

Each time the killing happens, it is the same. I am caught in a never-ending cycle of seasons. With each spring comes hope and with each winter ... death.

Once upon a winter, the fourteenth after my birth, the snow fell soft and deep and the world turned to ice. The meadows and the forests were covered with a white beauty. It was a hard winter; a cruel cold. Icicles hung from the branches of the trees and the roof of the house. As a child, Mama had warned me about the dangers of such beauty. If an icicle should fall, it would be as deadly-sharp as a blade.

And it was.

A splinter so sharp it spliced through the fabric of my dress and the shell of my skin, before embedding itself into the soft tissue of my heart with nothing more than a sharp gasp and a flinch of pain. As if to baptise the moment, a single drop of blood fell onto the snow.

By rights it should have killed me, but it had other, more magical, plans.

The cut healed quickly. It was as if the flesh had been keen to swallow the shard of ice. A small silver scar marked the spot, but after a while I thought no more of it.

The snows melted. The spring flowers grew and the love songs of the birds returned to the forest. With the spring came the gardener’s boy. His name was Rowan. He was sixteen and the apple of his father’s eye.

Mama was not quite so keen on him, and she was certainly not very pleased about Rowan starting work in our gardens, mainly because of the close proximity it would create between the two of us. My mother, it seemed, had the same intuition as a mother hen recognising a fox had been invited into the hen coop. Rowan was a striking, handsome boy, over-confident and cheeky – just the kind of boy her innocent daughter might fall silly over.

I’d only seen him once before, whilst in town running errands with Mama. The boy appeared a fool. Handsome, but a fool nevertheless – or so I’d gathered from Mama’s tuts and rolls of the eyes. He’d strolled through town, all six-foot of him, with a blade of field-grass in his mouth, his hat twirling in his hand, and a sparkle of wickedness in his eye. He’d spotted the group of older girls who stood outside the schoolhouse in a small flock, the white cotton of their skirts dazzling in the spring sunlight.

Morning, pretties, he called, reducing them to a heap of blushes and giggles. Mary, our Sunday School mistress seemed most affected. She stood twirling the cotton of her skirt in her hand and swayed on the spot as if hypnotised. Rowan must have spoken to them about their bonnets and dresses, as each took their turn to twirl in front of him whilst he bent down to inspect the intricate needlework on their hems. Mama had also stopped to watch and offered me a commentary of disapproval.

Impertinent boy! If their fathers catch him behaving like that, he’ll get a whipping.

Why? I asked, What’s he doing wrong?

Behaving out of turn, that’s what. It isn’t polite for a young man to speak to ladies about their skirts.

Oh, I replied, still not fully understanding what was quite so wrong about it. The thing I did clearly understand was the boy made Mama displeased, and at fourteen, I was happy to follow her opinion. I looked on, partly fascinated, partly disapproving, and this was how I thought of Rowan until the next time I met him.

IT WAS A GLORIOUS MORNING, the kind that holds the promise of summer. I’d been sent out to gather primroses for the Easter table, an errand that provided relief for everybody concerned. Mama was fussing around the house in perfection-mode and doing a really good job of winding up all the household staff. She already threatened to fire the linen maid and beat the grounds-man’s boy for treading mud into the scullery. It was clear being sent on flower duty was a way of removing me from the firing line.

The day was full of cool sunlight. The soft cooing of the wood pigeons and the distant sound of a metal spade digging the hard earth made a natural duet, reminding me that the best patch of primroses were by the kitchen gardens.

It would mean having to pass close to Rowan, but as we’d never spoken, it didn’t seem too much of a threat. I blushed at the thought of it. Just because we hadn’t had a conversation it didn’t mean I hadn’t spent many hours watching him work from my bedroom window. Despite convincing myself the boy was arrogant and an idiot, there was something about seeing him at work that I found strangely bewitching.

I skirted around the wall, planning to sneak up on the patch of primroses without being spotted. He was at the far end of the garden, turning over the salad beds, whilst singing loudly. I giggled and fell back behind the wall, cramming my hand over my mouth to try and stifle my laughter. When I’d calmed myself enough to risk another look, I poked my head around the corner to see Rowan’s grinning face less than a hand-stretch away.

Morning, Beautiful!

I let out a little cry of surprise, before burning with embarrassment and then anger. Morning, Ugly! I responded venomously.

Rather than insulting him, he found it amusing, and a smug, satisfied smile flashed across his lips, followed by a wink.

Touché! he teased.

With nothing clever left to say, I shouted at him to, Go Away! before picking up the hem of my skirts and running home to the safety of Mama.

The flush of humiliation still burnt on my cheeks as I ran, but the anger I’d felt inexplicably turned into a smile. Suddenly everything seemed to shine, and by the time I fell through the front door, I was laughing like a fool.

Mama greeted me from within the shades of the house, calling out, Alicia, is that you?

Yes, Mama, I replied through ragged breath.

I knew the sound of my strained speech would attract her attention. She disapproved of physical exertion; thought it un-ladylike. Her starched white apron preceded her by several inches. When she caught sight of me – my hand on my stomach, catching my breath, my cheeks red and blotchy – she tipped her head to her left and looked at me with something between puzzlement and judgement.

Whatever has happened?

Nothing, Mama. I looked away from her interrogating eyes and caught my reflection in the mirror. There was something different; an enlarging of the eyes, a hardening of the bone structure, the painting of a blush and a staining of the lips.

Mama tutted, turned on her heel, and left me behind for the kitchen.

Mama? I called after her, bewildered as to what crime I’d committed.

She looked back over her shoulder and ordered, Go and take a cold bath and change your dress. The guests will be here shortly and you look ... excitable.

‘Excitable?’ I shook my head, puzzled by her strange choice of word.

Taking the stairs two at a time, still feeling as if I’d been injected by a sudden burst of sunshine, I headed towards my room. Ignoring Mama’s instructions to run the bath cold, I heated the copper pans on the stove and poured hot water in until it steamed. With a final act of defiance, I added an excessive amount of rose oil – it was the smell of the gardens.

I stepped in, indulging in the feelings of sunlight that glowed from within; luxuriating in new exotic images of smiles and hands, of eyes flashing with curiosity and invitation. As I lay back, the oil turning my skin to silk and the heat of the water sending me into the in-between space of sleep and waking, I felt my heart needled by a sharp pain; sharp enough to draw a gasp before it passed, and I slipped once more into thoughts of the gardener’s boy.

THROUGHOUT THE REST of the spring, I barely saw him. Mama never asked me to go and gather flowers again, and she told me I was now too grown up to go out and play. I was instructed to fill my time with the activities of a young lady; sewing, playing the piano, or writing letters to distant, elderly relatives. But after months of this claustrophobic existence, I erupted in a rage of frustration, complaining, "I would rather be dead then be a lady." Mama, reeling from the shock of her daughter speaking to her so out of turn thought she’d teach me a lesson by sending me to work the mornings in the kitchen. Her punishment became my salvation, and my time in the kitchen became the highlight of my otherwise tedious and dull existence.

Mama had failed to realise that, at least three times a week, Rowan would deliver a box of vegetables, fruit, and eggs from the gardens to the kitchen – sometimes there’d even be a large river salmon or a brace of rabbits which he’d hunted. Our cook, catching my gaze and my blush as Rowan made his delivery on my first week, insisted every week afterwards that I be the one to go and open the door to him. I lived for this moment – the feel of Rowan’s body as he pushed past me in order to get the box through the door. I could have moved out of the way, and he knew this, which is why his presses grew slower each week. As he passed he’d always whisper, Hello, Beautiful.

And I would always respond, Hello, Ugly.

When he put the box down, I’d skip over, excited to see what treasures he’d brought us. Sometimes our hands would accidently touch as we reached out for the same thing. He’d turn to me and smile, let his finger return to the spot where it had touched, and then he’d stroke it whilst he watched my reaction with fascination. When he did this, it was enough to make me feel so giddy I thought I might faint.

The rest of our lives were so separate that there was little for us to say in these fleeting minutes, but they were weighted with possibility; a possibility of happiness and freedom.

These precious moments made me hate my ‘upstairs’ life even more. Mama and I argued constantly, and she seemed to be going out of her way to increase my frustration and entrapment. She’d made it a mission, seeing as my curiosity in boys had clearly surfaced, to ensure I was spending my time with the right sort of boys. She’d taken to inviting disgustingly overdressed women and their darling sons to afternoon tea. These little gatherings were awful, but not as intolerable as the soirees, for which I was dressed primed for market, and forced to play cards with pompous, dough-faced heirs.

Ever since my father’s death, everything about our lives was pretence and I grew increasingly embarrassed by Mama’s sense of desperation. When he had died, our ancestral fortune had been almost entirely swallowed up by death taxes. Mama had scaled back our previously extravagant lifestyle and was now just waiting in the hope of finding me a ‘good’ match – by which she meant ‘wealthy’ match. Although she had made a valiant effort to keep up the impression of wealth amongst her aristocratic neighbours, there had been rumours of our family’s demise for years. I knew most of the women who came and courted their sons to us came only to have a nose around the house and to take a cruel delight in seeing that the rumours were true.

It was me who had to carry the burden of hearing our guest’s mocking laughter as they made a hasty retreat at the end of the evening. It was me who heard their cruel, unnecessary comments about the dusty fabrics, outmoded silks, and poor quality wine. Mama would sit in her chair, drinking sherry and congratulating herself on a successful evening. At times like these, I felt the desire to smash every object in the room – including my mother’s smile. I longed for outdoors, for the forests and the meadows, for the vast expanse of sky above my head instead of the heavy velvet drapes, the candlelight, and cigar smoke.

In this way, summer passed. Throughout all that time Rowan and I never moved forward from our gentle flirting. I could have sought him out – used my horse-riding as an excuse to steal away and see him, but something stopped me; a knowledge that it would be like throwing a ball of string into the air and watching it unravel at speed.

He was patient. He knew his place. Rowan understood we could never be together; I would be married off to a gentleman with a big house and a cruel heart. Which is why when he gave me flowers for my birthday, it was the moment our lives began their inevitable journey towards tragedy.

The day before my birthday, Rowan failed to show up for his delivery. In his place came a knock at the door. When I rushed to open it, the box of vegetables had been left on the doorstep and a large bouquet of cornflowers, tied with a scarlet ribbon, had been placed unceremoniously on top. Laughing, I stepped out into the yard thinking Rowan must be hiding and about to goose me, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I picked up the card that had been placed amongst the flowers.

Happy Birthday, Beautiful!

May all your wishes come true.

Forever yours, Ugly x

I stared at the ‘x’ imagining the ink and the paper were our lips pressing together. He had written a kiss and my only wish was to make it real. I lifted the card to my lips, pushed it against them, and dreamt it was Rowan I was kissing. When I opened them, I saw him sitting on the wall at the far side of the yard. I blushed – embarrassed he should have seen my silliness. He lifted his head and smiled at me, and I could see that he was blushing too.

I tucked the card into the top of my dress to hide it from Mama, and carried the box into the kitchen. I arranged the cornflowers in one of the stoneware jugs before running them upstairs to my bedroom. I tied the scarlet ribbon around my wrist and spent all day smiling at it.

From that point forward, I made every effort to ‘accidently’ run into Rowan as many times a day as I could get away with. I took him chocolates and bonbons, which I stole from the kitchen, lent him books from our never-used library, and painted him little watercolours of flowers from the garden. In exchange, Rowan would put aside deformed vegetables, which he knew would make me laugh, pick me bunches of wild flowers, and make gifts of ribbons, which he’d bought at market.

When at last we kissed, it was at the Festival of Fires.

THE FESTIVAL OF FIRES was the most celebrated night in our village. It took place after the harvest, when the farmers burned the wheat rubble in preparation for the winter ploughing. It had started in ancient times as a way to purge the land of decay, making it ready for the coming spring. As well as setting the fields alight, a large bonfire was built in the village market-square. Tradition dictated it should be built from the outgrown cradles of the village newborns and the beds of the deceased. In this way, it was thought to keep away the darkness of winter and celebrate the never-ending cycle of life.

Although still rich in tradition, the sanctity of the fire rituals had given way to revelry and high jinks. Most of the village’s younger generation saw it as a chance to party and abandon the usually tight social rules of engagement. On the night of the Festival of Fires, all men were equal. They ate at the same table, drank from the same barrel, and danced with whomever they liked, regardless if they belonged to another or not. In order no disputes arise, everybody who attended the Festival of Fires wore a simple mask made from woven corn – freeing each man from judgement by his neighbour.

This year was the first time Mama had ever let me attend the festival, and it was only because I was to be accompanied by Charles Wainright, Esquire of the Broxley Estate, that she agreed to let me go. I could see from the flush of her neck and the sparkle of her eyes Mama had high hopes of a union between our two families. In the end, despite my initial horror, going to the festival with Charles Wainright came with certain perks, such as Mama buying me a new white virgin gown and having my very own corn mask woven.

By the time Wainright’s carriage arrived at the village, the party was already in full swing. Everywhere I looked, I saw a swirling mass of people dancing and singing. I smiled at the thought of how easy it would be for me to steal away from Charles for a while. I’d been there for less than ten minutes before I felt a hand slip into mine and pull me away from the group of Charles’ infuriating friends. As soon as the hand touched mine, I knew it belonged to Rowan.

Against the black of the night, the flames of the bonfire created the image of hell; and it was delicious. Lost in the crowd, Rowan turned to me, placed his arm around my waist, and pulled me into dancing. We danced until we collapsed, out of breath and crippled by laughter.

The boy sat next to us suddenly gave Rowan a shove, giving him a heads up I was being searched for. Once more I felt myself dragged away as Rowan took my hand and led me away from the bonfires, down the shadowy passages of the village and out towards the woods. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t.

When the noises of the festivities were nothing but background babble, we stopped our frenzied flight and stood with our hands to our chests, catching our breath.

In the dark of the forest, my white cottons shone like the moon.

Alone at last, Alicia, Rowan whispered, untying his mask.

Yes, alone, I repeated with an un-missable tremor in my voice.

I reached to unknot the velvet ribbon holding my mask in place, but the more I pulled, the tighter the knot fastened.

Here, let me help you. Rowan moved towards me, reaching out his arms to untie the ribbons. He leant in, searching to see the knot in the moonlight. I felt his breath on my cheek and I trembled. Are you scared? he asked.

No – should I be?

The mask loosened and fell into his hands but he didn’t step back – his nose brushed against my chin, his breath thickened as he nudged at my neck. He whispered into my ear, Maybe! As his lips moved they touched my skin, causing a ripple of goose-bumps. "You know what the old wives

Reviews for Beautiful Freaks

[ktu35114 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I absolutely loved The Knight Trilogy by Katie M John and when I heard she had a new book coming out I was extremely excited. Katie writes with such simplicity that you can read her books with amazing ease. Although the characters are such a complex group, all together they make one miraculous story.Eighteen year old Kaspian has become a man and discovers he has some unusual abilities. His parent’s died and left him in the care of a Professor in arts of the supernatural. Since Kaspian has come of age the Professor decided to have a soiree to introduce Kaspian amongst his acquaintances. During the party, Kaspian meets another young gentleman, Hugh. Hugh is a rich party boy and offered to take Kaspian out to a special club. Once inside No. 7, Kaspian was mesmerised by the owner Eve. It was like love at first sight for him and he had to keep returning. The specialness of this club was with the theatre acts that occur behind a secret doorway. Kaspian watched his first show and the women were so beautiful and enthralling. Each Lady has a special gift and it all appears to be smoke and mirrors, but was it?A series of murders have taken place around London and their special circumstances lead the Detective’s to visit the Professor. With some help from an old volume detailing all of the supernatural creatures and their abilities, a lead is found.Will Kaspian be able to love Eve and will Eve love him in return? Can Kaspian master his abilities? What about the murders, will the Detective find the mastermind? What will happen to the Palace of Beautiful Freaks and the Beautiful Freaks themselves?Following Kaspian’s journey is a real adventure. This book is a fantasy like no other and is so far beyond amazing and unique. Like Katie’s Knight Trilogy, this has it all; adventure, romance, action, mystery, suspense and intrigue. I highly recommend this to all that enjoys dark fantasy novels.