Snow White Lies: Twisted Fairytale Confessions Collection

By Sarah J. Pepper

“Evil poisons everyone. Period. Our mouths water when we sink our teeth into what we have always craved. Surrendering to our desires by biting off delectable piece of the forbidden fruit is nothing more than a meager confession: Poison tastes sinfully sweet,”—Confessions of the Big Apple Debutante, by blogger Miss Snow White.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah J. Pepper
• Release date: Apr 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781524232887

Sarah J. Pepper

Sarah J. Pepper specializes in dark, paranormal romance - think "happy ever after" but with a twisted, dark chocolate center. Real-life romance isn't only filled with hugs, kisses, bunnies, and rainbows. True-love can be more thoroughly described in times of darkness and tribulation. It's in those harsh moments where you see what a person is truly capable of - both the good and bad. Sometimes prince-charming isn't always on time, and the glass slipper is a little snug. However, it doesn't mean Charming is not Mr. Right, and who says every shoe is the perfect fit? Get a glimpse inside her head at www.sarahjpepper.com

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Prologue

Alias: Snow White

{New York City, Imminent Future in the 21st Century}

The provocative scent of the once unnamed vigilante lingered on my chiffon curtains. Motorcycle exhaust mixed with his signature cologne. Other than his aphrodisiac essence, there was no other indication that he’d been inside my penthouse tonight. Even so, I knew he’d been here all night to protect me from the Seven, a demonic mob that claimed New York City for their Queen.

Drawing back the curtains, I gazed through the balcony windows that overlooked the Big Apple. The city was particularly enchanting when the sun cast vibrant hues over the brilliant architecture built by our forefathers—unremarkable commoners who’d been long forgotten by all but one. The Huntsman bore witness to the rise and fall of nations, oversaw queens and kings come to power, and had washed more blood off his hands than any wartime criminal. Yet, he was never mentioned in textbooks, on the news, or God forbid, the tabloids. He might as well have been a ghost for he’d claimed no name for nearly two centuries. The Huntsman was the most unrenowned person alive; yet, he pestered my every waking thought.

The natural beauty of the skyline almost overshadowed the fact that the city was diseased with black magic: alchemy of Seventh degree. Nevertheless, an heiress such as myself, could pretend the necromantic sickness enslaving the city did not exist. The fashion, propaganda, high-end lifestyle, limelight, and little white lies were enough to ignore the evil festering in the city below. Furthermore, half of the city paid dues to White Industries. My Enterprise. My credit cards had no balance limit because of the good fortune this city had provided me.

However, I knew that the Huntsman saw a different scene gazing upon the greatest city on Earth. It was a city that came with power; a city that thrived off of the almighty dollar; a city that brewed with dark magic. It was the city to which he had been condemned to so long ago by the Queen who swore no allegiance to the Americans.

If I closed my eyes, I could picture him leaning against the bronzed casing of the window beside me. I envisioned him looking down at the citizens with a vengeful jealousy. They lived the lives they wanted. He did not.

Yet, he had come for me on his own accord.

That he was in my penthouse tonight was not to be mistaken with his newfound freedom. No, it wasn’t a simple coincidence that what he was ordered to do and what he so desperately sought were one and the same.

Me.

I let out a gasp upon catching sight of him. Blanketed by shadows, he watched me from outside on the balcony. His frozen breath lingered in with the industries’ smoke that capped the sky. By all means, he could hide in plain sight, even though his robust stature suggested otherwise. I eyed his leather jacket and wished that I clung to his body instead of it.

Hunger had long since manifested in his light blue eyes when he gazed at me. I’d promised to slip into something more comfortable the next time we met, but nothing in my closet justified tonight’s significance. Hence, cherry lipstick and pair of black Burberry heels had to do.

The mix of lust and the forbidden four-letter word built between us until I could no longer stand it. I stepped out from behind the softness of the curtains and pushed open the oversized door. The harshness of the bitter cold air pricked my skin, but the temperature was miniscule to the effect he had on me.

My choice of attire, or lack thereof, was met with unhinged approval in his eyes. His gaze dropped. His body tensed. He was at war with himself; he was in battle with me. My arsenal was in the form of lipstick, and his were clenched tightly in his hands. One gripped a black powder gun, circa the Revolutionary War. The other clutched a bright red apple. Fate brought us together, but it would be his choice to comply with the evilness that forced us against each other.

My stiletto switchblades clicked against the icy floor as I approached him. For a city that never slept, everything else was drowned out when I met him on the edge. Without tearing his gaze from my lips, he handed me the apple. His cold hand lingered on mine until I punctured the fruit’s skin with my manicured nails. The juices dripped down my arm as I brought it to my mouth.

Just one bite, the Huntsman promised. His archaic Americana accent expelled the urgency in his voice with a lingering provocativeness that could not be matched.

I knew I shouldn’t do as he asked. The apple was laced with poison that would certainly be my undoing. Yet, to deny my cravings any longer would positively kill me.

The sweet apple burst in my mouth. As I swallowed the forbidden fruit, he closed the gap between us, taking what he desired. With the gun pressed up against my body, he stole a kiss from me—a kiss I had no intention of denying him.

With the gun’s nozzle resting against me, I dropped the lipstick-stained apple. It fell off the edge of the balcony just as a gunshot broke the stillness of the night.

Chapter One

Alias: Unknown

{New York City, 1771}

Déjà vu.

A redheaded beauty lay frozen on the dock of the most predominate shipping yard in the New York Harbor. Large rope was strewn around her waist, which would be heavy enough to hold her petite body at the bottom of Hudson’s unconventional cemetery. However, her feet were submerged in buckets of cement to ensure she never surfaced. Aside from her cement shoes, she was dressed immaculately, wearing a corset black dress that highlighted her hour-glass figure. Each stitch was perfect, and the white lace was pressed smoothly against her skin. Her scarlet hair was done up in curls. The shine of her hair accentuated her shimmering ruby red lips. Her spectacles were water stained, but her olive green eyes still shone through. They were open, freezing the horror on her face from the moment she died.

Kneeling down beside her, he pressed down on the gaping gunshot wound on her chest. Gunpowder residue was dusted on his hand. He had shot her.

Why?

What had she done that warranted her death? Why couldn’t he remember? Certainly he wasn’t the kind of man who killed without reason. And even if he was, where was the gun? How long had she laid on the dock—dead—without anyone knowing? How much time had passed while her feet were cemented?

Her skin was cold against his hand. It was too late. Nothing could be done. She belonged to the otherworld now.

A tear slipped from his eye when he closed hers. This woman had been important to him even though she wore an unfamiliar wedding band around her finger.

He tried to recall the night’s events that ended with the death of the mysterious woman. Nothing surfaced. Anything of significance escaped him. In fact, he couldn’t recall anything, not even his name.

He remembered nothing.

How?

Although he could not recall a specific time and place with her, vague memories of sliding his hands down her silky smooth skin fluttered in his thoughts. Her ghostly kiss lingered on his lips. The spark of unrelenting determination in her eyes surfaced when he closed his. Her laugh echoed in his ears like a haunting remembrance to what was—what they had been before... The harder he tried to remember, the more their phantom past slipped through the cracks in his mind.

What’s your name, boy? someone said, standing behind him. His shadow cast onto the beautiful corp.

I...I don’t know, he replied, turning around.

A dwarf strummed his fingers on his spiked cane. He bore a strong Anglo-Saxon genealogy and was well-dressed as any man would be who owned land and substantial coin. Dressed in black breeches and a yellow waistcoat, he appeared positively out of place in the shipyard. While the man couldn’t recall anything significant about himself, the dwarf’s reputation preceded him. He went simply by the Boss, leader of the Sons of Liberty.

You have no name? the Boss questioned.

My name escapes me, he admitted.

You have no namesakes? The Boss said, as if speaking to himself. Then he chuckled, finding the man’s recollection entirely too humorous. "Well, it doesn’t matter, nameless man. You are in debt to the Queen."

I’m in debt to no one, the nameless man snarled.

The Boss pointed the tip of his can at the redhead. "You shot her yet you believe you will not pay consequences?"

He’s a fool, another dwarf jeered. "An idiot and it’s fitting he’s got no names. The Queen should ‘ave listened to me when I said he was no good."

Like any high profile leader, the Boss wasn’t alone. Armed with a Kentucky long rifle, another dwarf, who went by the alias Privateer, sat on the dock’s railing. His eyes were as green as the emerald necklace around the dead woman’s neck. His teeth were crooked. His fiery red hair was hidden under a top hat, yet the man was anything but a businessman. His clothes were only a little better than a beggar’s, but his dress wasn’t remarkable. Tattoos littered his skin. Only his face and hands were clean of the ink. His Irish descent was unmistakable. His mittens had the finger tips cut off, but the dwarf did not seem to notice or care about his complete lack of hygiene. He seemed rather concerned with scraping the dirt out from under his nails, all nine of them, with a rusted switchblade. Nonetheless, he knew that it wasn’t dirt. What lay under his nail beds was residue of black coal.

Practitioners who performed in the dark arts often referred to black coal as Elixir. It amplified spells, hexes and curses. Demons, necromancers, witches and whoever else worked spells, could work more powerful and complicated magic with a little black coal. That meant that they would pay a small fortune just to get their hands on some of it.

But Elixir wasn’t only for magically inclined. Those who didn’t practice dark magic sought it as a drug. The state of ecstasy the residue provided was immeasurable and the bonus? It was not detectable by usual drug testing. The only proof of drug use was the black coal, leftover residue that tended to line addict’s fingernails.

And the dirtiest fingernails were these two dwarves. They were two of the Seven: a notorious, demonic mob of dwarves. They were noxious to society. Tales about the Seven and their corruption were common knowledge amongst those who performed dark arts, but nay mentioned amongst the mundane—people who were oblivious to black magic.

The Seven’s allegiance was only to the Queen. Some said that she was a powerful necromancer, but few know her true power. She preferred to stay inconspicuous, allowing the Seven to do her bidding. They did so because they all swore their lives to her. Why? Because they were more powerful together, under her rule than without.

How the nameless man knew all of this but not his own past was still unanswered. It was infuriating! He just needed a moment to gather his thoughts. Surely his recollections would return.

Redheads are beautiful creatures, even when they aren’t breathing, the Boss commented casually.

Fury filled the man’s heart when the Boss grinned smugly at the most beautiful corpse in the world. Hatred poured through the nameless man, and he wanted nothing more than to tie the rope around the dwarf’s ankles so that he and the woman may find their watery grave together.

Awaiting your repayment to the Queen, you belong to us, the Privateer snickered, jumping down beside the Boss and handed him the gun. And until then, we don’t need you to expire before your debt is paid in full.

Flipping out a switchblade made of bone, the Privateer advanced toward him. The dwarf swayed like a drunken bastard, like he didn’t know how to walk properly on land after acquiring his sea legs. He grabbed at the man’s arm.

The nameless man swiftly kicked the legs out from under the Privateer. Striking quickly, he man punched the dwarf’s nose, breaking it immediately. The nameless man twisted the boney switchblade out of his attacker’s hands. The switchblade was uncannily hot to the touch. But it was still a knife, regardless of the magic harbored within it. Thus, the nameless man charged the other dwarf.

The Boss aimed the rifle at the man’s chest. Without hesitation, the nameless man threw the switchblade at the dwarf. It stuck in the dwarf’s chest, but the little bastard didn’t fall.

Calm down boy, the Boss ordered and pulled the trigger.

The bullet punctured the nameless man’s knee. Blood splattered. Bone shattered. He dropped and clutched his leg.

Just kill me! the nameless man demanded through clenched teeth. I’m bound to lose my leg if I don’t bleed out.

There will be no more dying today, the Boss barked, lowering the rifle. He pulled out the switchblade that was wedged in the nameless man’s chest and tossed it to the Privateer who was wiping his bloody nose on his shirt. The dwarf’s eyes were already swollen and bruising had taken up around his nose.

The Privateer kneeled beside him and pressed the switchblade against his neck. Let’s try this again, shall we mate?

The nameless man spat on the dwarf’s face. Fuck off! 

Enraged, the Privateer slammed the switchblade down on the nameless man’s forearm. Moving quickly, the nameless man grabbed the hilt of the blade and jerked it out of the dwarf’s hand.

Best be on your way, chalker! the nameless man yelled, pointing at the Privateer. I will not be your cutting board!

How many bullet holes do you need before you smarten up and cooperate with us? the Boss asked, humored as he tapped gunpowder into the barrel.

The nameless man’s lip curled. More than one.

So be it, the Boss affirmed and fired again.

This time the bullet grazed the nameless man’s hand. He dropped the switchblade.

Acting quickly, the Privateer slammed his foot down on the nameless man’s wrist and armed himself with the switchblade. The Boss followed suit. He withdrew a pistol and pointed it at the nameless man’s head.

It would be a pity to kill you, the Boss promised. A man of your stature would be useful to us.

Cutting beside the previous stab wound, the Privateer jerked the blade in a cryptic rhythm. The blade tore through the nameless man’s skin.

It’s more effective if you whistle, the Boss said dryly.

The Privateer stopped and withdrew the blade only to point it at the Boss. Has your tattoo’s effectiveness worn off? No? Then shut it and let me work my talents on my own accord.

The Boss tugged on the hem of his sleeve, covering the bit of tattoo peeking out from under his clothing. Satisfied with the Boss’s reaction, the Privateer dug the blade back into the nameless man’s arm. The nameless man’s blood turned black as it oozed to the surface. Ink poured from his veins. It crusted over in a matter of seconds. The dwarf had cut the current year into his skin; a jagged number the Seven was scratched over the top of the year. It was the Seven’s brand.

The blackened blood flaked off. In its place was a tattoo instead of the cut marks.

The nameless man demanded, What have you done?

I blessed you with the longevity of the gods. The Privateer grinned, revealing his yellowed teeth. Bourbon was fragrant on his breath.

You will not age a day until your debt is repaid, an equally short Negro woman answered, walking up to the scene. She casually sipped tea from a white China cup like it was common to step over dead women on the docks.

She was dressed more prestigiously than the Boss. For a privileged woman of her color, she was a glaring minority, due greatly to the Dutch West India Company. Nearly half of the city’s population came here with shackles around their ankles.

The nameless man may have carried a great disdain for the woman, but it wasn’t because of her cocoa-colored skin. He loathed slavery and the way it brought out the worst in people. Just like the other two, he knew who she was even though he couldn’t recall meeting her before. Her reputation superseded her. She was the infamous Widower.

Upon smelling the Privateer, she wrinkled her nose, and she handed him her cup of tea. Her fingertips were cased with underdeveloped birds’ beaks. They looked like claws from a demonic creature. You stink like a whiskey barrel.

And you smell like a wench, darling, the Privateer whispered like he would to a lover. "The good Doctor will go positively dumbstruck when she gets a sniff."

She nodded to the bleeding man on the ground. Am I to thank him for making you better looking?

The Privateer’s lip curled. He got lucky.

She shoved the teacup against the Privateer’s chest. The Privateer pretended not to notice the rude gesture. The lingering scent of the morning tea was tempting enough. He raised it in the air in salute to thank her, and then downed it in one gulp. His blackened fingerprints dirtied the cup. He nonchalantly twirled it around on his finger, watching the Negro dwarf circling around him.

"The Queen has given you as a gift to us until you are able to fulfill your penance, nameless man. Thus, you are to be the Seven’s indentured servant—a lieutenant, she lectured like the words had been spoken many times before. In a matter of speaking, we own you."

’Tis a pity about the party you are planning with the Sons of Liberty, Boss. Brits make the best brew. The Privateer tossed the Boss the empty cup.

The Boss was forced to lower the rifle or watch the expensive cup smash to pieces. He let go of the weapon so his fine China would not be destroyed. The Privateer snatched up the gun. Judging from his grin, the gun was exactly what he had wanted from the Boss. And he knew how to manipulate the situation so he’d get it. 

The Queen insists upon the matter. Thus, I will convince the colonists to do what she asks, the Boss replied, making his annoyance for the Privateer’s behavior clear in his voice.

The Irish dwarf aimed the gun at the nameless man’s head. Pow! He chuckled to himself and lowered the gun. "You are a man of nice things. Oh rubbish, I mean, you were a man of nice things. What was once yours is property of the Seven now, Mister Gu—."

Enough, the Widower barked, silencing the dwarf before he could reveal the man’s name.

The Privateer knew who he was, that was certain. From the knowing looks on their faces, they all did. His past, his memories...they all didn’t seem startled about a woman turning up dead in a shipyard this morning. It was like they were expecting it.

Tell me what you know, the nameless man demanded.

"In good time, all will be clear to you. At least that is what the Mirror tells us," the Widower deadpanned.

She walked up next to the nameless man. Her black spectacles almost made her approachable, but damn it if he didn’t get chills when he caught glimpse of her white eyes. She stood in silence as she eyed the dead woman and her swollen belly. He hated that the Widower smiled with pleasure as she took in the sight of the corpse.

We cannot call for the Doctor, the Widower claimed, looking at the redheaded corpse. She wouldn’t approve of any of this if she knew the Queen’s source of power. The Doctor has a thing about killing innocents. She must not know the truth about what happened here today.

The Boss nodded to the nameless man. Just take care of him, will you? We’re losing time that the Queen does not have. Much must be done in order to preserve her body.

Who’s body? the nameless man asked, glancing at the redheaded woman on the dock. His heart ached when he laid eyes on her.

None of your concern, the Boss dismissed, blocking the redhead from the nameless man’s view. You won’t be involved in that. You’ve proven yourself untrustworthy...but a good shot. We can utilize your skills elsewhere.

I’ll never obey you, the nameless man seethed.

That’s unlikely, the Widower scoffed. They all say that in the beginning.

She withdrew a locket from around her neck and pried it open with one of the beaks on her fingers. The locket was made of black glass. She whistled softly and then blew on it. Coal residue was cast into the air. Within the locket, smoke twirled around. The Widower’s spectacles mimicked the smoky twirl. She took them off, revealing possessed red eyes.

She grabbed the nameless man’s thumb and pressed it up against the blackened glass. The moment his skin touched the glass, it shattered and cut his finger.

Your future is undone, shattered like glass, the Widower said in a voice that was not her own. Like her eyes, her voice sounded like it was coming from a different person. "You are the Queen’s property, until the fairest harlot whose skin is as white as snow and hair is as dark as night is sacrificed by your doing. Be warned. Lies spew from her blood-red lips, but she will give you a worthy epithet."

The nameless man questioned, A harlot will be my penance?

"How am I to know? The Mirror only shows me a future, he doesn’t decipher it, the Widower exclaimed, speaking once again in her normal voice. When you find her, you are to bring the Queen her dead body."

"We all do what the Queen requests. And if she wants you to sacrifice a woman on her behalf that is exactly what you’ll do, the Boss said gravely. And the Seven will ensure that her wishes are met."

With that, the Widower closed the locket. She reached for the nameless man’s left hand. She pried the piece of metal off of his ring finger. The dead woman bore a matching band on her finger. Had she been his wife?

Who was she? That he killed this redheaded woman meant that he hated her...yet that she bore an identical wedding band meant he’d once been in love with her.

Who was she? he asked.

She was a fool but is no longer, the Widower acknowledged. She’ll never be fooled by you again.

When he looked up at the Widower, she was slipping his ring between the chains around her locket. His ring melted with the chain until there was nothing to indicate he belonged to the deceased woman, other than the tan line around his ring finger.

I must get going, the Widower apologized. The good Doctor wishes to have a word with me.

Send her my love, the Privateer said with a wink.

She’d rather catch scurvy than lay with you, she retorted.

She might get both as quickly as you spread yours, the Privateer teased, flashing his rotten teeth.

The Widower kicked the cement buckets into the river, dragging the woman below the waves. Acting upon instinct, he swung at her.