Villains

By Stacey Jaine McIntosh, Andra Dill, Andrea L. Staum and 6 more

Once Upon a Time... isn't all its cracked up to be.
Delve into the fairytales you thought you knew as told by the villain of the story.

Featuring 16 stories by 16 authors.

Andra Dill | Andrea L. Staum | Beth W. Patterson | Jane Gilheaney Barry | Lauren Sadie | Janine Pipe | Christie-Lee Louis | Cindar Harrell | Vonnie Winslow Crist | David Green | Whitney Engstrom | Joanna Koch | McKenzie Richardson | Aziza Sphinx | Lisa Fransson

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stacey Jaine McIntosh
• Release date: Sep 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386700104

Stacey Jaine McIntosh

Stacey Jaine McIntosh is the author of ten short stories. "Freya" and "Blood Sacrifice" were published late 2011 and "Fallen Angel" published in 2012. "Life or Death", "Exiles of Eden" and "Morrighan" published in 2013. "Red" and "The Summer Girl" were published in June 2015 and "The Hunter Million" and "Shadows of Annwn" are due to be published later in 2015. She lives in Perth, Western Australia with her husband and four young children.

Book preview

We are all villains in someone’s story.

–unknown

A PERFECT FIT

ANDRA DILL

PORTIA COLLAPSED INTO the tufted velvet chair next to her vanity, nearly weeping with relief. Walking out of the salon without whimpering had been the hardest part of tonight’s ordeal. With each agonizing step, Portia reminded herself that her mother and sisters would have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies for another month.

A dark-haired maid worked to extricate Portia’s swollen feet from her shoes. A fair-haired maid rolled down Portia’s stockings and peeled them off. Both women hissed, seeing the thin red lines that made a cross-hatch pattern over her porcelain skin.

Vivienne, we’ll need the salts. Madame Blanchefleur lit another candle. Run to my room and get them.

The dark-haired girl rose, hoisted her skirts, and trotted out of the room.

Too exhausted to remove her mask, Portia propped her elbow on the chair’s narrow arm. Bowing her head, she rested her forehead against her palm then closed her eyes. Silent tears spilled out, wetting her dark lashes and the mask’s black swan feathers. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard Madame murmuring orders to Vivienne. Cool hands gingerly placed her feet into a basin and a moment later bone-chilling water was poured over her aching flesh.

Bliss.

Leave us, Madame Blanchefleur commanded.

Portia heard the sound of swishing skirts followed by the soft click of the door-latch.

If I’d known why he requested embroidery thread, I’d never have given it to him, Madame said.

It was only a game.

Madame harrumphed, then said, Your mother will flay me alive.

She need never know. There were many things Portia didn’t want Maman to know.

After the death of her second husband, Portia’s mother had succumbed to near-catatonic grief, leaving Portia to care for her sister, Odette, and her stepsister, Eléanor. After settling her stepfather’s debts, it became apparent that their meager funds would soon be exhausted. Portia had gone to her mother’s childhood friend, the infamous Courtesan, Madame Blanchefleur.

Portia could still remember the raw knot of fear, and hunger, in her stomach as she’d begged the woman for a place in her household. Scullery maid. Seamstress. I have a fair hand with thread and needle. Laundry. Anything. Please. My mother has never turned her back on your friendship.

As if plucking the memory from Portia’s mind, Madame Blanchefleur said, I doubt you envisioned yourself in this position three months ago when you showed up on my doorstep.

Better here under your protection than out on the streets by myself. Portia shuddered.

It would never have come to that. Though right now, I imagine you wished you had taken the scullery position and not accepted my proposal so fast. Here, let me help you remove your mask.

Obediently, Portia leaned forward to allow Madame room to untangle the mask’s strings from her caramel brown hair.

No. Your offer was a fair one. I knew exactly what I was getting into. You held nothing back. Monsieur Louis will tire of me, Portia huffed out a bitter laugh, or rather, my feet, soon enough. Jeanette is the masochist, why did you not pair her with Monsieur Louis?

I knew your beauty and innocence would appeal to him far more. And poor Jeanette has crooked toes. Madame laid the black swan mask aside, then plucked pins from Portia’s hair. After setting aside the last hairpin, she picked up a brush. Are you going to keep your appointment with my cobbler?

Portia’s gaze settled on the shoes Benoît Savatier designed for her. Bright yellow, orange, and black, the colors had made her think of a butterfly when she’d first seen them. Looking at them now made her feet throb in earnest.

The firm, steady strokes of the boar's hair brush soothed Portia. A hint of Madame’s rose-scented perfume, the same worn by her mother, curled around her. With her eyes closed, Portia could pretend that Maman was the one brushing her hair. She longed to go home. Her heart twisted, thinking about the meager cottage she’d rented for her mother and sisters. Not much of a home.

Of course, I’ll keep my appointment. Better that Monsieur Louis has something lovely to admire and fawn over than be left to his imagination like tonight.

You’ve decided to attend the ball then? Madame Blanchefleur continued brushing.

Louis, her wealthy patron, had invited Portia to the King’s Ball. Confident she’d say yes, he’d commissioned a pair of slippers from the highly sought after Benoît Savatier. Knowing Louis’s preferences, she imagined her feet trussed up like a Cornish hen. If she accepted his invitation their little games would move beyond the safety of Madame’s salon.

How long before his attention turned elsewhere? Would she find another patron as generous with lavish gifts and, more importantly, money as Monsieur Louis?

Portia sighed. I wish everyone would stop talking about that damned ball. Have you heard the latest foolishness? That the King will select the Prince’s wife from the guests?

It’s not foolishness. The King’s Men have posted proclamations throughout the providence. Prince Phillipe has a vile reputation. He drinks too much. Gambles too much. He’s a seducer of maidens, an adulterer—

Maybe you should invite him to your Masked Midnight soirée. You could make a fortune off him.

Wealthy noblemen and merchants paid exorbitant fees to attend Madame’s hedonistic parties with their mistresses. If the gentleman did not have a mistress, then one of Madame Blanchefleur’s ‘little birds’ was always available to entertain. The only constraint put upon the attendees was that everyone wore a mask to preserve anonymity. It amazed Portia how wearing her swan’s mask boosted her confidence. She felt alluring, decadent, and powerful behind its dark feathers. Would Monsieur Louis be pleased with her face when he saw her unmasked?

His Poppa’s money might get him into my little kingdom— Madame chuckled at her jest— but it won’t buy him a bride from any other kingdom. King Henri is furious and determined. She sectioned Portia’s hair and began braiding it. So, my little swan, are you going to the ball?

Yes. More fool I. Portia wriggled her toes; grateful the salts were working.

A BLUSH CREPT UP PORTIA’S neck as she rolled down her stockings. Despite the titillating things she’d done at the Midnight soirées, removing her stockings for Benoît Savatier felt far too intimate.

In another life, she would only have exposed her pale, slender ankles to her handsome, charming husband. In this life, Benoît—with his round, jowly face, large brown eyes, and slight pot-belly—had the privilege.

Glass slippers. This is the challenge of a lifetime. With economical movements, the cobbler arranged his supplies. I’ll make two molds of each foot. The glass smith has exacting requirements. This is a very delicate process. His face betrayed no emotion as he held Portia’s bare-foot. This will be quite warm, he warned.

Portia leaned forward as Benoît lowered her foot into a ceramic bowl containing a murky gray substance. What is it? Mud? She experimentally wriggled her toes.

Please hold still. It’s a little concoction I created. Benoît glanced up at her. His cherubic smile transformed his bland features to... dashing.

He launched into an enthusiastic monologue about the challenges in creating crystal slippers. Portia didn’t understand half of what he said. She smiled, pleased that he would share his trials and tribulations with her. Despite knowing she was one of Madame Blanchefleur’s little birds, Benoît always treated her with the utmost courtesy. He always made her feel as if she were a lady of noble birth.

Her attention went from his animated face to his silky brown hair. She had the oddest urge to run her fingers through it and see if it was as soft as it looked.

At that moment he looked up. My apologies. I must be boring you.

Not at all.

Are your sisters looking forward to the King’s Ball?

According to Maman’s last letter, the girls are driving her crazy. Odette and Eléanor have been fighting over old dresses. Both of them have— she swirled her hand— grand plans to create a gown that will capture Prince Phillipe’s attention. But neither is skilled with a needle and, of course, they fight interminably. She chuckled, shaking her head.

The same letter had described a melodramatic scene where Eléanor, after cleaning the hearth, had broken into tears and proclaimed that Maman and Odette were treating her worse than a servant girl. Odette, who had been scrubbing the floor, hadn’t helped the situation by calling her ‘Cinderella’. Portia wouldn’t share that with Benoît. Nor would she share the part of the letter where Maman had begged her to come home. She could gloss over life with Madame Blanchefleur easy enough in letters to Maman. Visiting her mother would prove tricky. It was one thing knowing your lifelong friend was a Courtesan, quite another knowing your daughter was her apprentice.

But you, of course, already have dresses for them, yes? he asked.

She ducked her head and smiled. I hope they like them.

I have a pair of shoes I’d like you to try on and give me your opinion.

His last comment had Portia snapping to attention. From the generosity of others, she had several lovely pairs of Benoît’s creations. Portia would never turn down the opportunity to try on a new design.

I finished them last night. Ah. Ah. A few more minutes here, Mademoiselle, he admonished her when she fidgeted in her chair. We must not rush the process.

Is it one of the pairs on display? Her gray-green eyes scoured the little room like a hungry cat scouting for mice.

No. I wanted to experiment with dancing shoes. These will elevate you a few inches but I’ve flared the heel— and off he went again explaining the intricacies of his design.

Benoît paused only long enough to ease Portia’s feet out of his mud-like concoction. He shocked her by washing her foot. Though his actions were swift and efficient, the sensation of his skin against hers unnerved Portia. Heat bloomed low in her belly.

Monsieur— She protested, trying to pull her foot away.

He didn’t relinquish his hold. If we don’t get this off it will irritate your lovely skin. The next mold won’t take as long as this one. I promise. Then we’ll take a look at the dancing shoes, yes?

Pursing her lips, Portia gave the barest of nods. Why was his touch affecting her so? It felt like an eternity until Benoît patted her foot dry. The visage of a man nibbling at her toes rose unbidden in her mind. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized that instead of Louis’s near-black eyes and dimpled chin, her imagination supplied Benoît’s round face. She closed her eyes and shook her head to sweep away the vision.

Resolutely, she squared her shoulders, squelching her body’s traitorous reaction as he started washing her other foot.

ODETTE SQUEALED WITH delight. It’s gorgeous, Portia! Thank you. She hugged the plum-colored gown to her and danced around Maman’s tiny bedroom.

Portia breathed a sigh of relief. She’d debated for hours which dresses to choose for her sisters. Both girls had caramel brown hair like hers, but Odette had olive-toned skin—like their father’s—while Eléanor had the same pale complexion as Portia. To both their displeasure, people frequently commented on their close resemblance.

Selecting a gown for Ella, a nickname that Eléanor despised, had been particularly difficult. Portia knew that years of being jealous of her stepsister clouded her judgment. First for Ella’s close relationship with her father, when Portia could barely remember her own, and then for Maman’s continual absolution of Ella’s misbehavior. To her shame, she’d considered one dress solely for its ability to infuriate her stepsister. After rejecting countless gowns, Portia finally purchased the one she would have wanted for herself.

All eyes will be on you tonight, darling. Maman’s voice sounded weak to Portia’s ears. She was relieved to see that her mother had managed to put back on some weight since Portia had gone to Madame’s household.

Show us yours, Ella, Odette said.

Eléanor frowned, untying the string securing the dress box.

Portia tensed. Surely her youngest sister would love the dress as much as Portia had when she’d first seen it.

Eléanor lifted off the lid.

Oh, it’s lovely, darling. Maman clapped her hands when Eléanor held up a jade green gown with delicate vines embroidered in gold thread.

Do you hate me so? Eléanor’s eyes filled with tears. You know blue is my best color. She threw the dress down and stalked from the bedroom.

The rebuke stung like a slap in the face. Portia blinked back hot tears of her own. Bitter words clogged her throat—ungrateful, wretched, spiteful—she swallowed them down.

Into the silence, Odette asked, Where’s your gown, Portia?

It had panicked Portia that the gown and shoes ordered by Monsieur Louis hadn’t arrived before she’d left Madame Blanchefleur’s. She forced a smile. Madame promised to send everything along as soon as the packages arrived.

You mustn’t take her words to heart, dearest. Maman clasped Portia’s hand, squeezing it. She’s a sensitive child.

She’s a brat, Odette said.

Odette, Maman admonished.

Why do you always chastise me and not Cinderella? Odette gathered up her skirts and ran out.

Anger simmered through Portia. Odette had the right of it. Why did their mother always take Ella’s side?

Maman gathered Portia into her arms. Portia resisted for a moment then relaxed into her mother’s embrace.

Eléanor is still grieving, Maman spoke low. She’s like a wounded animal, striking out at anyone that tries to help. Odette takes the brunt of it. Hugging Portia tighter, she said, Be patient with Eléanor. For me. I still feel his death as keenly as she.

Portia breathed in rose perfume and that indefinable scent that was her mother. Her anger dissipated. I will, Maman.

That’s my good girl. She released her hold on Portia. I believe I’ll rest for a bit. Will you help the girls get ready for tonight?

Raised voices pierced the thin wall between the two bedrooms.

If they keep squabbling, I may douse them with water, Portia said.

Please don’t.

With a sigh, Portia left to sort out her sisters.

I won’t wear it. Portia heard through the closed door.

She knocked once, then opened it to find her sisters had squared off at the corners of the four-poster bed they shared.

That dress is hideous. You’ll be the laughingstock of the ball. Odette stood with her back to the door, hands fisted on her hips.

Portia stepped into the room and gasped. Eléanor wore an ancient, moth-eaten blue gown. A crisp white satin sash encircled her waist.

What— She closed the door quickly— is that? Her nose wrinkled as she strode over to examine the musty-smelling garment.

My mother’s favorite dress. Eléanor crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. It’s mine. I can wear it.

Are those my pearls? Portia narrowed her eyes.

Don’t be pig-headed. Wear the dress Portia bought you. It’s beautiful—

I won’t wear a dress bought with a whore’s money, Eléanor shouted.

The anger that her mother’s touch had quenched roared to life once more. Without thinking, Portia slapped the girl.

Odette gasped. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth.

Horrified at what she’d done, Portia drew her stinging hand back and clutched it to her chest. Ella, I’m sorry. I—

Eléanor laughed bitterly. Everyone knows what your precious Madame Blanchefleur is. Fire sparked in her cool blue eyes. What you are, she hissed. I won’t wear that... that... ugly dress you bought with your tainted coin. I’ll wear a real lady’s dress.

Each word felt like the thrust of a sword through Portia’s heart.

Then you’ll wear it without Portia’s pearls. Odette wrenched the necklace from her neck, breaking it. Pearls spilled to the floor. Or my sash. She grabbed the tail of the white satin and yanked until the bow gave way.

Feeling uncharitable, Portia silently cheered her sister on until a red-faced Odette clenched her fist and drew back her arm.

Odette! Portia gripped her shoulders, pulling her away.

I hate you! I hate you all! Eléanor crumpled down into a heap, crying.

An amalgam of shame, regret, and sorrow burned through Portia. Odette. Come on. Come with me. She led her furious sister out of the bedroom.

She’s—

Shh. Portia glanced at their mother’s closed door. Had Ella’s shouting penetrated the wall? What would her mother say? Nausea threatened and Portia’s chest tightened. I need air. I need to get out of here.

So, do I. Odette snatched up Portia’s hand and nearly dragged her to the kitchen. Let’s go for a walk.

The back door closed with a loud bang. Odette charged past a small herb garden in need of weeding. Portia hefted her skirts up and trotted along, trying to keep pace. She berated herself for losing control and lashing out at Ella. Portia wouldn’t rail against the fates for taking her father’s life, then her step-father’s. In the aftermath, the hard decisions she’d made had been for their survival. She didn’t regret a single one of them. Her family had a house, food on the table, and decent clothes. Even spoiled, sheltered Ella.

They passed a hedgerow of rangy bushes and plants gone to seed. Odette, still fuming and muttering to herself, charged down the dirt lane.

Will you slow down? Please, Portia entreated.

Odette whirled around, planting her hands on her hips. She has no right. No right! she shouted.

Portia cupped her sister’s cheeks, flushed with indignation. I know. Let it go. She leaned in, resting her forehead against Odette’s. Thank you for standing up for me. I’m... not ashamed of what I—

Nor should you be. Odette