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Saturday, June 27, 2015

Snow White Lies - Twisted Fairytale Confession - Sarah J. Pepper #erotic #promotion #fairytale #book

Chapter One
Alias: Unknown
{New York City, 1771}
Déjà vu.
A red-headed 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. 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.
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.
“You are in debt to the Queen,” a dwarf said, standing behind the man, strumming his fingers on his spiked cane.
His miniature shadow cast onto the beautiful corpse. The dwarf 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.
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 coal. Practitioners who performed in the dark arts often referred to it as Elixir. Necromancers paid a small fortune just to get their hands on some of it. Those who didn’t practice dark magic sought it as a drug. The state of ecstasy the residue provided was immeasurable.
The two dwarves were demons of the notorious Seven: a mob of dwarves who practiced dark alchemy: aka, black magic. Their allegiance was only to the Queen, a powerful necromancer. She preferred to stay inconspicuous, allowing the Seven to do her bidding. They were noxious to society. Tales about the Seven and their corruption were common knowledge amongst necromancers, but nay mentioned amongst the mundanes—people who were oblivious to black magic.
“It’s time to dump the wench’s body,” the Boss said as casually as if he’d been informing them of tea time.
Fury filled the man’s heart when the Boss grinned smugly at the most beautiful corpse in the world. Hatred poured through him, 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 said, 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. He 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 man charged the other dwarf.
The Boss aimed the rifle at the man’s chest. Without hesitation, the 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 said and pulled the trigger.
The bullet punctured the man’s knee. Blood splattered. Bone shattered. He dropped and clutched his leg.
“Just kill me!” the man said 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 said, lowering the rifle. He pulled out the switchblade that was wedged in his chest and tossed it to the Privateer who was wiping his bloody nose on his shirt. His 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?”
He spat on the dwarf’s face. “Fuck off!” 
Enraged, the Privateer slammed the switchblade down on the man’s forearm. Moving quickly, the man grabbed the hilt of the blade and jerked it out of the dwarf’s hand.
“Best be on your way, chalker!” he 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.
His lip curled. “More than one.”
“So be it,” the Boss said and fired again.
This time the bullet grazed the man’s hand. He dropped the switchblade. Acting quickly, the Privateer slammed his foot down on the man’s wrist and armed himself with the switchblade. The Boss followed suit. He withdrew a pistol and pointed it at the 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 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 his arm. His 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 Seven’s brand.
The blackened blood flaked off. In its place was a tattoo instead of the cut marks. “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. He 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. Thus, you are to be 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 and said, “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.”
“Enough,” the Widower barked.
She walked up next to the 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 said, looking at the dead woman’s swollen belly. “An innocent has died.”
The Privateer rubbed the back of his neck. “An unfortunate casualty but necessary.”
“Let me deal with the Doctor. No one is to mention what happened,” the Boss said and then nodded to the nameless man. “Just take care of him, will you?”
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 red eyes. Widower was possessed.
She grabbed his thumb up and pressed it 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.”
He 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 said, 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. 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 his left hand. He was shocked to see he had been wed-locked. 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? 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 said. “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 said, 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. When his fist collided with her face, it cracked. He stumbled away, unsure of what was happening. Chuckling venomously, the Widower’s skin flecked away and broke off in chunks. The moment they collided with the ground, each chunk turned into a blackbird. Her body continued to become more and more decrepit until there was nothing but coal cinders on the ground. Hundreds of blackbirds circled overhead a few times before flying off to the horizon.
“Come,” the Boss said. “There is much the Queen insists upon, and there are only the Seven of us.”


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