Wickedly Charming (5 page)

Charming looked like a book bag tree. He had two stuffed book backpacks on his back, two equally stuffed book bags hanging off each shoulder, and four brimming book bags in each hand. Probably 150 pounds of books.

Not that 150 pounds hobbled him. After all he was one of the strongest booksellers here. (Okay, okay, truth be told, he
was
the strongest bookseller here.)

But 150 pounds draped off him in an awkward and badly packed manner made the weight seem at least double. He staggered as he walked, afraid he was going to leave a trail of books, the way that Hansel and Gretel supposedly left a trail of bread crumbs.

Only no birds would eat books.

Although booksellers would probably snap up some of the more exclusive advance reading copies.

He grinned to himself at the thought. He needed a grin, because he was already breathing hard by the time he reached the front door. The parking lot spread before him, a sea of glistening cars. His Mercedes was parked in the only remaining bit of shade—about two thousand miles away, as the crow flies. And he wouldn't be able to walk as the crow flies. He would have to stagger between the cars.

Which he did. He would have felt ridiculous if he were the only one doing this. But as he walked, he passed four other booksellers, stumbling under the weight of their treasures. Most of them had only four book bags full of material, but most of the booksellers were older than he was (Greater World years versus Kingdom years) and not as svelte.

Of course, they didn't have to maintain a kingly regimen either, just in case their Kingdom was invaded. Two days per week of jousting practice, three days of sword fighting practice, one day of archery practice, and one day of hand-to-hand combat practice (which he would replace with martial arts, if he ever became king), not to mention all the horseback riding.

When he came to the Greater World, he kept up his skills by running marathons (the most surreal being the ones sponsored by Disney. Sometimes he felt surrounded by the Greater World's inaccurate representations of his friends and family) and working on his black belt. He had a brown belt now. One day he'd use those skills in his hand-to-hand combat practice, just to let everyone in the Kingdoms know he wasn't some pushover bookish prince whose wife had walked all over him.

(Even if he was, to be truthful, a bookish prince whose wife
had
walked all over him.)

Sweat trickled down his brow as he passed yet another bookseller—this one smart enough to have brought one of those collapsible grocery carts that he had filled with his books.

“Good move,” Charming said as he passed the bookseller.

“Saves my back,” the bookseller said.

And his feet and his knees and his thumbs. Charming's thumbs had started to ache from the awkward angle he held them at.

He thought he'd never reach his car. But he finally did.

His hands were too tied up to activate the keyless entry, so he set all the book bags down, and fished for his keys. As his Mercedes chirruped at him, he let out a small sigh of relief.

He opened the passenger door, forced down the seat and filled the back seat with bags. Either he had to pack well or he had only two more trips ahead of him—which simply was not satisfactory.

He took the books out of their bags, arranged them in even stacks—biggest on the bottom, smallest on top. When he was done, he figured he had three more trips before he ran out of room.

By then, he'd probably be exhausted.

He locked the car and headed back. As he did, his gaze went to Snow White's stepmother's van. (What was that woman's name? Had he ever learned it? Or was she cursed with a stupid label, like he was?)

The back of the van was open and someone was rummaging inside.

Charming felt an unexpected urge to apologize, even though he hadn't done anything wrong. The woman had anger issues, but he understood those anger issues.

He also understood the bitterness. Bitterness and the feeling that no one else knew exactly what he was going through.

Especially when people expected him to be perfect. Prince Charming—as if he were an ideal. Apparently, he was an ideal. The beautiful stepmother was right; everyone wanted their own personal Prince Charming—especially if he looked like the Disney version that had once passed him in the Disney Marathon—thin, black-haired, stunningly handsome, flawless.

Charming wasn't flawless. He certainly wasn't thin anymore. Even with all the required exercise, he still had a paunch that wouldn't go away. For a while, Ella had called that paunch love handles. Then she'd pat that little roll of fat and tell him he wasn't working out hard enough. And finally she started pinching it, as if she could pull it off him with the force of her fingers.

Her sharp, little, pointy fingers.

He shook his head, tired of obsessing about that woman. But he couldn't help himself. Except for a few really unsatisfactory dates here in the Greater World, he hadn't been with anyone else since. And Ella had custody of the girls.

He really missed his daughters. Especially here, at the book fair. There had been a number of books he picked up just for them. When they'd lived at the palace, he would read to them every night.

Now he got to read to them for seven nights a month, when he had his one-week visitation.

He looked up in surprise. He had veered toward the PETA van, even though he hadn't wanted to. And, as he got close, he realized the person messing in the back of the van wasn't a person at all.

It was one of the flying monkeys.

He felt a surge of disappointment. He really wanted to see the beautiful stepmother again. He wanted to talk to her about something other than archetypes and being charming. He wanted to see if he could touch that soft skin of hers again, if maybe they could find common ground besides their uncommon background.

He'd never quite understood the flying monkeys. They weren't from his Kingdom. His Kingdom had a lot of inexplicable things—talking mice, magical birds—but they had counterparts in the Greater World. The Greater World had mice, they just didn't speak English. The Greater World had birds, they just didn't seem to care about the affairs of humans.

The flying monkeys were from one of the fringe Kingdoms, a Kingdom he'd never visited. Charming had met some flying monkeys and some tin men and some animated scarecrows. He'd also seen unicorns and dragons and all sorts of so-called mythical beasts. But only here in the Greater World. Never in the Kingdoms. As he got close to the van, he watched the monkey grab a loud, red 1960s Sergeant Pepper-y coat and pull it on, stuffing his wings into the back of it. The monkey put on a hat, a fake ZZ-Top beard, and sunglasses.

The disguise made him look human enough, until you peered and realized that greenish brown fur covered not only the skin around his eyes and his forehead, but also his hands and forearms.

With those hands, he grabbed two signs out of the van. He waved them a little, not because he was trying to get attention with them, but because he seemed to be having trouble controlling his wings.

It took him a moment to get the signs under control. As he did, he turned them toward Charming.

Book Unfair! Destroy the Lies!

Charming felt an odd flutter in his chest as he read those words. Book unfair? What book? What were they protesting exactly?

Had someone done an exposé?

The flying monkey closed the back of the van, sending a wave of fresh Magic Marker scent toward Charming. Then the monkey grabbed the signs, slung them over his shoulder, and marched toward the building.

Charming hurried to catch up.

“Excuse me,” Charming said as he reached the monkey's side. “Are you with PETA?”

He said it the way the animal rights group did—pee-tah—and the monkey's mouth tightened into a little frown.

“I'm with PETA,” he snapped, articulating each letter. “People for the Ethical Treatment—”

“Of Archetypes, I know,” Charming said. “What's this about unfair books?”

The monkey stopped. Charming had to stop too. Up close, the monkey smelled vaguely rank. Something wild animally and sharp and somewhat unpleasant.

“You read these things?” the monkey asked as if there was something wrong with Charming.

Things. Charming frowned. “You mean books? Do I read books?”

The monkey nodded.

“Of course I do,” Charming said. “Why else would I be here?”

The monkey's eyes widened and he took a step back, as if he had met an enemy worse than the Wicked Witch he had once supposedly worked for.

“You're being brainwashed, pal,” the monkey said.

“By books?” Charming asked.

Books opened minds. Books expanded horizons. Books didn't brainwash. Books couldn't—at least in the Greater World.

In a few of the Kingdoms, books actually came to life and had powers that did make them dangerous. Charming had learned to avoid those Kingdoms, and so far, no one had traveled out of them bearing books.

Or if they had, the books lost their power once they reached the Greater World, which happened to a number of magical things. (Although it rarely happened to magical people.)

“Yes, brainwashed by books,” the monkey said as if Charming were particularly dense. “You read those things, they warp you. You probably have no idea about the evil being perpetrated by those horrible fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales,” Charming repeated.

“That's right,” the monkey said. “They're lies. Damn lies. And they've got to be stopped.”

“The fairy tales have to be stopped,” Charming repeated because he didn't entirely understand this. “Fairy tales have been around for hundreds of years.”

“That's hundreds of years too long,” the monkey said. “We've got to put an end to this madness.”

“By protesting a book fair?” Charming couldn't keep the incredulousness out of his voice.

“We have to start somewhere,” the monkey said. “Which reminds me. I have a meeting.”

He tipped his hat to Charming, then loped away, his wings fluttering against the back of that red coat. The signs bobbed, mocking Charming.

Book Unfair
.

Destroy the Lies
.

Destroy…?

Oh good heavens. Did PETA want to destroy books? Was that why the organization was here? He was confused. They thought they could—what? Stop the spread of fairy tales? Make fantastic literature go away?

To what end?

He needed to go back to the exhibition hall, but he found himself following the monkey instead.

Mellie was fighting off a headache. She was hungry, tired, and more discouraged than she wanted to admit. If she tallied up all the results of all the protests she had ever done, she could count fifteen newspaper articles (only three of them in “newspapers of record”), two rather snarky blog posts, some unflattering photographs, and one light piece at the end of a local newscast.

No one took her seriously. No one even tried.

Her effort to get the message out was failing, and she wasn't sure why.

Although she knew what her problem was here.

She couldn't find a foothold.

Five of her protestors were already marching through the hall, shouting
Death to Fairy Tales
! Another five were handing out flyers explaining PETA's position on fairy tales and why they were evil, along with the URL of the website she had started back when she first conceived of the protest idea.

No one really wanted to listen. Those who did stop did so reluctantly, looking longingly at the doors down the hallway, as if hoping for rescue. A few took the flyers and tossed them when they thought they were out of sight.

She really did need a new strategy. She just didn't know what it was.

She tried to think about it as she carried her sign—
Not All Stepmothers Are Wicked!
—and marched in her circle, keeping her eyes out for those pasty rent-a-cops. This time, she wouldn't let them move her out of the way. This time, she would hold her ground.

She was halfway around when she saw a familiar, elegant figure come through the door leading to the service entrance. That Charming got around. He still looked marvelous, even if he was frowning.

She wasn't sure she had ever seen a Charming in a full-on snit before, but he clearly was. Had someone stolen his precious name badge? Or had they refused to give him books?

As she rounded the circle, she had to turn her back on him, which was disappointing. At least he was wonderful to look at. And she was curious to see where he was going.

Suddenly a hand clamped tightly on her shoulder, pulling her backwards, away from her chanting line.

She normally took a swing at anyone who touched her unnecessarily—she'd learned that because of all the gropey people in the palace (particularly the knights)—but this time, she thought about it before she beaned the grabber with her sign. It could be one of the security people—and such an action was guaranteed to get her thrown out—or worse (better?) it could be a reporter.

She glanced down at the hand warming her skin, and saw it was beautifully shaped, with long elegant fingers. Only two kinds of people had hands like that—famous people and beautiful people.

She turned her head even farther, and saw Charming's face dangerously close to hers. His eyes, behind those glasses, were sky blue fringed by long dark lashes, his skin even more flawless up close (except for the flush building in his cheeks), and his beautifully shaped lips were pulled back in a thin line.

He wasn't in a full-on snit. He was angry.

She had no idea that Charmings even got angry. Was it allowed?

He grabbed her sign and tossed it to the floor. Then he pulled her to the bend in the hallway, away from the marchers. She signaled them with her hand to continue walking, not that any of them had come to her defense.

“Tell me you're kidding,” he said, as if they'd been having a conversation.

His grip on her shoulder was firm, but not painful. Still, she slipped her hand under his wrist and lifted his fingers off her skin. She felt an ache where they had been.

“I'm perfectly serious,” she said, not sure at all what he was referring to. So she got to choose the topic. “Not all stepmothers are wicked.”

She turned toward him as she said that, and realized that she was a half an inch away from pressing her entire body against his. For a second, she was tempted. Then she took a step back to put a proper distance between them.

“I
know
that about stepmothers,” he said. “I happen to like mine.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Your father remarried?”

He shook his head, the look of annoyance on his face growing. “My stepmother-
in-law
,” he said. “Ella's stepmother. I like her. She's a strong woman, who had a few bad breaks.”

“See?” Mellie said, forcing herself to smile. “My sign is right.”

“I'm not talking about your damn sign!” he snapped. “You want to ban books. Don't you?”

The fury in his voice startled her. She had rarely seen any man that angry, let alone a Charming. (Well, she had never seen a Charming angry at all, but she had seen a lot of angry men—some of whom had some real magic behind the anger. Charming didn't need magic. He had strength of personality. His anger was… formidable.)

“I don't want to ban books, exactly,” she said, forcing herself to remain calm. “I just want to reduce the lies a bit.”

“By banning books,” he said.

“Not all of them,” she said. “Just the ones that lie.”

“Just the ones that lie,” he repeated. “You mean fiction?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. It's—”

“Fiction is very, very important,” he said, his voice rising. “Storytelling is how people learn. You get people to understand new cultures and other lives through
stories
. Made-up stories. Fiction.”

“Yes, exactly,” she said. “Which is why it can't lie.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fiction lies for the truth.”

“Then tell me,” she said, “what truth do fairy tales tell?”

“Fairy tales?” he asked. “This is all about
fairy tales
?”

“Yes,” she said. “They misrepresent us.”

Then she shrugged, feeling a bit angry herself.

“Well, they misrepresent some of us. You, for example, have nothing to fear from them. They don't attack you and call you evil and wicked and—”

“Don't start with that ‘people like you' crap again,” he snapped. “People like me know that happily-ever-after is a crock. I'm divorced, remember?”

She bit her lower lip. She really hadn't put that together.

“I'm divorced, I don't see my kids enough, for heaven's sake, and I'm not perfect.” His voice was rising. “Do you know how hard it is to go through life when everyone expects you to be perfect?”

She almost said,
Obviously not
, but thought the better of it. He was angry enough.

“Do you know what your problem is?” he said, leaning close to her. “You don't know how lucky you are.”

His arrogance took her breath away. “Lucky?”

“Lucky,” he said. “You're beautiful, you're smart, you're successful enough to travel the Greater World, for heaven's sake, and all you care about is what people think of you.”

“I do not,” she said.

“You do too.” He swept an arm toward the protestors. “Are you really an Archetype? Nowadays? Maybe a century ago, when women didn't have as many opportunities. And maybe when you couldn't choose your own identity. But who in this world knows who you are unless you point it out to them? And when you do, they think you're crazy.”

“You don't know—”

“I do know!” He was yelling now. “Of course I know. Do you know what some officious little American government prick did when I told him my real name after I passed my driving test? Do you?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“He laughed.” Charming lowered his voice. “He laughed and said my parents ought to be shot.”

She smiled. She couldn't help herself. She could picture that. She, at least, didn't have to go around introducing herself as the Evil Stepmother because that wasn't her real name. Never had been.

“Go ahead,” he said, with some heat. “Laugh. But it's not fun. I actually prefer Dave. No one laughs when I say my name is Dave.”

“Hey!” A door opened near Mellie. A man peered out. “Can you people pipe down? We're taping in here.”

One of the ogres—whose name she always forgot—raised his sign and waved it in the man's face. “This book fair is unfair!” the ogre growled. “It's—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the man said. “Someone is always publishing something someone else objects to. Whoop dee ding dong do.”

Then he slammed the door closed.

Mellie stared at it for a moment. Her heart sank.
Whoop dee ding dong do
.
Whoop dee ding dong do
?

That man, a man she didn't know, had just dismissed all of her hard work with a single
whoop dee ding dong do
.

And don't forget his other comment
, some small voice said inside her head.
That someone is always publishing something someone else objects to
. Like it's normal.

Charming was watching her. He looked at the closed door, then looked at her, as if he realized that man's comment had made some kind of impression—although he clearly wasn't sure what kind.

The protestors had stopped marching and shouting.

“What do you want us to do, Mellie?” the selkie asked.

She didn't know. She had no idea anymore.

So she shrugged. “Take a lunch break.”

They set their signs down and bolted out of the hallway. She wondered if she'd ever see them again.

She didn't want to look at Charming. He would be laughing. He would gloat. Or he would be gone already.

But she couldn't help herself.

She looked.

He had an expression of compassion on his face. “It really bothers you what they think, doesn't it?”

Her lower lip trembled, and she bit it. Hard. Evil stepmothers weren't supposed to cry. Nor were they supposed to care about the opinion of a Charming.

But here she was, on the verge of tears, in front of a Charming who actually appealed to her.

“Back when I was thin and shapely and beautiful and oh, so young, I didn't care,” she said. “But then more thin and shapely and beautiful and oh, so young things showed up and I stopped being important, and I would say something a little sarcastic, and I suddenly got called old and bitter and jealous, and it just went downhill, no matter what I did. Words hurt, Charming. Words hurt.”

He nodded. “So you thought you could control the words.”

“Isn't that what you do with that golden voice of yours and that marvelously soothing manner? Don't you control the words?”

He gave her a rueful smile. “If I did, don't you think I would have ended up with custody of my daughters?”

Mellie looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. He was very handsome. Elegant, not quite as trim as he could be, and just a hint of a bald spot that he might not even know about. A few lines around the eyes.

Not as young as he used to be either.

Seasoned.

Like her.

Only no one called him old and bitter and jealous.

But, back when she first met him (all of a few hours ago), he had called himself a nerd.

“What are you really doing here in the Greater World?” she asked.

“Me?” his voice squeaked just a little. “Getting books. I told you. I read a lot.”

She picked up his badge. It was purple, not for royalty, like she'd initially thought, but for booksellers. “You got an illegal badge?”

“No,” he said. “I sell books back home.”

“You're a merchant?” She couldn't quite keep the incredulousness from her tone.

He straightened his shoulders as if by making himself taller he would become more powerful. “It's an honorable profession.”

He was being defensive. That surprised her. “I just thought being prince was profession enough.”

“Maybe in the Greater World,” he said. “Here princes have to give speeches and do good works and have meetings with other princes. Back home, all I do is wait for my father to die.”

He flushed a dark red.

“I didn't mean that the way it sounded,” he said.

“I know what you mean,” she said. “You like it better here.”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He waved his badge at her. “People don't have any expectations of Dave the Bookseller. Except one.”

“What's that?” she asked, actually curious.

“They expect him to know a lot about books.”

***

As he said that, he suddenly knew how to solve her problem. Charming held out his hand.

“Come with me,” he said.

The hallway was quiet, now that her people weren't shouting. The signs still lined the corridor. Her small team had left them behind. Fliers littered the floor. She had made a mess.

She wasn't looking at the mess. She was looking at his hand as if she expected him to be holding a dagger. “Why should I come with you?”

“Because you're going about this all wrong,” he said.

She frowned, turning her head slightly in that way people had when they were considering something they hadn't thought of before. Or maybe she just wasn't sure if she should walk away with a crazy man who had been angry with her a moment before, and who now believed he had the solution to all her problems.

Because he did. He did have the solution to all her problems.

Or at least, to what she thought her problems were.

“I'm going about what all wrong?” she asked.

“Getting them to think better of you,” he said. Although he wasn't exactly sure who “they” were—the folks in the Greater World? Clearly, or she wouldn't be here protesting. What about the folks back home? Did she want them to think better of her too? Because that would be harder.

She said, “They need to know that we're not evil. We're just people, doing the best we could with a bad hand—”

“I know,” he said. “I know what the perception is, and I know how wrong it is. But you can't change it by telling people they're wrong. That whole ‘people like you' thing—”