Wicked

Copyright © 2023 by Adaline Winters All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission from the author. Cover Design by Liberty Champion Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Afterword Acknowledgments Other books by Adaline Winters For everyone who dreams of a knight, but needs a dragon. This is for you. Chapter One Trumpets sound in the distance, heralding the annual arrival of Charming and his perpetual, yet fruitless, search for a mysterious woman with tiny feet and zero taste in shoes. I slam my eyes closed as dust sprinkles onto my face from the ceiling of our hut. “Who is the fairest in all the land?” a scratchy voice shouts. The family of mice curled up on my blanket squeak their displeasure as I roll onto my side. I peer over the edge of the bunk bed and eye the full-length mirror propped against the wall. Once upon a time, that mirror had been a finely crafted shiny piece of furniture, with a shiny reflective face and shiny decorative edges painted in silver. Now, the paintwork was flaking onto the floor, much like the walls, and the once pristine surface was cracked down the center, much like the man that lived in there. “Dude, when you declare anyone and everyone as the fairest, you stop being credible. Pick a person and commit to it.” The shadowy face ripples on the mirror with a frown. “But you are the fairest in all of Far, Far Away, Daisy.” “Daphne.” “Who?” As I said, cracked. I groan as the door bursts open and Gwyneth, my best friend, half-sister, and hut mate, flies into the room. Her skirts swish around her ankles, showing her worn leather boots. “Wakey, wakey, Daphne, another glorious diurnal has arisen in the land of Far, Far Away and The Duke has commanded all maidens to appear at the town hall to prepare for Charming’s arrival.” “I’m no maiden.” A fumble with Hansel behind the gingerbread house saw to that. It was uneventful, but there were yummy snacks afterward. I’d also decided sex was overrated, misrepresented, and geared toward the pleasure of men. Gwyneth’s blonde head disappears into the single wardrobe that serves us both. She pulls out my best dress, a white and blue affair with lace trim. It had been worn once, to my nineteenth name day celebration. I’d garnered the attention of the wolf, but also the three little pigs, Pinky, Porky, and Pete. We’d been getting along fine until the middle pig, Porky, tripped into the fire, causing the wolf to salivate, and soon, friends became snacks. Okay, so Porky didn’t trip. I may have been the one who tripped and pushed the pig into the fire. But I’m getting off point. “I will not be missed. You attend and tell me which female he takes to his bed this evening while he figures out if they are the one.” I air quote the end because the perpetual bachelor is not on my to do list. “Are you between eighteen and twenty-five annuses?” “No, I’m an old crone in disguise.” “But you are the fairest,” the mirror declares. “Dude, timing.” “Don’t make me come up there, Daphne Stone.” Oh boy, she’s using her no nonsense tone. The tone that makes grown men stand to attention, the tone that makes half of Far, Far Away shrink away. I roll off the top bunk and land on the threadbare rug, which does nothing to soften the ground. My ankle twists and Gwyneth catches my arms. “See, I don’t need a Prince Charming,” I say with a grin. “I have you to save me.” She rolls her eyes. “You got this?” “Standing and gravity?” I check. “Yup, I’m making them my slave this diurnal.” She eyeballs my brown nightgown fashioned out of potato sacks. “What happened to the sleep dress I traded with the wolf?” Not to be confused with Mr. Wolf, the pig tormenting fiend. This one ate grannies and terrorized little girls dressed in red, carrying baskets of baked goods. I always thought red was an odd choice for a hunted female. You could not blend in with the woods when cloaked in the color of blood and rage. Perhaps if she swapped it for a nice brown number, like my sack, she would have better luck. I wrinkle my nose. “It smelled of old woman.” I spin to the small kitchen and place the kettle on the stove. I reach for the matches and Gwyneth slaps my hands away. “What have I told you about fire?” I stand taller, towering over her five foot two frame by six inches. “Under no circumstances am I to touch anything that can be set alight.” “Correct,” she mutters, lighting the flame with ease and setting the kettle to boil. Damn the coordinated. “Where is the sleep dress?” I glance at the family of white mice gathered at the edge of the bed and scratch the back of my head. “I lost it.” Gwyneth props her hands on her hips and scowls at the mice. They disappear under my blankets, no doubt leaving me poop presents for later. “If you encourage those mice, they aren’t ever going to leave.” “How am I encouraging them?” I am encouraging them. I don’t want them to leave. They don’t judge my chaos. She thrusts the dress at me. “You gave them your sleep dress.” I whip the potato sacks off and grab the dress, sliding it over my head with a grimace. It’s tight and itchy. My boobs