Snow

An extract from The Menagerie

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This is not the version of Snow White And The Seven Dwarves you may remember… and it’s definitely NOT for children. But, I’ve always felt Snow’s tale was very gothic-coded and ripe for a vampiric twist. And a Why-Choose relationship.

⚠️ Attempted murder, blood, murder, poisoning, polygamy, torture, vampires

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This story will be available for approx. two months, before I’ll need to remove it. But it’ll remain in ebook and paperback should you wish to find it later.

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It had been an accident, but one which had brought the Queen the very sweetest of consequences. Her attention broken as she pushed a needle through fabric, the pierced skin dropping three small pearls of blood onto the snow. It had brought him to her.

And, nine months later, her daughter was born.

Snow.

The Queen struggled. Her child had a voracious appetite; though still without teeth, Snow dragged her needed sustenance from her mother with each feed. Her feathery raven hair, alabaster skin, and crimson lips a deception of purity.

Slowly, her mother weakened; her blood drained dry.

The King was at a loss to understand. He doted on his wife, on his child. Unaware of his wife’s deceit, nor his child’s true nature. The Queen was confused by how her gift had soured. For, like her husband, she only saw the beauty of the child.

And knew better than to reveal the truth.

By the time Snow’s teeth broke through her gums, her mother was restricted to her bed. Her body weary, her heart failing. What blood still lingered in her veins sluggish and thin.

By the time Snow learned to avoid direct sunlight and remain in her room, her mother was almost dead. Snow made animals her company; her mind and voice drawing them to her window. Crows conversing from the sill, and owls from the trees at night.

And by the time Snow received the gift of an enchanted mirror, which allowed her to see her reflection, her mother was gone.

🍎🍎🍎

The rumours about Snow were rife throughout the kingdom. That she was almost permanently confined to her room, to the shade, to events at night, brought whispers. Her appearance mesmerised those who were able to see her; the flawless skin, blood red lips, and long raven hair only enhanced Snow’s fragile beauty.

Her impeccable politeness was charming. She always sought clear permission to enter a home, she always declined the foods and drinks offered. Snow was demure and intriguing.

Quite the opposite of her stepmother.

The King had married again, several years after the Queen died, in hopes of love. In hopes of securing an heir, someone who would be more robust than Snow appeared to be. For the rumours of how Snow gently approached life had been reinforced by his new wife.

Devout and pious, the new Queen had quickly ingratiated herself into court and society. Though at odds to Snow, with her blonde hair and blue eyes, the new Queen did act with grace.

Even though it hid malice.

She did not want to be a stepmother, she intended to have her own child, to secure her place in the realm, and remove Snow. However, the years had not delivered her dreams. Snow remained the darling and the Queen remained childless.

Her intentions to remove Snow, however, intensified.

But Snow was more resilient than the Queen expected.

Her attempts to kill her stepdaughter through poisoned clothes failed; the fabric against her skin only causing a mild irritation. When the Queen assisted in the tight lacing of Snow’s stays, to the point where Snow should have been unable to breathe, she failed. Snow’s breath unaffected by the increasing pressure on her chest.

And Snow remained undaunted in how she offered her new mother affection. Her smiling reflection, from her bewitched mirror, gazing back at the infuriated woman who stood behind her, ribbons in hand.

However, the Queen made a startling discovery, after so many foiled attempts to destroy her stepdaughter. Noticing Snow had no reflection when she had been called into the Queen’s chambers, she set about researching why. The Queen sensed opportunity.

‘My King,’ she said, ‘why does sweet Snow look so different to you, and your dear late wife?’

‘What do you mean?’ He looked up from his meal, finding the cool blue eyes of his wife staring at him from across the table.

‘She is so pale, and has such raven hair,’ the Queen continued, ‘but both you and your dear late wife do not.’

‘What are you suggesting, beloved?’

‘Nothing, my King.’ The Queen smiled, smoothing her elegant jade dress over her slender frame. The seed planted.

🍎🍎🍎

Returning from worship, the Queen saw Snow sitting in the shade of the palace walls; the extensive veranda added so Snow could enjoy the outdoors even in the height of summer. At Snow’s feet, a wolf watched with defensive interest.

‘Snow,’ the Queen said, ‘are you alright?’

‘Of course.’ Snow placed her book down.

‘The creature—’

‘Wolf is perfectly safe.’ Snow smiled. She had always been able to attract and command animals with confidence. Clawed or pawed, fur or feather, Snow felt at ease.

The Queen remained a subtle distance from the young woman, her uncertainty refusing to be quelled. ‘You missed the service.’

‘You know I find it difficult to enter consecrated ground.’

‘Snow, I worry for you—’

‘There is no need, my Queen,’ Snow replied gently. ‘I have no need for your saviour, nor his blood.’

‘We don’t drink his blood,’ the Queen scoffed. ‘It is symbolic.’

‘What a shame,’ she mused. Snow stood, gesturing for Wolf to pad along at her side. Along the wooden roof, a crow landed and followed with a mix of hops and strutting steps.

🍎🍎🍎

Early evening greeted the Queen as she drew the long, hooded cloak over her gown and slid from the palace. Making her way through the grounds, she furtively glanced around to ensure she remained safely alone. That no-one had followed.

‘My Queen!’ the Huntsman exclaimed when he opened the door.

‘Huntsman,’ she said briskly, sweeping inside the modest home. ‘I require your assistance.’

🍎🍎🍎

Night had fallen, the haunting echo of owls reverberating in the still air while the dark leathery wings of bats rode the current. Snow had, in many ways, expected the attack. Yet, it had surprised her to find the Huntsman in her room, rousing her from sated slumber.

The drained body by her bed a succulent meal.

Stepping over the contorted man, the Huntsman had willed himself to shake Snow’s shoulder. To hope she was sufficiently fed and would not retaliate after such a disturbance.

‘Huntsman?’ Snow asked, her wide eyes blinking awake.

Alert.

‘The Queen wishes you dead,’ he whispered.

‘I’d like to see her try.’

‘You must leave.’ He paused, his umber skin creased with concern and fear. The Huntsman had realised what Snow was, and what she needed, long before anyone else did. And he had been happy to provide all she required. ‘I’ve been instructed to kill you, tonight.’

Snow calmly sat up, threw back the bedclothes and stood. Naked, she strode to her dressing room, her head rocking side to side as she eased out the knots from broken sleep; acknowledging the Huntsman’s lowered gaze.

‘I’ve to bring her your heart,’ he explained. ‘And I’ve to give it to her so she can drive an iron stake through it.’

‘Not aspen or hawthorn?’ Snow laughed.

‘I—’

‘Please, Huntsman, don’t worry.’ Snow continued to dress. ‘As long as she hasn’t ordered you to dismember me, I’ll be fine.’

‘You shouldn’t be forced to leave.’ He shook his head.

Snow returned to her room, her gown dark and skin alabaster. With her spine straight, she crossed to the Huntsman and took his hands. A gentle kiss placed on his knuckles. ‘It’s ok.’

‘Princess—’

‘You are only doing what you’ve been asked to do.’ Snow released his hands, reaching for her cloak. ‘And I love you for how you are looking after me.’

They barely spoke during the walk to the forest. The Huntsman tried to manage the tension in his heart, the thickness in his throat. Each crack of dry timber enhanced his anxiety. Each shriek of an owl, each howl of a wolf, made him shudder.

‘Please, it’s ok,’ Snow said softly, resting her hand on his upper arm; the leather of his jacket velvety smooth.

He could not answer, his eyes blurring with tears. The glinting knife in his belt too heavy. Betrayal laced his blood, he was torn. This was his Princess, yet, this was an order from his Queen.

🍎🍎🍎

When dawn broke, the Huntsman discreetly hovered near the shaded entrance to the palace’s kitchens. Their pre-arranged meeting place. His chest rose and fell erratically. His jaw clenched. His inhales and exhales brittle.

‘Is it done?’ the Queen asked.

He could find no words. Instead the Huntsman handed over a small pewter box, inscribed with an ornate mountain scene. A ruby glistened in the sun’s brightening glow, set into the box’s clasp.

Cautiously, the Queen opened it.

Then snapped it shut.

Her lips a curling smile of satisfaction.

🍎🍎🍎

Snow had wandered for hours. The cruel night no source of fear; she felt born for this. Owls, bats, the moon, and wolves her company throughout a childhood soured by misunderstanding. Of feeling as though she did not belong amongst such brightness.

No, Snow felt at home in the forest.

Her destination remained unknown, but she trusted the companions who had joined her. The soft pad of the paws, the languid crack of wings, the haunting echo of a call in the dark. Snow kept moving; eyes tracing trees and moss, fallen branches and rough paths.

When daylight began to deliver greater definition to the horizon, she was grateful for the appearance of a small home. A cottage secure in its own clearing; trees offering shade around the perimeter. The stone hewn from larger pieces and complemented with carved wooden windows and an arched door.

With a hasty glance at the rising sun, Snow knocked once.

‘Hello?’

‘Please may I come in?’ she asked, smiling. Her mind hoping they would acquiesce to her request.

‘Yes,’ he answered, unsure why; his compliance a natural response to the beguiling woman before him. Her beauty alluring, her voice gentle, her familiar appearance gnawing at the edges of memory.

‘Princess Snow!’ Another man stood, seeing their guest. Around the table, five other men drop their cutlery. Breakfast forgotten.

‘And you are?’ She is demure, her eyes more on the floor than the seven handsome men who have abandoned food to crowd in a semi-circle around her.

‘They call me One,’ the man who had welcomed her in said.

‘And I’m Two,’ said another.

‘Three.’

‘Four.’

‘Five.’

‘Six.’

‘Seven.’

Snow smiled. ‘You all look so alike; are you brothers?’

‘We are,’ One confirmed. ‘Our mother died giving birth to us, and our father passed several years ago.’

‘And you’re all alone?’

‘We’ve carved out a good life here,’ Five said, folding his arms across his muscular chest. The plaid fabric of his shirt pulling at the elbows. His green eyes narrowing slightly.

‘I can tell.’ Snow began to walk the room, her alabaster fingers softly stroking over well-worn furniture. Nearing the window, she dodged the increasing sunlight. ‘You have a beautiful home.’

‘Princess, why are you here?’ Three asked.

‘The Queen wanted me dead,’ Snow explained, turning back to face the hickory-haired man, ‘and she believes I am.’

‘Princess!’

‘Please, call me Snow.’ Her eyes met Seven’s before dropping to the floor once more.

‘What can we do for you?’ Two asked, taking a step toward her. Then pausing, unsure if that was appropriate protocol. Glancing to his brothers he saw them nod. ‘Are you safe?’

‘For now, yes,’ Snow assured him.

‘Then, for now, you should stay,’ One said.

Snow smiled, her tongue catching her sharp teeth.

🍎🍎🍎

A routine was quickly established, in part because of how well Snow was able to entrance the septuplets. They rushed to provide her with anything she asked for. No matter how obscure.

When they left for work, their lunches packed and tools in hand, Snow would wave them goodbye and sleep. Her days spent in slumber and nights spent feasting. Her tastes peculiar, but easily satiated. It was simple to find her prey in the forest.

Animals were plentiful.

Their blood sufficient to keep her satisfied, even if it was not to her usual taste. It would be too much to drain her hosts, too much to ask for them to bring her humans. And they were too protective of her to allow her to leave and find any victims. Animals could be enticed, or Snow’s wolves could deliver a fresh kill, or even a live creature.

It was enough.

Even if not enough forever.

In return, Snow tended to the home. She cleaned, she cooked, and she entertained. There was always a meal on the table when the men arrived home, though she did not eat with them. And, though they had never suggested it, Snow spent a night in each of their beds in turn.

At first, it had been a surprise. One had shrunk back from the chill of her skin when Snow lay beside him. But her hands had woken him from strange dreams, and he found himself obeying her commands. Found himself responding to her touch, to her kiss.

And though relishing the idea of repeating the experience when the next night came, One found himself alone.

Snow taking herself to Two’s bed. Her pattern soon obvious when Two became Three, then Four, then Five, Six, and finally Seven. Before Snow returned to One’s embrace.

An unspoken agreement, an unspoken rota, which allowed Snow to fulfil a craving while enhancing their lives. It was a sweet way to live, for them all.

Until it soured.

🍎🍎🍎

The men had departed; lunch and tools and a kiss goodbye. Snow had waved to them from the shadow of the doorway. A wolf by her feet and an owl sleeping on a nearby tree branch. Crows circled slowly around the clearing, before settling on the roof when Snow retired to bed.

Waking when the knock resounded.

The crisp taps creating a chorus of birdsong.

Warnings.

Her eyes instantly wide. No-one had ever knocked, no-one had ever passed the cottage in the weeks she had made it home. She wondered if the Huntsman had tracked her down. If the Queen had learned of her survival.

Opening the door, she saw neither.

But she knew, deep down, that the woman standing on the path was not quite as she seemed. There was a glimmer of something across her elderly face, something that shifted in the light. As though there was an inner battle to keep the image constant.

As though it was a mask not quite aligned to the features.

Snow, however, decided to give her a chance.

‘My dear, help a poor woman.’

‘In what way?’ Snow’s head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowing. There was familiarity in the cadence of the crone’s voice.

‘Please buy an apple,’ the woman said.

‘I have no use for food,’ Snow replied.

‘Just one bite, it’s a blood apple,’ the old woman suggested. Her bony hand outstretched; the red skin of the fruit shone.

‘A blood apple?’ Snow was sceptical, but her arm began to rise, her fingers flexing with indecision.

‘Yes, my dear Snow,’ she crooned. ‘Pierce the skin with your teeth and find the red flesh within.’

Snow hesitated, her fingers almost on the apple.

The old woman’s image faltered; her frame hunched and the ragged cloak steady but her face smoothing, her blue eyes sharper. As quickly as it broke, it was repaired. The elderly lines returned.

‘If you can’t pay, then take it as my gift,’ the crone said.

Snow’s fingers curled around the apple. Her eyes on the woman, her mind aware of the cacophony of nature’s voices suggesting she drop the fruit. That she run, slam the door, and hide.

But she took the apple.

She took a bite.

And she fell.

🍎🍎🍎

Snow was still lying in the threshold when the septuplets arrived back from their labour. Several large wolves lay beside her, creating shadows which had prevented her prone figure from damage.

‘Snow!’ Five shouted, dropping his axe.

The others were swift to follow. Their tools forgotten in their urgency to drop at Snow’s feet. The wolves standing aside, their heads bowed, as they watched the humans tend to their mistress.

‘She’s dead,’ One announced, on his knees beside her.

Her flesh chilled, her body unresponsive. Snow had no heartbeat, no breath, no reaction to their tentative explorations which checked for signs of life. She remained inert, her eyes closed and a peaceful expression of resignation on her face.

🍎🍎🍎

The seven men had only known Snow for a short time, yet she had made such an impression they mourned her profoundly. Believing the animals she cared for so diligently would also want to see her, the men turned their crafts to glass.

A beautiful coffin constructed for Snow to be interred.

And there she lay, in the clearing in the woods, for all to see. They had acted with reverence when they dressed Snow in the very best silks and combed her hair. Crushed the reddest of berries to create a balm for her lips.

She looked alive, asleep.

Not dead.

Knowing how she preferred the night, the shadows, the men carried the coffin to rest under the sprawling branches of an evergreen. The tree towered above them, offering seclusion and darkness.

In time, a swarm of red blooms grew around the glass; dahlias, lilies, and roses. Their persistence at odds to the poor ground below the tree and lack of light. Yet, still, no matter how many months passed, Snow did not wither, even as the flowers opened and petals fell.

Even as the seasons changed.

The seven men took turns to guard the coffin. And it was Four’s day when another man appeared at the cottage path. He approached with caution, his head bowed.

‘Who are you?’ Four asked defensively.

‘I only wish to pay my respects,’ the Huntsman said. ‘I served Snow when she was in the palace.’

‘You saved her life.’ Four pieced together the image of the man and what Snow had shared about her escape.

The Huntsman nodded once. ‘I thought I could fool the Queen, with a boar’s heart, but she figured out Snow was alive.’

‘The Queen got her wish, in the end.’ Four inhaled deeply, warding off heat in his throat.

‘Was her heart staked?’

Four frowned, shook his head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Snow… she can’t die,’ the Huntsman explained. ‘Unless her heart is staked with a specific wood, or metal.’

Four looked back to the coffin. Snow was unchanged from the day they found her. And, though they had felt uncomfortable at the time, they had stripped her and bathed her, before she was entombed. There had been no mark on her.

He walked over to the coffin, sliding ice from the glass to peer down at Snow. Her face as radiant as always, her lips bright and skin marble. Glancing back to the Huntsman, Four was about to speak when he heard the familiar strides of his brothers.

The Huntsman contemplated the seven almost identical men who surrounded him, furrows marking his brow. He eyed the tools warily, and chastised himself for leaving his knife, his axe, in his home.

‘What’s happening?’ Three asked.

‘This man says Snow isn’t dead,’ Four said.

One and Five rushed to the coffin, their hands smearing more ice to view the Princess. Their green eyes exchanging glances between each other and her; questions conveyed without words.

‘The King is dead,’ the Huntsman continued, ‘and the Queen is now ruling. But Princess Snow should be. I came to see… to see if she was truly dead, or if there was hope.’

‘Hope?’ Two folded his arms.

‘She’s the original Queen’s daughter, she should now be Queen.’

‘The Queen’s daughter, but not the King’s?’ Six worked through what that statement could mean, considering how Snow behaved.

‘They could not have children,’ the Huntsman said. ‘The Queen, she was visited by an incubus, and then Snow was born.’

‘And the Queen died because of that?’ Seven swallowed.

‘Yes,’ the Huntsman continued. ‘Snow needed blood, and she drank from her mother, until her mother couldn’t give anymore.’ He paused. ‘I helped Snow, I gave her what she needed—’

‘You gave her blood?’ One had yet to turn from the coffin.

‘I brought animals to her,’ he said. ‘Then, eventually, people.’

The seven brothers remained quiet, considering what they knew of Snow, of how she had lived with them, of how she had never once hurt them. They had been there, with her, and not once had she attempted to feed from them.

They wondered if the Huntsman was being honest.

Yet, they had no reason to doubt him.

‘Brothers.’ One gestured for them to join him. Together, they began to lift the glass. To open the lid. To move her to her feet.

And as she was moved, the coffin landing on the rough ground, the piece of apple lodged in her throat moved.

Snow’s eyes opened. Red. Raw. Her inhale deep, and ragged, as she quickly assessed the men before her. Her teeth extending, sharp and needy. Her tongue tasting the berries on her lips, and knowing it was not enough. She needed more.

‘Snow, take me,’ the Huntsman offered, kneeling before her.

She crouched, her teeth piercing his neck. Venom preventing her loyal friend from feeling the pain while she drank deeply. Her secret no longer worth keeping, not in this moment; all that mattered was fuelling the ache in her veins.

‘You’ll kill him,’ Three muttered. ‘Perhaps, take some of mine?’

‘Ours,’ Five offered.

Each brother unbuttoning the collar of their shirt. Stepping closer to proffer their necks. To drop to their knees. To prove how dedicated they were to the Princess they had come to love, even in death.

🍎🍎🍎

It did not take long for them to forge a plan. The nonet seated around the long table in the cottage. Snow willingly listening to the ideas of the men who had pledged to remain by her side.

Vowed to leave their homes.

‘The Queen has many allies,’ the Huntsman explained.

‘But more enemies,’ One stated. ‘We see plenty of people who detest her when we work.’

‘We don’t need either,’ Snow remarked calmly. ‘I only require three things, and I know you can create them.’

‘Of course,’ Three vowed.

‘And then, we leave for the palace.’ Snow stood, the tip of her tongue tracing her lips. In the candlelight, she appeared even paler, despite the sustenance imbibed. Dusk beyond the windows bringing long shadows from the clearing.

‘Surely, Snow, we need more than just us.’ Four’s fear was a cold branch up his spine; his hands curling around his goblet.

‘No,’ Snow said firmly. Smiled. ‘You have me, and I have you, and that will always be enough.’

🍎🍎🍎

They crept into the palace as night fell. Snow and the Huntsman quick to lead them through the corridors less known. Stone paths more commonly used by staff than royalty. Narrow walkways which were strewn with long forgotten treasures.

Mirrors which showed everyone, apart from Snow.

The men dressed in black, with axes and knives, and Two carrying a pack which contained the three items Snow requested. By their feet, a pack of wolves trod steadily. Overhead, crows and bats flew.

Their group moving stealthily, with purpose, further and further into the palace. Their intention one of quiet rebellion.

Of the passing of power from one Queen to another.

One which would be done without resorting to the cruel tactics Snow’s stepmother had used.

‘Here,’ the Huntsman whispered, gesturing to the stairs.

The guards turning their backs, allowing the group to progress.

Sniffing the air, the wolves continued along the landing; the ornate balustrading highlighting their fur in shades of grey. The crows chasing each other as they moved ahead of the group. Gathering on the banister to wait. Their talons scratching at the rose-veined marble.

Snow stood before the double doors. Her body primed, her focus pure, her hands curled into fists. She centred her thoughts, ready to take the next step.

The handle turned, and her feet sure.

‘What?!’ The Queen clutched at her chest, rearing up with hasty thrusts of her legs to try and back away from the intrusion. The slam of the doors against the walls enough to wake her, enough to make her panic as the group encroached.

The room was large, and the men spread into an arc around the end of the canopied bed. Snow standing closer.

‘You’re dead!’ she screeched.

‘You were mistaken.’

Three strode to the hearth, adding logs to increase the heat. By his side, Two slid his pack off and began to remove the contents. Slipping gloves on to protect his hands from the flames. From the way the iron would grow hotter; each specially made item presented to the fire.

‘You died!’ the Queen repeated.

‘You tried,’ Snow responded calmly. ‘But the Huntsman would never hurt me, and your poison failed. Everything you tried, since I was a child, has failed.’

The Queen’s lips twisted, her shaking hand reaching for the bellpull beside the bedpost. The chime unheard, and unacknowledged. Gripping the tassel more firmly, she dragged the cord again.

And again.

‘Everyone knows you’re dead,’ the Queen hissed.

‘No,’ Snow said. ‘Not everyone.’

‘You won’t get away with this!’ The Queen drew the silk gown around her body, her bravado undermined by the quake in her tone and shudder to her limbs. The erratic rise and fall of her breath.

‘But I already have.’ Snow leaned forward to whisper against her stepmother’s ear. ‘Where are your guards?’

The Queen opened her mouth, but failed to speak.

‘Princess,’ One announced, ‘they’re ready.’

‘Start with the torque.’ Snow stepped back, watching Two bring the open torque toward the bed. The glowing iron band hinged open, to be snapped around the Queen’s neck.

The Queen screamed, pressing herself even closer to the upholstery in attempts to escape. Her legs kicking, trapped below the quilt which four of the brothers held tight. Her scream increased with the fiery arrival of the torque. The flesh burning, musky and raw, with the pressure of the metal. The click of the clasp. The heat binding it fast.

She desperately pulled at her skin, trying to bring the metal away from the searing pain which ate into her throat. Her eyes streaming with tears, her breathless sobs only jarring the scar tissue forming.

Grabbing her wrists, Six and Four dragged her from the bed. Forcing her to stand before the roaring fire while Two secured the iron belt around the Queen’s waist. The nightgown’s fibres smouldering and sticking to iron and flesh.

The Queen could not talk, only pained groans and whimpers forced their way through her gritted teeth. They only increased when Two took one ankle, then her other; her feet driven into hot iron shoes.

Releasing the Queen, the men stood back.

Each member of Snow’s entourage, including their fur or feathered companions, observed how the tortured Queen stumbled. Dropped to her knees to crawl toward the window. Her body in shock, her eyes blurred with anguished tears, and mind fraught.

‘I’ve won,’ Snow asserted, leaning to block her stepmother’s path to the cool night air. There was no malice in her words, no hatred, only relief now she was free to live without fear.

The Queen kept crawling, wincing when she had to stretch to open the latch. Relieved when the large frame swung out wide. The shock of winter breezes enhancing the heat, increasing the suffering, raising the intent. Her body folding, falling.

A satisfied crack confirming her crash to the iced water below.

🍎🍎🍎

The transition of power was smooth. Snow’s arrival at court the following morning was met with gratitude and delight. Her announcement of the Queen’s death welcomed. Her confirmation of acceptance of the crown made with grace.

There was no argument against her proposals; court agreed to meet at night, delegates were advised to travel during the day to meet Snow in the shadows of dusk, and her request to keep her wolves in the palace was accepted with smiles.

Perhaps the rumours of how the old Queen was dispatched made it more incumbent for them to acquiesce, but Snow did show benevolence when her stepmother was void of it. There was harmony and there was a sense of calm.

Even if Snow’s tastes were a little strange.

Something the Huntsman fed. His position as her personal guard one where he could defend her from any who wished to doubt Snow’s role as Queen. The suggestion she drank blood something he was quick to refute. Just as he refused to elaborate on why Snow would not take a husband, but kept the seven brothers in her palace.

Old routines had been quickly reestablished. Knowing the truth only brought the seven men closer to Snow. There was no ulterior motive for their own survival, no acts of servitude to placate her. For they trusted her. She had never once bitten them in all the time she stayed with them after she escaped her stepmother’s wrath.

Why would that change now?

No, they were happy.

Just as most inhabitants were.

Snow’s queendom was one of peace, of order.

And blood.

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You can find this, and other short stories, poetry, and vignettes, in The Menagerie. Or, you can get a feel for the dark vibe of the book with a listen to the playlist.

And for those who may be curious, yes blood apples are real.