Instead of listening, Brenn bolted and ran as fast as he could toward the castle, outrunning all of the king’s men. He snuck past the guards outside the palace, and Brenn pushed his way inside, racing right up to the king’s court.
As soon as he saw them—the king and queen seated in their thrones—Brenn knew they were his parents. They’d aged some—his father thinner than he remembered, and his mother much grayer.
A guard ran over to grab him, but Queen Rose was already to her feet, tears flowing down her cheeks.
“Do not touch a hair on that boy’s head!” the queen commanded. “That is your prince, and if you hurt him, I will send you to the dungeon myself.”
She ran over to Brenn, embracing him tightly to her, and King Elrik soon hugged him, too. They asked what had happened to him, and Brenn began to tell the story of Fyren and how he’d held him in the mountains for all those years.
Then he thought of Dianthus, and seeing that it was safe in the kingdom, Brenn pulled the flower from his pocket. The pink petals had browned and wilted. The flower had been crushed over time, and it was so fragile that it felt like it might turn to dust in his fingers.
“Wherever did you get that?” the queen asked as Brenn set the flower on the floor.
“Dianthus, I wish for you to return to your human form,” Brenn commanded.
His heart pounded desperately, and his stomach churned. Throughout his travels, he’d known the flower was growing worn, and every night since he’d left the mountains, Brenn had thought about wishing Dianthus back to life. But it was not as he’d promised her, so he’d waited.
But now that the moment was at hand, he’d begun to fear that perhaps the flower had become too damaged. Perhaps Dianthus would be unable to return, or if she did, she may be injured. He’d tried with all his might to protect the pink, but the journey had been arduous, and it had taken its toll on the precious flower.
In moments that stretched out to eternity, Brenn was certain that his greatest fears had come true. He’d been unable to keep his one true love safe, and she would not return to him. And then finally—blessedly—she appeared.
Dianthus was curled up on the floor in her finest gown, and she appeared even more beautiful than when he’d seen her last. Surprise and joy lit up her face as they embraced.
“I was afraid I’d never see you again,” Brenn admitted, brushing her golden hair back from her face.
“And I you,” she said, sounding awed to be in his arms again. “I love you so, my prince.”
“I love you, my princess.” Brenn kissed her, more passionately than he should’ve in front of his parents, but he couldn’t help himself. He had just been reunited with his love.
With the prince returned, the kingdom rejoiced, and Brenn and Dianthus were married within the week. With the help of Brenn’s and Dianthus’s leadership, the kingdom began to prosper again. The king and queen doted on their son and his new bride, making up for all the time they had lost.
They loved Dianthus like she was their own daughter, and she loved them in return, for they were the parents her heart had always wished for. Queen Rose and Princess Dianthus spent much time together in the wilds of the garden behind the palace, and the queen often remarked that the pink carnations had never been more radiant.
* * * * *
SELL OUT
by Jackson Pearce
I wish I had a better talent.
Painting. Playing the violin. Woodcutting, even. Anything.
Maybe I wouldn’t feel this way if it manifested differently. Through a handshake or something. A tap on the shoulder. Hell, a slap on the ass. At least that way it’d be over fast, and it wouldn’t involve me kissing a corpse.
But I make a lot of money per kiss, and it’s stupid money, easy money. It’s this or join the family business, and taxidermy isn’t for me. The only thing creepier than kissing a dead human is peeling the skin off a dead animal and pretending like that’s a normal way of acquiring a new centerpiece for your living room.
“New assignments,” my boss says, slapping a pack of paper down in the middle of the room. It’s thinner than last week—with the prices the company charges for a kiss, I’m actually surprised it’s not thinner still. We get only a fraction of the money, but it’s hard to get hired as a self-proprietor in this field. It’s like people think that if they go through a company, it’s all on the up-and-up. If they go through an individual, it’s dark magic.
I think companies like mine spread those rumors. Keep prices up, so we’re kissing only the rich.
My boss clears his throat. “We’re short on women this round. Sorry.” He nods at me. “Emmett’s turn to get the one.” I try to look appreciative.
A guy to my right cusses under his breath. “I’m so sick of kissing old white guys.” A few of my coworkers mutter agreements till our boss glares, shuts us up. He passes out the papers. Name, address, a time. Nothing more. We don’t really need to know anything else.
Elise Snow, 706 Fourteenth Street. Tuesday at 7:00 p.m.
I suck in a sharp breath, then fold the paper crookedly and shove it in my pocket.
I know Elise Snow.
Or, I knew her. A long time ago—I haven’t seen her in almost a decade, since fifth grade, I think. The little rich girl in school, Shelton County’s very own princess—and she had the pageant crowns to prove it.
I hated her.
She called my family poor. She made fun of my dad’s job. She told us her dad could take our house away, if he wanted—which was an exaggeration on the fact that he owned the bank that owned my parents’ mortgage. And she pelted me with crab apples from the tree whose branches shaded the school playground.
Mom said she was probably hurting on the inside. That she was just misunderstood. That she’d grow out of it—that people change.
She didn’t—at least, by fifth grade she hadn’t. And so I really, really don’t want to kiss Elise Snow, dead or alive. I wonder how she died. It can’t have been too violent—if their bodies are broken, we aren’t allowed to kiss them, after all. Usually, with people her age, it’s a drug overdose. Rich kids apparently can’t think of a better way to die.
“Emmett,” my dad says, voice crushing my thoughts. He’s positioning a boar’s head on a piece of wood; its eyes are glass now, empty and stupid-looking. “Got a job?”
“Yep.”
“How many people?”
“Just one right now.”
My dad freezes; the boar’s hair flutters a little as the oscillating fan rotates by.
“God. Just one? You’ve got to get more work....” Dad shakes his head. I try not to glare. It’s only mostly his fault, not entirely. We still owe thousands to the hospital that took care of Mom before she died. Thousands more for her funeral. Thousands for Dad’s hospital visit, when he tried to join my mom.
It had almost worked the first two times. The third time would have definitely worked if it hadn’t been for me. I look at the scars on his wrists as he nails the boar’s head into place. If I hadn’t kissed him, I wouldn’t have even known about the power. He’d have stayed dead, and I’d have run from this town, from our debt, started over somewhere in the woods, living off the land. Alone. Someplace no one could find me. Far away from my job, from taxidermy and from anyone like Elise Snow.
But it felt right to join a company. It felt noble. Important. It felt nice to have a talent, after years of worrying I had none.
It felt like living.
Now it just feels like a paycheck.
There’s a white SUV outside our house. It’s that pearly kind of white, the kind that almost has a pinkish hue. I squint to see the driver, but the windows are tinted so dark that I can make out only a silhouette. I loathe the sorts of hunters who drive cars like this—they’re the kinds of people who hunt on game ranches where all the animals are fenced in. Dad never hunted like that. He said it wasn’t fair to kill a thing that never had a chance.