Fable of Happiness (Fable 1)

Because one thing was for certain—she would lie.

I’d strangled her, imprisoned her, and now I’d come to interrogate her. She’d hate me almost as much as I hated her. She wouldn’t be cooperative, and I was prepared to do what was necessary to get information.

The moment she’d stepped into my valley, her fate had been sealed. She wouldn’t be leaving here while breathing. And for that, I should’ve felt guilty. Instead, all I felt was absolute authority and obligation to be as merciless as required.

Moving toward the heavy door blocking her cell, I sucked in a breath. I swallowed to lubricate my throat, preparing for words that I hadn’t spoken in sentence strings for over a decade.

Thanks to my lonely existence, I’d embraced more animalistic tendencies. I didn’t talk. I didn’t fuss over my appearance. I’d forgotten what it was like to hold a conversation and be a man instead of a beast.

That was all I was now.

A beast.

A forest dweller who wasn’t fit for society.

And it was all their fault.

The day I was born, a curse was put upon me.

That curse grew up with me from boyhood to man. I had no mark to prove it. No doctor to confirm it.

But I knew.

A blackness had attached itself to me, and I was cursed.

So...what are you going to do with her?

My hands balled as I paced outside the cell where I’d thrown her.

I don’t know.

That was a lie.

I knew what I should do.

I’d told myself countless times.

So...do what you know is required.

I stopped.

I glared at the heavy wooden door, dropping my gaze to the rusty padlock that’d continued its role of imprisonment for far too long.

Get it over with.

I pulled the key from my pocket.

I opened the door.

I stepped inside to face my enemy.

CHAPTER NINE

MY EYES COULDN’T GET used to the harsh brightness of the screaming light bulb above me. White haze danced over my sight, obscuring the barren cell that I’d woken in.

I didn’t know how long I’d been locked in the dark, but it’d been long enough to have to use the bucket I’d found in the corner and drink out of the tap like some trapped animal.

Unlike earlier today, when I’d complained of being overly dressed and too hot, now I was grateful for my windbreaker and layers.

It was cold.

Very cold.

Damp and deep, seeping into my bones and making me shiver.

I’d like to say I attempted to escape—that I pounded my fists on the door and clawed at the walls for a weak spot—but my head ached so badly that I’d dry-heaved when I’d first exploded back into consciousness.

My throat burned. My neck was swollen and sore to the touch. Bruises throbbed over my shoulders and back from thrashing beneath his hands.

And my knife was missing.

Flashes of being strangled kept torturing me.

Pieces of him chasing me, killing me, and then leaving me to rot in this place.

God, the images wouldn’t stop.

The only comfort I had was my personal locator beacon. My cell phone was utterly useless, the screen lighting up the stagnant dark when I’d checked my leggings pockets and found both devices still there.

I had to admit, I’d been shocked that he hadn’t taken them off me. Why had he taken my blade and compass but not my PLB or phone?

Had he believed he’d killed me and just stored my body down here to decay? Or was his intention to keep me alive and his captive? In which case, why permit me to keep the very things that might enable me to escape?

Who was he?

Why had he been naked?

Why had he chosen to hurt me before I’d even explained why I was in his house?

With fear coursing through me, I’d used my time as his prisoner wisely. After taking care of my needs and drinking what I could around my bruised throat, I settled back against the wall and confirmed my phone was of no use in my current no-reception predicament.

Doing my best to stay strong and smart, I turned it off to conserve the battery.

That hurt.

It slashed at my heart to watch the glow of communication die in my hand, cutting me off from my brother, my fellow climbers, my life.

You’ll survive this. You’ll see.

Wrapping those brave words around me, I pulled out my PLB. The black piece of technology was cumbersome and weighty. So many times I’d been tempted to put it in my backpack instead of stretching my legging pocket with its bulk.

But now, sitting in a cold puddle in a wretchedly dark cell, I cried tears of gratefulness.

This tiny black device would save my life. It was a gift.

Salty droplets tracked down my cheeks as I pulled out the antenna, flicked open the case, and pressed the button.

I’d hoped for a light to flash. Some announcement that my signal for help had been received, but it remained exactly as it had been. Cold and immune to my terror.