True Love's Kiss (A Slow Burn, Orc Romance)

CHAPTER XII

VULTOG

"...And Jack lived happily ever after!"

The more I learnt about the manipulated Jack and the Beanstalk tale, the more I despised it.

I tore off the pair of headphones I was wearing, desperate to free my ears from the misleading lull of the female narrator's voice. At once, I dropped the cushioned earpiece to rid myself of her auditory poison. The attached wire prevented the headgear from tumbling to the wood-panelled floor. So, it swayed in shame and hung like a convict from an execution noose.

Wandering elsewhere, I sought temporary refuge at a glass-covered wall, a few feet away from Rayna. We, along with Juno, had ventured to a place that publicised itself as an exhibition called, 'Fiction: Folklore and Fairytales'. I was not blinded by such false objectivity though. I had been lured to a British Library "exhibition" that was nothing more than a shrine dedicated to Jack.

Dressed as some sort of beacon-like screen, the inside of the bottom edge was lined with small lights. A large tapestry hung; a finitely blank section of the wall bragged: JACK THE GIANT SLAYER.

The artist's name...I won't even mention.

They had committed an overwhelming amount of time, effort and thread to depicting my battle with Jack. Except in this version, the giant–an oversized, white-skinned thug with mortal-esque features–lay dead in the terrain next to Jack's family cottage. The giant's broken limbs jutted at beautifully awkward angles, whilst the thick green stem of the beanstalk accessorized his neck like a tight scarf. Pretty little flowers and closed buds grew outward on thinner stems. On the plane of the giant's chest, a young boy with an ivory complexion stood courageously. A goose was tucked safely under his arm, and he held a glinting gold harp up to the sky.

My loose fingers clenched and congregated into a fist. My knuckles ached to hit something.

To control my temperament, I tried to focus on the irony of the art piece. The artist had clearly intended to uplift Jack, yet they had portrayed him with an entirely different likeness. Why bother worshiping a God that you couldn't accept the true appearance of?

The Jack that I had the misfortune of coming across, was of a much darker hue.

Migrating over to Rayna, I looked down at the long, slim cuboid display case serving as a holy altar for the earliest printings of 'The Story of Jack Spriggins and the Enchanted Bean' and other variations of my story.

Taking photographs inside the exhibition was prohibited. Therefore, Rayna was documenting her observations in a spiral notebook. She tipped her head at the glass case in front of her, where a booklet of yellowed pages lined with tidy calligraphy lay.

"According to this one, an old woman sold Jack the beans," Rayna noted. "You were given magic beans by an old lady too. Coincidence or clue?"

"Oh..." An unsettling chill rippled through my bloodstream, and my head lost its weight. An elderly lady had visited me in the forest. Memories of her confidence and pointed chin flashed in my mind. Her age, gender and magical prowess had led me to assume that she was a witch. But she had not verbally confirmed her identity. Pointed ears, however, would have served as irrefutable evidence that she was fae. Unfortunately, I had been so distracted by vengeance that I hadn't bothered to interrogate my magic bean supplier.

Could she really be the manufacturer of my misfortune, dating all the way back to Jack's robbery of my household?

Presenting herself as my saviour when she was in fact my saboteur, was...fae-like behaviour.

Heat smudged the bewildered activity of my thoughts. There were so many theories, and so little certitude.

Sheer frustration got the best of me, and I hit the display case. The glass protecting the old manuscript remained in one piece, and my skin barely registered the pain generated by my hand contacting the hard surface. I went in for another strike, but Rayna caught my wrist.