The Pitchfork of Destiny Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Your job is to serve me and hope that I continue to spare your life.” He pulled the wolf closer with his tail and gestured down at the crude, talon-­drawn sketch of Castle White. “Show me where she is.”
    Beo hesitantly pointed at a large tower in the center of the castle with his paw. “There,” he said. “Halfway up on the east side is a large balcony. A trellis of jasmine grows about the window. That is her room.”
    Volthraxus fixed the point in his mind’s eye and, sweeping the wolf aside, made for the cave entrance.
    â€œI think you should reconsider, Vengeful . . . I mean, Volthraxus. This is a needless risk.”
    Volthraxus paused outside the cave and turned his eyes, twin flames burning with the passion of his hunt, on the wolf. “Look to your food, Beo, and leave this to me. When I return, it shall be with Lady Rapunzel as my prisoner. Then I too shall have a reason to feast.”
    With that, he tore through the trees to the edge of the mountain cliff and flung himself into the sky.
    Beo watched the dragon fly away with a curiously disappointed expression. Pity, he thought. I have never eaten so well.
    Beo, like most wolves, was an eminently practical creature. He could not understand any act that was not rooted in fulfilling either a carnal or digestive need. It baffled him every time a knight, surrounded by fair maidens and fine food, left the comfort of his castle to risk his life jousting other knights or traveling to far-­flung bridges to fight smelly trolls. It was an enduring mystery. The wolf stared after the dragon until it was a speck on the horizon, then shrugged his bony shoulders and turned back to his food.
    A few miles west and a few thousand feet down, in a wonderful, high room in the Royal Tower of Castle White, Lady Rapunzel, dressed in a lovely nightgown, sat on her bed, trying to make her way through an exceedingly dull book on court etiquette. Normally, she loved to read, but she found this particular topic tedious to begin with, and the author of Brummell’s Guide to the Courtly Arts had not made it any easier by filling his “authoritative” tome with personal anecdotes that mostly involved extremely detailed descriptions of what everyone was wearing. However, the fact that fashion was so central to Brummell’s text did explain why the Royal Librarian had referred to it as “Charming’s Handbook.”
    Yawning, she stuck a finger between the pages of the volume to mark her place—­Chapter 3: “The Essential Elements of the Backhanded Compliment”—­and closed the book, letting her gaze drift across the room, where it settled on the other reason she was finding it so hard to concentrate tonight. On a mannequin in the corner by her dressing table, in all its white-­laced splendor, was her wedding dress. The tailor had delivered it this morning and, as foolish as she knew she was being, just looking at it made her happy. It didn’t seem possible that in a little less than a month, she and Will were going to be married. It was too fairy-­tale. But, looking at the dress made it real.
    It had only been a month past a year since they had returned to Castle White from Liz and Charming’s wedding—­such a short time—­but her old life seemed to be, well, a lifetime ago. She remembered only vaguely the strange madwoman that had made herself a social pariah by attacking Prince Charming in the middle of a Royal Ball. Elle no longer recognized herself in the needy, insecure girl she had been and cringed at the memories of those days. It seemed the kingdom had also forgotten her past. She was on everyone’s invitation list, and every day she saw more and more of the women of the court mimicking her down to the way she wore her hair. Initially, of course, she had intended to grow it out, but each time the hairdresser came, she asked for the same style. Besides, Will really