The Beast (8 page)

My Beast says nothing.

“He
is
part of you, even when you are
like this, he’s still with you, and you with him. Oh, God…” Two
months of torment at Bastien’s hands… and all the while they were
the hands of the creature who swore to safeguard me. Bastien is the
Beast? And the Beast is Bastien. Both of them are monstrous in
different ways; both can – and have – hurt me unimaginably. Bastien
is merely honest about it. “Say something, damn you.”

The Beast’s silence is his answer.

It is true, then; they are one and the same.
Though one’s form is different from the other, they never leave
each other. That is how the Beast knows what Bastien does on the
nights he is free, and how Bastien knows so much about me. They –
are –
one
. “Can you influence each other?”

His gaze breaks away; he cannot even look at
me. That means yes.

It means that everything Bastien has done, he
could only have done if the Beast allowed it. “I trusted you.” My
voice is hardly a whisper but he can still hear.

He growls and turns away. “There’s been no
word of Marguerite,” he says, retreating into the passageway. “I
sent a messenger to look for her.”

Then the bookcase slides back into place and
it is as though he was never there. I stare down at the book of
happy endings in my lap. It seems an alien thing that no longer
belongs in my world. How could it? My world is ending as I sit here
and nothing about it is in any way happy.

It is over.

I failed
…

“Please, my lady, give him a chance.” Aimee
is on the verge of tears, desperate to keep me from leaving. She is
not the only one. The household has been in a panic since I asked
young Jocelyn to begin packing my belongings and alert my father
and Amalia to our departure.

“I’ve given him months of chances, Aimee. I
can’t do it any longer. I am sorry. I cannot save Bastien. I don’t
think anyone can.”

“But you’re so close!”

“I’ve never been farther.”

I will miss this castle but I cannot wait to
put it behind me. The Beast knows what is afoot; he chooses not to
intervene. It’s for the better. We’ve said all there was to say,
except perhaps good bye. Something tells me he will not stand on
that final bit of formality.

I walk the grounds one last time bidding fare
well to everyone I’ve come to know. Amalia is locked in her room; I
can hear her crying from the staircase. She will blame me for this
and I know I shall never hear the end of it. It would be of no use
to try and talk to her when she is like this. Instead I go in
search of my father.

I find him in the garden, sitting by the rose
bush. He pats the seat next to him in invitation. “Amalia is deep
in her theatrics, I gather.”

I smile. “Yes. She threatened to kill
herself.”

Father chuckles. “Amalia has always had a
passionate nature.”

“And how are you?”

He sighs wearily. “I am… glad,” he says. “A
father wants only the best for his children. I hoped this would be
the best for you. I was mistaken.” He smiles and takes my hands in
his. “Nothing could make me prouder of you, my child. You have a
good heart, Lyssette. You always stand up for those who need it and
fight for what you believe. But sometimes you must stand up for
yourself. Hold on to that strength. There will be many times when
you might need it still.”

I don’t feel strong. I feel a fool. Not once
have I thought to seek answers beyond what the Beast told me – I
trusted his word completely. I let my dreams and hopes blind me to
the truth. A beast will always be a beast, no matter how hard one
tries to change it.

Well, I know better now.

Our midday meal is a quiet, somber affair.
Amalia sniffles on occasion, her face red from crying, but she is
restraining herself to nothing more than scathing looks cast my
way. The servants’ reluctance to see us leave – and I suspect some
trickery as well – makes packing drag on until sunset.

At the prospect of another night spent under
this roof I nearly march out into the night on my own. For my own
safety, however, the hostler refuses to saddle a horse for me and I
dare not pass through the forest on foot. I can hear wolves howling
at the big, bright moon even now.

As I go in search of a quiet parlor to while
away the evening until exhaustion claims me, the great door opens,
admitting a scruffy young boy. He is winded and past him, on the
drive, I see a horse being led away. This must be the messenger the
Beast sent.

“You’ve news?”

He nods eagerly and pulls a crumpled letter
out of his pocket. He smoothes it out before he hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I say. “Go to the kitchen to warm up, and tell Cook I
said to feed you. You look starved.”

He grins at me, his eyes shining. “Thank you,
Mademoiselle!” And with a quick bow he scampers off.

“Good news, I hope.” Jacques is composed as
ever. Of all the servants he is the only one who did not plead with
me to stay. I think he understands better than the rest why I
cannot.

I open the letter, curious to see what my
sister has written me.

At once I recognize that it is not
Marguerite’s hand. The letter is from Monsieur Lafarge. He
writes:

A man of honor keeps his word. I have
given mine to provide for Monsieur Clemens and his two daughters in
the absence of the third. As Mademoiselle Marguerite now finds
herself without the comfort and protection of her father’s
presence, it falls to me to secure her in a position befitting a
young lady of her stature. I have asked for Marguerite’s hand in
marriage and she has happily accepted. The wedding will take place
with all haste tomorrow morn and all are invited
.

“My lady? Are you all right?”

I find myself leaning on Jacques, numb with
shock. This must be a jest! Marguerite will marry Monsieur Lafarge?
I cannot believe she would be so foolish; the man has twice her
years and more. He’s outlived two wives already and neither had
given him the heir he’d so longed for.

“Mademoiselle… Lyssette. What can I do?”

God, Marguerite would not have agreed to
this, would she? “Saddle two horses,” I say, though I don’t know
how the words manage to make it past my lips.

“My lady, it would be wiser to wait until day
break.”

“Now!” I cannot risk waiting so long. It
could be too late by the time I get there. If I am to save my
sister from making the greatest mistake of her life, I need to
leave immediately.

And I need help.

“Where is Bastien?”

Jacques draws himself up. “The lord is not
receiving visitors tonight.”

I extricate myself from his bracing hold and
press the letter into his hands. “Take this to my father,” I tell
him and run up the staircase. Jacques calls after me but I’ve
neither the time nor the inclination to listen.

I do not even slow through the dark hallway,
but rush right up to Bastien’s door and push it open without
knocking. He is on the bed, reading some sort of book. “Get up,” I
say.

He raises an eyebrow at my rude entry; that
is his only reaction. “You’ve come for more? I’m ever your humble
servant.” He inclines his head in a mocking bow. “Alas, it would
seem our furry friend was not amused.” With a sharp yank of his
wrist, he makes the heavy chain binding him pull taut.

He is chained?

Panic wells inside my breast until I can
hardly breathe. I look around frantically for the key but, of
course, it will not be anywhere within reach. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” There is amusement in his
voice. He is enjoying this.

Footsteps thump on the floor behind me.
Jacques catching up. “My lady, I really must insist!”

“Free him,” I demand. “Lord Bastien and I are
going for a horse ride.”

“Why not a carriage?” he mocks.

“Horses are faster,” I tell him.

“I cannot allow you to leave the castle
grounds at night,” Jacques insists.

“In a hurry, are we?” Bastien drawls.

“My sister is getting married tomorrow
morning.”

“Felicitations,” he says dryly.

“To Jean Lafarge.”

“Perhaps not, then.”

“I need you to help me stop it,” I say. It is
impossible to stand still under that steady, unfeeling gaze, when
my body hums with the need to move; to run. I know I have no chance
at all of stopping the wedding on my own. Bastien, human as he is
now, is my only hope. I cannot imagine what possessed Marguerite to
make this devil’s bargain. My heart tells me she is in danger and
though we’ve had our differences in the past, she is my sister and
I cannot let her come to harm.

“And why should I?” Bastien asks. I have
nothing to say. Nothing that would persuade him to take up my
cause. I cannot appeal to his feelings or sense of honor – he has
neither. And if he was not roused by the prospect of being freed
from his chains, why should he care about leaving the castle?

“My lady, this is not the time to discuss
these things.”

I ignore Jacques’ warning. “Please, Bastien.”
I am not too proud to beg. Or bargain. “I’ll do anything.”

His eyes briefly flare with lust and his
entire body tenses. “No,” he grates at last, turning back to his
damned book.

Breath leaves me at that callous answer.

“And you will not be leaving the castle,
either. Jacques, bar the gates and lock the door.”

“You think to keep me from my sister?”

“The selfish meddlesome whore who took up
with the first bastard who had coin enough to impress? Bloody yes,
I’ll keep you from her.”

“I see,” I return, “because I am clearly much
better served keeping company with the heartless bastard who abused
my trust, kept me prisoner, humiliated me and took advantage of
me.”

“You forgot clothed you, fed you, and
provided you with all the books and frivolities you females hold so
dear. You and your motley relatives. You should be grateful,
Lyssette. I raised you far up from that hovel you called home. Your
sister got precisely what she deserved. She and Lafarge should suit
nicely together.”

“I despise you.”

He does not even bat an eyelash. “You are
entitled.”

Incensed beyond reason, I cannot keep my feet
from moving forward. In three steps I am by his bed and my hand
flies before I can stop it. I’ve never slapped a person before in
my life. My palm throbs and his cheek reddens where I struck him. A
muscle ticks in his jaw. His eyes burn with cold fury when he lifts
his gaze to me again. “Stay here and rot, then,” I tell him.

I turn on my heels, heading for the door.

“Lyssette,” he calls after me.

I run out into the hall as chains rattle.
“
Lyssette get back here!
” he roars. I cover my ears and
refuse to listen. Servants stare at me as I rush past them.
Heedless of everything, I run out to the stables. There is not time
to saddle a horse. I choose a strong mare I am familiar with and
mount her bareback. Her whinnies echo in the night as I urge her
into a gallop toward the gate.

The path lays open before me. I squint into
the darkness, trusting my mare to lead me true. She snorts and
picks up her pace, as if she can sense my urgency, and as we fly
through the night I whisper my soft good bye to a dream, bracing
myself for the nightmare that is to come.

Clouds gather in an instant on a wicked faery
wind, obscuring the night sky. I feel my mare tense and snort as
lightning strikes in the distance but she stays her course, flying
so fast through the woods I would think she wasn’t moving at all,
were it not for the beat of her hooves. Then we emerge onto the
open fields and the sound is lost amidst the furious
thunderclaps.

Lightning strikes a lone tree nearby. The
mare rears and I grasp onto her mane to keep my seat. By sheer
force of will I remain on her back and calm her enough to continue
past the burning trunk toward my village. The driving rain stings
my face and eyes; my hands are numb holding the reins. I do not let
up.

Our cottage is near the edge of the village,
just past the bridge now threatened by the swollen, churning waters
of the creek. I race across it, heading toward the only home I’ve
ever known. I hope and pray that I will find Marguerite there.

The cottage is dark. No candlelight flickers
in the windows, no gentle puff of smoke rises up from the weathered
chimney. My head knows what my heart refuses to accept: Marguerite
would not be without a fire on a night like this. I dismount and
push open the groaning door, shouting Marguerite’s name even though
I know she is not there. I call out again and again; I search
around the cottage and in the small barn. It is empty, as it has
been for years.

My dress is soaked through, the skirts
tangling around my legs as I make my way back to the mare waiting
trustingly where I left her. I am chilled to the bone but strangely
the cold does not bother me. My shaking now has nothing to do with
the icy rain and everything to do with my horrifying suspicion. I
know where to find Marguerite.

“Please God let me be wrong,” I pray,
mounting the mare again. I slow my pace through the flooding
village streets, dreading my destination. Water splashes up with
each step my mare takes. The mud will loosen soon, making the going
too treacherous to continue. I must make it to Marguerite before
then.

Past the church square the streets widen. It
is a straight road through the village to the hill where the
Lafarge estate towers over everything, a majestic monarch watching
over its subjects. Torches are burning on either side of the
entrance, and every window of the house is aglow with light. No
doubt there is a fire lit in every hearth but there is nothing warm
about it.