Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Read online

  Beauty of the Beast

  Fairy Tale Retellings, Book One

  Rachel L. Demeter

  Beauty of the Beast

  Fairy Tale Retellings, Book One

  Copyright © 2017 Rachel L. Demeter

  Cover Art: Sarah Hansen

  Beta-Reading: Shelley at 2 Lovers of Books

  Editing: Stephanie Parent, Jenny Quinlan

  Proofreading: Jenny Sims

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way by any means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews—without written consent of the author.

  Disclaimer: This is an edgy retelling of the classic fairy tale. Due to strong sexual content, profanity, and dark subject matter, including an instance of sexual assault committed by the villain, this book is not intended for readers under the age of 18.

  For my grandma “Bella,” who’s truly the most beautiful person I know.

  Prologue

  Lavoncourt, The Kingdom of Demrov, 1808

  Prince Adam Delacroix, the fourth of his name, jolted awake as a thunderous roar splintered through his bedchamber. Overhead, beyond the lush canopy and intricately carved bedposts, the crystal chandelier tinkled and swayed. Its illumination pulsated across the parquet flooring and caused the shadows to crawl like living creatures.

  Another roar resounded—and this time Adam felt it. The entire bed trembled beneath him and rode the penetrating drone.

  Heartbeat pounding in his throat, he clasped the silk coverlet until his knuckles whitened with strain. His breaths emerged in shallow wafts and dusted the blackness. He stared at his family’s royal sigil, which was carved into the floorboards countless times, and recited his house’s words: Nutrisco et extinguo. I nourish the good and extinguish the evil. He chanted them with the audacity of a prayer—drawing strength and comfort from the age-old mantra.

  Another crash resonated, much fiercer than the last. The entire castle vibrated from the force of the impact. Dust particles and chunks of plaster rained from the lacquered ceiling. He watched in despair as the debris blanketed the sigils like fresh-fallen snow.

  Or perhaps ashes.

  He prayed for courage. At eleven years, he was almost a grown man—not a frightened babe.

  Yet he was petrified. Blinding terror filled his gut and climbed into his throat. That horror commanded his thoughts. Immobilized his limbs. Alas, it felt like a stone had been laid upon his chest and was shackling him in place. He attempted to scream—to cry out for help—but only a strangled gasp surfaced.

  Maman, Papa... Rosemary.

  Somehow he forced his legs to function and stumbled from his four-poster bed. The billowing canopy fluttered like the wings of a bird as the room shook beneath him. Each step took monumental effort; his insides quaked, and the soles of his feet seemed to be jammed with lead. Muttering a prayer, he rushed to the conservatory window and swept the crimson drapes aside.

  The sight thrashed the air from his lungs.

  Balls of fire filled the courtyard. They bobbed within the dark expanse and appeared to float in midair. One soared through the sky like a shooting star, streaking the night with a ribbon of flames...

  I must be dreaming. Adam rubbed the sleep from his eyes and exhaled a fortifying breath. He counted backward from five—but the ritual did nothing to sedate his nerves or chase away the nightmare.

  Torches—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—swamped the courtyard. Yells and hollers rose from the chaos in a unified chant: Vive la Demrov! Tricolored banners waved amid the sea of men and torches, painting the night with red, white, and blue. Rain descended from the bruised skyline, and a crack of lightning split the horizon. Thunder mated with the sounds of cannon fire and shouting, uniting the clamor as one.

  In the back of the mob, clusters of men yelled among themselves and wheeled the cannons forward—past the castle’s destroyed gate and straight into the heart of the courtyard.

  Straight into my home.

  It was a siege.

  Shrouded in terror, Adam stumbled from the window and raced into the hallway. Sconce lanterns flickered within the dark abyss, summoning irregular shadows across the burgundy walls and hanging tapestries. Rough shouts and the rumble of footfalls—dozens of men, if his ears didn’t deceive him—reverberated from below. And they were storming up the stairwells... coming for his family. He heard them fast approaching... heard their eager, overlapping voices draw closer... closer…

  At the end of the corridor, light bounced off the walls and ceiling. His family’s royal sigil—two interlinked salamanders twisted around a blazing shield—returned his stare from its home on a polished coat of arms. Likewise, the portraits hanging in the corridors seemed to observe his every movement like silent sentries. Adam felt as their eyes tracked his steps, felt as the ghosts of past ages strengthened his spirit and set fire to his resolve.

  Watch over me, Adam silently called out to a portrait of his great-grandfather. Keep watch over us all.

  Three men emerged from the stairwell holding flaming torches. They were tan and gruff-looking—clearly members of the working class. Raindrops rolled off their tattered cloaks while streaks of mud stained the parquet floor. Red, white, and blue badges, which boasted the infamous revolutionary symbol, decorated their jackets and tricorne caps. Pistols and crude daggers hung from their belts and swayed with each step.

  Adam shrank against the wall, which was painted an unsettling blood-red, and shrouded himself behind a tapestry.

  “Little prince... come out, come out, wherever you are...” That sardonic voice sank below Adam’s skin and crawled like a living thing. Manipulated by his ragged breaths, the tapestry wavered forward slightly.

  “You hiding somewhere? Now, now, don’t be shy.”

  His heart was beating so fast; he was sure the sound would give him away. The footfalls loudened as the men drew nearer... nearer. Soon they stood scant meters from his hiding spot. He slapped his palm against his mouth and nose to stifle the sound of his own breathing... to keep the tapestry from waving. Mercifully the fabric grew still—and he could just make out its silhouetted design: a salamander wearing a bejeweled crown, its elongated body jutting out from a field of fire. Adam mutely counted backward, craving the distraction—needing some way to relieve the coiled pressure.

  Five.

  The inside of the tapestry glowed as the men stopped directly in front of him. Mon Dieu. They lurked less than a meter away. Another few steps and they’d discover his hiding place. Or if they simply brushed the material aside and checked behind it…

  Four.

  Heat from the torch penetrated the tapestry and beat against his face, causing sweat to rain from his brow. The salty rivulets leaked into his eyes and blurred the world around him. What if the men saw his silhouette? What if the tapestry wasn’t heavy enough and gave him away? The hanging had been in his family for generations, existing as a symbol of their eternal valor and might. And what if it betrays us now, on this eve?

  “Suppose he escaped?”

  “With the castle so guarded? Not likely.”

  Three.

  A great crash resonated; the sound blasted down Adam’s spine and caused the tapestry to quiver. Thunder? Or more cannon fire?

  He inwardly called out to the salamander, imploring its protection—seeking its wisdom and guidance.

  Two.

  “Thought I heard something,” one of them grunted.

  Adam held his breath until he grew faint. The very thought angered him and caused bitter resentment to rise in his gut. Silently he muttered a prayer—and
hoped someone, anyone, would listen.

  One.

  “Let’s go. Let the little wretch burn with the castle.”

  His prayer was answered. The torchlight shifted away from the tapestry, leaving him in blessed darkness once more. Finally able to draw breaths, Adam inhaled a gulp of air and listened as the footfalls receded. Sparing the tapestry a final glance, he sprang out from his hiding spot and hurried down the twisting corridor. Sconce lanterns flittered, casting wavering shadows along the slim, blood-red walls and low ceiling. Adam’s heart raced at breakneck speed. He’d never reach the end of the hall. The corridor appeared to physically expand and lengthen... The doors floated farther and farther away... He felt the walls and ceiling closing in, coming together and lowering...

  An eternity seemed to flash by before he reached the end of the corridor. He shoved open a door, which led to one of many formal sitting rooms, and jackknifed toward the lofty bureau. His hands violently shook as he ripped open the drawers and rummaged through them. Nothing. Yet he knew Papa had hidden it somewhere in this room. Adam craned his neck back and focused on the very top of the bureau.

  Yes, that’s where Papa keeps it. At the top, where I couldn’t ever hope to reach it. And where I still can’t reach it...

  He’d watched his father hide the pistol once after he’d polished the barrel to a shine. Papa had always been impressively tall—a God among men in Adam’s eyes. Since his eleventh birthday, he’d showed promise of reaching Papa’s impressive stature—but he still had almost half a meter to go.

  Adam grabbed hold of a luxurious wingback chair and dragged it over to the bureau. The thing felt monstrously heavy and emitted a loud screeching noise as it clawed at the parquet floors. What if someone heard? What if he was discovered? Adam knew well what had become of France’s king and queen nine years ago; Papa had made certain of it.

  Non, no time to think of such things. Lightheaded and trembling, Adam leapt onto the upholstery, stretched his arms, and strained for the pistol. His bare feet covered the embroidered salamanders, though a part of him felt the emblem’s searing flames.

  He could barely reach. The chair swayed below him. His fingertips grazed the pistol’s well-oiled barrel. Beyond the high arched window, a flash of lightning illuminated the horizon. A heartbeat later, a resounding crash shook the castle and nearly threw Adam off the chair. Fighting back his tears, he regained his balance, then gave a desperate hop. Yes. He managed to latch on to the barrel and retrieve it from the bureau.

  As the castle shuddered and shifted below his naked feet, he dashed down the corridors while booming voices and footsteps bellowed in all directions.

  Only one thought occupied his mind: Rosemary.

  His breaths grew labored as he threw open the nursery’s door.

  Flames rose from his baby sister’s bassinet. Crying filled the room and caused vomit to sear his insides. Adam read the engraved letters several times—Rosemary, Rosemary, Rosemary—as the bassinet’s wooden frame withered and blackened. His knees gave way and buckled, sending him to the floorboards.

  Non. She’s still alive. Suffering, but alive. He struggled back to his feet, thinking of nothing but the feel of her tiny, pale hand gripping his finger.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw himself standing before her birthing bed, saw Maman and Papa’s joyful expressions as they gazed down at Demrov’s crown princess...

  Smoke flooded his lungs as he shot across the nursery. His eyes watered and burned from the agonizing temperature.

  Muttering his house’s words repeatedly and clinging to their meaning, Adam reached past those roaring flames... felt as the fire blistered his skin and drifted into his face. Perspiration and tears mingled, tracking down his inflamed cheeks, thrashing the breaths from his lungs.

  Time became suspended—and a mere second held the weight of an eternity. Sweltering heat engraved his flesh, each tendon, every muscle. He paused, breathless and immobile from the mind-bending pain, feeling as his skin smoldered down to the bone like wax melting from a wick.

  Rosemary’s brittle cries warped until they were no longer that of an infant baby; they were the screams of a dying person. They sounded inhuman—like the panicked shrieks of a horse suffering an agonizingly slow death. Adam had witnessed this once, years ago—and those horrific cries still haunted his nightmares. One of the groomsmen had put a bullet through his beloved Arabian, granting the creature a quick and merciful death.

  But there was nothing quick or merciful about Rosemary’s fate.

  His father’s voice whispered in his mind and fueled his resolve: Be brave, my dear boy. Endure and be strong. Madly coughing, tears of pain running down his cheeks, he reached toward his sister’s screams, fought the instinct to run far away... and pulled her motionless body from the bassinet and into his scorched arms.

  Rosemary’s cries fell quiet a heartbeat later. It was the loudest silence he’d ever heard.

  Adam jerked away from the bassinet and into the corridor, her tiny, swaddled body clasped against his heaving chest. The pain hit him at full force as he rolled across the ground, dousing the fire and praying in vain.

  But it was already over. Barely breathing from the smoke and anguish, Adam unwrapped Rosemary’s blanket while the inferno raged on.

  Half-immobilized by the sight of his sister’s crumpled, burned body, Adam scuttled backward until he crashed into the wall. And at that moment, he and Rosemary became connected, one and the same. As he felt her spirit fade away, he too felt a part of himself disappear. His body grew cold and numb, resembling an empty shell.

  His chest heaved in violent spasms. The smoke made him grow weary and faint. Vomit dribbled from his mouth and splattered onto the parquet flooring. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t draw breaths. The entire castle spun in nauseating circles... The heat of the flames singed his skin, its infernal light blinding him.

  The nursery had transformed into the depths of Hell, and all nine of Dante’s rings were branded in his flesh. The sight of Rosemary’s countless strewn pull toys and blocks, now consumed by flames, summoned another wave of bile. Vomit gushed from his mouth, tracking down his neck and the front of his nightshirt. Despair, unlike anything he’d ever experienced, coursed through his veins. As the fire’s heat grew and flashed across his face, he closed his eyes and recalled the first time he’d held Rosemary.

  Always remember, my boy: A kingdom is only as strong as her leader...

  Now those flames were rushing toward him—straight into the corridor—devouring everything in their path. He struggled back onto his feet, using the wall to steady his body. His limbs felt like jelly, and the burns on his arms bubbled, flooding him with excruciating pain.

  “Forgive me, Rosemary... I’m so sorry...”

  His mind drew blank with shock. Somehow he managed to collect himself and continue his quest; quitting now meant losing everything.

  Securing the pistol in his blistered hands, he charged through the hall, overwhelmed with hopelessness, dry-mouthed and lightheaded. The hard rhythm of his pulse thundered in his chest, his neck, his temples, even behind each eye. A black void expanded in his soul, and he felt himself perishing from the inside out.

  I must be brave, just like Papa...

  Despair took root deep inside Adam’s heart. The entire weight of the world fell upon his shoulders while his father’s words echoed in his mind.

  We, the Delacroix house, shall stand for a thousand more years, because we are the true pillars of Demrov.

  And now those pillars were collapsing.

  Chapter One

  Twenty-five years later

  Ruillé, Demrov

  The vision might have been stolen straight from a fairy tale. Gusts of smoke ascended from a wickerwork chimney and clashed against the baby blue skyline. Beneath the cottage’s tattered walls and shingled roof, Isabelle Rose lounged before a hearth. Warm flames enveloped her like a blanket and tugged at her imagination. She flipped through her book’s well-loved pages, al
lowing the sentimental words to wrap her soul and lift her into another time and place.

  Hairline cracks spidered overhead, adding insult to injury to the low ceiling. From the corner window, sunlight trickled inside the cramped drawing room and illuminated each imperfection.

  Yet Isabelle felt at peace.

  Like most other days, Papa relaxed beside her in his Windsor-style rocking chair. She paused her reading and glanced at his ashen features. The cataracts had grown so severe that he was almost blind. Her heart gave a painful ache at the unsightly slump of his shoulders, the wan complexion of his parchment-thin skin, and the deep wrinkles that burdened his brow.

  I’d be utterly lost without him.

  Shoving away the dark thought, she lowered her book and exhaled a rigid breath. “Papa?” He responded with a wheezy snore.

  She basked in the tranquil moment—something of a rare occurrence—and savored the simple comfort of Papa’s companionship. A unique blend of scents sweetened the air and helped pacify her spirit: a cauldron of stew cooking over the hearth, the bitter aroma of dark coffee, and the chill of winter as a breeze penetrated the cottage’s beams.

  Once upon a time, when Demrov was still a kingdom, and Isabelle existed as nothing more than a whisper on her parents’ lips, Papa had been a renowned merchant. She’d often rejoiced in hearing the tales of his journeys, of the colorful noble ladies and men, farmers, and tradesmen he’d met during his travels. But as the tariffs and taxes rose, and the gap between the working class and nobility grew, Papa had lost his touch. Even after the great revolution, he never regained his momentum. And whatever modest savings he’d stashed away had depleted after he’d married Theresa and inherited the woman’s two insufferable daughters...

  Speak of the devil. The front door thrust open with a loud crack. Harsh voices imbued the drawing room. The wind howled, filling the cottage with its mournful song. Ice-cold air slammed against Isabelle’s cheeks, and the hearth wavered, threatening to snuff out.