Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 7

  Isabelle wedged her foot in the door, lunging forward in a desperate movement, and latched on to the man’s sweeping cloak. He spun around, agile and quick as lightning, his six-foot-three frame towering above her. She glanced at his hooded face and struggled to make out his features. That damnable hood obscured most of him, and darkness cloaked whatever details were left exposed. She could bear not knowing his face. Not seeing his eyes, however, disturbed her greatly; it felt as though she were pleading with Death, rather than a flesh-and-blood man.

  Isabelle straightened her posture and fixed her gaze on what she assumed was his eye level. “Let us stay till morning. Please, monsieur. That’s all I ask. He’ll die out in the cold.”

  Pure silence. Only the howling wind shattered the quiet. The figure remained still, his immense form blocking her one hope for shelter. She refused to be frightened or intimidated by his callous attitude and demeanor. He’d answered her knock. Now, he would answer her request.

  After a long silence, he said in a tone designed to strike terror in the boldest heart, “A pity. As I said, not my—”

  “I heard what you said, monsieur, with resounding clarity.” He visibly stiffened at her words, as if they were a slap to his face. If he thought such a menacing tone would frighten her off, he had another thing coming. “Now hear me. I refuse to be turned away.” Indeed, she would die before he refused her again. Her papa’s life depended on this beast’s mercy—and, Mon Dieu, she would have it.

  “Is that so?” Isabelle’s skin tingled at the deep baritone. The man’s voice blasted down her spine and made her skin prickle with gooseflesh. He sounded slightly amused, which increased her frustration tenfold.

  Then he edged closer until he stood intimately close. After Raphael, instinct taught her to move back, to resist a man’s nearness. Each of his steps was slow and measured, as though testing her tolerance for his proximity. His hot breaths wafted against her cheeks in tantalizing caresses. She yearned to draw backward—even just a blessed centimeter—to release herself from his suffocating presence, yet she refused to show fear. Instead, she stood a little straighter, lifted her chin a little higher, and grasped Papa’s arm with a firmer resolve.

  At this nearness, the scents of sandalwood and pine reached her nose. The unique blend mixed with the winter air in a rather compelling way. Her heart pounded. Both palms grew hot and clammy in spite of the cold. All five of her senses felt overwhelmed, challenged, lifted. The man raised the lantern in a graceful motion and illuminated her face. Or rather, scorched her face. For such an inadequate candle, the thing gave off an intense and penetrating heat. Warmth from the flame burned her cheeks and assaulted her eyes. She squinted and turned away, needing refuge from that burning light.

  “He is blind.” It wasn’t a question. The accent of the man’s voice, morbidly husky and slightly cultured, spilled through her veins with the audacity of a dark wine.

  Isabelle silently nodded, still turned away. She needed her resolve and couldn’t bear the sight of that looming hooded figure another moment. If only he’d remove that damnable hood and let her meet his eyes, person to person...

  Within that silence, an eternity seemed to crawl by. Then he shifted backward and gestured them inside the castle with a hauntingly elegant motion.

  The inside of the castle was barren and nearly pitch-black. Isabelle felt like she’d entered a tomb. Cracked flagstones covered the floor in irregular, imperfect patterns. Cobwebs hung from every corner, their eight-legged widows infesting the silk strands. The fortress rocked beneath her heels as the heavy oak door slammed shut, sealing her and Papa inside its belly. All breaths vacated her lungs, and a feeling of hopelessness descended. For several moments, she stood in silent awe and shivered in the castle’s wake. A vaulted ceiling loomed a hundred feet above, black, scarred and webbed with intricate hairline cracks. Countless stone arches and alcoves led in all directions. Two spiral staircases occupied the heart of the foyer. Their bodies twisted into blackness like a pair of fractured spines. Or two interlaced salamanders.

  Dust particles floated in midair, illuminated by the swinging lantern and an occasional sconce. Beyond the walls, gusts of wind penetrated the castle and infused the rooms with a bone-chilling draft. Fighting to chase away the cold, Isabelle vainly massaged her arm.

  No warmth was to be found.

  She grasped Papa’s quaking body and held tight, following the lantern’s transitory glow. He stumbled on beside her, a look of confusion stretched across his pallid face. Isabelle fought to still her pounding heart, to be strong for him.

  “Papa, are... are you all right?”

  Some of the tension in his brow faded at the sound of her voice.

  “I believe so.”

  “Good. I—” Isabelle’s thoughts were cropped short as the hooded figure glanced over his shoulder; she shivered, feeling his eyes move back and forth between her and Papa. Then he continued to surge forward without another glance. The enormous dog stumbled along beside him—a silent guardian shadowing each of his steps. Their footfalls echoed despairingly, amplified by the room’s colossal size.

  “We traveled here from Ruillé,” she said, needing to shatter the stillness. “It’s... it’s a rather small village, to be sure, about halfway between here and Lavoncourt—”

  “I am aware of where Ruillé is,” he scoffed, that deep voice lowering several octaves.

  Isabelle snapped her mouth shut, not daring to utter another word. I best not press my luck. A roof over our heads and food inside our bellies is more than we can hope for. Her eyes remained fastened to the man’s strong back while they strode deeper inside the castle.

  She shuddered as she passed through an archway and became entangled in a spider web. The cloaked man hesitated—then reached out and gently helped her regain her footing. A heartbeat later, he and the massive dog continued onward through the shadows. Burdened by a damaged left hind leg, the canine struggled to keep pace.

  Both man and beast nearly camouflaged in the surrounding darkness. Isabelle felt chills slide through her body while the uneasy sensation expanded within. A small voice warned her to turn away now—to brave the weather and leave this desolate place.

  It seemed she’d escaped one storm for an even greater one.

  The drawing room was nearly as dim and uninviting as the main hall. Several large sconces provided wavering light, and the bodies of interlaced salamanders constructed their dusty, cobwebbed holders. A brass chandelier hung in the heart of the room. It looked tarnished; only half the candles were lit, imbuing the room with an eerie murmur. In a far corner lurked a fine rosewood chess board. If the strewn pieces were any indication, the thing had been abandoned mid-game. A moth-eaten chaise and faded wingback chairs surrounded the black hearth. The mantel appeared quite filthy; its chipped surface was bare of any sentiments or décor. In fact, all the furniture looked dusty and neglected, as if it had been rotting for an eternity.

  Once upon a time, this room—the entire castle—had been a thing of beauty. Isabelle’s imagination sparked to life, envisioning a crush of colorful frocks and billowing gowns as ladies and gentlemen conversed beside the hearth in intimate whispers. In her mind’s eye, the tarnished chandelier flared to life—chasing away the shadows and illuminating the intricately carved mantel and polished furniture. She could almost smell the honeyed, floral perfumes and hear the tinkle of wine glasses as two gentlemen toasted each other’s health and fortune...

  I’ve been indulging in far too many novels.

  Isabelle shook her head and chased away her romantic thoughts. Snapping back into the present, she led Papa to the chaise and gently arranged his shivering body. Both the dog and man mutely watched them from across the room. Indeed, Isabelle felt as they assessed her every movement. Every breath.

  Minutes later, she sat in the darkness and watched the chandelier’s inadequate glow, her small, strong hands resting loosely in her lap. The huge wingback chair dwarfed her slight frame and made her fee
l all the more overpowered and inferior.

  She exhaled a weary sigh and listened to the stillness all around her. How could anyone live in such a desolate place? She sensed a sadness in her host, as well as great anger and resentment. From their brief conversation, she’d gotten the distinct feeling that he despised her. Well, perhaps not her... but he certainly loathed the world outside of these strange, drafty walls.

  “Thank you for this kindness.” The stranger gave a sharp nod, though he remained as quiet as the grave. “He’s very cold,” she said, gesturing toward Papa. “Could you light the fire?”

  The man said nothing. His cloaked form visibly stiffened—the one telltale sign of his discomfort. She glanced across the room, feeling the burn of eyes on her. As their host silently watched her, Papa leaned forward and whispered, “I... I’m so sorry. I should have listened. I never—”

  “Shh. Everything shall be fine. Just rest now. I know—”

  “I’ll see to your horse.”

  Have my ears deceived me? Taken aback, Isabelle jackknifed toward the deep lull of the man’s voice. But the hooded figure and his canine companion were already gone from the room.

  An hour later, Isabelle lounged in the large chair and gazed into the black hearth. Cobwebs and dust infected the logs, attesting its negligence for some time. The great room was colder than ice; she rubbed her numb fingers together and exhaled a relieved breath.

  For the time being, it appeared they were safe. How good it felt to relax, knowing countless kilometers separated her from Raphael Dumont. Papa was fast asleep on the chaise, fresh food and drink arranged on the end table. Indeed, like two starved peasants, she and Papa had devoured half a loaf of bread and an entire pot of mint tea since the cloaked man had set the items in front of them.

  Now the stranger crouched before the hearth, kindling the fire in slow, oddly reluctant movements. He kept his face averted from her gaze, while that macabre, dark hood veiled his profile. The cloak spilled across the stone floor in a pool of pitch-black. The massive dog clung to his heels like the most loyal of companions. Isabelle observed man and beast alike, dazed with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

  Drafts of wind seeped through the cracks in the walls. Yawning, she tightened the cloak about herself and turned to Papa.

  Mon Dieu, he’d grown so pale, and whatever semblance of peace she’d felt moments ago slipped away. She broke off a chunk of bread, then surveyed the wall decoration, which hung above the hearth’s mantel. It was a handsome coat of arms, featuring interlinked salamanders twisted around a flaming shield. A piece of fabric covered the lower half of the decoration, hiding the house’s words from sight.

  Strange.

  She’d seen the design before, of course, as had every other Demrovian. It was the royal coat of arms, which boasted the proud sigil of the country’s ancestral family. A million questions blazed through her mind, each one burning hotter than the last.

  After a moment, the hearth sparked to life and cut Isabelle’s thoughts in two. The hooded figure gracefully came to his feet; she felt his eyes on her from across the room and couldn’t help but admire his height and strong stature. The dog also rose from his hind legs; he was suffering from acute arthritis or an injury of some kind. The back left leg dragged when he walked, and his foot was bent at an awkward angle.

  The silence thickened; it pressed hard on her eardrums. Even the fire’s ashes fell without a whisper. Isabelle rapped her fingernails against the arms of her chair simply to make noise and break that damming quiet. There was something about the way the man stood there, immobile and cloaked in mystery. The urge to cross the room and offer him comfort struck her without warning.

  Instead, she swallowed and attempted a smile, though her nerves all but prevented the simple movement. “Thank... you.” He and the dog vanished just as the words emerged, leaving Isabelle and Papa alone again, with only the crackling fire for company.

  Quite a while later, as Isabelle relaxed and soaked in the hearth’s warmth, she found herself nodding off to sleep. Her mind detached from the stress of the past few days and receded to another time and place. She recalled her journeys with Papa when she’d been little more than a girl. All the villages they’d passed through; all the faces they’d seen. She thought of reading storybooks beneath a bejeweled sky, of leaning against a mountain of crates as Papa pointed out the constellations and their eternal stories—

  Rattling seized her attention and ruptured her thoughts. She peered at Papa, who was carefully examining his teacup. Not with his eyes, of course—but with wandering fingertips. The same impressive coat of arms engraved the fine proclaim; Papa ran his weathered fingers over its surface, clearly in awe of the raised gold decorations and studded gems. The thing must have cost a small fortune. Indeed, she’d never beheld such finery. Even the wares Papa had once sold paled in comparison. The faded brim of his top hat hung low and covered his glassy eyes.

  Then her mouth went dry as he slipped the teacup inside his coat.

  Has he gone mad—or simply grown that desperate? It was completely unlike Papa to steal. How could he—and after being shown hospitality?

  Her outcry startled him. He half leapt from the chair—and Isabelle watched in horror as the teacup tumbled out from the coat. It rattled and rolled onto the stone ground, shattering into numberless pieces.

  A gloved hand broke through the darkness, quicker than a lightning strike. The hooded figure emerged from the shadows and seized Papa by his cravat. His other hand clasped a branch of flickering candles. The illumination flashed across the dark folds of his cloak, soaking him in a pool of light.

  “Stealing from me, are you? Breaking my family’s keepsakes?” A sharp jerk forced Papa to his feet. The rough movement sent the top hat tumbling from his head and onto the stone floor. Papa’s waxen features melted into an expression of horror and confusion.

  Her heart pounding, Isabelle lunged forward and frantically cried out, “Let him alone! It was an accident. Don’t you see that you’re frightening him?”

  “Good.” The simple declaration threw Isabelle into stunned silence. Papa called out for her as the man strode from the sitting room, his solid legs eating up the ground in swift, decisive strides. He was physically dragging Papa through the castle.

  This isn’t happening. It cannot be...

  “Stop it! Stop it now—you monster!” Isabelle picked up her skirts and frantically chased after them. Parts of the castle were dark and unkempt, causing her to trip several times over wayward pieces of furniture. Her heart violently pounded in her ears. The man moved impressively fast; between his agile stride and sweeping cloak, he almost appeared to float through the corridors. Plopping onto the stone floor, his dog gave up trying to keep pace. Dust motes rose and fell in midair like ashes, obscuring her vision. She followed the branch’s illumination, watching as the candlelight threw prisms along the walls and floor.

  “Please, monsieur. Have mercy, I beg you! He didn’t know any better. He’s not in his right mind. He would never—”

  “No one steals from me.” His low voice echoed in the darkness, steady as a war drum.

  Isabelle felt herself descending. She ducked as she crossed a low archway, where she was met with a steep flight of stairs. A mouth into Hell. The ceiling lurked unusually low and was strung with cobwebs. Isabelle hiked up her skirts, which were now a filthy mess, and raced down the decayed steps. The hooded figure kept a swift pace while she desperately pursued Papa’s frightened cries.

  Plagued by the darkness, Isabelle tripped and crashed down the stone steps. Pain cascaded through her body, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her skinned knees and elbows throbbed, her heart pounded, her head burned. She spared a moment to catch her breath as she struggled to her feet and resumed her vain quest. Papa’s muffled pleas and the sound of slamming bars ripped at her very soul.

  The dank dungeon was nearly black. She slowed her pace, moving toward a beam of light at the far end. Rats the size of kittens
scurried across the stone floor and filled the darkness with their terrible squeaking. Her heart thudding, Isabelle rushed through the maze of cells, following Papa’s voice and that flickering light. Chains and crude-looking objects littered the ground—torture devices from a past age, she realized with a shudder.

  She found them.

  Papa was grasping the rusted bars; disoriented and frightened, he was murmuring incoherent pleas. Tears fell from his sightless eyes, though Isabelle knew he fought to restrain them. The branch of candles sat in front of the cell, its wavering light illuminating his terrified expression.

  “Forgive me. I have wronged you when you showed my daughter and me hospitality and mercy. Please, monsieur!”

  The man towered before him, silent and still. His long arms remaining crossed, he stood with his lean torso straighter than a broadsword. His hood was drawn back, though Isabelle couldn’t see his face from her angle.

  “Papa, I’m here,” she said beneath the weight of a strained breath.

  “I-Isabelle?”

  Not sparing a moment, she dashed over to the cell—and the man slowly rotated into sight.

  Except he resembled more of a beast than any man she’d ever seen.

  Isabelle clamped both hands over her mouth and forced her eyes away. The sight burned—and the inferno in his gaze only kindled that fire.

  Half of his face looked monstrously twisted; charred mounds of puckered flesh distorted the features beyond any recognition, draining him of all traces of humanity. Those heaps of burned, leather-like skin gleamed and glistened in the candlelight. His hairline receded on the left side of his face and slanted high above a shriveled ear.

  Under the severe scarring, his age was more or less indistinguishable—though Isabelle guessed he wasn’t a day under thirty-five.

  But his eyes were breathtaking. Two brilliant sapphires. There was also a great sadness and anger in those eyes, as if he’d suffered more than his share of original sin. As she gazed into his eyes, all she saw was blue ice—an endless, arctic landscape of cold desolation.