Beauty in the Beast (5 page)

“It was as if the word ‘monster’ called the beast in his blood, and the first wave of pain shuddered through him.

“The woman made a sharp gesture and spoke a word that Michael did not know. His body went limp, though he trembled with the pending transformation. He stared at the woman, whose eyes looked suddenly hawkish. ‘Don’t move, or I will end you now,’ she said in English.

“Into a thin bronze bowl, she mixed herbs from half a dozen jars with drops of liquid from three different vials. She chanted as she worked, and when she was done, she set the mix on fire with the candle. The herbs went up in a blaze, releasing a sudden plume of black pungent smoke.

“The woman’s chanting reached a feverish pitch. At the climax, her hand struck out to rip several strands of hair from his head. She threw it into the fire, and with an incoherent scream, tipped the bowl, tossing the contents over him.

“Michael expected burning ashes, but the magic fell over him like a warm wind. He coughed and rested limply on the ground, free to move again. The threatening pain of the change had left him.

“‘I have done all that I can,’ she said. ‘In the morning, you must move on.’

“When he awoke, he found himself in a storage shed, surrounded by rusted automaton parts, pails, shovels and other gardening equipment. He found no signs of herbs or jars or candles, but he was covered in a fine white powder, like the powder of ashes.

“Michael had heard of witches, of course, but had never believed in their existence. Yet they seemed a natural part of the world he lived in now, a world in which he feared at any moment a monstrous change would overcome him.

“But the change did not come for the next week, nor did he feel the trembling anxiety that promised its return. For the first time in months, he began to hope. Though he would never be able to repair his broken life or bring back his beloved wife and precious children, maybe he could at least end his running. Maybe at least he could find an end to the weight in his chest, the weight of knowing that he could kill again.

“The full moon passed without remark. Taking heart, he found a small job at an inn, where he was fed and lodged and given a modest wage, enough to buy clean clothes and pay a visit to the barber. He enjoyed the impersonal company of other men, and felt almost like a man himself, again.

“There was a woman at the inn who served food during the day and sang songs for the dinner crowd. She and Michael took a liking to each other. Perhaps participating in a tryst was shameful after all he had done—for all that his family had only been dead one season. But he missed his wife and the company of a female, so when the woman invited him to stay the night with her, he readily took advantage of her offer… He would have been content just to lie with her and try to imagine that her body was the body of his wife. However, she had other intentions, and his passion got the best of him.

“When the first wave of shivers ran over his body, he simply thought it was part of his excitement, but he curled over her body in sudden pain and horror. She watched him as his fingers curled, and his face lengthened, and the fur spread over his skin. Her eyes were wide and she pressed back against the bed as if pinned there, frozen with shock and terror. He let out an animal’s cry of rage.

“He fled like an animal flees, her belated screams driving him on. He could smell everything and see everything in the night. Above him hung the full silver moon—the moon he’d thought he could forget. His fleet legs took him to the forest’s edge like the wind, where he hoped to lose himself in the trees before the beast’s mind took over.

“It did not. He ran until he could smell nothing but trees, powerful and monstrous, but his thoughts remained his own. Human and terrified. An aching hunger stabbed at his gut and shook his muscles. He took his hunger and his anger out on the trees, raging against them with claws and teeth.

“The witch’s magic had not cured him. It only gave him a tenuous grip over his own human form and returned his human consciousness to the beast body. Now he was burdened with the hunger of the monster and the responsibility to hold it in check.”

Rolph’s voice died to silence. For many moments, none of us spoke.

“Oh, dear.” I chuckled nervously to break the tension and flashed a weak smile at Miles. “And you said
my
story was fit to make a man jump off a bridge.” With a quick blush, I turned to Rolph. “Pardon me! I only mean that it was a very sad story, and very well told.”

Rolph nodded, eyes nearly black and mouth set in a somber line. He canted his head, as if considering the sound of the wind. “Stay until morning.” He stood, and I could see that his hands were trembling again. “I’ll be back with drinks and with meat to refresh the stew.” He bent to take something from the table next to his chair, and I saw that it was the amber vial of liquid.

Beth watched me watch him go. She sat up and drew her eyebrows together. “You don’t truly
fancy
him, do you?”

In a voice as hushed as hers, I replied, “And if I do?”

“He’s just so…coarse.”

I frowned. “What’s wrong with coarse?”

She glanced around us, as if to say the preoccupation with dead animals could mean anything about his character. In answer, I looked at the painting of the water drop above the mantel.

“Hey! No secret girl talks,” said Fred.

Miles leaned over to bury his mouth in Beth’s hair. “Did the story scare you?” He circled his arms around her middle.

She squirmed and pecked his nose. “No…” She flicked a look at me, then added, “Maybe. Just a little bit.”

“Come here,” he said, and scooted from the bench to the floor to pull her onto his lap. She curled against his chest while he rocked her and kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”

She nodded her head against him. “I love you too.”

A sudden deep longing burned in my chest, and I quickly found somewhere else to focus my gaze.
Ah, love.
I closed my eyes.
Love and loss.
The threat of old tears warmed my eyes, and I breathed softly until it passed.

“Tara?” inquired Beth, when I stood and laced on my boots.

“Nature’s chamber pot,” I said, jerking my thumb toward the door, but I could not tease a smile from her. I found the back door through which Miles had come. After the warmth of the cabin, the cold stung. I closed the door quickly behind me and stood in no more than my sweater, pants and boots on the back doorstep. However, the worst of the wind was blocked by the silent stomper to my left and a perpendicular extension of the cabin to my right. At the farthest end of the stomper’s sled, so that I was still just sheltered by it, I did my thing in the snow and buried the evidence.

I hunched back toward the door, but a glow of lamplight from outside caught my attention. Hugging my chest, I loped toward the leg of the cabin and peered around a wall to find Rolph kneeling on the bare ground under the shelter of a roof. The enclosure seemed to be a sort of stable and had the distinct musk of hoofed creatures, supporting my notion that he kept livestock, though I saw no animals by the lamp’s light.

Rolph’s arm worked at something on the ground in front of him, a dark mass that I recognized as a deer carcass when I stepped closer. Large sections had already been removed and had frosted at the edges. Apparently, it had been dead for some time and was being stored out here. My gaze traveled from its swollen, protruding tongue to the mess of frozen black blood and torn flesh at its throat.

“Wolf kill?” I asked, jaw tight against chattering.

He looked over his shoulder at me. “Yes.” I wasn’t sure from his expression if he was annoyed to see me. There was something primal about him squatting there before the kill—something that reminded me of a dog tugging at meat with its jaws, head slung low and shoulders peaked.

“Can I be of any assistance?” I asked.

He returned to his task, arm sawing back and forth as he worked a knife through the frozen meat. “Here. Would you take this inside?” He drew together the four corners of a cloth he had loaded with chunks from the animal’s side and handed the bundle to me. “You can go through the kitchen.” He indicated a door.

I found it and went through. The kitchen was a kitchen in intent, if not function. The oven and range were barely recognizable under a pile of straw, and the cold had settled in here as it hadn’t in the living room, waiting in the spider-webbed corners and nestling in the empty hearth.

A wooden table stood snug against the left wall, a fresh splatter of liquid darkening its dusty surface. Atop it sat the amber vial, its round mouth open, stopper lying nearby as if it had been hastily opened. I threw a quick glance behind me at the closed door before bending to sniff the sticky stuff. Up close, the sweet smell was more complex—laced with a sharp medicinal sting and grounded by a burned scent. Tears welled in my eyes and I sneezed once, loudly, before escaping into the hallway.

I paused just outside the threshold, tilting my nose to the air. The strange bitter smell I had noticed upon first entering the cabin was stronger here and stuck in the air persistently, like a burn or a scar. I could hear Miles’s voice to my left. Warmth and savory aroma radiated from that direction. To my right, I spied three doors. One stood slightly ajar, inviting me closer. The smell seemed to be coming from inside. It would be so easy to tap the door open a little farther and glance inside to resolve my curiosity.

I nudged the door open gently with my knee and a wall of bitter stink greeted me. The room inside was illuminated softly, not by gaslight or by fire, but by a sphere of blue-white phosphorescence. Tables crowded the room, all covered with the most occult and scientific apparati I had ever seen. Tubes, vials, stands. Jars and bottles. On the walls, arcane sigils had been drawn with charcoal, surrounding diagrams of dragons, flames, celestial bodies and liquids being poured.

Atop a table by the door, I found possibly the most startling objects in the room. Jars of paint, a palette, a cup of brushes, a rag smeared with dried colors, and paintings. A stack of them at the far corner of the table, and three others leaning against the wall. They were portraits, and each depicted the same three faces. One woman and two little girls.

The first painting was done in black and white. The only spots of color were the girls’ red bows and a red rose that the woman held. All three stared somberly from the canvas.

The second was done in brightly colored broad strokes that reminded me of the raindrop painting above the fireplace. All three smiled in this portrait, eyes crinkling, and I could almost hear the girls’ giggles.

The third was unfinished, little more than a drawing on canvas. The little girls’ faces were eerily blank and featureless. Only the woman was complete, each lock of hair carefully penciled. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep.

On the corner of the table, I spied a small rectangle—a daguerreotype of the same woman and girls. The woman had a pale, delicate beauty, hair falling softly around her face and her expression serene. Both girls smiled shyly.

There was a fourth person in the daguerreotype, though, one who was not in any of the paintings. A man. At first, I did not recognize the neatly combed hair and trimmed beard, but the jaw and brow were familiar.

Rolph.

A warm, electric force closed around my back, and the hairs on my arms and the rear of my neck stood up in a wave. An arm reached over my shoulder to pull the door firmly shut.

“This one is off-limits,” growled Rolph in my ear. The warmth of his body burned hotter than a fire at my back.

A shock ran from my toes to my scalp, and when he stepped away, the displacement of energy sucked my breath from me. I turned in time to catch a glimpse of his face, eyes black shadows in the sudden absence of light.

He gestured toward the cozy smells and sounds of food and company. “Before the meat thaws and bleeds on my floor, please.”

I scurried ahead like a pup with its tail between its legs, while heat spread to the tips of my ears and down my neck. Also to my thighs, though that was a different heat altogether.

At the fireplace, I dropped the meat into the pot so hastily that I splashed scalding broth on my hand. I put my hand in my mouth and glanced back. Rolph, placing a crate on the table, looked up at my whimper of pain. “You hurt yourself.”

Beth looked up. “Tara?”

“I’m all right.” I shook my hand. “Just a bit of stew hit my hand.”

Within three strides, Rolph was standing before me. “Show me your hand.”

I did. He took it in his and turned it over, the rough pads of his fingers rasping over my skin. Suddenly, I forgot the pain.

I pointed. “There.”

He scowled at the tiny splotch of red. Looking up, he reached his arm over my shoulder, and my heart jumped as I thought he would
hug
me. Instead, he took something from the mantel. A jar.

He unscrewed the top to reveal an olive-green salve. He scooped a fingerful and spread it on my skin. It was cool like peppermint but smelled like green woody spice. He massaged it over the scald mark with his thumbs.

“Be more careful,” he said, wiping his hands with the hem of his shirt.

I nodded mutely, hand still tingling where he’d kneaded it.
What other parts of my body might I burn if you would touch them?

When he wasn’t looking, Beth raised her eyebrows at me.
He likes you
, she mouthed. I shook my head, but my heart raced.

From the crate he’d placed on the table, Rolph pulled several bottles.

“I was saving these. This seems like enough of an occasion.” He tilted a bottle. “To a calm morning, and to your continued safe travels.”

Fred raised an empty hand. “Hear, hear!”

Beth’s face lit up—she adored a glass of good wine—but suspicion quickly chased the excitement from her eyes. Miles heartily accepted a cup from Rolph and smiled at his wife around its rim as he took a sip. She watched with rounded eyes, and when he let out a satisfied sigh, she pouted at him.

Miles nodded to Rolph. “Exceptional.”

“May I have a glass?” I asked.

As he handed me a glass, his gaze met mine and then danced away.

I took a taste. “
Quite
exceptional,” I said with a nudge and a wink at Beth. She scowled, but her hands remained folded in her lap. “It’s
fine
,” I assured her, proffering the cup. “It’s sweet and strong.” I could smell nothing like poison about it, just the rich scent of grape wine and the tin of the cup.

Beth took a cautious sip and immediately her eyes, wrinkled with caution, flew open at the flavor. “It’s port! It’s delicious.” She wrapped both hands around the cup and did not offer it back to me.

Apparently, the ale had not aged quite as well as the port. “It’s flat,” said Fred, “but
good
. Mother’s milk after an entire dry month. We’ve barely enough to keep fuel in the boiler, much less beer in our stomachs.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I
did
wish that Fred hadn’t felt the liberty to share that. We had already been taken in for the night by a stranger—no use sounding like
absolute
beggars.

But Rolph only nodded. “Good.” He sat nursing his cup of port while Miles and Beth bantered and Fred laughed along, lute propped nearby as he rested his hands. They called to Rolph asking for songs and stories, but he declined with a flat smile and a shake of his head. Much to my chagrin, Miles told his story, “The Tommy that Loved a Woman.” Fred snorted into his beer. Rolph only smiled.

No matter where I looked in the room, my gaze traveled back to him. The portraits paraded through my imagination. I found myself comparing his face to the face on the daguerreotype—the smoother, younger, brighter face that was unmistakably his. I thought about his stories. The story he told us and the
real
story, the one he didn’t tell us, the one that was hidden behind his eyes and behind the door to that room.

* * *

Fred fell asleep first, head pillowed on his jacket. I knew he was out for the night when the music went silent. Miles curled with Beth on the floor, and he rubbed her arm until she, too, fell asleep.

Soon, only Rolph and I were awake. I stared into the fire in an attempt to look entranced, but my thoughts were on him. Staring into space from his armchair, he seemed almost sorrowful. The honey highlights of his eyes deepened by the firelight as the night wore on, and shadows played across his face, shifting his features—lengthening his jaw, stretching his ears. He said nothing to me, though at times I felt a pressure as if his gaze or his thoughts were on me.

The chair creaked and he stood. I watched him walk down the hall, relishing the lines of his shoulder blades under his shirt. When he returned again, he brought a pile of blankets and a pillow.

“For you and your friends,” he said, squatting as if to hand them to me. But he must have intended to place them on the ground, because when I got to my knees and reached up, I caught them rather abruptly and awkwardly. My hands closed over his forearms.

We paused there for just an instant—long enough for me to fully appreciate the curve of his lips—and then he quickly slid his arms back.

“Thank you.” I spoke in a hush.

He looked down and rubbed his hand absently over his forearm. “Can I get you anything else?”

He glanced up to see me shake my head, then nodded and stood. Wrapping a rag around the stew pot’s handle, he lifted it from its hook over the fire and carried it out the back door.

I sat back on my haunches and hugged the pile of bedding to my chest, staring at the closed door. The pillow smelled of Rolph. I reserved it for myself, though I spread the warmest blankets over my friends. Then I sat again and watched the fire, waiting with buzzing nerves for Rolph to return.

He did not. The tick of the clock marked the seconds until ten minutes had passed. A pit of uneasiness settled in my stomach, although I could not tell if it was simple concern or a premonition. Fearing the latter, I stood and hesitantly opened the back door.

Rolph sat on the stoop, staring out into the storm as if oblivious to the cold. His hair blew around his head like a dark halo. I sat next to him, despite the burning chill of the stone, and bit my teeth together against chattering.