The Beast (33 page)

He flung a hellhound against a tree with his strong jaws and looked at Belle, roaring at the one who had her. But his attackers were relentless. No matter how many he fought off, they were intent on killing him.

Unfortunately for them both, the hound dragging Belle dug its claws even deeper, introducing her to a whole new kind of pain. Stars danced in her eyes and her grasp failed her. Belle was jerked beyond the trees.

She felt entirely helpless the further and deeper they went. The Hunters and Aleksander disappeared from sight. The sound of battle fell away. Her body swept through the snow, over rocks and fallen branches, leaving an obvious trail in her wake. Belle scrambled about, grabbing for any and everything she could reach. A bush scraped through her grasping fingers and Belle cried out in anguish.

Crunching snow caught Belle’s attention. Something was coming, following their trail. It was gaining ground fast. Was it Aleksander? She pictured him bursting on the scene and leaping upon her attacker.

“Belle?!” Gastone’s call was shaky, uncertain and racked with worry.

“Gastone!” she shrieked in desperate surprise, her voice strained from the pain.

His noise increased and Gastone rounded a grouping of trees, bringing himself into view. Relief flooded his face at the sight of her, but then he saw the hellhound. His color drained away, a slur of indecent words tumbled from his lips.

The hellhound released its claws from her, tearing flesh as it did. Belle whimpered from both the pain and relief at the loss of pressure. The hound stalked around her and she was finally able to see it. Her eyes went wide with shock.

On two massive, clawed feet it walked—another Moon-Hound. It stopped just to the side of Belle, drawing itself to its full height. With dark fur and solid muscles, it could have been a duplicate for Aleksander. At first her mind thought it was, but then she noticed the eyes. They weren’t blue or wolf-like. They were black and unreflecting like deep soulless voids.

The Moon-Hound didn’t attack. It remained still, tilting its head in curiosity at Gastone. Belle could have sworn it was smiling as a low growl began to rubble from its chest.

Gastone shifted on his feet, anger starting to ebb from him. He raised his sabre, ready to charge the creature. But he would die; he knew this and so did Belle. The hound’s lips curled back, hackles rising, and it widened its stance in anticipation of the strike.

Not ready to let her friend die for her, Belle pushed herself up and grabbed the throwing knife from her chest. Without hesitating, she whipped it at the strange Moon-Hound. The blade stuck in its side, right between the ribs. Jerking in surprise, the hound whirled and looked down at its bleeding side. Then it roared angrily at Belle. The sound was higher than Aleksander’s roar but just as terrifying. Perhaps even more so.

Taking his chance, Gastone charged. Before the hound could finish its roar, the Hunter drove his blade through its skull. The creature stilled, its death coming instantly. Gastone released the sword. The body crumpled to the ground.

As the corpse came to a rest, the fur and muscles shimmered. Then, quick as a blink, the Moon-Hound was gone. No lights. No angelic ringing. The wolf was just gone, and in its place was a woman.

They both stared at the dead form, not believing what they were seeing. She was beautiful, her face exquisitely formed. Her skin was pale, but it was accented perfectly by the blue and silver cloak that surrounded her. A lock of sheer white hair danced in the breeze, like a tendril of smoke. Her eyes were open, those soulless orbs staring at Belle.

“It’s her.” Uneasy shivers swept down Belle’s spine.

Gastone finally looked at Belle. “Who?”

“The norn. She’s the one I saw in the Prince’s memory.” Belle had an undeniable desire to get away from the otherworldly being. It unnerved her that no blood seeped from the sabre in her skull. “She’s the one who created the curse.”

“She’s a norn
and
like the wolf prince?”

“I don’t think so. The books said she had a universal power that could be used to complete her fate.” Either from laying in the snow or from the fading terror, Belle’s muscles began to shake involuntarily. She pushed up from the ground, intending to finally right herself, but pain laced through her body. It spread like searing fire over her torso and into her legs. She dropped back into the snow with a grunt, breathing heavily as she waited for the pain to recede. “My guess would be that she became a lycanthrope in order to kill me. A bit theatrical of her, but she nearly succeeded.”

“The books also said that a norn could only be killed by another norn.” Belle watched the corpse warily. “Unless you have something you need to tell me about yourself, then we shouldn’t linger.”

Gastone came over to kneel at her side. He brushed the snow from around her and carefully examined the bleeding wound.

“It’s bad, Belle.” He removed the scarf from his neck and began to tie it around her waist, covering the injury. The touching was entirely too intimate, but she forgot that when he painful tightened the scarf to slow the bleeding. “I believe I’ll need to carry you.”

Looking into his brown eyes, and their flecks of green, she saw so much concern there. With a forced smile Belle replied, “If you must.”

“I apologize if this causes you pain.” He moved to pick her up.

“Wait.” She stopped him and pointed to the norn. “Your sabre.”

“Leave it.” He shook his head and slowly slid his hands beneath her. “Perhaps she’ll stay dead if it stays there.”

Belle bit back a cry as Gastone easily pulled her up with him. Once he was standing, the pain lessened and his warmth pushed back the growing cold within her body. Belle rested against him unintentionally. The pain was sucking away her energy with each passing second. How much blood had already been absorbed into her corset?

“Don’t worry Belle,” Gastone said, most likely thinking the same thing. “I’ll have you back home soon.”

“No. Not home. We push on to Vakre Fjell.”

She felt Gastone slow slightly in his steps. “You’re badly injured. You need the doc.”

“Castle Vakre Fjell has physicians too.” Belle kept her tone firm, despite the weakness that wanted to creep in.

“I think the doc should be the one to treat you, not some Vakrein. The other Hunters can continue on without us.”

“No, I stay with Aleksander. I will see this through,” she said before realizing her mistake. Her address of the Prince by his first name was far too familiar and entirely inappropriate. Pretending that she hadn’t said anything incorrect, Belle finished the discussion. “That’ll be the end of it, Gastone.”

His pacing became more angered and hurried, but Belle said nothing. There was a faint click in her ear and Andre’s voice came into her Electro-Phonic Chip. “Belle? Gastone? Are you out there?”

Gastone answered, “We’re both alive and we’re coming to you.”

“Thank God. The area is clear now. You should be safe to come in.” With that, there was another click as Andre disconnected his earpiece from theirs.

They remained silent as Gastone retraced his footsteps. Soon she heard her friend’s voices and the sounds of the horses. As they stepped back onto the path some of the recently dead hellhounds burst into light.

“At this rate I’m going to go blind,” said Nicolas rubbing his eyes.

Jean and Delano were lifting Aleksander from the snowy ground. His head lulled to the side. Blood matted much of his fur. Belle’s heart went to her throat, as she feared the worst. Laboriously, they carried him back to the flatbed. Friar Clemens stood on top and lent a helping hand. Gently, he guided the beast to the wagon floor. Jack handed over the blanket from his saddle and Clemens spread it over the Prince. He didn’t cover Aleksander’s head and Belle suddenly wanted to weep that her prince was still alive.

Jean saw them approach and grunted to alert the others. His body was covered in red, but he didn’t appear hurt. Charming nickered and bobbed his head with happiness that she returned. Belle smiled and told him he was a good horse.

“What happened? Is it bad?” Andre asked, limping forward a step. His right pant leg was shredded, revealing thin scrapes where claws raked over metal. Blood was splattered across his face.

“Her back is badly injured. She’ll have to ride with me,” Gastone answered.

Belle interjected as they reached the flatbed, “Not necessary. I’ll ride on the wagon.”

This order was met with silence from all around. Belle didn’t care. She had eyes only for Aleksander. His, she was happy to see, were also open and staring back. At her request, he issued the most subtle of whimpers.

Clearly angry, Gastone thundered around the side of the wagon. Clemens again helped with the lowering. Belle was placed at Aleksander’s back. Heated radiated off of him, as though he were a living furnace.

“Anyone else injured?” Gastone stomped off and mounted.

“Stitches will be needed,” Andre answered from atop his Friesian, Valiant. “But only Belle and Prince Aleksander are in immediate danger.”

“The Prince should come with us on all of our hunts,” Nicolas said, nudging Jean who raised an eyebrow at him. The statement, though Nicolas didn’t realize it, was in poor taste. “He was a real rager.”

“As weak as he was, yet to dispatch so many—it was quite the remarkable sight.” Friar Clemens took up his driver’s seat and reins.

“Thank God for that,” said Jack, casually twirling his revolvers. “Things weren’t looking good there for a bit.”

“Let’s get a move on,” Gastone cut off the talk.

“Onward to Vakre Fjell?” asked Andre.

“So it seems.”

There was a snapping sound as Clemens cued his team forward. The wheels began to roll, causing the boards to creak with movement. Charming followed the flatbed of his own accord.

Feeling that no one was paying much attention to them any longer, Belle reached up and placed a hand upon Aleksander’s shoulder. The sound he made in response was part sigh and part groan. A few tears tumbled freely as she gently caressed his dark fur; how happy she was that they had both lived, and yet she feared that he wouldn’t make it home.

“What about the bodies?” Nicolas asked.

“We leave them,” was Gastone’s short reply.

There was some hesitation at that, then Andre said, “There’s not much we can do about them now, I suppose.”

Delano spoke quietly to those around him, though everyone still heard, “They’ll eat them ya know? The corpses, I mean. The hellhounds will come back.”

In fluid movement, as I raised my eyelids, I came to my feet. Bits of snow fell from the armor. The wind whipped my white hair about my face. I looked at Fenrir, not yet reaching to pull up my cloak’s hood.

Standing by a tree, the god twisted a thin silver sabre in the evening sunlight. His youthful face boasted a pointed nose and lean, shapely cheeks. His deep, brown hair was pushed away from his face, feathering down the nape of his neck. It somehow reminded her of a wolf’s hackles.

Similar to my attire, Fenrir’s clothing was at odds with the trends of the human realm. Leather armor, edged in Norse knots, wrapped his shoulders. Otherwise his chest and torso were bare, showing his inhumanly perfect muscles. Fur clothing encircled his waist while a heavy broadsword hung from the side. Beneath one of Fenrir’s arms was a silver winged helmet.

“They cannot kill you, but they discovered an effective way of disabling you,” he said calmly, not looking at me. “Clever of them to leave it in your skull. Would you ever have been free of it?”

“It would have been dislodged with time,” I responded, unconcerned.

“The
Mánagarmr
lives.” He discarded the sabre into the snow and finally looked at me. “As does the female Hunter you failed to kill.”

I bristled. “My wolves did not slay the Moon-Hound? Even with their vast numbers?”

“Your
wolves?” Fenrir’s eyes narrowed, looking haughtily down at me. “They are not
your
wolves, norn. You may be the architect of this fate, but they are my kin.”

As though it’d been silently called, a wolf appeared at Fenrir’s side. It growled at me as it came to sit by the god. Absentmindedly, Fenrir placed a large hand between the creature’s ears.

I watched it, unafraid by its predatory stare. Fenrir could call all of
his
wolves, have them tear me to pieces, but still I would not die. There is only one thing in existence that could end me, and gods could not wield it.

“I’ve come around to your way of thinking though,” Fenrir said, looking disquieted by my sudden smirk. “The Mánagarmr will not join my cause, not now that he has aligned with the Hunters. You have my consent to end him.”

Ravenous excitement filled me. No more sending mortal wolves to kill the Prince. With fate on my side, I will slay him myself. There is nothing to stand in my way…except Belle LeClair and her wretched Hunters. “And the female Hunter?”

“Whoever else you wish to kill does not interest me, Skuld.” Fenrir’s eyes then focused upon my body, staring like he hadn’t noticed something before.