Bastien (10 page)

Lilith’s words haunt him day and night.

It’s useless. Everything they do is for nothing. How could anyone love a creature like him?

A year passes by, and one day Louis comes to tell the Beast he is engaged to be married. He speaks of his fiancé with so much affection, not at all the way he spoke of the Faery princess he was so smitten with. In two months they are wed. In ten more, their first child is born, and the year after that another.

Louis has a family. He is happy. He still visits, though not as often anymore. The Beast envies him bitterly. He shares his friend’s joy, in whatever capacity he can, but to see that easy smile on Louis’ face only reminds him of his own lonely misery.

Time begins to move differently for him. Before long, Louis is an old man, a widower, his children grown. Hearing stories of his life brings little solace to the Beast and his people, none of whom have aged or changed at all.

One day, his old friend limps in from the cold of autumn, supported by a cane on one side and his eldest son on the other. The Beast watches them from the shadows. “I wish to see him,”

Louis says to Jacques.

“Do you think that is wise?” the butler asks.

“It is...” Louis coughs and leans harder on his son. “Imperative.”

Jacques bows and comes to fetch the Beast.

“No,” he growls. “Send them away.”

Before Jacques can answer, Louis calls from the entry hall. “Beast! You furry bastard, get down here. I want to... introduce you. To my son.” He has to sit when his legs will no longer support him.

The Beast relents and stalks down the staircase, keeping to the shadows. There must be some reason why Louis would expose him this way when he’s kept his secret for all these years.

“Ah, there you are. Don’t be afraid, my boy,” he says weakly. “He wouldn’t harm a hair on your head. Isn’t that right, old friend?”

The Beast bares a fang. The threat is feeble. He can scent sickness and decay. It’s overwhelming. With a low whine, he nudges Louis, mindful of his fragile bones. “What ails you, old friend?”

“I am dying,” Louis says with a tired smile, then scowls. “Now don’t you fuss. I’ve lived a good life and I regret very little.” Their eyes meet in silent communication. Some things a father is compelled to share with his progeny, but some secrets a friend can never speak of.

The Beast nods in understanding.

“It’s time I put my affairs in order. And how could I leave you in this world all alone?” He looks up proudly at the young man standing next to him. As well he should. His son is scared, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t move from his father’s side. He stands his ground straight and proud, much the same way Louis used to in his youth. They are alike, but beneath the similarities and the fear in the boy’s eyes there is something else—a quiet strength and honor Louis didn’t always possess. This is not a man who would take his burdens lightly. He would never say a careless word or perform a thoughtless act.

And unlike his father, he would never do something so foolish as to step foot into the Faery court given a choice. Louis raised him well. So what promise did he drag out of the boy to get him here?

“This is my son, Reinard. He will look in on you when I am gone, won’t you boy?”

“Yes, father,” Reinard says obediently and there is such gravity in his tone he may as well have taken a blood oath by saying the words.

“Reinard, this is Bastien Sauvage III, Duke of Colline. He is a prince, you know.”

The Beast huffs and nods his head.

“You wanted to know my secret, son,” Louis slurs. “Here he is. And now... he is your secret to keep.” His heart slows, slows, and then stops. Louis’ eyes close.

“Father? Father!”

He will not wake.

As Reinard sinks to his knees in grief, the Beast howls his own.

Chapter Eighteen

Reinard is a good, steadfast man. He becomes as much a friend to the Beast as his father was. But this, too, doesn’t last. Soon it is Reinard who is married, Reinard who introduces his son to the Beast. The Beast becomes a Lafarge family secret, and for five generations son after son becomes the family he never had.

The solace they bring is fleeting. With each year gone, the Beast comes to realize that there will never be a woman he could ever meet, let alone love. The young Jocelyn—young only in appearance now, as they all are—keeps trying to persuade him the curse can be broken. The right woman is just waiting for him to claim her. Every time she says this, the Beast knows she speaks of herself. He orders Aimee to make doubly sure the girl stays away from the west wing all together, especially on full moon nights. The last thing they all need is for her to foolishly enter his chambers again when Bastien is in residence.

As the seasons change, so does his curse. The Beast finds he not only remembers what Bastien did or thought on the nights he is free, he is sometimes present enough to see for himself.

And in idle times during some days, he can feel his human half wake inside him for brief moments. It never lasts long, but in those episodes the Beast can feel Bastien’s resentment, bordering on madness. It is perhaps cruel to keep him chained, but even when he is quiet behind closed doors no one will trust him enough to release him for even an hour, and he has done nothing to persuade them otherwise. If anything, the curses and threats he still sometimes screams in fits of madness make everyone even more determined to keep him contained.

To ease some of the torment, the Beast stocks his bed chamber with books.

Year after year, decade after decade this goes on, an unchanging routine in their ever constant lives. Beast for a month, monster for three nights of it.

Until one day, Jean Lafarge, the sixth generation son and only heir to the Lafarge name walks in the door.

He is not like his predecessors. Where they have been cautious, respectful, even brotherly, Jean is more reserved and distant. Of all the men of his family, he reminds the Beast most of Bastien. That same emptiness lurks in his eyes, the same skewed smirk creases his face when he deigns to smile. To him, the Beast as an obligation and he makes it clear with look and gesture if, not with words, that this obligation is not a welcome one.

The Beast has resigned himself to Jean being the last human he will see in his eternal misery. He endures the strained visits for the sole purpose of learning about the world. Where his servants can go to Fauve for short hours, no one has yet managed to step one foot beyond its borders and if they linger past sunset, the curse inexplicably forces them to return. Jean, on the other hand, can go where he pleases. He spends much of his time at court and can tell the Beast more about the changing times than anyone else.

Of course, such answers always have to be pulled from him and it seems he takes great delight in making the Beast wait for them. He enjoys pulling the monster’s tail, knowing he will never feel its bite.

The Beast begins to treasure his solitude.

And then, on a sunny summer day, Jean comes in with his young wife on his arm.

“My Lord Beast, may I present Madame Angelique Lafarge.”

The Beast bows as properly as he is able while casting a hard glare at Jean. Bastien is stirring inside him, taking an unsettling interest in what is happening.

Angelique curtsies. “My Lord,” she says and deep inside the Beast’s psyche, Bastien preens.

“The Beast is cursed, Angelique,” Jean says in a tone that makes the Beast bristle. “He is a man trapped in the body of a monster. Only under the light of the full moon can he be himself again.”

The Beast growls a warning.

Jean turns Angelique to him and says as he would to a child, “You must never come here alone, my dear. And never when the moon is full.” He may as well have dangled a sweet before her and told her not to reach for it.

Angelique’s eyes grow wide with fascination and she is staring at the Beast when she nods.

“Yes, husband.”

Jean pats her on the head. “There’s my good girl,” he says and the Beast wonders whether she is simple in some way, or whether he is simply being cruel. He doesn’t object when Jean takes her for a stroll in the rose garden.

“Peculiar one, isn’t he?” Jacques says when they are out of earshot.

“Something’s not right,” the Beast replies. “Keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t stray where they’re not supposed to.”

“Yes, Master,” Jacques says.

But they don’t stray. Jean takes Angelique around the garden, brings blooms to her face so she can smell them. He does not cut any, he knows better than to dare. He points out the towers, the architectural details of the castle, the pristinely manicured lawns and many other things which his young wife has no interest in, if the way her gaze keeps straying to the library window and the Beast standing behind it is anything to go by.

The charade is done with soon enough. They come back inside, and Jean lets Angelique get in the carriage first while he collects his hat.

“Why did you bring her,” The Beast asks.

Jean smiles, that same skewed smirk. “I thought you’d be happy. My father and grandfather told me so much about you I feel as though we’re family. But they never brought their wives or daughters here, did they? I should think it would ease your solitude to have a female visit from time to time. I wonder why they would deny you.”

Yes, he is very much like Bastien, seizing on any opportunity to show off what he has to all who don’t. He brought Angelique here to show the Beast what he will never have, and for no other reason. His eyes are like mirrors and in them the Beast sees himself, a desolate monster caged in his own castle, with enough coin to buy anything he wants, except the one thing he’ll never find. Love.

“Be careful, Jean,” the Beast tells him. “Be very careful what you lord over me. You might come to regret it.” It’s the Beast’s voice, but Bastien’s words. Taken aback by what he said as much as the look of thinly veiled triumph in Jean’s eyes, the Beast shakes himself and retreats to his chambers.

Troubled thoughts send him into troubled dreams that night. He sees memories of visions from centuries ago, things he hasn’t thought about in so long they seem figments of his imagination. A painted world from a hag’s tarot cards, a wolf howling at the full round moon, a dark cape swirling around a blood red rose...

... and a woman with red-brown hair and brave blue eyes.

Chapter Nineteen

The moon is full. I can tell by the fact that I am human and chained like an animal next to my own goddamned bed. I sit against the wall in the dark and gaze out the open window at the black night sky. The moon’s glow is barely visible through the clouds. Everything is so dark my eyes strain to make out the barest hint of shadows.

I was quiet last night, so Jacques decided to call off the guards at my door tonight. He does that sometimes. They’re not really necessary anymore. Not when the chains that keep me confined to my bed chamber are as thick as my wrist and anchored so deep in stone even the simpering brooder can’t break them. But they like to remind me every so often that, should I attempt an escape, I will not get far.

They will kill me dead on sight, with the happy knowledge that my curse will bring me right back to life in a matter of minutes. Just enough time for them to drag me down to the dungeon, chain me up again and search out the keys I managed to get off of some naive soul or another. I would never see the light of night again.

So here I am, in the dark, with nothing to do. God, I’ve never been so bored in my life. Well, a man has to entertain himself as he will. I haven’t fucked a woman in nine thousand days, not counting the ones when I’m not... here. That’s over twenty four years without a slick, warm cunt stuck on my cock.

My pants, or rather, the brooder’s pants, because he rips through all of mine when I change into him, are already pooled around my lap and my ballocks are so heavy I keep shifting in place to relieve the pressure. Out of patience, and finding no good reason why not, I shove the pants lower and grab the source of my troubles by the base.

The pride and joy of any man as well endowed as I am. God’s most magnificent creation.

Woman was an afterthought so man would have something to stick it into.

My vault of memories is extensive, but when I close my eyes, it is my imagination that paints pictures for me in my mind. One fair haired menace in particular, with lips full and plump and breasts just enough to fill my palms. The lovely young Madame Lafarge.

I stroke myself, imagining her mouth on me, cupping my balls and taking me so deep she cannot breathe. Her tongue would be wicked. There are two kinds of women—those who use their tongues to speak, and those who use it for something else. Angelique is definitely the latter.

I would wrap her hair around my fist and guide her mouth exactly as I want it, and she would look at me the entire time and say, “Yes, my Lord,” to anything I told her to do.

A small gasp in the darkness makes my eyes open. The door is ajar and light filters into the anteroom. Not enough to see details, but enough that I know I am not alone. The Beast’s senses sometimes carry over to my human form. Curious if this is one of those times, I inhale deeply and I grin, recognizing the scent of female arousal. It is not anyone of my household that stands just behind my doorway, watching me pleasure myself.

“Come here,” I say.

Silence.

“Do you like what you see?”

A blond head peeks from around the door frame and I grin wider. That little minx. How in the hell did she manage to get to the castle, let alone inside and up to my chambers? “Good evening, Angelique.” My cock twitches in my hand. I give it another stroke to settle it. “Come closer.”

Hesitantly, she steps into my chamber. “It’s true,” she says. “You really are cursed.”

I laugh. “Does this look like a curse?”

She stares at my cock and licks her lips.

“What did you come here for?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” I counter. “Tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because I won’t give it to you unless you ask.”

She is silent for so long, I get bored and resume stroking myself. At least with her in the room it is easier to imagine her naked and at my command.