The Beast (2 page)

From beside his horse, Gastone slashed his sabre at two attacking hellhounds. As Charming brought Belle into the fray, she aimed, pulled the trigger. Aimed and pulled again. Both hounds dropped. Gastone looked up at her and relaxed his bloody sword.

“Merci, mademoiselle,” he said with a breathless smile. His face and clothes were smeared with crimson, but she was certain the blood wasn’t his.

“Are you out of bullets already, Gastone?” she teased.

“My body, or should I say
bodies
, of work.” He gestured to the surrounding dead hounds, a few of which had already returned to their lost human forms.

“Reload. I’ll cover you.” Belle removed her second revolver as Gastone pushed back a fallen strand of his black hair, sheathed his sabre, and began reloading. One hellhound leapt over another, eager for the distracted Hunter. Belle put a round in its chest, emptying her first pistol.

Growling rumbled nearby, alerting Belle. She turned in her seat and shot with her left hand, which was nearly as good as her right.
Nearly
as good. The bullet grazed the attacker’s ear, not stopping the hound’s charge. Belle stayed calm, waiting for it to jump—knowing it would jump. Its muscles gathered as it advanced and, sure enough, it sprang. From two feet away she fired again. The creature flew backward with a yip, dying before it hit the ground.
Four bullets left
.

A cluster of hellhounds pressed in on the men. In quick succession, Belle dispatched three hounds, missing once from her perch atop Charming. Still more demons appeared from all sides. The scent of blood called to them.

No time to reload, Belle tucked away her empty gun and drew her sabre. The sword’s weight in her palm felt good, strong. She clenched the hilt, shifting it beneath her gloved fingers. Belle dismounted and took up arms alongside her Hunters. With silver and steel, gunpowder and muscle, they killed each devil that tried for them.

A dead hound reverted to its human body, sending out a blinding light. One hellhound tried to take advantage of this by dashing past Belle, but she was fast. She struck out, slicing open its side. It yelped and lunged for her. With a twist of her body, she ran the sabre through its temple. Before it could drag her down, she yanked her weapon free.

“More on the approach!” bellowed Andre.

Delano responded with a wicked twinkle in his eye, “Holy damn, the devils are out tonight.”

Belle was already moving. She grabbed her rifle from the saddle holder. It was loaded and ready to go, but she only had one shot. Belle dropped down behind Gastone and Andre, her skirts billowing on the snow around her. Letting her sabre fall to the ground, she needed both hands to take aim. One of the snarling fiends was in her sights. The following blast was bigger, louder, than that of her revolvers. The hound went down, and the men made quick work of the others. Sabre and shotgun in hand, Belle got to her feet.

The last gunshots echoed into oblivion. The sudden onset of silence was alarming and so were the number of corpses surrounding them. Dozens by the look of it. It was barely a speck, no bigger than the snowflake that landed on her eyelash, compared to the countless she had killed over the years.

It pained her to see women and men lying dead in the snow, dead by their hands. At the beginning of her hunting career, Belle would have reminded herself that they were fighting the devil—freeing these people. Belle believed it wholeheartedly then. She had to; for her sanity’s sake. But then Belle killed a hellhound that turned into child…No amount of Holy Scripture could repair the damage done by seeing that dead little girl. Because in the end, how could a
child
be a sinner?

“I know what we do is difficult to face because we don’t really understand what happened to these poor souls. But we know what will happen if we fail in our duty.”
Henri had told her that between her broken-hearted sobs. He didn’t need to voice that Contefées would be overrun, and then the hellhounds would move throughout all of Glace. Killing and killing.
“We hunt so that we can protect. Above all else, remember that.”

Belle always would.

“So, what is your count, Belle?” Gastone asked. She blinked, allowing the memories to fade and bringing the present into focus. When she didn’t answer straight away, he said, “I had thirteen.”

The smugness in his voice made Belle smile. He thought he had bested her. She walked over to Charming, replaced her rifle, and remounted before answering, “I had thirteen as well.”

Gastone’s face fell. “You jest.”

She laughed with a shake of her head. To the others she said, “Are you gentlemen ready to call it a night? I think we’ve reached our quota.”

The siblings, Delano and Nicolas, remained on the lookout for loan hellhounds. Jean Legrand, a mountain of a man, reloaded his many guns and Andre, Gastone’s closest friend, checked his horse for injuries. They each looked up from their tasks and chorused their enthusiastic approval as one.

Belle reached into her saddlebag to remove a flare gun. She then tapped the Electro-Phonic Chip hugging her right ear.

“Friar, we are ready for you. Bring two carts.” She positioned her finger over the communication device. “Standby for the flare.”

Each night, while they hunted, Friar Clemens and a Hunter waited outside the forest. Their job was to collect the dead. Belle touched the ear chip again to stop it from sending out her voice. Extending her arm, she fired the flare gun. Green sparks exploded with a pop.

Franck’s voice came through the earpiece’s receiver. “Location confirmed.”

Franck was one of the original Hunters who served under Belle’s father. When she took command of her own hunting party, the older Hunters stepped down from full active duty to serve in a smaller, safer, capacity. A Hunter never retired.

Belle’s hunting party was on the lookout as they waited. She removed the cover to her gun’s bullet chamber, placing the thin piece of metal between her teeth. Reaching into a small pouch at her waist, she grabbed six rounds. Handmade by the Hunters, each silver bullet was etched with a black cross into its side. Belle popped them, one by one, into the tight compartments.

As she worked, Belle admired her gorgeous revolvers. Designed just for her, they were shaped like a lowercase ‘L’ with no sharp edges and an easy curve for the handle. Silver vines, comprised of leafy accents, wrapped the guns’ wooden frames from tip to handle. The depiction of a gold, shooting star stretched across their barrels—As though, instead of bullets, Belle shot cosmic fire. Secured to each barrel’s underside were spring-loaded twin bayonets that sprang forth at the press of a button.

She had loaded three shells when movement caught her attention. Belle paused, watching. From the thick tree line two hellhounds dropped onto the snow-tousled path, running straight for them.

Accepting that she would have to do this with only three, Belle stuffed the last of her bullets back into her pouch. She snatched the cover from her teeth and shoved it over the gun’s chamber. From the corner of her vision, she saw Gastone watching her. He hadn’t yet noticed the coming hellhounds, and this was her chance to steal the lead count. Confidence filled her—but then one growled.

Gastone smiled knowingly.

The hellhounds and horses sped through the snow, barreling straight for one another. On this current course, Belle could kill the closest hound, giving Gastone time to kill the other, but that wouldn’t break their tie. Belle thought through her vast répertoire of riding tricks. She’d practiced with Charming over the years and had the perfect one to secure her both kills.

“Okay, Charming, the Flying Angel.” His ears flicked in her direction, listening to her instructions. Belle released the reins and placed her hands on the saddle’s pommel. Shifting her weight onto her arms, she raised her body up off the horse. With stable breaths and complete focus, she dragged her feet beneath her until they rested on the seat. Belle was poised, Charming’s stride remaining steady to give her balance. “Get ready.”

Beneath her, she could feel Charming’s muscles gathering—but not yet. The hellhound had to be in just the right place. They drew closer. She could hear the demon’s growl. Closer still. Then, she gave the command. “Down!”

Charming skidded to a halt, throwing his momentum into his back. Belle uncoiled her legs and, like a tightly wound spring suddenly released, she propelled into the air. Up she went. Body straight. Arms out. Over the hound she sailed. Her free hand smoothly grabbed the throwing knives strapped to her chest. With practiced grace, Belle flung them at the hellhound below. Each blade struck his body in perfect order. His yip wretched the silence.

Altitude waning, Belle arched her body, flipping and twisting to the ground. She landed in a crouch, skirts tumbling around her, and aimed her gun at the other nearing hound. A second to steady her hand—she fired. Snow dusted against Belle’s cheeks as the hellhound bashed into the ground a few feet away.

She stood, already smiling at the trick’s success, and turned to see the gloriously shocked look on Gastone’s face. She curtsied. “Fifteen.”

Gastone tensed, then he drew back his shoulders. With a high-hatted expression, he cued his horse by Charming and stopped over the hellhound stuck with knives. He pointed his gun, tugged back the hammer, and sent a bullet into its head. A tendril of smoke swirled over the barrel and up his arm.

Belle tossed up her hands and trudged back toward her horse. “What did you do that for?”

“I was killing the hellhound.
Fourteen
.”

“Oh, I do all the work and you claim the kill?”

“Your knives hit his back muscles. Flesh wounds at best. He wasn’t dead yet, so I finished him, making it fourteen to fourteen.” Gastone shifted around to watch Belle gather up her knives and remount. Sauntering his horse by, he added, “And
I
did it without all of the fancy.”

This made Belle laugh. Fancy was the perfect word for the stunt. It was unnecessary and a silly risk, she could admit, but still she had to do it. Just once. “Sometimes, a little fancy is completely needed.”

“Indeed.” Gastone guided his Friesian over, making room for Belle to ride alongside.

Dual sets of high-pitched songs and an eruption of yellow light trailed them back to the group. Belle and Gastone approached as Friar Clemens and two other Hunters arrived. Friar Clemens drove one cart while the new recruit steered the second. Franck rode his own horse, eyes on the forest and gun at the ready.

“Hello, messieurs. How goes it?” Belle greeted.

“Very well. Merci, mademoiselle,” Clemens replied. He didn’t wear the same traditional society clothes as everyone else. His style was little more than basic; brown monk’s robes with a plain cloak for added warmth. “Simple clothes for a simple man,” he’d once told her.

“Aside from the dead ones.” Franck pointed to the carted bodies they’d picked up along the way. “We didn’t encounter any hounds. The forest seems pretty well cleared.”

Belle nodded. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Well then…” The new recruit, Jack, hooked his reins to the wagon and climbed down. “Let’s get these bodies loaded. I’m pert near sick of this cold.”

That was typical Jack Lloyd. He was brash, cocksure, charming, hardworking, and the only American Belle had ever met. He’d traveled all the way from the Colorado Territories in search of an adventure. Said he’d worked on his father’s cattle ranch till he finally decided to see if the world was as pretty as the prairie. He hopped on a train, then boarded a ship, went from Australia to Europe, and somehow found himself in Glace—broke and looking to make some fast cash. Instead, he became their latest recruit.

“Come on big fella.” Jack slapped Jean’s thigh. “Why don’t you give that horse’s back a break and help us.”

With a grunt, the ever-massive Jean dismounted. He, along with Franck, Jack, and the friar, set to work loading the bodies. The others kept a lookout. The woods seemed empty, but the forest could be deceiving. Belle knew better than anyone what they were dealing with; her life had been irrevocably shaped by the dangers within Vakre Fjell.

Five years ago, her father was attacked while traveling home from the Inventor’s World Fair. Not knowing what exactly he’d shot, he carted it straight to the cathedral. Belle remembered waking up to the call of the church bells, running past the unusual guards at the entrance, and pushing through the swollen crowd of onlookers. Most of all, she recalled seeing the bloodied hellhound on the floor. Henri thought he’d killed the creature, but given it took so long to become human again, it must have clung to life before it finally died.

Questions were shouted. The crowd’s fear was palpable. But when the demon suddenly shifted into a human, stunned silence took the room.

It was Bishop Sauvage who broke the quiet. As Archbishop, he often traversed the province, visiting the churches in his care. He’d heard tales of hellhounds in his travels, and explained how some sinners could be claimed by the devil. He then foretold of how these creatures would try to consume the world.