The Beast (25 page)

“There is something extremely familiar about him that I cannot place,” Henri was saying to Jean.

His brow was creased and he scratched his jaw in thought. Jean nodded his agreement. The scarf he wore today was blue and gold.

Belle cleared her throat to quote the Prince verbatim, “He is Prince Aleksander the First, of House Haraldsson, Crowned Prince Regent of Vakre Fjell.”

Everyone stopped their work and stared at her. Henri, however, never looked from Aleksander and his eyes lit with recognition. “My God, it is him. How?”

Belle winced as Gastone placed her bare foot into the bowl of water. Andre followed with the other. Exhausted, she rested her head against the side of her chair. “He rescued me in the woods. Without him, I’d have been eaten by the cursed—hellhounds.”

Gastone released her ankle and looked up at her. “Why was the heir to the Vakrein throne alone in the woods with you?”

Taking a breath, Belle started from the beginning. She told them of the moon dreams and the memories that Aleksander shared with her. She explained about the curse, the norn, and Fenrir. She told them all they needed to know, leading up to the beast. Then she described
him
—how his body was different, how he stood on two legs, and how he acted on more than animal instincts. She admitted her rash assumption that the beast was Fenrir himself and how she’d raced into the forest when she was least prepared. Finally, she told them about how the beast came after her, and saved her. And how he’d turned into Aleksander.

“You’re saying he became human…while he was still alive?” asked Andre.

Belle nodded.

“Remarkable,” said Henri, sitting in the only other chair and staring off into the distance.

Andre frowned, as he dried his hands with a small towel. “The Prince never told you that he was…one of them?”

“No, I had come to believe he was a prisoner and that the beast was his captor.” Belle shook her head, looking back on her last moments in Castle Vakre Fjell. “I thought they were all cowards. But I was wrong. I think
I
might have been the coward.”

Chagrin crept into her chest at the way she’d run out of there; at the way she’d treated Laramie and Liv.

“Why was Prince Aleksander able to become human again, when the other…cursed…can’t?” Henri asked, either ignoring her self-chastising or oblivious to it.

Shrugging, Belle gave the only reply she could, “I don’t know.”

The doctor arrived a little later. He shooed everyone from the room, except for Belle, and set to work. He was unusually sober, but it was early yet. The dark circles under his eyes were the only giveaway that he wasn’t in the best shape. Doc didn’t ask her questions, unless they were medically related. He treated Aleksander first, sewing and patching up his many wounds. Then he took a look at Belle’s hands.

“As natives, you two should know better than to go out into a snowstorm,” he scolded.

“Is he going to be okay, Doc?” Belle looked past him to watch Aleksander sleep.

The doctor nodded. “Yes, he should be fine.”

“When will he wake?”

“I suppose when he wants to,” Doc said, standing and removing his glasses to clean them. Noticing Belle’s odd expression, he explained, “There’s no reason for him to be unconscious now.”

“But I thought with the cold and the blood loss…” She trailed as Doc shrugged.

“It’s possible those things are the cause, but he’s young and healthy. He should bounce back as quickly as you do.” Walking over to the door, the Doc picked up his medical bag and turned to her. “Let him rest. I’m sure he’ll wake up soon. I’ll be around here for when he does.”

Belle remained wrapped in her blankets, watching Aleksander sleep for several hours. Her father checked on her often. She asked about his health and was relieved to hear that, after being cared for by the doc and a bit of bed rest, he was just fine. Belle’s Hunters peeked in on her too. They didn’t bother her with many questions, but did welcome her back. Friar Clemens came with hot soup and drink. As she ate, he filled her in on all the comings and goings of LeClair House while she was gone.

Business as usual was most of it. Though there had been a few debates-turned-arguments on how much longer they had to wait before coming for her. When Henri was forced from Castle Vakre Fjell, it’d been made clear that should he or anyone come for her, Belle would be killed—If he was patient, he might see her again. So Henri had forbidden any sort of a rescue.

The advocates for her rescue hadn’t gotten any support from the church or local law officials either. No one knew what to make of the discovered Vakrein survivors. There was even some concern that hunting hellhounds on Vakrein land could lead to political turmoil between Vakre Fjell and France.

From the sounds of it, tensions had been high. Even the mercenaries had given up their treasure hunt, leaving town as the village grieved for its lost Hunters. If Belle had been gone for much longer, it all might have come to a disastrous breaking point.

Clemens was gathering up her empty dishes when the doc returned. Henri was just behind him and asked for a word with the Friar. They both stepped out of the room to speak. Belle’s attention was drawn to the doc, who came over to check her fingers.

“Good. Good. Your color has mostly returned.” He reached into the medical bag at his side. “I’m going to wrap the tips of your fingers, as well as your feet, to keep the cold air off of them. You can remove the bandages in the morning.”

Henri came back into the room, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. “Would it be safe for her to take the carriage into town, Doc?”

“As long as she stays warm and takes it easy, I think that would be fine.” Doc glanced at the smoking pipe in Henri’s hand and frowned.

“Town, Père?” Belle looked over at Henri, surprised by his request. “Is that necessary? I really think I should stay with his Highness.”

“I believe the Crowned Prince will mend just fine whether you are here or not.” He leveled her with a stern look. “But word will spread quickly of your return. It will be good for the townspeople to see you well. They could use a boost in morale, given what they’ve recently lost.”

“Of course, Père. I should pay my respects,” she said, feeling the guilt that her father was impressing upon her. Belle wanted nothing more than to stay and wait for Aleksander to wake, but Henri wasn’t asking much. These were his men he referred to. She owed them a great deal. “I’ll…a…just go make myself presentable first.”

“That’s my fille.” Henri came over and kissed her on the forehead.

As he straightened, her father placed his brown pipe between his lips and inhaled. She smiled and, with that, he gave her a wink. But as soon as Henri was gone, her smiled faded. She looked back at the slumbering prince. Belle had this sinking feeling in her stomach. It nagged at her to stay if only she could.

When Belle entered her own room, she was attacked. Pixie came at her like a flying bullet. She fluttered around Belle, touching her hair and face to confirm it really was her. Belle giggled as Pixie placed a cold kiss upon her nose.

It was strange being back in her own room. The large view of the ocean rivaled the beauty of Vakre Fjell’s mountains, and Belle couldn’t decide which was better. From her self-filling, heated tub to the Governess machine helping her dress and styling her hair, the process was efficient—but a little lonely. Already, Belle missed Edvina’s continual gossip. It would be just what she needed to keep her mind off of worrying for Aleksander. Though she’d never say so to Pixie who did her own fair bit of chattering, like she hadn’t “spoken” to a soul in ages.

Pinning on a burgundy hat, accented with white ribbons, and pulling on gloves to match, she was ready for town. Belle stared at herself in her tall, oval mirror. She looked every bit the proper young lady.

If Belle didn’t, the townsfolk would judge her more harshly than they would others. Should she lack in any way as a female, they’d blame it on her hunting—claim that it was just unnatural for a woman to kill. So Belle learned early on the importance of appearance and that if she carried herself as the best sort of lady would, people found it easier to accept her as both Hunter and woman.
The opinions of others are not the most important things in this world
, her mother used to say,
but one is still subjected to the reality of them
.

Tying up the laces of her boots, Belle looked over at Pixie. She sat on the bed moping, her metal arms folded angrily around herself. It took some time to convince her that Belle intended on returning in a few hours. Pixie finally nodded and said farewell by hugging Belle’s hand, and squeezing with all she had.

From there, Belle was soon seated in the carriage with Friar Clemens in the driver’s box. Iron coils, mounted on the wall, pumped a steady flow of heat into the compartment. A wonderful modification—like the driver’s enclosed box—that worked with only a bit of vigorous cranks of a handle.

Worn from her journey, Belle leaned back in her seat to look out the window. Snow was falling, but the storm had let up. It was no longer hard to see and the wind had stopped. They shortly rolled into the town square, which was deserted due to the weather.
So much being seen by the townspeople.

Helping her out of the carriage, Friar Clemens followed her into the cathedral. He placed a gentle hand on her arm. “I wish to pray and will be here when you’re ready.”

He stepped into a pew near the back and knelt. There was only one other person in the great cathedral. They too were praying and didn’t even look up as she past. Belle paused as she neared the clergy’s office, hearing voices inside. The last thing she wanted was to talk with the Father, or the Bishop, about all that had happened—especially the Prince. She knew what their stance would be on it and it wasn’t something she had the energy to deal with right then.

Silently she slipped by and into the cold stairwell that lead to the catacombs below. Belle went straight to the Hall of The Hunters and pushed her rosary key into the keyhole. She stepped back, watching the gears and bars spin and slide about the surface. The noise ricocheted of the stone walls with soft clicks and heavy booms.

The door swept open and Belle stepped in. Faced with the long row of wall graves before her, she wished the town greenhouse had been open. Without her usual offering of roses, her visit seemed lacking.

First Belle went to the far end, finding the newly made nameplates. There she said her final adieus to Franck and the other Hunters who’d perished. Belle’s heart ached for their families and even for her father. She hated to imagine the pain of losing one’s own hunting party.

Belle was just saying a prayer for her mother when the door’s locks were activated. She waited, curious as to who was also coming to visit. The door opened and Belle was surprised to see Gastone come through it.

He stopped just inside and waited for her to look over at him. “I was speaking to the Father and Bishop Sauvage. I saw you walk by.”

“Might I ask what prompted your visit to them?” Though she already suspected the answer.

“They needed to know you had returned.” He watched her with his dark eyes. It felt like a challenge. “And about the wolf prince.”

Belle sighed. “Don’t call him that.”

“And what should I call him then?” He moved several steps closer, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense. “Would demon-prince be more accurate?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” she scoffed, turning away from him and choosing to look down the long hall of tombs. “And calling him Prince Aleksander would be just fine.”

“Why do you care what I call him?” Gastone came the rest of the way, grabbing Belle by the arm and turning her to look at him. “What is he to you?”

“He is a good man.” Belle put her hands up on Gastone’s chest, preventing him from pulling her any closer. “He doesn’t deserve to be disrespected because of what’s been done to him.”

“Done to him?” Gastone scowled, not loosening his grip on her. “How do you know anything was done to him? How can you believe anything he said when he already lied to you about what he is?”

“You’re right. I don’t know if I can believe him or if anything he said was true.” Belle looked up into Gastone’s eyes, which were hooded by heavy black eyebrows. “But he will explain himself when he’s better, and I won’t condemn him before that.”

Gastone squeezed her arms, almost too tightly. “You care about him, don’t you?”

“Of course I—”

“And by that,” he interrupted when she’d been about to feign innocents to his implication. “I mean, that you care about him in a way you have no right to care about a prince.”

Anger bubbled up inside Belle, rearing its head like Aleksander’s fire-breathing dragon. She shoved Gastone away.

“And you have no right to speak to me of this?” She stepped around him, heading for the door.

“He won’t marry you, Belle,” Gastone said, stopping her. “He’ll discard you when he’s done and, long before that, you’ll be excommunicated from the church.”

Pain sliced at her heart. Not just at Gastone’s words, but at the very idea of it. Advice from a recently good friend came to the forefront of Belle’s mind then. She pushed back her shoulders and stuck out her chin. “Better to have a grand love that is fleeting, than one that is ordinary and lasts till death.”

With Gastone’s jaw clenched in fury, Belle pulled open the hall’s door and left with not another word.