The Beast (5 page)

When she left, the cogs to the Hall of Hunters were still locking as she made her way back up to the main floor. Instead of exiting the cathedral, as she normally would, Belle made a detour to the priest’s office. The door was open and the voices from within wafted out.

“We send them refusals. We then ignore their continued requests. Yet they still send someone all this way.” Belle did not need to see the voice’s owner to know why her stomach cringed at its sound. “And a woman scientist no less!”

A scientist! So the woman wasn’t a medical doctor at all. Just like the mercenaries, scientists have had an immense interest in Vakre Fjell for years. Their pursuit wasn’t for wealth of gold, but for that of knowledge. Not believing the theological explanation given by the church, they wanted to study the hellhounds. Unfortunately for them, they would have to go through the Pope to do that and the church wasn’t budging.

“I’m not sure we should write them off entirely.” Belle entered the office, seamlessly inserting herself into the conversation. “Studying a live hellhound might help us learn how to save their souls without killing them. Even letting them examine the body of a former hound might do just that.”

Father Sinclair smiled kindly at her. The office was small, but its ceiling was high. The priest sat behind his desk, which was mounded with papers and books, writing something before the light of a large stained-glass window. Belle had known the Father her entire life. He was much loved by his congregation. “Ah, Belle, so good to see you. Did you know that Bishop Sauvage arrived today?”

The source of Belle’s cringing stomach, the Bishop, sat near the window dressed in the traditional archbishop garb of purple velvet robes. A white fur shawl wrapped his shoulders and a square, plum-colored hat sat in his lap.

“No, I didn’t know he was visiting. Pleasure to see you again, Bishop,” she lied and before the Bishop could respond, she said to Father Sinclair, “I’m here for the Hunter’s weekly allowance.”

“Oh?” he replied. “I hope Henri is well?”

“Yes, he has some last minute work to do before he departs for the fair, so I have come in his stead.”

“You?” interjected Bishop Sauvage. “Surely, there is a man who could do this?”

Belle felt the slight like it were spit at her feet, but she didn’t immediately react. She had to be careful. Bishop Sauvage was already a thorn in her side and could easily become a powerful enemy. Still, Belle had to show she was capable. “As Hunter Captain the duty falls only to me.”

“What?” The Bishop clenched his hat. “Captain? They made you Captain?”

“Yes—”

He cut her off, asking the Father, “Why was I not told about this?”

“It was Henri’s decision.” Father Sinclair sighed, keeping his eyes on his papers. “The town has full faith in his choice, and in Belle.”

“This is a lapse.” Bishop Sauvage stood and planted both hands on the desk, leaning toward the priest. “A woman is not fit to be a Hunter and is not worthy to be leading them.”

Belle took a step forward, forcing their attention on her. She was polite, but she was not weak and would not allow someone to act as though she were. “Bishop Sauvage, I can assure you, I am more than capable to lead my men.”

“
Your
men? Dear girl, it was one thing for the church to allow you and your mother to serve, but to give you a station above men…” His voice was thick with condescension. “…is heresy.”

Horror tightened Belle’s throat. This was the sort of belief that she feared most. With it alone, Bishop Sauvage could strip Belle of her title, ruin her name, and deny her a Hunter’s burial. He could do the same to her mother, even after death. This was the power Belle was afraid of. She collected her thoughts, wrangled in her anxiety.

“Bishop Sauvage, if God believes that my position is an act against him, then I ask that he end me. Let me die in the forest.” Belle filled her voice and face with as much softness as she could muster. She had to say just the right thing to quail the Bishop’s anger for now. “However there is no one that has been groomed for this job as I have. The men trust me and so do the people. If I can no longer serve in this capacity, then one of them must take my place. One of their husbands or sons. Who will they blame for that? Me, God, or
you
?”

His eyes burrowed unblinkingly into her.

“For now, I will not push this subject.” Turning away, Bishop Sauvage walked to the window. “Instead I will leave this wrong in God’s hands to right.”

Father Sinclair frowned and held up a brown envelope. “Belle. Here is the payment.”

“Merci, Father. I’ll be on my way then.” She gave him the faintest of smiles, attempting to alleviate any guilt he might have, and accepted the billfold.

“You are welcome.” His return smile was sincere. “Good day, Belle.”

“Good day.” She turned toward the door, reaching out a hand to push it open.

The Bishop’s voice stopped her.

“You are correct, mademoiselle. God will surely strike you down as he did your mother.” He had turned just enough to see her face. “Knowing that, if the hellhounds do not kill you, it’ll be a sign that you are not a servant of God—but, in fact, a mistress of Satan.”

Belle inhaled. Shock splayed across her face. It was almost inconceivable. In one swift statement, he’d implied that Liliane LeClair’s death was an act from God—a punishment for being a Hunter—and that Belle was possibly the Devil’s lover.

Father Sinclair opened his mouth but seemed to choke on his words. He looked from the Bishop to Belle. She could see the sympathy in him, but he said nothing. No matter what sorrow he felt, it wasn’t enough to make him stand up to his better. His mouth closed and his shoulders sagged. Finally, he looked away from her.

Belle’s heart beat grievously against her breastbone. Breathing became harder. Belle drew her shoulders back, pressing her lips into a thin line. The turbulence of emotions raged inside her and thundered for release. Painfully, she held them back, refusing to break in front of these men.

With the ghost of a grin, the Bishop watched her. “Though, I am sure God will come through.”

Unable to stand there any longer, unable to speak, Belle pushed through the office door. She rushed through the church, along row after row of pews. Raw emotion tumbled out of her in waves of gasping, shallow, breaths. If there were people around, she didn’t see them. She just wanted to get away from there—away from those awful words.

Tears welled in Belle’s eyes, blurring her sight. Delicately made murals and sculptures became smears of color. The front entrance was open, washing the floors in natural light. Street noises breached the cathedral’s threshold. Belle stopped short of the entryway. She couldn’t go out there like this; heart racing, tears brimming over her eyelids and down her cheeks.

Her breath caught and, quick to hide, Belle dashed behind one of the large pillars. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle her sobs, and leaned against the column for support. Her throat was tight with pain; pain from humiliation.

How could the Bishop say something so terrible? To not just call her a whore, but to also insult her mother’s memory, was unthinkable. Belle was not unfamiliar with the meanness of others, but no one had ever spoken so cruelly to her. The vulgarity alone was appalling. Worse yet, Father Sinclair had done nothing.

Not wanting anyone to see her so undone, Belle rested her head against the stone column and closed her eyes. One last tear slipped by. She took her hand from her mouth, placing it on her stomach to lend fortitude. With deep breaths, Belle summoned her composure.

It struck her then, the oddness of her emotions. Belle killed for a living. She’d seen things—grotesque things. Belle had buried family and friends, stood alone in a dark woods while creatures stalked her, but little of it ever got to her the way the Bishop’s words had. Only words, but they’d cut deeper than claws.

Swiping away the last obstinate teardrops, Belle opened her eyes. She pushed off from the pillar, letting her own feet support her. Needlessly, Belle smoothed her dress. She blinked several times, feeling strangely lighter.

Holding her head high, Belle left the cathedral—vowing that the next time she saw the Bishop, she would be ready for his callousness. She might even dare to strike back.

“Oh, I
like
that French tradition!” Jack pounded the table, making the dishware rattle with his enthusiasm.

The Friar’s dinner for their early Noël party had been wonderful. Dishes of all sorts had been laid out. A variety of platters—breads, cheeses, and pastries—were now only crumbs. Roasted duck had been reduced to a carcass. Dessert was a cake made by Andre’s parents, the local bakers. Everything had been delicious and they all ate their fill, leaving spirits high.

“No. No, my dear boy,” Henri said, quieting the room. “Not a French tradition—a Hunter tradition.”

“I was there, the night the tradition began.” Belle looked at her father, absently fiddling with a curl at her shoulder.

“Were you?” Grabbing his napkin, Henri wiped the foam from his hands. “At your age, you should have been in bed.”

Belle chuckled. “The town was at war with Hell and my inventor father was Commander of our army. The LeClairs didn’t sleep much in those days.”

“So, how did the tradition start?” Jack prompted.

“It’s a good story,” Gastone said, watching Belle. There was warmth in his eyes that caused her chest to tighten. “She told it to me once.”

“Well, I want to hear it!” Jack insisted, flinging out his hands and the other Hunters vocally agreed.

“We were still living at the inn then.” She didn’t speak loudly as she started her story. The men would quiet for her, just as they did for Henri. “I’d slipped out of my room and hid on the stairwell, peaking through the railings. I could taste the despair coming from the men gathered below. A large pack had crossed the border and far more men than we could spare had died. The doc was there, I remember, he walked around the group, administering treatment.”

She paused to thank Friar Clemens as he handed her the first glass. No one spoke, they hung on her words. “Père stood before them, holding his bottle of champagne. He spoke of the battle and of the men that were lost. It was the best thing I’d ever heard. Grown men had tears in their eyes. Père finished his speech with a booming voice like I’d never heard before. He tried to open the bottle so they could drink to their victory—”

“Damn thing refused to open,” Henri added with a grin. He held his glass in one hand and rested his other on the hilt of his sabre.

“It made him so angry.” Belle went on over the men’s chuckles. “He unsheathed his sword with a slur of horrible curses and sliced off the top.” She tilted her head to look up at her father. “When the applause died you said that you’d stand by them. No matter the loss, you’d stand by your Hunters.
Till my heart stills
, were your words. And they repeated them back to you. It was the moment I decided to become a Hunter.”

“Well.” Henri held up his glass. “To that then!”

Everyone joined in with the toast, tipping the champagne into their mouths.

“Who’s in the mood for some music?” Andre asked, flicking back one of the spiraled locks he called dreads.

“Splendid idea.” Henri swallowed down a mouthful of drink. “Should I crank the piano or would Jean like to do us the honor?”

Without any further urging, Jean moved to the piano bench. He checked the gorgeous gold and green scarf wrapped around his neck, making sure it still covered the ghastly scars beneath. Where once Jean could have been an operatic singer with his voice gifted by angels, he was now mute—his voice taken, instead of his life, by a hellhound. Pushing back the piano cover, he poised his hands above the keys.

Then his fingers were moving, twinkling over the keys with the grace of a dancer. It was beautiful. All of the talent Jean had once contained in his voice must have transferred to his hands. Transfixed, they all watching him, listening as the music filled the room.

A hand appeared in front of Belle. Her eyes traced the arm up to its owner. Gastone stood there, happiness shining in his eyes. She’d been so distracted by Jean’s playing, she hadn’t even noticed Gastone move.

“Care for a dance?” There was something in his voice. Something new. A softness perhaps.

Belle placed her hand in his. “I would.”

He guided her out of her chair and to the small dance floor. Belle caught sight of her father. He was beaming. For just a moment, she wondered what he was thinking. Gastone turned her so that she faced him.

Belle subconsciously touched her hair. Part of it was clipped up in a bundle of curls that dangled around her face. The rest sat loose, cascading in ringlets and waves past her shoulders and nearly to her waist. Her mother’s watch necklace, embossed with a rose, rested on her chest. Belle’s dress was one of her nicest, one she reserved for special occasions.