The Beast (9 page)

Panting sounds alerted Belle. Among the trees, a blur of brown appeared and disappeared as a hellhound raced past. It was circling her. Making things worse, it had the advantage with its predatory sense of smell and hearing.

A growl came from in front of her. Belle’s breath caught as her eyes just made out the faint silhouette of a stalking hellhound. More growls followed. It wasn’t alone and they stood between her and her men. Belle held up her revolver, prepared to shoot if one pounced.

A frosted vine curled around her barrel, covering the engraved shooting star. Charming’s steamy breath vanished into the thick fog. Belle shook her head. It was folly to try and fight with this kind of visibility. She patted her pocket, as she turned Charming northward, making sure Henri’s watch was secure. They were going to make a blind dash and she didn’t want to lose it.

“Yah!” Charming leapt into a gallop.

Belle leaned into the Friesian, giving him the rein he needed to run. The hellhounds were gaining ground fast, their snarls and snaps growing louder as they closed in. Trusting in her Friesian to stay the course, Belle let go of her reins and aimed behind her. Unfortunately, the hounds weren’t keeping a steady pace. They zig-zagged around each other, dropping back and then drawing closer. It was like they were using the fog, letting it hide them just long enough that she couldn’t fire.

A howl called Belle’s attention back to the road ahead. A new hellhound was on the approach. Charming couldn’t slow though. If he did, they’d be overtaken by the pack. Belle swore and aimed, ready to stop the charging hound.

A branch blocked her gun’s sight—en route to knock her out of the saddle. Belle gasped, flinging her left leg over the saddle’s front swell and dropped to the side of the horse. With one foot in the stirrup and one hand grasping the saddle horn, she aimed for the lead hellhound. The low branch swept over Charming, touching his ears, and Belle fired.

The hound yipped once, then plunged into the snow. Charming drifted too close to the road’s edge, avoiding the dead hound. Belle thrust herself back against his body, her right arm extending out behind her. A passing tree grazed her cheek with its rough bark. Belle breathed out and fired at one of the hounds behind her. He dropped, making the one behind him stumble.
Four bullets left
.

With a bit of muscle and some fancy footwork, Belle swung herself back up into the saddle. The fog was less dense now. Even her ear chip’s singing was quieter. They were almost out of the ice fog. Belle breathed a bit easier, confidence filling her.

Up ahead, A fallen tree cut off the path. It was big and old, taken down by the heaps of snow piled on from some past storm. Quickly Belle fired behind her, but the hellhounds swerved. The bullet tunneled into the snow instead.
Three left
.

Gritting her teeth, Belle faced forward and leaned into Charming. She grabbed hold of his mane, kneading her knuckles into his neck, and asked for more speed. He responded and charged the tree. She positioned her body correctly, feeling the stallion’s muscles beginning to gather. At just the right second, Charming leapt. For a moment, horse and rider sailed through the air together. Then Charming’s hooves connected with the ground, bringing them smoothly back into the gallop.

Staying low to Charming’s neck, Belle watched behind them. The hellhounds bounded over the fallen tree with considerably less grace. One tripped, tumbling into the ground, but it recovered fast.

Belle was thrown into Charming’s neck as he unexpectedly came to a sliding halt. Hurriedly, she pushed herself up and raised her gun to defend them, expecting the hounds to be nearly on top of them. Except, they’d stopped at the edge of the road; snarling and growling—but not attacking!

Cold wind whipped Belle’s body, sending a chill up her spine. The hellhounds backed away as it slammed into their faces, rustling their heavy fur. Not taking her eyes or revolver off the enemy, Belle swung her leg over the saddle horn and hopped to the ground. She trained her gun onto one hound and drew her second revolver. Closer she stepped, half taunting them.

Shockingly, they continued to disengage. Their teeth snapped angrily at the air. Then they turned and she watched them fading, then disappearing into the waning ice fog. Belle stood there, mouth agape, unable to believe that they had gone—that the moment she turned her back, they wouldn’t come charging out at her.

Charming pawed impatiently, his hoof striking smooth cobblestone. Belle looked in surprise at the masonry they stood on, then followed it to the gate which had stopped Charming’s mad run. Tall, iron bars stood three times as high as Belle. At its center was the shield for the Vakrein royal family. Wild, thorny rose vines wrapped the bars and traversed the entire length of the connecting stone wall.

Belle stepped closer to the gate, reaching out to touch one of the blooming roses. As she did, the heavy fog cloaking what lay beyond seemed to move away. Gasping at the massive castle, Belle stopped in her tracks.

She whispered in awe, “Castle Vakre Fjell.”

It was colossal in size, rivaling the surrounding mountains. The many pointed rooftops reached to high peaks, with a single tower surpassing them all in height. Flags attached to these high piers fluttered in the wind. A hundred windows, taller in length than her own house, decorated the castle’s stone walls. Every corner of the building was sharp and severe, radiating its strength to those outside. But the roofs were curved just enough to lend a bit of dainty elegance to the overall appeal.

Had Henri sought shelter here? Her eyes skimmed the bridge, but the wind kept it clear of snow. Belle grabbed the gate, intending to test its lock, but it clicked open at the slightest pressure. Pushing the gate the rest of the way, she stepped through and Charming followed.

“Halt!” A man emerged, aiming a rifle in her direction.

Swiftly, Belle trained her revolvers on the stranger. She eyed his military clothing suspiciously. “How did you get here?”

A weapon cocked over her shoulder. “Drop your weapons.”

Whoever they were, they had her. With slow, exaggerated movements, Belle turned her revolvers upward in surrender. The man she couldn’t see yanked the guns from her hands, then took her sabre.

“Now walk.” The first soldier jerked his gun, pointing to the castle.

They spoke Vakrein, which Belle fortunately knew. That at least told her they were from here, but it also raised many more questions.

Belle didn’t move, speaking in his native tongue. “Please, I mean no—”

“Walk, witch, or we’ll shoot you where you stand,” he threatened.

The pure hatred on his face told Belle not to disregard it. She turned onto the bridge, forcing her sigh inward. Her feet stilled. The walkway was wide, flat, and without railings. Below was a long drop into a rocky canyon.

Belle had the sensation that she was standing on the thinnest of ice. One wrong move and it would shatter, sending her a thousand feet to her death. Fear tensed up her muscles, making her breathing shallow.

A gun barrel shoved into Belle’s back, forcing her forward. The bridge didn’t immediately crumble. Squaring her shoulders, Belle hid away her insecurities and walked on.

Men
. The thought hit Belle like a blast of cold air. There were humans in Vakre Fjell! All this time the world thought Vakre Fjell had been lost. Here was proof that not all Vakreins had fallen into sin. How many more were there? Why didn’t they come for help? Was her father here, and if so what did they do with him?

The ceilings were high, higher than even her cathedral’s. Her head tilted back in awe of the arched peaks. Her boots stepped from elaborate marble floors to lush red carpets. The walls in the entry hall were of the finest masonry with simple flourishes designed to turn the eyes upward.

“Go tell General Kogsworthe another has arrived,” one of her escorts said to a waiting servant boy.

Belle’s heartbeat quickened.
Another has arrived
. Someone else had come before Belle! It had to be Henri.

With a nod, the boy turned and rushed down a long hall. Silence fell, but Belle’s mind screamed with relief. She glanced at her captors. They remained turned away from her. Almost as though they mistrusted the sight of her.

While the chance was available, Belle swept her hand across the button at her hip. It unlatched and her skirts dropped, hanging to her ankles. One soldier looked back at her. She pretended not to notice his attention and smoothed her dress. She leaned forward, catching her reflection in a mirror. Her hair had fallen down in several places. She tucked back a strand or two, but there wasn’t much she could do to save it.

Abruptly, the soldier behind her approached. Belle saw him coming in the mirror and made to move away. He grabbed her arm, preventing her retreat. Then, with his free hand, he worked at undoing the clasps at her shoulder. He watched her closely, his eyes glowering at every inch of her face. The buckle came loose and the knife harness slid from her chest. The soldier took the knives and harness and rolled them up, then haughtily tucked them beneath his shoulder. Only then did he move back to his previous position.

An unbearable amount of time continued to pass in silence. Belle shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. It disturbed her that they did not take her cloak or offer her something to drink, some place to sit, while she waited. She had broken no law, but their treatment thus far made Belle feel less than welcome.

A stout man eventually walked into the hall accompanied by the servant boy and two other soldiers. He had a full, brunette beard and hair cut short. His uniform was pristine, as were his many medals and symbols of rank. At his side was an officer’s sword that was not just for decoration. On his back was a white fur cloak edged in brown with no hood. The medallion holding the cape in place was a gold rose.

General Kogsworthe, Belle presumed, had a stern demeanor. His movements were simple, precise. She straightened as he neared and didn’t blink or blush as he scrutinized her.

“These were found on her person.” The soldier handed over her knives, guns, and sabre. “She carried a shotgun on her saddle, as well.”

“Thank you. Dismissed.” General Kogsworthe’s voice was gravelly and harsh. He gave no other reaction.

The soldiers left. A gust of cold wind raced in at their departure, tousling her loose locks and cloak. General Kogsworthe signaled for the soldiers he brought to flank Belle. With nothing more than a reproachful look, he began walking away.

Guessing that he meant for her to follow, Belle started after him. The soldiers stayed close but did not stop her. The General said nothing as they walked. He stayed two paces ahead and never once looked back. Lifting her skirts, Belle ascended a great staircase in pursuit.

It was wide and curved. The ceiling here was domed in the arches with gold crown molding. She wanted to stay in the stairwell and marvel at its craftsmanship, but when they moved on to a new floor, Belle found herself in awe once more. It was similar to the entry hall in many ways. It had the same high ceiling and simple, but elegantly shaped walls.

Suits of armor stood along one wall, looking like eyeless guards. The opposite wall was lined with mammoth-sized windows. They reached to the ceiling, curving softly at the top, and their width was the length of several paces. The rich-colored draperies were a marvel of amplitude and fine quality. Satin ropes pulled them back, opening the room to the mountains beyond—Snowcapped, rugged, and impassable.

They walked by many closed rooms and portraits of former kings and queens. At the far end of the long hall, just before the end, they turned down yet another hall. From these windows, Belle could glimpse the courtyard below and the windows in the opposite wing. The marching seemed endless. Despite Belle’s highly active life, she wasn’t used to this sort of exercise; nor was her corset made for it.