The Beast (4 page)

“You never said you were injured before.” Gastone appeared behind her.

His hand went to her arm, and she felt the other upon her back. Peering at the cuts, he twisted her in the light. Several deep punctures bled down her back, painting her skin and dress. His touch was gentle and warm; she inwardly reveled in their feel.

With a quirk of her lip, she replied, “I thought you were eating snails.”

Gastone chuckled. “Snails can wait.”

Belle bobbed her head back and forth, pretending to weigh the value of his words. “Hm, they are rather slow.”

“So can death be.” He turned her to look at his face. “Don’t go dying from something as trivial as an untreated wound.”

Being so close to him, Belle noticed that his dark eyebrows arched in the most interesting way. She fought the urge to reach up and trace one softly with her thumb. Immediately aware of how indecent her proximity to Gastone was, Belle stepped away.

“For the love of God, get out of my way!” Doc shouted to part a crowd of ambling drinkers.

Doc was young, but it was impossible to determine his age. He kept his hair short and parted down the middle, causing his bangs to create half-moons around his forehead. The bifocals he wore were perfect circles resting on the bridge of a small nose. He could have looked like a man fresh out of medical school, but this life had left its imprints on him. Lines creased his otherwise youthful face and melancholy shaped his features.

He stopped before them and took a calming breath while adjusting his vest. “Let’s see it then.”

Belle turned, allowing Doc to examine her wounds. She wondered if he was seeing double.

“Mm, not bad. No stitches necessary. Some bandages should do the trick.” He reached into his bag and brought out a jar of alcohol and a cloth.

With deft fingers, he worked till the wounds were cleaned and covered. To finish, Doc repaired her lacerated dress with a few swipes of his needle and thread. He didn’t need to tell her that the punctures would scar. At this point, Belle had more scars than she could count and was no longer concerned by them.

Unexpectedly, the table of strangers all came to a stand amid a chorus of shouts. They were looking at Andre and Delano. One man was dangerously close to Andre’s face and whispering something that was sure to be rude. From across the room, Jean and Nicolas were making their way over. Clearly a bout of fisticuffs was brewing.

Shockingly fast, Andre’s fist shot out and crashed into the whisperer’s face. He went down hard, hitting the ground unconscious. The outsiders stared in disbelief, as the downed man had been much larger than Andre. To answer their unspoken question, Andre removed his glove and raised his hand. Metal parts gleamed in the tavern light.

“Metal prosthetic, lost my hand to a hellhound.” He reached down with the same hand and rapped his knuckles against his leg, creating a
thunk
. “They took my leg as well.”

“Well, maybe the French are just too soft.” This man was tall and heavy-chested. Judging by his bearing, he was the leader of this little group. “I say there’s plenty of Vakrein bounty worth killing a few wolves over.”

Mercenaries
. Belle scoffed. Their ilk had been coming around since the world learned of Vakre Fjell’s demise. Every one of them thought they could fight their way in and come out with a king’s wealth. None ever returned rich. Most didn’t come out at all.

Belle slipped between the doc and Gastone, making like she intended to get out of the way. Instead she walked through the crowd, seeking to position herself just behind the mercenary leader. No one paid her any attention as she drew her revolver and pointed it at the back of his head. She pulled back the hammer, letting it click loudly.

“Bloody hell!” one mercenary shouted.

The room looked at her; the leader wide-eyed with surprise.

“I don’t care how you messieurs want to risk your lives. My only concern is two days from now. My father is traveling through Vakre Fjell to reach his transport to the Inventor’s World Fair. It’s last minute, so it can’t be missed. But mostly I can’t have you all riling up the hellhounds.” She’d been looking between all the mercenaries, but now her gaze focused solely on the leader. “So I have a proposal. You wait three days. Spend all the money you have at our inn, shops, and good tavern. After three days, you may treasure hunt without any hindrance from us or this town. If you’re as good as you say, you’ll walk out of Vakre Fjell with more riches than you can imagine, and this town gets a little boon from your short stay.”

“She’s bluffing,” said some spindly fellow to her left. “She couldn’t pull that trigger and—”

With speed acquired from years of practice, Belle drew her second revolver. She put a bullet in his foot, cutting off his sentence. Several people flinched and the mercenary fell to the ground, howling like a stuck pig.

Belle looked back at the leader. “Now you have another reason to wait three days.”

He chuckled and grinned, then put up his hands in surrender. “Three days of rest and relaxation sounds plenty good to me.”

“Wonderful.” Belle gave him her sweetest of smiles and stowed away her guns. “I’m glad we could help one another. It being so close to Noël and all.”

The man nodded and went to his wounded friend. Just like that, the whole tavern calmed. Conversation and drink started anew like nothing had happened.

“I would like to thank all ye Hunters,” A young Irishman named, Davin, said coming over to her. “I know the world hasn’t exactly shown its support for yer efforts. Not just cause of these awful mercenaries, but our leaders as well. If they did—support ye that is—armies would have been sent years ago to kill off dis hellish menace. Instead, they’re all too worried about invading, and angering Vakre Fjell’s old motherland, Norway.”

“Politics,” Nicolas spat. He and the other Hunters had made their way over.

“Indeed. So the brunt of it all has been placed on you lot. I want to express my gratitude. Not just for me or my hometown, but for all of God’s Cup. We know what yer doing here.” Davin referred to their island by its nickname; called such for its resemblance of a wine goblet spilling into the Norwegian Sea.

The isle was occupied by their French province at the center, the Vakrein kingdom to the north, and the British territory in the south.

“Looks like I got here just in time for the entertainment,” came a voice beside Belle.

She looked over to find Jack. In one hand, he gripped his cowboy hat and his other ran through his light blond hair. The snow on his black duster was starting to melt. He’d been in Glace for over a year now, but Jack still dressed and acted American in every way. Belle actually found that quite endearing, though she’d never tell him. So did many of the women in town, and they
did
tell him.

It was not uncommon for Jack to join them at Le Géant Tranquille after his duties were done. The man drank like…well…an American, and made friends fast too. Almost seamlessly, he’d integrated himself into their Hunter family and, except for the occasional tavern brawl, got along with everyone else. Belle was happy to have him soon officially join her hunting party.

“Can I get you something to drink, cowboy?” asked a barmaid while she pushed out her chest. Belle snickered.

He rocked on his heels, grinning at her. “Whiskey, please, ma’am.”

Was it just Belle or did Jack’s accent thicken when a pretty lady was around?

The morning sun caused melting snow to drip from above, as she traversed through the cathedral’s entrance. Giant chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Rows of pews lined the floor leading to the dais where a gold crucified Christ suspended. Complex stonework brought saints to life in every available space, hand painted murals depicted various biblical scenes, and massive stone pillars were a canvas for both. Sun shined through the great stained-glass windows, casting the cathedral in a rainbow of colors.

The room’s stillness made every sound more palpable. An elderly man shifted in his seat, his eyes staring at the savior. A woman whispered to her candle’s flame. A friar’s mop sloshed sudsy water onto the lovely floor.

The clergyman acknowledged Belle as she crossed the wet marble to reach the catacomb’s entrance. Into the stairway she delved, her pace slowing as the light receded and the air grew colder. Voices traveled up from below. Orange-hued light broke the darkness as she neared the bottom, pausing on the steps.

“Hall of the Unknowns…” a woman said, reading the placard above one of the three entrances into the catacombs. They were high and arching, their words etched in gold.

“Those are the remains of souls we could not identify,” the clergyman attending her said. “The majority are souls redeemed by our Hunters.”

Belle noted the pride in his voice. She’d only walked through there once and the many unnamed graves—the forgotten souls—had made the Hunter’s burden feel like a deep, jagged cut. Yet she considered herself lucky to have that hardship. At least she will not be lost in death like those poor souls—At least she will have a name, and the living will come to pray for it.

“Oh, I see.” The woman’s eyes widened and she looked to the next hall. This dainty, but well-proportioned woman was American, judging by her accent. She had dark brown hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her dress was burgundy, with an almost military style. Around her neck was a thin, gold chain that sported a small pair of tinted bifocals. In her hand was an official-looking briefcase. “And the Hall of The Beloved Dead?”

“That’s where our own are put to rest,” the friar responded, and Belle followed their gaze down the long stretch of tombs.

The woman wiggled her nose from the stale air and turned to the final hall. “Now why is the Hall of the Hunters sealed?”

Unlike the first two halls, the Hall of the Hunters was cut off by giant metal doors which were not open to the general public. Black metal elegantly shaped the double doors and the visible gears that made up the lock. It was a worthy tomb for those who died protecting the town.

“In the beginning, people feared that Hunters who died by a hellhound would soon rise and become one of them. Everyone had heard the tales of werewolves who turned others with a bite,” Belle spoke up, making them aware of her presence. “As a precaution these doors were built to keep the dead in. Those who were bitten, but didn’t die, were quarantined in the jail. Time revealed that there was no truth behind the stories, but the doors were never removed.”

“Fascinating.” The woman’s eyes danced with excitement. “How does one get in?”

“Hunters have a key,” The clergyman said with a tone of finality and gently took the woman’s arm, guiding her to the stairs. “Come, Dr. Caskin, I’m sure the Father is free by now.”

The ladies curtsied to one another in passing, then Belle watched the doctor and friar disappear up the stairs. A woman doctor? Was it possible that Doc had found a replacement? Walking over to the great metal doors, Belle hoped that he had not.

From her side, Belle untied her rosary. The ebony beads were held together by gold links. Its matching gilded cross was large enough to span her palm and carved with a complicated pattern. Only a few knew it, but the key was this very rosary. It was one of the three gifts every Hunter received upon initiation. At death, the key was given to the Hunter’s family in a funeral ceremony so that they may visit the one they lost.

The cross slid easily into the lock. She twisted it. The mechanism clanked loudly, setting off the many gears. Movement started near her key. Small and large cogs clicked and turned, their teeth snapping into place, causing others to do the same. Like a technological ripple, it spread, triggering pieces all over the doors. Bars slid from the center seam. Metal scraped on metal. Each bar halted with a resonating boom, one by one, into the recesses of the doors.

Click. Click. Snap.
The clockwork went silent. Belle removed her key and the doors cranked open. She stepped inside. The doors glided shut behind her.

The Hall of the Hunters consisted of white marble walls, brass nameplates, and floor-to-ceiling crypts. Like the drawers in a dresser, they stacked on top of one another—each small compartment containing a bed for the eternally resting.

Belle retied the rosary to her hip, drawing it through added loops so that it dangled against her skirts. She walked along the graves. Rolling the rose in her fingers, she gazed at the many scarlet folds. They looked like satin. Her feet moved, but she didn’t need to see where they took her. The path was all too familiar. Belle stopped knowingly before the wall and finally peered up at the precious tomb.

The nameplate read,
Liliane Verdandi LeClair–Beloved wife and mother–Died on the hunt.
She set the rose into the holder and traced her gloved fingers over the engraved words. With her hand upon Liliane’s name, she silently prayed. Belle lingered for a while after that. She didn’t cry. The time for that had come and gone long ago. Belle simply remained there, picturing her mother, remembering the sound of her voice.