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Authors: Alianne Donnelly
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comes a step closer. “Do you know me? I am Jacques, your head of household.”
The name is familiar. He has difficulty saying it. It takes three tries to get his tongue to cooperate. “Jacques,” he repeats. “What... am I?”
There is something akin to relief in Jacques’ scent. He turns away to wave the others off and they retreat. Another step closer. Too close. At his growl, Jacques stops and lowers to one knee.
“Your name is Bastien Sauvage,” he says. “You are the master of this castle.”
“No!”
Jacques flinches but doesn’t retreat. “I know you are afraid. There is no need. We all know you. We know you would not harm us. Please, let us help.”
“Can you ... save me?”
Sadness. It weighs heavily on Jacques and the creature, too. “I’m afraid not.”
I am a beast. The shining female called him that, so it must be true. His name is Beast. And he cannot be saved. He tears into his chest with sharp claws, throws his massive head back and howls. Far in the distance, in the deep woods that smell of darkness and mystery, a pack of wolves answer his wretched cry.
Chapter Thirteen
Despite Jacques’ soft tones and reassurances, the Beast will not be coaxed out of the darkness. He can hear the others far below, arguing, weeping. They are terrified. Half of them want to run and the other half is ready to take up pitchforks and kill the Beast.
Finally, Jacques relents and seeks out the others to tell them what happened. Jacques knows so much that the Beast is sure the man must have seen it happen, for even he doesn’t remember some of it. The butler tells them the enchantress cursed them all. They don’t believe him.
Jacques sends a young boy to fetch Monsieur Lafarge. More people? Aren’t there enough already? The Beast stops listening. He cautiously comes out of hiding and stalks the chamber. It is somehow familiar to him, but he can’t be certain he’s been here before. It feels like his lair, smells familiar enough, but nothing looks as it should. So much he has forgotten. Jacques called him Bastien.
There is a portrait of a man on the wall with a plaque which reads that name. He is handsome, with golden hair and a smartly cut coat. But his eyes are cold and hard, and the smile on his face is a mocking smirk.
The Beast turns away from it and goes searching for more. He finds clothing tailored to a man, much too small for him, yet the fabrics match the tatters still hanging on his frame. Could they have belonged to him?
The balcony is closed. He fumbles with the latch as gently as he can to open the door. The delicate hook breaks off in his claws, but the door opens and he can step out into the night. From here, he can see the forest surrounding this castle as well as lights in the distance, a village of some sort.
Fauve. Yes, that is the name of it. The village of Fauve. And he remembers, too, that a Monsieur Lafarge lives on the other side of it. He used to know the man’s given name as well.
Lars? Louis. That’s it. They are friends... or used to be.
Memories flit like ghosts across his mind. They come slowly as the night passes him by. He doesn’t want to sleep, too afraid of what he might see in his dreams, but all too soon exhaustion claims him and he is plunged into a life that used to be his.
It’s a nightmare. The Beast sees as though through the eyes of another. It must be another; some demon crawled up from the pits of hell. No man could be so cruel and heartless. Yet even as he denies his own past, he knows every detail to be true and it horrifies him.
When he sees the enchantress, a matchless beauty clad in mist, beckoning to him, when he feels his treacherous body respond to her, he wakes with a roar. Blinded with fury, he lashes out at everything in sight. He shreds the bed to pieces with hardly a blink. The armoire breaks apart, the glittering bottles of liquor shatter all around. The Beast tears clothing into ribbons and then sinks his claws into the source of
The name is familiar. He has difficulty saying it. It takes three tries to get his tongue to cooperate. “Jacques,” he repeats. “What... am I?”
There is something akin to relief in Jacques’ scent. He turns away to wave the others off and they retreat. Another step closer. Too close. At his growl, Jacques stops and lowers to one knee.
“Your name is Bastien Sauvage,” he says. “You are the master of this castle.”
“No!”
Jacques flinches but doesn’t retreat. “I know you are afraid. There is no need. We all know you. We know you would not harm us. Please, let us help.”
“Can you ... save me?”
Sadness. It weighs heavily on Jacques and the creature, too. “I’m afraid not.”
I am a beast. The shining female called him that, so it must be true. His name is Beast. And he cannot be saved. He tears into his chest with sharp claws, throws his massive head back and howls. Far in the distance, in the deep woods that smell of darkness and mystery, a pack of wolves answer his wretched cry.
Chapter Thirteen
Despite Jacques’ soft tones and reassurances, the Beast will not be coaxed out of the darkness. He can hear the others far below, arguing, weeping. They are terrified. Half of them want to run and the other half is ready to take up pitchforks and kill the Beast.
Finally, Jacques relents and seeks out the others to tell them what happened. Jacques knows so much that the Beast is sure the man must have seen it happen, for even he doesn’t remember some of it. The butler tells them the enchantress cursed them all. They don’t believe him.
Jacques sends a young boy to fetch Monsieur Lafarge. More people? Aren’t there enough already? The Beast stops listening. He cautiously comes out of hiding and stalks the chamber. It is somehow familiar to him, but he can’t be certain he’s been here before. It feels like his lair, smells familiar enough, but nothing looks as it should. So much he has forgotten. Jacques called him Bastien.
There is a portrait of a man on the wall with a plaque which reads that name. He is handsome, with golden hair and a smartly cut coat. But his eyes are cold and hard, and the smile on his face is a mocking smirk.
The Beast turns away from it and goes searching for more. He finds clothing tailored to a man, much too small for him, yet the fabrics match the tatters still hanging on his frame. Could they have belonged to him?
The balcony is closed. He fumbles with the latch as gently as he can to open the door. The delicate hook breaks off in his claws, but the door opens and he can step out into the night. From here, he can see the forest surrounding this castle as well as lights in the distance, a village of some sort.
Fauve. Yes, that is the name of it. The village of Fauve. And he remembers, too, that a Monsieur Lafarge lives on the other side of it. He used to know the man’s given name as well.
Lars? Louis. That’s it. They are friends... or used to be.
Memories flit like ghosts across his mind. They come slowly as the night passes him by. He doesn’t want to sleep, too afraid of what he might see in his dreams, but all too soon exhaustion claims him and he is plunged into a life that used to be his.
It’s a nightmare. The Beast sees as though through the eyes of another. It must be another; some demon crawled up from the pits of hell. No man could be so cruel and heartless. Yet even as he denies his own past, he knows every detail to be true and it horrifies him.
When he sees the enchantress, a matchless beauty clad in mist, beckoning to him, when he feels his treacherous body respond to her, he wakes with a roar. Blinded with fury, he lashes out at everything in sight. He shreds the bed to pieces with hardly a blink. The armoire breaks apart, the glittering bottles of liquor shatter all around. The Beast tears clothing into ribbons and then sinks his claws into the source of
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