Beast: An Anthology

by Amanda Richardson

  He grins. “Fair enough.” He moves and backs up, smiling at me until he turns and pushes two double doors open with a steady whoosh. I follow him into the biggest room I’ve ever seen. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I gasp, clutching my heart.

  Not a room.

  A library.

  A gleeful giggle escapes my throat, and I jump forward, sprinting to the nearest shelf. First editions, second editions, special anniversary editions. . . hardbacks, paperbacks. . . I’ve never seen a real book. Never in all of my years as a book thief. Godric saw one once, but he failed in obtaining it. I finger the leather spines, the metallic writing, trying to make out which titles are here. I pull one of them out, unsure of the language used, and the thrill of opening a real book sends shivers down my spine. It creaks slightly, like a rusty door, and the pages, my god the pages. . . I hold the book up and inhale.

  Heaven.

  “Every time we conducted a raid, I brought the books back to this room. Most of the people I borrowed from were not like you, Maybelle. They did not—could not—appreciate it.” He looks around, and I follow his gaze. “This place is the product of years of organization and filing, learning languages, buying buildings in the city to house the books if we can convince your father. Ideally, I want him to announce a royal decree that would grant amnesty to those still in possession of any art. Everyone should have books, paintings, music. . . it shouldn’t be illegal anymore,” Samson murmurs, coming closer to me. I can smell him—a mix of tobacco and vanilla.

  My eyes flick between him and the rows of bookshelves. Which temptation shall I indulge first? “I agree.”

  “All over the city, art flourished regardless. You’re a testament to that. Even in dark times, people found it. And hopefully soon, all of it will be freely available to everyone.”

  “And if I decide not to help you?” I whisper, letting my eyes wander across his jagged scars. A flicker of pain washes over his face, and he brings his hand up to my cheek. The roughness sends a shiver down my spine, and I close my eyes. “Will you kill me? To prove a point?” I don’t have the courage to open my eyes, to see the truth lolling in his blue irises.

  “I don’t think I could now,” he says finally, and I clamp my eyes tight as his finger grazes my jaw and then my collarbone. When he pulls away, I feel the absence of him and I open my eyes.

  “How did you get those scars?” I inquire, standing up straight.

  At this, he takes another a step back and looks down at his filthy shoes. “Do you really want to know?” I nod, and he rolls the sleeves of his robes up his arms. I gasp, my eyes tracing the thick lesions roping around his forearms, his fingers. . . He unties his cloak and lets it fall to the ground, leaving him shirtless. I study the scars that wrap around his biceps, his chest, neck, and face. . .

  “Who did that to you?” I ask, taking a step toward him.

  “The night I was crowned the King of Marauders, I awoke in the middle of the night to a raging fire, trapped inside my bed chambers. By then, the Marauders were established, and though I’ll never know what really happened that night, I believe someone in the group betrayed me to one of the Elite. The intent was to kill me, to burn me alive. But I fought to stay alive. As the flames licked me, I fought for my life, and for people like you—the oppressed and poor. I fought through the flames, bore the pain, screaming until I could be rescued. The fire was so hot. At one point, I could feel the skin on my face melting. But I held strong, backed into a far corner, screaming until one of my friends dashed through the flames with a blanket, covering me completely. I don’t remember anything after that. The friend who saved me died in doing so. She saved my life.”

  I didn’t realize I was crying until one of my tears fell upon my crossed arms. I wipe the wetness away and shake my head in disbelief.

  “I hated your kind for so long,” I start, my voice thick with tears. “I was raised to hate you, to blame you for every awful thing. Doesn’t it bother you that everyone thinks you’re a monster?”

  Samson watches me with a small smile and shoves his hands in his pants pockets, slumping his shoulders. “I fought so hard for my life in that fire, Maybelle. My life wouldn’t be mine if I cared about what everyone thought. Plus, people usually don’t stick around once they get a good glimpse of me. In the past two years, since I’ve been crowned, I’ve learned not to tie my confidence up with acceptance. Besides, character and reputation are two different things. I know who I am, and I know I’m not the man that everyone despises, and that’s the only thing pushing me forward to do what I intend to do. Sometimes, it’s the only thing worth waking up for.”

  Such resilience. I’d never met someone with that much internal strength. I wondered what kinds of demons ate away at him at night, in the dark, all alone. . . what he told himself to help the people who would rather slit his throat than hear what he had to say. People like me.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask, my voice quiet in the expansive room.

  He chuckles. “No. Not anymore.” Grabbing his cloak from the ground, he wraps it around himself and walks past me. I whip around. “Enjoy your week, Maybelle. I have business to attend to for the next five days, so please make yourself at home. Luciano or Horace will escort you to your meals. Thrasher will enjoy your company,” he adds, gesturing to the dog now standing next to me expectantly, wagging his tail. Thrasher? Yeah, right. I watch Samson slip into the hallway with graceful agility. Just before the twin doors close, he winks.

  I’m glad he’s not around to see my answering blush.

  +

  I SPEND THE next few days devouring all of the books I can get my hands on. Late morning until dinner, when I’m not formulating a plan to convince my father of Samson’s cause or worrying about Godric (who Luciano swears on his life is okay), I meander the never-ending aisles of the Marauder library, selecting no less than ten books to skim through in the daylight. After dinner, with Luciano’s permission, I haul double that amount to my room and spend the rest of my waking hours with my nose in a book. And not just any book—I found an aisle titled, “Classics,” and I’ve never read so many fabulous stories in my life.

  And not just books, but all kinds of art.

  For example, Horace gives me a tour of the adjoining warehouse buildings, otherwise known as The Art Stores. Paintings, drawings, sculptures. . . all of it cared for, all of it ready to move in the dead of night, once we have permission. There is an entire building dedicated to music and movie storage. Our side doesn’t have screens, so Samson drew up plans himself for theaters to be built every few blocks. As for the music, we’ll be able to rent little devices that allow us to listen to music from the libraries he hopes to place in every section of the city—both on our side and the Elite side. As Luciano shows me the blueprints for the central library, I realize Samson has spent years thinking this through, and plans are being set in motion to change the lives of those on our side of the wall forever. He’s waiting to unleash the surprise of a lifetime on people who’ve never dared to dream of such things. Universities and schools will open, subjects like mathematics, science, history, and economics will be taught.

  But all of it depends on my ability to convince my father that art is important enough to die for. Because if he disagrees, Samson and I might very well meet our untimely deaths.

  The evening of Samson’s return, I step into my bedroom after a long bath to find a dress and a piece of parchment from him. Smiling, I finger the silky, gold material and laugh at his note.

  I know, I know, a dress. But hear me out, will you? One, you don’t have to wear it. You could wear a sack for all I care, but I will be wearing a suit and I didn’t want you to feel underdressed. Two, meet me in the bar across the street at six. I hope you like to dance.

  -S

  The dress is simple yet elegant, the material so fine that it slips through my trembling fingers. I’ve never worn something this nice. It must’ve cost a fortune. It’s floor-length, fitted through the hips, with thin, barely-
there straps and a cowl neck. As I step into the dress, I worry that the thin material will cling to me in an unflattering way, but it has the opposite effect, hugging my hips and chest loosely and cinching at the waist, while the bottom tulips out. I throw my hair up into a loose french twist, wishing more than ever that I was actually adept in the art of hair and makeup. I turn to Thrasher, who has taken up residence on my bed for the last week, and he just huffs and looks away. Okay, then. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Just as I swipe on some mascara and clear lip gloss, there’s a faint knock at my bedroom door. Teetering in the gold heels Samson sent with the dress, I throw the door open and immediately burst into tears as Godric collides with me.

  “How—what—w-where did you come from?” I stutter, pulling away as he grins. Behind him, Horace winks at me before walking away.

  “He’s cute,” Godric mumbles, nudging his head in Horace’s direction and closing the door behind him as he steps into my room. “I’ve been worried sick all week, and I now realize I needn’t have worried,” he teases, his eyes flicking across the room. He arches a brow and places a hand on his hips. “That dress is exquisite, but your hair and makeup don’t do it justice. Sit down. I’ll fix it,” he directs, pointing to the bench in front of the vanity.

  I smile and take a seat, wiping the tears off of my cheeks. “I missed you,” I whisper, grabbing his hand and kissing it. “They told me you were fine, but you never know with Marauders,” I start, hiccupping as I try to calm my emotions.

  “Princess, I spent eighteen years taking care of myself before you came along. I was fine. I’m just glad Horace came to collect me when he did. Your father’s been questioning me every day.” I stiffen, sniffling into a tissue, but he continues, running his hands through my hair. I close my eyes and groan as he gives me a scalp massage. “Don’t worry, I hid everything that was suspect. It’s annoying, but not dangerous. I know better than that.”

  I mumble something unintelligible as he chuckles, playing with my hair as my eyelids grow heavier. Soon, the comb is replaced with mild tugging and the feel of pins at the base of my neck. We chat and catch up while I try not to doze off. When I pry my eyes open after a few minutes, he’s managed to take my simple french twist and turn it into a messy, sensual pile off of my right shoulder. Pieces fall elegantly around my face. I turn and smile.

  “What about my face?” I inquire, pouting my lips.

  Godric smiles—his white teeth stand out against his ebony skin—and his dark, almond eyes crinkle up in the corners. “You don’t need much, but how about we switch out the lip gloss for red lipstick?”

  A few minutes later, he’s subtly dusted my face chest with some glittery powder, and to his delight, he finds a gold, filigreed headband to stick in my hair. The effect with the matching shoes is incredible. Godric is a hair and makeup wizard.

  “Thank you,” I mutter, standing and giving him a tight hug. “Are you joining us for dinner and drinks across the street?”

  He pulls away and places his hands on my bare arms, rubbing them and smiling contentedly. “Not tonight. I thought I’d hang around the warehouse and see what kinds of loot these guys have collected over the years.” He smirks. “Horace offered to give me a tour,” he adds, winking.

  I laugh. “Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  We say our goodbyes, and at five to six, I join arms with Luciano as he escorts me out of the warehouse and into the dark, old bar across the street. He opens and closes his mouth before shaking his head and walking away, leaving me to take in the empty bar alone. I laugh. A week ago, you could not have paid me to befriend a marauder. Now, I had several. A bartender polishes glasses across the divide, paying me no attention, and a jukebox in the corner plays a tune I’ve never heard. Music isn’t popular anymore—not on our side. I saunter over and peruse the options, unfamiliar with most of it. Pushing a few buttons, I wait for my random selection to play. I only chose it because the man on the cover reminded me of Samson.

  “Excellent choice, princess,” the King of Marauders drawls, his deep, rich voice sending shivers down my spine. I turn and face him, and his mouth opens as he appraises the dress. Then, the shoes. And back up to my face. His eyes gleam with the sort of thrill that makes my knees tremble. I blush. “The dress looks every bit as lovely as I’d hoped,” he adds, his eyes skimming me over once again before taking a step forward.

  “You—you look nice, too,” I mumble, clearing my throat and regarding his tailored suit. It’s navy blue, fitted in all the right places, and it makes him look so polished and different. He’s carrying his jacket over his left shoulder, and he forewent a tie, opting instead to unbutton the top buttons and roll up the crisp, white sleeves.

  The music begins to play—an upbeat tune in a style I’ve never heard, but it brings a smile to my face nonetheless. Samson drapes his jacket across one of the barstools and holds his hand out for me. Swallowing, I reach for him and he tugs me into him gently. When our bodies meet, he pauses and looks down at me. Neither of us speaks, but I know he feels it. I’m too close to him to not notice his reaction. Tilting my head up, his breath halts right along with mine. Without thinking, I reach up and caress his scarred cheek with the palm of my hand, mesmerized by how soft it feels.

  “Maybelle,” he starts, his voice raspy. “I don’t think—”

  “Let’s dance,” I interrupt, not wanting to hear what I’m sure is some sort of rejection. As he nods and begins to sway to the music, pulling and twirling me until I’m howling with laughter, I can’t help but feel a twinge of regret. Why would he ever want to be with someone like me? I am the enemy, and he’s using me for his cause. He said so. He’s only endeared to me because I know more about him than he knows about me. To him, I’m just a rebellious princess who steals books for fun. A princess he has to woo in order to get his way. A princess he can stick in a dress in the hopes of persuading her to help with his mission.

  Pulling away suddenly, my smile fades as I watch the confusion distort his face.

  Hurt.

  I feel hurt.

  And played.

  Scowling, I look around. The dark bar, the jazzy music, the nice clothes, Godric’s visit. . . it was all to butter me up. Until now, that didn’t necessarily bother me. Until his breath met my ears, until his warm hands enveloped mine, until his warm arm snaked around my waist and tugged me close, I didn’t care if I was being used. But now? The bitterness seeps up my throat, and I want to hurt him before he has a chance to annihilate my every emotion.

  “This was a mistake,” I say slowly, feeling the tears well up in my eyes. I can still feel the heat of rejection on my cheeks despite the minute we spent dancing jovially.

  He frowns, the crease in his forehead deep as he rubs his lips with his hands. “Maybelle—”

  “All of this? It didn’t work. My father will never side with you because I’ll never side with you.”

  “Maybelle—” his voice pleads, and he takes a step forward. I retreat to the back, to where I know there’s a door that leads to the abandoned streets. His eyes flick behind me, and his face goes rigid as he realizes what I’m about to do. “Don’t, please.”

  A single tear falls down my face as I walk backward and shake my head. “A Marauder could never love an Elite.” He shakes his head and reaches out for me, but I hold a hand out. “I was born an Elite. I am the daughter of Elias Montcroix. Even if you could look past that, your people would never forgive you.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt once more, feeling the rage singe through my limbs. “You believe our world is capable of the kind of utopia you strive for? Think again. Once my father knows who took me, you and all of your people will be dead. I’ll make sure to burn the books myself,” I add, watching as his face pales. “Perhaps the world is a better place without the hope of fairytales.”

  It is then that I realize, he may look the part of a Beast, but I am the true savage.

  Growing up, I always thought the Marauders we
re the bad guys. Stealing for the sake of stealing, adding to their opportunistic collections. There was no rhyme or reason for their crimes—or so I thought. But now, I know Samson was behind every one of those heists. He had a purpose, a cause, a reason for everything he did. And everything he did, he did for the betterment of his people. To one day get to this point, to throw up libraries and museums without any recognition. To bring the art to everyone, regardless of who they were. Whereas I, Maybelle Montcroix, stole only for my pleasure, hoarding the books behind a secret wall in my apartment for no one but me, and occasionally Godric, to enjoy. I was the selfish one. I was the criminal. I was the villain in this story.

  I turn quickly and push the back door open. Samson’s shouts behind me get louder, and I know he’s chasing me, but I have to get away from him. I tear down an abandoned alley, kicking my heels off and gathering my dress so I can climb the fence and jump down the other side. Just as I hoist myself up, a warm hand wraps around my ankle.

  “Don’t do this,” Samson begs, gripping my skin tightly. I move to kick him away, but he’s stronger and holds my foot still. “I don’t understand what happened back there,” he says quickly, running his other hand through his hair. “Talk to me.”

  I hesitate, just for a second, and he uses the moment to drag me down and into his arms. I fight, pounding my fists against his chest and wiggling away from him as much as I can in his powerful hold. He pushes me against the fence, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist. Breathing heavily, I stop fighting. I knew I would the second I fell against him.

  “You didn’t mean what you said,” he murmurs, leaning in close to my neck. I close my eyes and feel my whole body go limp. “My people would forgive me. The Marauders will do whatever I tell them to. That is the beauty of being King. And I know our world is capable of the beauty you so vehemently deny,” he continues, pressing himself into me. I bite my tongue to keep from moaning. “I know because of you. Because you fought to save the beauty and the art in your own way. If you still don’t want to help me, I’ll understand. However, I know how much you love those fairytales. Don’t give up. Not on me. Not on us. Not yet. Real life mimics art.”