Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  The words hung in the air long after he left—and Isabelle knew, with every beat of her heart, that he wasn’t bluffing this time.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning dawned with indecent haste. Isabelle had tossed and turned all night, haunted by Raphael’s vile words and touches. The memory of his hands on—and inside—her most intimate parts was a nightmare she’d never escape. His words and caresses... the pungent odor of his alcohol-laden breaths... the eerie sound of his laughter... they would forever echo in her mind.

  Isabelle stared into her coffee, contemplating the dark, bitter liquid with vacant eyes. Her soul felt raw and exposed... like an open wound that had no hope of healing.

  She’d never recover from Raphael’s assault should she live to see a thousand years. She still felt what he did to her—and not inside her poor heart where it pained her so. Where Raphael was concerned, her heart had turned to stone months ago. Non, she still felt it physically, inside the depths of her sore and bruised body. He’d ruined and scarred her, both inside and out.

  She had underestimated Vicomte Raphael Dumont for the last time.

  Never again.

  Isabelle glanced at Papa, who was presently napping in his beloved rocking chair.

  This shall be our freedom.

  The muffled sound of an approaching carriage snapped her thoughts in two. Papa stirred from his sleep and wearily lifted his head. “You hear that, ma petite?”

  Inhaling a calming breath, Isabelle climbed to her feet and swept the tattered curtain aside. Beyond the small window, an elegant brougham sat in front of the cottage. She watched with swelling trepidation as the driver stowed a small crate of goods inside the carriage’s boot—the few possessions she intended to transport. Bringing too much could jeopardize the plan and give away her true intentions.

  Escape. A new life—and a fresh beginning.

  A stunning white mare headed the vehicle, and Dumont decorated its lacquered door in fancy script. Isabelle lifted her gaze to the horizon; the sky was bruised a deep purple, and a rough wind shook the bare trees and hedges. Her grasp tightened on the drapery while her nerves churned. Doubt reared its head.

  This is wrong. Papa’s too weak, too ill... yet we can no longer remain here.

  We have no other choice.

  The chance of achieving security—true security, without depending on Raphael Dumont a day more—surged through her like a breath of air.

  Together, she and Papa would endure. Just as they always had.

  A moment later, Clarice and Elizabeth burst into the room, rushing from their back bedchamber. They pushed Isabelle aside, then crowded the window and gawked at the parked brougham. Morning’s light glinted off the slick door and set the Dumont coat of arms aglow. The pair of golden lions glinted in the sun’s rays. Isabelle warily eyed them, feeling like she was being hunted.

  “Let me see!” Clarice screeched into Isabelle’s ear.

  “Out of our way.” Elizabeth shoved square in front of her, sufficiently blocking her view. “It’s such a lovely carriage. It could be from a fairy tale!” Isabelle couldn’t have disagreed more. “Oh, what does Vicomte Dumont possibly see in her? It’s so cruelly unfair.”

  Be my guest and take him. The both of you. Isabelle kept the retort to herself. Instead, she heard herself say, “Clarice, Elizabeth—listen to me, you foolish chits, and listen carefully. As I’ve said repeatedly, I don’t know when Papa and I shall return. Come with us. We can—”

  “You don’t know when you’ll return?” Elizabeth whined. “What about our presents?”

  “Come with you?” Clarice said, understanding Isabelle’s meaning and ignoring Elizabeth’s daft remark. “Why, you’re even more stupid than I thought. Good-bye and good riddance, I say.”

  “Oh, but I’d like to ride in the carriage!” Elizabeth complained.

  “Shut up, Elizabeth.”

  Isabelle sighed and shook her downcast head. She chose her words with great care, cautious not to reveal her plan; they would likely run off and tell Raphael at first chance. “Fine, then. I’ve left sufficient funds. I’ll be sending more when I find the opportunity. But you should really reconsider—”

  “Just don’t forget to send those funds.”

  Isabelle lost the heart and will to fight them. There were greater battles to brave. Greater storms to sail. Shoving away a nagging guilt, she returned to Papa’s rocking chair, knelt before him, and grabbed his cold hands. She smoothed her fingertips over his swollen knuckles, caressing the raised veins. A protective instinct, a renewed resolve, flushed through her. “Papa... you are quite sure you want to do this? It’s not too late. I could—”

  “That is why we must do this. Why I must do this. If I don’t, it shall become too late.”

  Isabelle briefly glanced at Clarice and Elizabeth, who were chattering away again. Resentment pulsated her insides, squeezing them in an angry fist. Whatever guilt she’d felt moments ago rapidly vanished.

  What silly, ridiculous girls, who know nothing of life. Nothing of love or compassion.

  “But, Papa, we still have Raphael’s aid.” Those words pained her. “He—”

  “Yes. And at what cost?”

  Papa’s inquiry tossed her into stunned silence.

  How much could he see? Is Papa really, truly blind?

  “My eyesight may be gone, but I assure you, my hearing is still quite good,” he said beneath a rigid sigh, referring to her sobbing the night before.

  “I—I didn’t mean—”

  “Quiet now. Quiet yourself, and listen to me carefully.” He squeezed her hand with his fingers, his hold strong, reassuring—a true lifeline. “You have a pure heart, Isabelle. A truly good, kind heart. One you must protect. One that I must protect—my health be damned. As I said nights ago... you shall always be my little girl. Ma petite.” He exhaled a long-suffering breath and lifted her knuckles against his lips. “And I refuse to let anyone, vicomte or otherwise, spirit you away.”

  Those words sealed their fate.

  Nighttime grasped Demrov in cold fingers. Dawn had brought winter’s first snow; now that dusk had fallen, the snowfall came in heavy sheets. A strange haze rolled down the dirt pathway, which snaked through the vast forest in milky ribbons. Above head, the sky appeared black, oily, slicker than ink.

  Isabelle and Papa had ventured away from the heart of Demrov kilometers ago; the sight of bustling towns, cobblestone roadways, and lively marketplaces seemed to have become a distant memory. Untouched by the hands of men, the inland forests were dense and untamed; only the occasional dwelling reminded Isabelle that they’d not left civilization completely. The trees were massive silent sentries guarding the thick of Demrov, with gnarled limbs that wove through one another. Each breath of wind caused them to creak and sway, and every so often, the hoot of an owl joined their eerie song.

  The brougham shuddered and squelched in the mud as they passed through a shallow river. Isabelle tugged at the reins and retrieved the map from inside her cloak; according to its faded pages, they’d just crossed the Layon River and were fast approaching the desolate province of Hartville.

  Isabelle spared a moment to run a fingertip over the river’s winding blue design; the pages were tinged a deep yellow and faded at the corners—a testament to the map’s countless adventures.

  She shut her eyes, remembering the travels she and Papa had taken during her childhood. He’d smile as she’d examine the map over his shoulder. Then, waving his gloved hand across the parchment, he’d proclaim, “Demrov is a true beauty, and you, my lady, are the queen of it all!”

  The memory felt like a knife in her heart, and cold reality came rushing back. A blast of wind screamed through the towering trees and threw the cloak’s hood from her head. The mare rose onto her back hooves and tossed her great mane with a disgruntled snort.

  Yes, she and Papa would attend the Merchants’ Fair, just like they had for fifteen years, selling whatever wares they could.

 
; Then hopefully a new life shall begin for us.

  “Easy, chérie, easy,” she coaxed the mare—though her words were swept away by the hammering wind. “I’m confident you’ve endured worse horrors than this wretched storm.” Such as your master, Vicomte Dumont, she silently added. The mare nickered and pawed at the snowy ground before journeying forward again. She was truly a thing of beauty. Her white body looked ghostlike within the shadowy forest. Her hide was the color of fresh-fallen snow, the brilliant mane and tail a cascade of silver. Arabian blood showed in her elegant profile, her tapered ears, the strong, curved neck, and powerful chest.

  Battling the wind and snow, Isabelle refolded the map, secured her hood, and then glanced over her shoulder for the hundredth time. Her breath hung pale and cloudy in the frigid air. Behind the brougham’s small viewing window, Papa safely lounged inside, resting against the velvet upholstery and cushions. A lantern dangled from a suspended hook and swayed with each jostling movement.

  Safely? On the contrary—I have placed him in far greater danger.

  A tattered blanket was sprawled across Papa’s lap. Dressed in his fine tweed vest, frock coat, and matching top hat, he looked the part of the traveling merchant. Light from the lantern danced across his taut, sleeping expression and caused Isabelle’s heart to give a painful jolt; he appeared impossibly pale, weak, as if he’d aged several years since they’d embarked that morning. A hard cough tore through his body, and he trembled from the bitter cold.

  Alas, his illness had worsened.

  This was a mistake. Perhaps a dire one.

  Papa needed shelter—and quickly. Isabelle considered turning back. They’d traveled for nearly a day, and the occasional hovel and cottage was becoming more scarce with each kilometer. She fought the urge to cry, lest the tears freeze on her cheeks.

  This is my doing. Completely my fault.

  Her heart banged against her rib cage as she urged the mare to a steady trot. All around them, towering trees reached out of the darkness and groped for a moonless sky. Their skeletal limbs resembled claws, and she felt them grasping for her and Papa.

  A half an hour later, the trees began to clear out, though the haze thickened. She could barely see ten meters in front of her.

  Something caught Isabelle’s gaze. Hardly believing her eyes, she tugged at the reins and brought the brougham to a jarring halt. The mare whinnied and pawed at the snowy ground. Then she shook her flowing, silver mane and glanced back at Isabelle.

  In the clearing, jagged spires and intricate buttresses towered into a black eternity. They resembled swords perched upon an iron throne—a damning message to anyone who dared set eyes upon the fortress.

  A crumbling castle, straight from the depths of a nightmare, rose before her like a waking monster. Its face was demented, Gothic—and it seemed an evil intent had laid each stone. The towers and battlements reached hundreds of meters into the bruised sky. Courtyards and corridors tied the buildings together, and collectively, the fortress was as large as a city.

  She shivered. The castle resembled a crouching beast.

  Isabelle glanced over her shoulder as Papa surrendered to another brutal cough—then she ordered the mare forward and halted in front of the rusted front gate. A frigid gust of wind rattled the looming bars, causing them to sway within the darkness. Wisps of haze curled around them like ghostly fingers. Isabelle crossed herself, leapt down from the box seat, and then shoved those colossal gates apart. They were partially entrenched in the snowy ground. It took an enormous effort to move them. Those gates seemed to dig their feet into the snow and mud—as if battling to keep out any potential trespasser.

  Isabelle climbed into the box seat once more and began the long, winding journey toward the hulking castle. The mist gradually thinned, revealing a faint beam of light.

  A sconce lantern.

  Whoever occupied this dismal ruin was presently home. Hope bloomed inside Isabelle’s chest as she tugged on the reins and parked the brougham. She spared a moment to pat the restless mare and toss Papa’s blanket over her back.

  Minutes later, Isabelle led Papa to the castle’s massive front door. Gargoyles glared down from their perches on the flying buttresses. Their wings were fully spread, as if about to take flight, those black eye sockets returning her stare. Isabelle felt a resounding shiver course through her veins. And it wasn’t from the storming weather.

  The archway appeared nearly black with age—a looming curve of imposing darkness. Isabelle froze before the threshold while another shudder blasted down her spine.

  Maybe we ought to turn back.

  No. This was their final hope.

  Our last chance.

  “Where—” A rough cough shattered Papa’s words and shook his entire body.

  Isabelle gently clasped his shoulder and pressed a warm kiss to his cheek. He felt colder than ice. “Shh. You mustn’t speak. Just rest yourself.”

  Inhaling a taut breath, she balled her fingers into a fist and banged on the door. The splintered wood snagged her skin while the sound of her knocking echoed within. She recoiled her fist with a cry and spouted an unladylike curse.

  “Isabelle, please, ma petite—what has—”

  “We can find shelter here. Stay until the storm tempers and your cough settles.”

  But had they found shelter? Or just another dead-end, another false pathway, which would only lead them into a deeper despair? She glanced at the looming gargoyles while hope silently slipped away. Snow fell on her cheeks and clashed against the cloak’s midnight hue, chilling her to the marrow of her bones. She refused to believe this was it. Heart thudding and determination rising, she lifted her hand again and prepared for another solid knock.

  Someone answered her prayer.

  Deep, unsettling clanking shook the night. Then the black door groaned open, and Isabelle had to remind herself to breathe.

  Chapter Four

  “Welcome, Beauty, banish fear, you are queen and mistress here.”

  Jean-Marie Leprince de Beaumont

  Isabelle’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t find her voice, let alone form a coherent sentence. Every fiber of her being drew quiet with cold, sudden fear.

  A dark figure lurked beneath the castle’s archway. He towered above her, impossibly tall, his long, lean body a flesh-and-blood barricade to her one chance for shelter. A tattered black cloak concealed him from head to toe, making him resemble Death. Indeed. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see a centimeter of skin.

  His gloved hand clutched a rusted lantern, which gave off a rather inadequate light. Manipulated by the wind’s breath, it eerily bobbed in midair and threw shadows along the castle’s dark walls.

  She’d never witnessed someone so tall, so imposing... so strangely regal. In spite of the cloak, she noticed that his shoulders and chest were broad, likely corded with muscle; their immense width almost brushed against either side of the doorjamb. Standing like a king before his council, his head remained high and proud, his back straighter than an arrow. Hot breaths wafted from the folds on his hood, pale against the darkness, resembling smoke from a dragon’s mouth.

  But alas, this is no fairy tale. Only cold, harsh reality.

  In spite of herself, Isabelle’s eyes fell downward. She took a measured step back, noticing for the first time since he’d opened the door that a gigantic dog stood at his side. The thing was by far the tallest and most formidable canine she’d ever seen. It boasted a muscular, lithe body, a long neck, a gray rough-coat, and oddly soulful eyes. It reminded her more of a small horse than a dog.

  The creature’s lips curled back to flash his sharp teeth, his body arched, and he released a low warning growl. Papa trembled and pushed close to her body. Isabelle tightened her hold on his arm and whispered reassuring words into his ear. Her other hand rose to her throat in an unconscious, protective gesture. “It’s fine, Papa. Don’t be frightened.” Despite her words, her heartbeat was a panicked staccato. She swallowed deeply, then exhaled a calm
ing breath.

  “Non. Stand down.”

  The dog obeyed at once and plopped onto the ground next to his master. Silence stretched between the three of them. So bizarre and surreal was this man and beast’s presence, Isabelle wondered if she was dreaming. Or rather, perhaps, she was trapped in a lucid nightmare. Soon she’d awaken at her little cottage with a book sprawled across her lap. Papa would lounge in his beloved rocking chair, looking healthy and vibrant once more.

  Her train of thoughts brutally shattered and whipped her back to reality. When the figure spoke again, his voice sounded low, raspy, morbidly sensual. “What do you want?” The decadent baritone surrounded her like liquid velvet—and Isabelle felt herself drowning beneath those sultry refrains.

  She turned to Papa and saw he’d physically stiffened. There was an acute fear in those cloudy, hazel eyes.

  Be strong. Be brave.

  “I—we got caught in the storm... My father—he’s very sick. The cold has weakened him greatly. I was hoping—”

  “Not my concern.”

  “Wait. Please! We only need shelter, somewhere to stay for the night until the storm calms. Please, monsieur. He’s terribly ill. I only—”

  A haunting chuckle resonated while the door slowly creaked shut. That sound was hollow, void of humor and joy. No one in their right mind would have called it laughter.

  Non.