Beastly Beauty: A Fairy Tale Retelling (Girl Among Wolves Book 2)

by Lena Mae Hill

  At last, voice gone, I sink down on the ladder, clutching it with shaking arms, my hands too raw to hold onto the rough wood. The pain in my ankle returns with renewed sharpness from the time I spent standing on the ladder, ignoring it. A shuddering, broken sob escapes me.

  “Finally,” a garbled voice rasps below me. “That racket was giving me a headache.”

  Startled, I suck in the next sob and swallow it. I had forgotten that I’m not alone. That there’s another person here—a live person.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. I’m stuck here. If I go down, that wolf will have full access to my legs. Gingerly, I wrap my throbbing, burning hands around the ladder and peer down, ready to ask the guy if it’s safe. But the words stop in my throat, and another scream burbles up inside me, welling with my growing horror.

  It’s not a man. It’s not a wolf. It’s a repulsive, deformed monster. One muscular human leg protrudes from the narrow haunches of a wolf’s flanks. Wolf ribs, a rounded human shoulder, a human arm with a massive, hairy paw on one side, a wolf’s leg on the other side to the elbow, where it becomes human again. A ridge of fur on the back of the neck, behind which, his skin is peeled back from bloody, raw muscle. One bloody, shredded ear is so mangled I can’t tell if it’s wolf or human.

  And the face is one out of a nightmare—a human mouth and chin, a flattened black wolf nose in the position of a human nose, two white-blue eyes surrounded by black fur and a sloping, wolf’s forehead.

  I want to scream, but I can’t. My voice is choked off by horror, a gagging sensation fighting to disgorge my revulsion from my empty stomach. If it weren’t bad enough that I’m trapped here with a dead body, now I’m here with a mangled, hideous monster. A monster who already hated me when he was human.

  “Oh, just come down already,” Harmon snarls. “I’m not going to bite you.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image of the twisted, grotesque body is etched into my mind. “You did before,” I manage.

  “I’m sorry,” he growls. “I was out of my mind. But just stay up there until you fall off if you’d rather.” He shifts to turn his back to me, then lets out a gruff yipping sound and collapses at the effort. The long, ragged gash bisects his back, a lighter band in the midnight black of his fur. I don’t want to see his injuries, but I can’t stop staring. My father did that to him. Is this my punishment?

  “What’s the matter, you’ve never seen blood before?” he snarls.

  I turn away, my heart lurching uncomfortably against my ribs. I didn’t know he was watching me. Probably because humans don’t have eyes on the sides of their heads. I shudder at the image of that deformed face. And then it hits me. He doesn’t know. He is a wounded animal, and the way he looks is probably the last thing on his mind. He thinks I was horrified by his injuries, not his hideous appearance.

  I scold myself for being shallow. It shouldn’t matter that he’s repulsive. He’s hurt. I should help him. But I don’t want to, and not only because he bit me.

  I don’t want to help him because I don’t want to go anywhere near him. He’s dangerous and disgusting and he despises me. Not only did my father attack him, but I basically killed his father, and then came within seconds of tricking him into marrying me, though that was never my intention. But he must see it that way. That’s why he chased me into the forest last night. To kill me.

  With shaking steps, I begin my descent. I owe him nothing. He got us both into this. If he had just let me go, none of this would be happening.

  4

  A hollow thudding sound draws me out of my slumber to consciousness. I sit up, heart pounding in my chest. Something very near is scraping and scrabbling. In one of the bins. I cover my mouth to hold back a gasp.

  Another thud, and the lid of one of the vegetable bins flies open. This time, I do make a sound. Just a little shriek, but it’s enough to rouse Harmon. He lifts his hideous head and sniffs the air with his strange nose. Out of the bin, Mrs. Nguyen’s head and shoulders appear. I almost scream again, because that’s the dead body I saw, though it was lying face down and I couldn’t be sure. With her befuddled expression and dirt-streaked face and disheveled hair, she looks like a zombie out of a scary movie.

  “Here I am,” she says with her old granny smile. “I was beginning to think I’d lost this body. Which wouldn’t be so bad, mind you, if I could find another one lying around unoccupied.”

  “Mirror,” Harmon mutters.

  She turns to him, and an ugly expression morphs her features into someone I don’t recognize. I’ve never seen such contempt on her benign old face, or even thought her capable of it. A sneering, cruel smile twists her wrinkled lips. “Look at you now,” she says. “Not too proud to marry my daughter now, are you?”

  Harmon growls low in his throat.

  “Didn’t your people ever teach you not to offend the wrong person?” she says in a gloating voice. “Guess what, pretty boy. I’m the wrong person to offend.”

  Harmon growls again, then lays his head down on his paws and looks up at her mournfully. And even though he’s been nothing but horrible to me, something inside me pulls tight at seeing his sad dog eyes.

  Mrs. Nguyen apparently does not feel the same. “You could have united the tribes, just like your father always wanted,” she says. “Ever since the last time it didn’t work. And this time, we’d all be united. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Harmon lets out a soft whine.

  “But no. You were too proud to accept a compromise. You had to have your pick, didn’t you? I guess my daughter isn’t good enough for your Alpha.” She glares at him a second, and then says, in a taunting voice, “What kind of king will you be now, Prince Harmon? Your father is dead, and no one will follow a beast like you. Now you’re paying for that stubborn pride the same way the wolves always do. I guess what they say is true. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I hoped a young pup like you would be different. But I guess you can’t teach a new dog, either.”

  “Leave him alone,” I say softly. “He’s injured.”

  “Oh, the poor thing,” she sneers. “You think he’s as helpless as you, Stella? Ha. He’s faking it. Can’t you see that?”

  I want to argue, to tell her I’ve seen his injuries, and they are very real and very severe. But how do I know that? Everyone here lies, and he’s just another liar. I can’t trust any of them. I don’t even know if I can trust her. Where was she last night when the shifters attacked me and Dad? Hiding safely inside his house after he went to all that trouble to rescue her?

  “Can you get me out?” I ask, deciding that’s more important than whether or not she’s a coward. “Please, I have to find my dad again. We can still get out of here. We can go back to our old lives.”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t fight anyone in this shabby old body. If I could, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

  “But—but can’t you…” I stop, realizing she’s right. She can’t turn into a mouse and run back and tell Elidi about me. She’s a different kind of shifter, one who hops from body to body instead of morphing from human to animal. She can’t walk out of here any more than we can. She’s a prisoner, too, at least in body.

  But she can escape, in her strange way.

  “I can’t hang around in this dungeon with you, Stella,” she says. “They know that’s what I did, what I am. They don’t like witches. That’s why they threw me in this bin like a piece of garbage. They’re waiting for me to come back to this body. If they find me here, they’ll kill it before I can get out.”

  “But what about Dad?”

  She glances over at Harmon, who lies with eyes closed, his chin still on his paws. Still, she turns fully so only I can see her face. “I’ll be back,” she mouths, then puts a finger to her lips. Out loud, she says, “I’m sorry, Stella. I can’t help you right now. Find a way out of here, and we’ll save your father.”

  With that, she lies down in her bin and pulls the lid closed. I shiver, a cold draft from the lid blowing across
my bare ankles. Harmon’s head snaps up and he lets out a single menacing snarl. For a second, I think she must have taken the form of a mouse here in the basement, and a bolt of terror goes through me. If he eats her as a mouse, will she die?

  But then he lowers his head and closes his eyes again. I lay back, comforted by the thought that I will have an ally in this place. Unlike when I was in in Mother’s attic, I’ll have someone on my side. Maybe she won’t be here all the time, but I know she’ll come back to help me. Just like she did at my mother’s.

  I can only hope it won’t take her two more years.

  5

  I sleep fitfully, hunger pangs twisting my guts even in sleep. A particularly cruel one brings me back to the surface of consciousness. All the damp and dank smells of the basement have disappeared behind the sweet, spicy smell of cinnamon. I sit up, searching for the source, sure that this is the most inhumane torture a person could endure.

  And then I see the basket swinging gently over Harmon’s head. I scramble to my feet, then cry out at the torch of pain that ignites my leg. It’s getting worse, not better.

  It can’t stop me from getting to the food, though, even if I have to hop on one foot to get there. Touching my toe to the floor makes my ankle scream in agony. But the only thing that can stop me is the injured, sleeping wolf-boy directly under the food. I stop when I’m a few paces away. His side rises and falls, rises and falls. A two-inch gap in his black fur shows me what I saw from afar earlier. The skin is pulled back, exposing angry red muscle. I fight back the horror and focus on the basket of food instead. I’ll have to reach over his head to get it, pull it towards me and untie it from the cord attached to the handle, while balancing on one foot, without waking him.

  My stomach twists spitefully inside me as I eye the basket, which has stopped swinging and begun to turn lazily. My eyes follow the path of the cord, up to the top of the ladder, where it’s hooked over the rough wood. If I can get up the ladder, I can pull the basket up and have whatever is inside. But I’m not sure I can climb without adrenaline pumping through my blood. Even the thought of Mrs. Nguyen’s abandoned body lying in a bin of vegetables across the room doesn’t curb my appetite.

  I take another hop towards the ladder, lose my balance, and pinwheel my arms wildly. I lurch forward, then back, and at last, I have to touch my injured foot to the floor to keep from pitching face first onto the creature sleeping under the ladder. Pain explodes through my foot, and I bite down on my tongue to keep from sobbing. After a few deep breaths, I am ready to go again. But I don’t know how I can climb a ladder with one foot. Somehow, I’m going to have to do it, dragging myself up with my arms alone.

  That, or starve.

  I bend my knee, preparing for the next hop, when Harmon heaves a sigh and lets out a small whine. I squeeze my eyes shut, ball my hands into fists, praying for a little bit of luck just this one time. I’m overdue for it. When Harmon doesn’t jump up and ask me what the hell I’m doing, I let myself relax and focus on the ladder again. Three more steps.

  I bend my knee, hop forward, hold my arms out for balance. Harmon snuffles in his sleep, whimpers again. I force my eyes away from that deep, bloody swath of exposed muscle. Food is more important right now. My stomach roars in agreement.

  I take another hop, sway dangerously, and find my center of gravity. One more step. I reach for the ladder.

  With a burst of speed I didn’t think he possessed, Harmon shoots forward, snapping and snarling. I shriek and dive away, forgetting my ankle until I try to take a running step on it. My body lurches forward and I slam against the cold dirt floor, the breath knocked out of me. Mind blank with fear, I scramble away from this mad wolf creature on elbows and knees. When his sharp wolf’s teeth don’t sink into my flesh, I stop, curl into a ball on my side, and grasp my leg. Sobs of pain wrack my body.

  When at last I’m out of tears, I uncurl from the fetal position and take stock of the situation. Meeting my eyes, Harmon gives me a mournful gaze, but I shrink back in horror. He has a boy’s mouth full of wolf’s teeth. Pushing up onto his front paws—or, paw and hand, to be precise—his shoulders jut out at odd angles. The mostly human arm is longer than the wolf’s leg, which gives him a crooked, off-kilter appearance.

  But he’s still in there, the human boy I knew.

  “You’re going to eat in front of me, and watch me starve?” I ask, pushing myself into a sitting position. Harmon shifts awkwardly, attempting to rise onto all four feet. The long human leg kicks out, scrabbling at the dirt, and he cants to one side as he attempts to pull it under him like a wolf’s foot. Failing at this, he topples sideways. It’s too horrific to laugh.

  While he’s occupied by his own pain, I scoot towards the ladder again. He hangs his head, breathing hard, and I feel so sorry for him that I almost offer to help. But when I open my mouth, my empty stomach answers for me. Harmon lifts his head and gives me a sorrowful look with those big pale eyes. Then he eyes the basket, exactly the way a dog eyes food it can’t have. Big, begging puppy dog eyes.

  But this puppy is going to wolf down our food and let me die.

  I search the basement shadows for something, anything, I can use. At last, I spot a broom in the corner beside the little, child-sized door. I ease myself that way, lifting my weight with my hands and crab-walking sideways on my good foot while the other one sticks up in the air. I must look ridiculous. But I don’t care. Compared to Harmon…well, there’s no comparison. He’s a monstrosity.

  More determined than ever, I make it to the broom. I stop and rest for a minute, but luckily, when I was trapped in my mother’s house I built beds and shelves and tables and fences. My arms are strong.

  I scoot forward and hook my good foot around the handle of the broom, knocking it right onto my head. I barely feel the bump where the handle smacks my forehead. All I want is to get that food before Harmon figures out how to use his new, freakish body to get it. On the way back across the basement, I have to stop and prop the broom back in my lap several times, and when I get back, my arms have started shaking at the effort. But it will be worth it when I get the food.

  Using the broom as a cane, I climb to my feet. Harmon lies under the basket, his chin resting on his two mismatched hands, a dog’s pose. “I’m going to get the food,” I say. “If you try to attack me, I will hit you with this.”

  Harmon’s mouth quirks up into a smirk, and something inside me twists as painfully as the hunger. That once teasing, beautiful mouth now belongs to an abomination, something out of a horror movie. That mouth I kissed just days ago. The thought turns my stomach now. I clutch the broom tighter.

  “Okay?” I say. “I’ll share with you. I promise.”

  He lets out a low growl, and I hop forward, using the broom for balance. If he waits until I’m fishing the basket from above him to attack me, he’ll have an opening to my most vulnerable parts, full access to rip my guts out. I’d really like to come to an understanding before I do this.

  “Are you going to attack me?” I ask.

  He growls again. But so does my stomach. Keeping a close watch on him, I reach out with the head of the broom, fishing for the cord. I catch it and slide the broom down onto the handle of the basket. It’s rectangular, with rounded corners and a wooden lid and handle. When I pull it closer, though, it slips off the head of the broom and swings wildly. Harmon attempts to jump to his feet, but he lurches to one side and goes sprawling, letting out a tortured howl.

  I almost fall, but I catch my balance by dropping the broom head to the floor as a brace. While Harmon is still dragging himself towards standing, I thrust the broom head through the handle of the swinging basket. With a heave, I bring it to me and grab the handle just as the broom slips out. Harmon lunges forward again, and I bring the broom down hard with the momentum it already had from slipping free of the basket. It barely misses Harmon’s head, and hits the floor in time to keep me from sprawling on top of him.

  He bares his teeth, but he doesn’t go
after me. I wonder if he knows he’s part human, part wolf. I wonder if he has a fully functioning human brain, or if he’s flickering back and forth between the two. I wonder if he’s lucid enough to realize he spoke to me in human language, that he’s not all animal. But mostly, I wonder what is in the warm basket in my arms that smells like Christmas morning, trips to the mall with my best friend, rainy Sundays in the kitchen with flour dusting every surface and a huge grin on Dad’s face when he opened the oven and smoke didn’t billow out.

  I scramble backwards, out of Harmon’s reach. But I can’t wait long enough to reach my spot under the window that has become my territory, just like the one under the ladder is Harmon’s, through no fault of our own but because that’s where we awoke in this prison. Greedily, I pull aside the handle, which is on a tiny hinge, and throw open the flaps of the lid. Inside, a warm, steamy layer of wrinkled cloth separates me from the food. With trembling fingers, I lift the cloth, sure that I’ll find some trick inside—a scented candle, a warm crumb, nothing at all.

  Instead, the basket is full of lumpy, fragrant swirls, the ridges oozing with dark, sticky sweetness. I pull out one of the cinnamon rolls and shove half of it into my mouth at once, closing my eyes and whimpering with relief. Not just food, but amazing food, the best thing I’ve ever tasted. My stomach rages for more. I shove in the other half, stuffing my cheeks so full I can hardly chew. I haven’t eaten in days.

  And there is plenty. When I finish the first one, I reach for another, savoring this one a little more, taking time to really chew. They’re homemade, coarse and dark, the crust chewy and rough. Sticky syrup oozes between each layer, and raisins nestle into the soft, warm bread inside. I’m licking my fingers clean when I catch sight of Harmon lying under his ladder, curled up with his back to me. Defeated.