The Beast of Talesend (Beaumont and Beasley Book 1)

by Kyle Shultz

  In a dazed stupor, I padded back down the corridor to my bedroom, feeling the top of my head – not to mention the tips of my ears – brushing against the doorframe as I stepped inside. There was a full-length mirror on the door of the cupboard where I kept my clothes, but I had paid no attention to it earlier. Now I took a good long look at my reflection.

  It did not ring any bells.

  What I saw was a russet-colored creature roughly seven feet in height, with a plaid dressing gown flung ridiculously around its massive frame. I struggled to correspond the image to some member of the animal kingdom, but it defied classification. The enormous, pointed ears were bat-like and mobile, turning this way and that to take in sounds from every direction. The head was somewhere between bear and lion in shape, and was covered with a shaggy mane. The eyes were more human, but had golden irises, and were crowned with thick, bushy brows. Horns curved up from the creature’s forehead, and its face tapered down into a wide, bovine snout. The general body structure was humanoid, but much broader around the shoulders. The feet, though furred, were almost reptilian in shape. The three clawed toes on each one made me think of a dragon or a gargoyle. A long tail with a tuft of hair at the end coiled lazily around the monster’s left ankle, twitching back and forth.

  I felt a momentary rush of panic, but quickly realized that what I was seeing couldn’t possibly be real.

  “Well.” I stroked my chin thoughtfully. The thing in the mirror did the same. “This is…interesting.” It seemed quite obvious that I was having a vivid dream. I’d had stranger dreams, after all.

  “Right,” I murmured to myself, “what’s the procedure in a case like this? Pinching, isn’t it? Here we go, then.” I poised a clawed thumb and forefinger over my arm, then hesitated, gazing at the figure in the mirror. “Kind of a shame to wake myself up; I’ll miss being this tall.” I flexed an impressive bicep and gave a wistful sigh. “I really must exercise more in real life. Oh well; at least I don’t really have a face like that.” I pulled my lips back from my teeth, causing the thing in the glass to reveal a set of disturbingly long and sharp fangs. Shuddering at the sight, I quickly gave my arm a pinch.

  Nothing happened. In fact, it didn’t even hurt.

  “All right,” I said slowly. “Now what?”

  The door burst open. I turned to see Crispin standing there, breathing heavily and brandishing the pistol I had given him for his nineteenth birthday. The sight of me seemed to rattle him again, but he clenched his jaw and aimed the weapon at my chest. “Monster!” he shouted.

  I held up a hand. “Crispin, wait!”

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  “Ouch,” I said, brushing bullets from my fur and gazing down ruefully at the bullet holes in my dressing-gown. “That stung.”

  “Bulletproof monster!” Crispin cried, throwing aside the useless gun. He glanced wildly around the room. “Where’s Nick? Where’s—” He gasped and clapped both hands over his mouth. “You ate him, didn’t you? Help! HELP!” He whirled around and started to flee back down the hallway.

  I sprang forward and grabbed a handful of his pajamas, pulling him back. His feet scuffled against the carpet as he fought to get away.

  “Crispin,” I growled. I spun him around, grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him clear off the ground. “It’s me. Nick.” I shook him a little to drive the point home.

  “Y-you can’t be,” he stuttered, blinking in bewilderment.

  I nodded. “I agree. But I am.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Again, I agree. But given that this is a dream, we’re bound to run into all sorts of impossible things.”

  Crispin eyed me warily. “This is a dream?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Then why do your claws hurt so much?” He winced.

  I set him down. “That’s easy to explain,” I said patiently. “You’re not real.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. I’m sorry. You’re just part of the dream, which is why it feels so realistic to you.”

  “I - suppose that makes sense,” he said, with a hesitant nod. “But how do we make it stop, then?”

  “Not sure. I tried pinching myself; no luck. Maybe something else will do it.”

  “Should I shoot you again?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No. Obviously that didn’t work. Here,” I said, bending down and turning my head so he had a clear shot at my jaw. “Try socking me.”

  “What?”

  “Punch me. As hard as you can.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “Look,” I growled, “I don’t mean to get personal, but you’re a figment of my imagination. Your opinion really doesn’t matter.” I gave him a stern glare. “Now hit me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Crispin took a deep breath, drew back his fist, and punched me squarely on the chin.

  The results were disappointing. I wiggled my jaw and frowned in disappointment. “Didn’t even feel it.”

  “I did,” moaned Crispin through clenched teeth, clutching his hand in agony.

  “But,” I mused, “this is only to be expected. The fact that I’m not feeling much pain is further evidence that I’m dreaming.”

  “Or,” Crispin suggested, “it’s evidence that your jaw is made of steel or something. I think I broke all my fingers!”

  “Oh, quit complaining. You’re not real.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Crispin defiantly. “There’s no way I could be suffering this much and not be real.”

  “Wait. Maybe you’re right.” I began pacing the room. A whole new line of thought had occurred to me. “Maybe you are real, and I’m the one who isn’t. Maybe instead of you being part of my dream, I’m part of yours. Which means that you’re the one who needs to wake up.” I turned back to him. “Here, hold still while I pinch you.”

  He drew back, staring in horror at my outstretched hand. “Not with those claws, you don’t!”

  “Don’t you understand? It’s not really going to hurt you! You’re dreaming!”

  “Look,” said Crispin. “I know this whole thing is very, very strange, but all the same, I’m pretty sure I’m awake.”

  I sighed. “Crispin, don’t be ridiculous. There’s no such thing as - whatever this thing I’ve turned into is called.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “I know.” I began pacing again. “It’s incredibly irritating.”

  “I think if I were you, I’d be a little more than irritated.”

  I turned an accusing glare on my reflection. “Don’t think you can outwit me,” I said to it. “I’ve dealt with clever frauds like you before. I’m the one who unmasked the Musical Monstrosities of Bremen.”

  “Well,” said Crispin, “if this case is anything like that one, then you’re wearing the most realistic costume I’ve ever seen.”

  “Right.” I slouched my shoulders in defeat. “And this definitely isn’t a costume.”

  “Does this have anything to do with that trip you took yesterday?” asked Crispin. “The business with Lady Cordelia?”

  “Mushrooms!” I cried.

  Crispin frowned. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Or rather, not mushrooms, but something like them. A hallucinogenic plant. She stabbed me, see?” I pulled back the sleeve of my dressing gown to show Crispin my arm. I had to hunt around a bit in the fur to find my scar.

  Crispin stared at it. “She stabbed you?”

  “With a thorn.”

  He shook his head. “She stabbed you and turned you into a monster. And I thought my love life was complicated.”

  “The point is, this explains everything! I’m not just dreaming, I’m having an elaborate, chemically-induced hallucination!”

  Crispin gazed sadly into my eyes. “Look,” he said, “I completely understand you being in denial about this. If I looked like that, I’d be too.”

  “Oi,” I interjected, glaring at him.

  “But,” he continued,
“I think you know, deep down, that there isn’t any dream or hallucination going on here. I’m real. You’re real. This. Is. Real!”

  My mind raced, struggling to think of another explanation. But I had completely run out of those. Blood pounded in my ears, and the world spun before my eyes. My entire reality was being torn to shreds by a horrible, inevitable realization.

  “But that means…oh, dear Lord.” I grabbed at the bedpost to steady myself. “Magic is real.”

  Crispin frowned, looking nonplussed. “Er - yes, I suppose that’s implied.”

  “Good grief.” I clutched at my mane. “Magic is real. Everything I believe, everything I’ve been telling people for years – it’s all lies. This is a disaster. My career, my reputation—”

  Crispin cleared his throat. “Nick, perhaps we should have a little talk about priorities.”

  “Look at this!” I bounded over to the bedside table and retrieved a thick notebook. Opening it up for Crispin to see, I began flipping through page after page of scribbled notes. “Do you see this? This would have been a bestselling book! The Dragon Delusion! All about how magic and monsters are nothing but rubbish! It would have sold thousands of copies, maybe even millions, and now…” I slashed at the book with my claws, sending a cloud of paper scraps floating across the room.

  “Look, try to calm down,” Crispin pleaded. “There’s more to life than debunking magic.”

  “Not for me, there isn’t!”

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door. My right ear twitched in the direction of the sound. “Lovely,” I muttered. “Callers at a time like this. Probably a salesman or something. I’ll get rid of him.” I brushed past Crispin and marched down the hallway.

  “Wait, wait, hold on!” He grabbed my tail to stop me. On instinct, I spun around and snarled in his face.

  He gulped. “Sorry,” he squeaked. “I was just thinking that perhaps it might possibly be better for you not to answer the door - right now.”

  He had a point. “True,” I said, stepping aside. “You deal with it, then.”

  Crispin went to the door, clearing his throat in apprehension. I crouched out of sight behind the sofa.

  “Who is it?” Crispin asked, without turning the handle.

  “Police Constable Edwin Oswalt.” The officer’s speech was stiff and meticulous, as if he were reading everything from a prepared script. “Sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to open the door.”

  “Er - why?” Crispin asked.

  “Because there have been reports of shots fired within your apartment,” said the policeman. “Not to mention a sighting of a hideous monster on your balcony.”

  “I resent that!” I hissed, jumping to my feet.

  “Shut up!” Crispin gestured frantically for me to get back behind the sofa. “Everything’s fine!” he said to the officer. “Absolutely fine! No shots. No monsters. We’re fine. I’m fine. You can go now.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, I will have to come in and search the premises for myself.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant to do that?”

  “Not in this case, sir, no.”

  “Blast.” Crispin glanced at me. “I’m out of ideas,” he whispered. “Go hide.”

  “Hide where? I doubt I’m going to fit in any of our cupboards! Plus, he’ll probably search every corner of the place anyway!”

  “Then you’ll have to—”

  “In light of your reticence to comply,” said Constable Oswalt, “I will assume that you are either deliberately prevaricating, or that you are being coerced in some way. Therefore, I will now smash down your door. Please stand back.”

  “This is bad,” said Crispin.

  I held up a hand. Paw. Whatever. “Don’t panic. Let’s just think for a minute. It’ll probably take him a while to bust down the door, so—”

  The door burst off its hinges, propelled by a short, stocky man in a blue uniform. Crispin dove out of the way in the nick of time.

  “Right,” said Constable Oswalt, dusting off his hands. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I will begin searching the—” As his eyes fell on me, all the color drained from his face. He made a strange noise that sounded more or less like “Oo-er-ugg.”

  “Run,” said Crispin.

  I shrugged in resignation. “Why should I? The game’s up. And after all, I’m bulletproof.”

  “Glurg,” said Oswalt, pointing a shaking finger at me.

  “Stay here,” I told Crispin. “I’m going to find Lord Whitlock and have it out with him. Whatever’s going on, it must have something to do with that stupid Rose of his.”

  “Mmph,” said Oswalt, drawing his revolver and aiming it at me.

  “You can’t go out in the street like that!” Crispin exclaimed.

  “I’ll keep to the alleys and side streets. It’ll be fine. See you later.” I brushed past Constable Oswalt on my way to the door, causing him to drop his gun with a loud clatter. “Pardon me,” I said.

  There was a chorus of gasps and screams as I strode down the corridor. A gaggle of curious neighbors scattered, fleeing back to their apartments. Two more uniformed men stood in the hallway, gaping at me. Only these weren’t policemen. From the insignias on their white jackets, I divined them to be employees of animal control.

  I tried not to take offense, but it was difficult. “Your services will not be required,” I told them frostily. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind stepping aside…”

  They stood firm, training their rifles on me. “Don’t move,” one warned.

  “Thanks, but I’ve already been shot once today. It didn’t take.”

  The projectiles that pelted me as I stepped forward were not bullets, but darts. I shook my head sadly. “Don’t embarrass yourselves,” I said, putting my hands on their shoulders to force a gap between them.

  But just as I was about to head for the staircase, I felt a sharp prick behind my ear. Growling in annoyance, I reached up and pulled the dart free. To my surprise, there was a drop of blood at the end of it. I locked eyes with the man who had fired. “Not fair,” I said reproachfully. My mouth suddenly felt like it was full of cotton. “Shooting…in th’back…nnnot fffair…”

  I don’t remember much after that, except for the sound of something large and heavy hitting the floor. I think it might have been my head.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Nightmare and a Rescue

  The cheerful piping of a calliope filled the air. I've always hated calliope music. It reminds me too much of my childhood.

  I was sprawled in the corner of an iron cage. Jumping to my feet, I seized the bars and rattled them, trying to bend them apart. They refused to budge.

  “Roll up, roll up!” The booming voice was familiar. I peered through the bars to see Lord Whitlock emerge from behind a nearby red-and-white striped tent, wearing the costume of a circus ringmaster. He walked with a brisk, jaunty step, twirling a baton.

  “Roll up!” he bellowed again. “See the Terrible Mino-bat-lion-goyle!” He banged his stick against the bars.

  I stared at him in confusion, then looked around at my surroundings. Garishly colored carnival tents dotted the landscape in all directions. The sky above was an unsettling shade of red. I frowned in confusion. “What the—”

  Something struck me on the ear. I glanced down to discover that the projectile was a dinner roll.

  “Hello, there.” The female voice was familiar as well. Lady Cordelia Beaumont stood outside the cage, wearing a dress fashioned from an old carpet and a parasol made from an ancient map. I caught glimpses of Soloveyan lettering as she opened it to shield herself from the harsh red light overhead.

  “Aha,” I said, nodding in comprehension. “I see. Now I’m dreaming.”

  Cordelia tilted her head at me, looking puzzled. “Have we met before?”

  I gave her a mirthless smile. “Briefly. Not long before you died.”

  “Ah, yes. That's it. That’s it. I remember now.”

  “Can you let me
out of here?”

  “Of course!” She lowered her parasol and peered at the lettering inside it. “The combination’s right here.”

  “That’s enough of that,” said Lord Whitlock. He raised his walking stick and pounded it on the ground. Though he was slamming it down on grass, it made a resounding boom, like a drum being struck in a cathedral.

  I hadn’t noticed the paving stone under Cordelia’s feet before. It now fell away, causing her to plunge beneath the earth with a cry of alarm. Her hands gripped the edge of the hole just in time to arrest her fall.

  “Cordelia!” I shoved my arm through the bars and reached out to her. “Take my hand!”

  Lord Whitlock was laughing – a harsh, grating laugh like the croak of a raven. “You can’t save her,” he sneered.

  His mockery gave me new resolve. With a roar of fury, I slammed my shoulder into the cage door. It gave way and swung open on its hinges, allowing me to jump to the edge of the hole. “I’ve got you,” I said, grabbing Cordelia’s hands. “I’ve got—”

  But it wasn’t Cordelia. The person I pulled out of the hole was a young boy, about twelve years old. His clothes were torn and dirty, and he looked up at me with a mischievous smile.

  Crispin. Just as he’d looked on the day we left…

  “You can’t save him.” The voice was not Lord Whitlock’s, but it was still well-known to me. I turned to look at him just in time to see his features shifting grotesquely, like a melting waxwork. He was no longer Cordelia’s father.

  He was my father.

  I pushed Crispin behind me. “Stay back,” I warned the shapeshifting creature. “Don’t you dare come near my brother.”

  “Half-brother,” he corrected, advancing on us. “Why do you care so much for him? The lazy little—”

  I punched him squarely on the jaw, sending him flying into a tent. The whole structure collapsed on top of him in a cascade of white-and-red fabric.

  “We’re leaving,” I said. My voice now sounded like that of a fourteen-year-old boy. “I’m taking him away from you before you can do any more damage.”