by A. W. Cross
Quiet. So quiet. If you can’t see them, maybe they can’t see you.
But something was coming, something big. Beauty had heard of creatures living deep under the city, remnants from the uncivilized past before Wakelight had been sanitized. But she’d dismissed them as nothing more than a colorful warning to scare children.
Something scraped the corridor wall, something without softness or pity. Rasping breath growled in her ears. It would find her. She reached for the locket hanging over her heart and wrapped her fingers around it.
I’m sorry. I promised I would find you.
But maybe she still would. If he was dead, maybe they would find each other in the light of the afterlife, their reward for losing their lives in the dark.
It stalked toward her. Was it a single creature? On two legs? Or four? Its footsteps came from all directions, eclipsing even her own shallow breaths.
Run.
But she couldn’t. As she backed away, her foot slipped on some loose stones, and she fell again. She reached out to save herself, but on the way down, her head connected with the side of the wall.
Numbness spread over her, and the darkness grew soft and deep. Just before she lost consciousness, a roar echoed through the tunnel. Was it the Beast? Had he come for her?
No, not the Beast, but something else fierce and feral, its eyes glittering in the dark and a deep rumble in its chest.
7
She ran as though the devil himself were on her heels.
Follow her, do something.
But he couldn’t. It was only the sharp sting of glass cutting into his foot that finally roused him, and he slid to the floor, his back against his bed.
So she’d finally seen the real him. The Beast. And she’d reacted as he’d known she would. The way they always did.
Almost.
The horror in her eyes had been plain enough, but there was something else there as well. Empathy? Curiosity?
You’re just imagining it. What she saw disgusted her. You only want to think she’s different.
And why wouldn’t she be disgusted? Wasn’t that the last thing he’d felt, before he’d brought the mirror down around himself. He’d told Cybel more than once that he didn’t want that damned mirror anywhere near his room. But she insisted it would help him accept what they’d done to him, that he had to remember who he was.
Like I could ever forget. Like I don’t feel it every minute of every day.
Cybel had been researching radical therapies and believed that if he only looked at himself long enough, he would forgive, would come to terms with what had happened to him and be able to move forward.
I’m letting a robot tell me how to control my feelings.
He shook his head. Should he go after Beauty? Try to explain? Tell her the truth? He crossed one leg over the other and grasped at the shard of glass protruding from the soft arch of his foot. He hissed as he pulled it free, and the blood that flowed out of the puncture released something in him as well. It had been such a long time since he’d seen his own blood.
What little was left of it.
If only I could forget the look on her face.
He’d been instructed to cover himself from head to toe any time he was in The Vault. His kind was forbidden there and would immediately give the truth away; only the need to have someone familiar with the city had made his presence worth the risk. The gamble had paid off. The mask had quickly cemented his reputation, finishing what the violence had started. It had created fear and silence, a much more valuable weapon than anything he’d carried as a soldier.
But not against her. He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. Why? What were you hoping for? You were going to send her home in a few more days anyway, weren’t you?
Of course he was. Still…recently, her company had been almost pleasant. The days had passed quickly in anticipation of their evening ritual. Sitting beside her was the only human contact he’d enjoyed for years. And he’d enjoyed it too much. When she’d asked him about the war, the temptation to tell her the truth had been almost overwhelming. It would’ve been easy, to look into her eyes and tell her everything that weighed so heavily on his soul.
But it was too dangerous. She was too dangerous. She’d stirred something in him, something defiant that had long lurked beneath his skin, that ran through the twisted filaments of his spine.
He’d avoided her the next night, and the night after that, for fear he would feel it again, that the dam would break and everything he held back would be unleashed.
You don’t have to worry about that now, not after what she saw.
His heart ached. The last few days he’d felt…what? Not normal, no, but…like a person. The way she’d looked at him in the library as he’d teased her about her romance novel—she’d seen him as a man, not as the Beast. When was the last time anyone had looked at him like that? And what if there had been something under her terror? What if it wasn’t wishful thinking, and she was what he hoped? What if she could understand?
I need to talk to her.
He would tell her everything. His story. Her story. Their past and present.
If he could just get her to listen, maybe she could show him the future.
But to get her to listen, he first had to find her, and apologize. Not for what he was, but for how he’d acted. It wasn’t her fault he saw a monster every time he looked in a mirror.
He sprinted from the room and down the hallway, ignoring the shards under his feet. He had to tell her now, while he still had his nerve. Where was she? She had a terrible sense of direction, Cybel had told him. He checked the library, but it was empty, as was her bedroom. Where the hell else could she be? She couldn’t have—
“Are you looking for Beauty?” Cybel stood in the doorway of the control room.
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? Gone where? How could she get out?”
“I let her out.” The robot’s bland expression infuriated him, even if it was the only one she had.
“You what? Why would you do that?”
“She’s not a prisoner here. Is she?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“She was pounding on the door, terrified. And you were screaming and— I’ve never heard you scream like that. I thought—”
“You thought I might hurt her?”
Cybel said nothing.
“How could you think that?”
“You’ve become unpredictable. You are no longer yourself.”
It was true. But— “I would never hurt her, Cybel. No more than I would hurt you. I—”
“Well, I didn’t know that.” The little bot huffed. “I like her. I didn’t want—”
“I like her too.” He pushed his hand through his hair and swore. “We have to find her. It’s not safe out there. She doesn’t know where she is.”
“And you can rescue her. A knight in shining armor.” She gave a little spin.
What? Surely she didn’t— He glared down at Cybel. “You didn’t really think I’d hurt her, did you?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Then what the hell are you playing at? She could be in danger.” He strode to the front door.
“Cillian! Your hood.” She sped after him, clutching it in her hands.
“I don’t need the damn hood. She’s already seen me.” He took a deep breath. “Cybel, if something happens to her—” He let the warning hang over the robot’s head.
Cybel was undaunted. “Nothing will happen. She might be scared, but then you’ll come swooping in to save her. Like in her romance books.”
“Those books usually end up with one or more of the heroes dead, Cybel.”
“Oh. I didn’t read all the way to the end.”
Cillian closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Is that what you planned? To put her in danger so I could save her? What were you thinking?”
“That you’re a good man. And that she’s the kind of person who’ll be able to see that. She just needs a little push. This is the perfect opportunity.” Was that smugness in her tinny voice?
But maybe…
“I’ve got another plan. I want to tell her…everything.”
Cybel rotated on her jointed waist the way she did when she was agitated. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t know. But I won’t find out until I talk to her. I just need to find her.” He opened the door then turned back to Cybel. “If she comes back, please, keep her here. Whatever it takes.”
“I w—”
A faint scream echoed through the air.
Beauty.
8
Beauty’s tongue lay thick in her mouth, and her temples pounded with an unceasing ferocity. What had happened? The last thing she remembered was eyes in the dark, the glowing eyes of a savage beast. Then…nothing.
She struggled to sit up. As her eyes adjusted, she made out the shape of walls, of a bed. Her bed.
This is my room. But how did I…
The Beast. It must’ve been him she’d seen in the dark. He’d come after her and brought her back. She scrabbled backward, pressing herself into the corner at the head of her bed. What was going to happen to her now? She’d seen his real face, had run from it. Panic climbed the walls of her ribcage, sinking its sharp little claws into her and making it hard to breathe.
Would he kill her? She bit her lip to suppress the whimper threatening to escape. She never should’ve gone down that hallway. Never should’ve opened that door. But she had, and now she truly was a prisoner, locked away until he decided what to do to her.
No. I refuse to cower before him. If he’s going to kill me, he can get it over with. I’m not going to sit here, caged like a sheep waiting for the slaughter. How could he do this to her? You’re an idiot. You thought that because he like books, he’s somehow less of a beast? No. That was what he truly was. She’d just been stupid enough to forget. And where was Cybel? She fooled you too.
She climbed off the bed and stood on shaking legs. She would pound on the button beside the door until it shorted out. She would throw herself against the door itself, bruising her fists on the cold, uncaring surface until the Beast came. Then she would look him in the eye and show him that even if she was terrified of him, he wasn’t going to break her. He could kill her, but he wasn’t going to—
The door slid open.
It’s not locked. I’m not a prisoner.
She retreated to her bed, letting the door glide softly back into place. What was going on? Had he simply come after her and brought her back? But why, after what had happened? Why would he— Had he just wanted to make sure she was safe? He wasn’t angry with her?
Relief warred with a creeping remorse. Even after the way she’d acted, he’d come to find her, still wanted her under his roof. And she’d immediately assumed the worst of him. She gazed at him again now, in her mind’s eye. She’d never forget what she’d seen. His ruined body, intentionally inhuman. The anguish and anger as he’d seen her. She’d run from him then, but now her memory couldn’t turn away.
Had she been wrong about him? What would’ve happened if she’d reacted differently when she’d seen him, stood her ground?
But I had to run.
Why? Because of the way he looked?
No, it was because he screamed at me. I thought he was going to attack me.
But had she really? If he hadn’t looked so frightening, would she have felt the same way?
Think back. Did it really seem like he was going to attack you? Or did his body make everything you feared about him seem true?
She forced herself to relive their confrontation. The Beast, his devastated body. The broken mirror. Something terrible had happened to him. Something worse than she could ever have imagined, and she’d blamed him for it.
And she’d been trespassing, catching him in a vulnerable moment. No wonder he’d been upset. He had to know what she’d thought of him. Creatures like him…cyborgs were an atrocity, an offense against the human soul. At least, that was what she’d always been taught by the stories of a world beyond Wakelight, beyond Heartcrown.
Everything must’ve been right there on my face. It was cruel, really, what I did to him. He had a right to be angry.
She was a fool.
He obviously wasn’t proud of the way he looked, didn’t want the fear his appearance provoked. Why else cover himself up? Yes, the mask was scary, but not as horrific as the truth.
His real face. I wish I could remember what it looked like. But all I saw was a monster.
What if she’d made a huge mistake? What if he wasn’t the monster everyone thought he was? He’d obviously been loved once, and had loved, if the portraits he’d kept were anything to go by. And not once had he shown her anything but respect. He’d been invisible a lot of the time, and brusque when he was there, but…
He gave you a room, food…and a library.
Was it possible she’d run away from something good, just because it was ugly?
He’s not ugly. The vehemence of the thought surprised her, even more so because she meant it.
The truth was painfully clear. The monster was her.
For the next hour, her mind ran in circles. What was she supposed to do now? How could she face him? He’d brought her back, so he didn’t want her to leave…but now that she knew the truth, what did he want?
Her eyes eventually grew heavy and she curled up under her covers. As she waited for sleep to claim her, she comforted herself with thoughts of her prince.
What would he would do in my situation? A prince would never run away.
She brought her hand up, reaching for the familiar shape of the locket.
The locket.
It was gone. Had she dropped it? She leaped out of bed and scrabbled about the floor, nails scratching the tiles as she searched every inch of her room. She squinted in the gloom under the bed, trying to catch its golden glint. But it was gone. Had it fallen off? Or had he taken it from her?
Somehow, that was worse than everything else that had happened, its loss cutting deeper than her misery and confusion.
Finally exhausted, she fell asleep, her hand clutched to her chest where the locket had lain, over the heart that threatened to break.
When she woke, a tray had been placed on the table in the corner of her room. How long had she been asleep? She must’ve slept deeply not to have heard the tray being brought in.
But she was awake now, and she had a plan. She was going to find the Beast and…well, that part she hadn’t quite figured out. But she would know what to say when she saw him. She hoped.
She devoured the bread on the tray, gulped down some water, then quickly changed into something not covered in dust and grime from the tunnels. Her hand trembled as she ran a brush through her hair. Already her nerve was beginning to slip.
You can do this. If he can live through…whatever happened to him, can live the way he is every day, then you can at least look him in the eye.
Straightening her shoulders, she went to the one place she hoped he would be.
He was sitting in his high-backed chair when she came into the library, facing away from to her. All she could see of him was his hands, gripping the flared arms.
She took a deep breath. “Bea—” I don’t even know his name.
“I was thirteen years old when the war began. How old were you?” His voice held a softness, a dreamy, faraway quality she hadn’t heard before.
He wanted to talk about the war? She lowered herself gently into her chair, trying not to break his thrall. “Nine.” Old enough to remember the chaos. The smoke, the fire, the screams. The silence.
“Do you remember much of your life before?” He stared off into a distant corner of the bookcase. His mask was back on, his hood pulled up over his head.
“A bit, but not much. It’s more of a feeling than actual memories, you know? E
verything was so clean, and sterile, and bright… Ordered, I guess.”
“What about your parents, your family?”
Beauty did remember them, no matter how hard she tried not to. “Yes. They died on Day Zero. They were teachers, and the school… I was home sick that day.” They’d been in a rush to get to work that morning, late because her mother didn’t want to leave her. Day Zero had been the first day of the war for Wakelight. “You?”
“My parents worked in defense.”
“They built The Vault?” The only thing that had saved Wakelight from obliteration. Even so, there had been rioting the day it rose, too late to stop the first wave of attacks. “I remember the riot.”
“Yes.” Bitterness laced his voice. “People didn’t understand how hard they’d worked to try to get it finished in time. They knew trouble was coming, months before it happened, but it still wasn’t enough time. They took the blame, even though they saved hundreds of thousands of lives.” His fingers tightened, sinking into the fabric.
“I’m sorry.” What must it have been like for him, to see his parents frog-marched in front of a baying crowd?
“I became a soldier when I was fifteen.” His voice was even softer now.
“Fifteen? I didn’t think they took anyone that young.”
“They didn’t. Not at first. But two years into the war, we were outnumbered, outgunned. The enemy had technology that we… That we couldn’t match. We were losing.” He shook his head and gave an acrid laugh that burned the back of Beauty’s throat.
“So they began accepting whoever they could recruit. Of course, for those of us whose families were dead, it was an easy choice. The only choice we had, really. Not all of us were taken in by strangers, so where else could we go? We underwent training for six months then they shipped us out.”
“To the front line?”
“Yes. We were barely more than weapon fodder at that point, although I was luckier than most. I was tall and strong for my age, so I was able to handle more powerful weapons, like the older men. And so we fought, losing more ground each day.”