by A. W. Cross
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Cry Wolf by Jacque Stevens
CRY WOLF
© 2019 Jacque Stevens
sjacquebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission.
The Team
Copy Edits: Suzi Retzlaff
Final Proofreading: Judy Zweifel
A special thank you to my Beta Readers: JoLyn, Rachel, Emily C., Kendra, Melissa, Sarah, Nic, Emily B., & Alex.
Blurb: When her father is killed by a mysterious wolf attack, Isabelle strikes out on her own to face the dreaded beast. But in this tale as old as time, things might not be what they seem.
CRY WOLF is a darker twist on Beauty and the Beast, inspired by the Beast of Gevaudan and the French Revolution.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
1
Beast
The last man I killed, I had been panicked. I struck in a flash and then looked at what I had done in horror. I saw the literal blood on my hands and thought about what others might think.
I wondered what I thought.
I still wondered, but it only made me more determined that all the others never find out.
And that meant that someone else had to die and someone else had to take the blame.
When I decided to kill the man on the road, it surprised me how easy it was. Not only had he already been slurring his words and fumbling his steps before I reached him, I also didn’t feel any of the panic or horror I had before. I wrestled the air from his chest and I knew that all my old fears and troubles were over.
Other beasts and wolves in the forest howled and I crowed along with them.
I knew there was a beast inside of me, but now I would never, ever have to tell.
2
Beauty
To add insult to injury, the snare was broken as well as empty. I pulled the gnawed-on rope from the weeds, wondering what kind of meal my father and I had missed out on. Perhaps a hare or a fat pheasant. Either would have been a pleasant change from dried mutton.
Old Rose had been an ill-tempered sheep in life and a trial to my molars after death.
“Izzy!”
Lifting my head, I smiled. I only permitted one person to shorten my name like that—or more gave in when he refused to call me anything else. “Hello, Jean.” So, he had untangled himself from his admirers to find me at last. Took him long enough. “Welcome home.”
Jean Dupuis darted around the sheep on the hill and leaned against the oak next to me, panting a bit. He had his blond hair tied back and still wore the red vest and long pants that had replaced the shorter breeches as the new style, symbolic of the revolution.
At least he wasn’t still showing off his rifle.
“I came home yesterday,” he said. “Where were you?”
“I was there.” The whole village had come to his family’s inn to greet him. He was the first boy to come home from the capital, and everything Jean did turned into quite the production.
“You weren’t. I didn’t see you.”
“That does not surprise me.” I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms, watching him squirm like a dirty thief. I had forgotten how fun it was to make Jean squirm.
I had no one to tease in his absence.
His face fell. “What did you see?”
I shrugged. Nothing I hadn’t seen before.
“I’m sorry, Izzy. I did look for you, and if I had seen you there, I would have—”
“Thrown Anna-Marie off your lap? Now, that would not have been polite. Perhaps your father should invest in a few more chairs for your next homecoming.” I laughed. “It would make things a little less awkward for all of us.”
Jean still looked uncomfortable. The poor boy could never tell when I was joking.
“It’s fine, Jean.” It really was. Jean was my best friend; I already could guess what had happened. He lived on the approval of the crowd and forgot himself. If he had seen me, he really would have thrown Anna-Marie off and rushed to my side. “I know you can’t help it. Your adoring fans love you.” And were sure to love him more if all the stories were true.
“You know you were the only one I really wanted to see.” He bowed his head like a proper gentleman, looking past my wind-worn frizz and the man-styled coat I wore over my dress and apron. “You . . . you are more beautiful than I remember.”
He put on a good show, but he was looking at my breasts—not quite staring, but taking furtive glances before finding my eyes again. But I didn’t blame him for that either. They had kind of sprung up on me too. Learning how to bind them properly had been another trial he had missed out on. It wasn’t like my father had any insight on the proper technique.
I almost wished Jean would just say what he was clearly thinking and see if that removed a bit of the awkwardness, but that would never happen.
“And you . . .” I scanned over his broad shoulders and the familiar cleft in his chin. Jean had always been handsome, and seeing his filled-out muscles didn’t surprise me in the least. If anything, it was dully predicable. “Well, you haven’t changed at all, but I suppose that’s a relief.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard the stories. The guillotine? It’s so awful. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to see it.” I had expected Jean might come home a little broken, a little haunted. Maybe a bit more like my father. I was both relieved and a bit put off that Jean was still the brash boy I remembered, performing his best war stories for the cheering crowd.
That was why I left before Jean found me. It had nothing to do with Anna-Marie.
“Yes, but they brought it on themselves, you know? No one can trust the monarchy anymore. The most mercy we can show them is a quick death.”
I couldn’t say anything to that. Maybe the nobles deserved it. We certainly didn’t have much use for noble influence here—not after we had removed our own count years ago. I heard so many stories from the capital, it was hard to know what to believe, but Jean had been there.
Some deaths were necessary. Any shepherdess worth her salt knew that.
A sheep bleated. A stray leaf had landed on Royal and the persnickety ewe bellowed like the sky was falling. Opal and Onyx were butting heads again and Sugar seemed quite determined to lead everyone off to the pasture without me. Or off a cliff. Sugar was a terrible leader. If I wanted to take my proper place in front of my flock, I had to hurry.
I looked back at the gnawed rope in my hand.
Jean followed my gaze. “What happened to your snare?”
“Oh.” I tried for another laugh. “Well, looks like someone else has a full belly who isn’t me. Guess I need to wake up earlier tomorrow. Stop wasting all our candles with those damn books,” I said, mimicking my father’s drawl.
I knelt on the grass and riffled through my satchel for another rope to fix the snare. The damp bit through my skirt to my knees, but I didn’t mind. The snow had mostly melted for the season, and I was sure to be warm enough once I started moving again.
Jean bent down with me. It wasn’t a job that needed two, but he met my eyes as his tone grew somber. “You’re lucky. It could have been a wolf.”
I shrugged. “I’ve dealt with wolves before.”
“They can be really dangerous, Izzy. I talked to the men in the surrounding villages and more animals have gone missing than usual. I saw this wolf on the way back here—russet with black tips and larger than a calf. Heard it howl most every night. Maybe we should organize another hunt.”
Russe
t? That was unusual. Most of our local wolves were various shades of gray. Perhaps it was part dog—which would make it more likely to be a maneater. Dogs weren’t born with the same instinct wolves had to avoid people. “Fine. Just tell me when.” Maybe it would be good for the two of us to spend some time out together in action.
Then I really could see what war had turned Jean into.
“You can’t be serious.” Now he was laughing. The one time I hadn’t been joking.
“Of course I am. Who do you think ran the hunts when all our boys were off playing soldier?” I wasn’t about to pretend that I was as strong or fast as the men, but that shouldn’t matter. “I can shoot a musket just as well as anyone.”
“I’m sure you can,” he was so quick to agree that it came off a little patronizing, “but now that we’re all coming home, you shouldn’t have to do that anymore.”
“Tell that to the Maid of Gevaudan,” I said. “You should have seen her statue coming in, if you’ve forgotten.” She would always be my favorite—a shepherdess who was one of the first to stab the mad wolfdog. Or at least, most people still thought the beast had been a wolfdog. Other stories said it was a mane-less lion escaped from a royal menagerie or a beast of more fanciful origins. After all, no mere animal targeted women and children and left their mangled bodies naked in the field like this one had.
Either way, the nobles bungled the event so horribly that my father’s generation took matters into their own hands. The first spark of revolution. The beast fell to a peasant with a silver bullet—Jean Chastel. There were a lot of Jeans in our village because of him.
Though my friend still found plenty of ways to stand out from the crowd.
I tried to focus on the snare, but a ram wet-nosed my arm. Jolly seemed to think I was down in this position because I wanted to pet him. I fumbled the rope trying to push him off. I almost succeeded when Jean must have decided it was a lost cause and took the rope from me.
I watched him tie it in a huff.
“I’m serious, Izzy. The hunts are too dangerous. Your father would agree with me.” Now, that was a low blow.
The dead beast had many victims. Many women and children, including my late aunt. Father might have reluctantly let me join the hunts before, but with more of our men back, he would certainly agree with Jean and keep me home.
I still had every right to frown about it.
I stood from the grass, pushing Jolly into Ladybird and then brushing off my skirt. “Have you been having many discussions with my father about me, then?”
Jean laughed before I realized there could be a double meaning to my words, one more in line with his furtive glances. “Not nearly enough.” He pulled himself up and turned toward the flock. At least one of us thought our argument was over. “And if noble heads don’t impress, I’ll bring him the head of the next Beast of Gevaudan.”
3
Beauty
Once I had corralled Royal, Ladybird, Merry, and all the other ewes and rams into the barn, I closed the front door and sighed. Jean had insisted on staying in the pasture all day to help me guard the sheep. Many of the village children banded their flocks and herds together for added protection and company during the day, so it hadn’t been unusual for us to do the same growing up. Even if his inn only ever had a couple cows and his favorite red mastiff. But now—maybe I just had forgotten how much that boy could drain all my energy.
My bag fell from my shoulder, and I stared at a small wildflower Jean had given me before he left. What was I supposed to do with it? The bloom seemed too small to bother with a vase, but I didn’t dare throw it out. Not seconds after receiving it, though I probably would throw it out in the end.
No offense to Jean, but it was a dead flower. Not a very useful gift at all.
Maybe I was more like my father than either of us would care to admit. Too hard and practical. But I could just press the flower in one of my books. I crossed the sitting room and picked one off the mantel. I smiled at the inked image of the armored young girl.
Joan of Arc was another one of my favorites.
I started flipping pages. Lost among her tales of visions and fire, I almost didn’t notice my father shuffling in from the kitchen until I heard his gravelly voice. “Isabelle? Is that you?”
I nodded without turning. “Yes. Who else would it be?”
“Never hurts to check. We are a bit on our own out here.”
“And you think the wolves might have learned to use the front door?” I finally looked up.
“All kinds of wolves can walk through doors. If I haven’t taught you that yet, I failed you as a father.” My father had grayed and wrinkled early, but it only made him look more fierce, more like a grizzled old bear. He sank into the chair and I hated to see it. He tried—maybe more than he should—but the cold could really do a number on that old knee.
He had to do the house chores or ride Bullet, the plow horse, most of the winter.
I would have to check his herb supply in the kitchen. I told him time and time again that I would rather have that full than the sugar bowl or anything else, but the stubborn old goat still let it go longer than he should. The only way I could be sure we had some was to go to town and buy more myself. And perhaps some more meat from the butcher that wasn’t dried mutton.
The grim thought of Old Rose brought back all the disappointment of that morning.
“And I’m afraid I failed you as a daughter. Or at least my snare did.” I pulled out the frayed rope with my head down. It seemed a personal insult. I hated to come home empty-handed. “Jean thinks it might be wolves again. He wants to set up a hunt.”
“A full hunt over a broken snare?”
I shrugged. It didn’t make much sense to me either. “Other villages have complained, and he saw a large wolfdog on that road that makes him think the pack might be close.”
My father shook his head in the same way he did when I tried to explain one of my fairy stories. “There are always going to be wolves in the forest. If I saw one among our sheep, I’d be the first to shoot it, but a few missing animals is not the same crisis as the Beast of Gevaudan.”
“You think Jean is just looking for a fight?”
“Your boy just helped overthrow a king, and now he thinks he can go and change all the rest of the stars. Too much of that kind of fire can be dangerous.”
“He isn’t.” The words came so quick, they surprised me. But they had been brewing under the surface for the last few hours. “You said Jean was my boy, but he isn’t. He isn’t mine.”
“No?” My father raised one eyebrow. “Good. I never liked him.”
“Never? Then why didn’t you say so?” And why did I feel no urge to defend him?
I would have before—said something about how much pressure Jean felt from his family to outshine his peers. Or even just something about how he always looked out for me in the village.
But now I had a sinking sort of feeling I couldn’t define and simply wanted validated.
Father gestured to the book and wildflower in my hands like they should explain everything. “Telling a high-strung, romantical girl she can’t have the man she wants is the fastest way I know to chase her into his arms. If I told you no, would you have listened?”
“We were never really courting.” I slammed the flower in my book and tried to put it away fast enough to erase it from memory. “Just friends. So perhaps I still would have wanted to be friends with him. I just . . . think he might have different ideas now.”
“What kind of ideas?”
“Proper ones, I’m sure.” I wouldn’t go so far as to besmirch Jean’s good name. We were friends, and I had nearly reached my eighteenth nameday—well into my courting years. There should be nothing wrong with Jean showing interest now. I really should have been thrilled. “I’m just not ready, and I’m not sure if we would get along like that. Is that all right?”
Father’s bushy eyebrows became tightly furrowed. “Of course it’s all right.”
<
br /> “I just . . .” A sudden restlessness entered my chest, and I looked back at my small row of storybook heroes for strength. “I would hate to think I led him on. He could be angry.”
Father stood from his chair. “Isabelle, are you afraid of Jean?”
“No.” I had seen him lose his temper at a hundred other things but never at me. “I don’t think so. But last night . . . he seemed so callous when he was telling his war stories, and this whole wolf hunt . . . It’s silly. We just might not be compatible like I said, and I worry about hurting his feelings.”
“You should never be afraid of a man you are supposed to love.” Father stared deep into my eyes. “I absolutely forbid you from marrying Jean. I’ll happily go and tell him off myself. I’m used to being the crotchety old gimp.”
I smiled. My father was far sweeter than anyone in town knew. There were very few he let into his heart, but Mother always said I could pull his strings better than a puppet master.
It only grew more pronounced after she died giving birth to my stillborn sister.
How could any young man hope to compete with that sort of bond? Though I supposed that could be my father’s plan. The most devious of all. I would die a spinster in this house and never complain.
I still shook my head. “Thank you, but don’t you think I should tell him myself?” I dreaded the thought, but Jean deserved that at least.