The Beast Queen

by Felicity Partington

  The Beast Queen

  By Felicity Partington

  Published internationally by Golden Keys Publishing House:

  The Beast Queen © Felicity Partington 2019

  Terms and Conditions:

  The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.

  All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer:

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  The Beast Queen

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  #FelicityPartington

  Prologue

  Once upon a twisted time, a storm raged over a small town with unparalleled fury. On a night which had already brought a child’s first breath, and a mother’s last.

  The rain thundered down heavily on the old stonework, but the occupants didn’t care. The fire was burning brightly in the hearth, filling the small room with acrid smoke, just as it always did on damp, cold days. It was late spring, but there was still a chill in the air. It had been a long and hard winter, yet the household had been a happy one. They had faced the cold and the snow with smiles, even excitement, for they knew that come spring, all would be well, and they would be welcoming a new bundle of happiness into their home.

  When his wife had gone into labour, the kind-eyed man had been a flurry of activity. He had brought the midwives, warmed the towels, made endless cups of tea and prepared the nursery with careful adoration.

  It was finally time.

  They had been waiting for so long.

  That was twenty-four hours ago now. While the baby lay wailing in its bassinet, bundled up in soft blankets, his wife lay cold and still in the bed which they had shared. The midwives had cleaned the place up as best they could, but the man didn’t care, he paid little attention to anything anymore. Tears blurred his vision, and his hand clutched the cold one of his wife as if love and grief might bring her back to life.

  All they had wanted was a baby.

  For years it was their only wish.

  So, Amaury had endured, swallowed his scepticism and forced an open mind. They had visited apothecaries, herbalists, soothsayers, anybody who would humour their plight long after the physicians gave up. The last person they had seen was a witch, whispered about at a market fair on a warm summers day. She had provided Celie with a tea to drink each morning. Her husband hadn’t expected anything, and yet a month later they were with child.

  He had never seen his wife so happy, so he quelled his trepidation.

  They celebrated.

  It was a miracle.

  Celie continued to drink the tea religiously each morning, and he watched her get sicker and sicker for nine long months. He had pleaded with her to stop, they were already pregnant, and the teas seemed to be doing nought but drain her strength. Celie hadn’t listened, she wouldn’t have risked their child’s health for anything, it was only nine months.

  Neither of them had expected she might die.

  A knock on the door made him jump. Reluctantly he let go of Celie’s hand and moved through the cottage, pulling open the heavy door. The outside mocked him. They had planted the daffodils last year when they first found out they were expecting. Now they bloomed brightly despite the rain hammering down on them. A mockery of something which was supposed to be a happy time.

  ‘When they bloom, our family will be complete.’ Celie had whispered to him, while kneeling in the dirt, cheeks smudged with soil. The man wavered on his feet, he felt sick.

  “You!” He growled when he saw the cloaked woman. The witch didn’t wait for an invitation, merely brushed past him, unfastening her cloak and hanging it up with all the ease one would have in their own home. “Is this what you meant by a price?” He spat, the woman turned to him slowly. Her red hair damp from the rain; unfortunate that it was only then that he perceived it as a warning. It mocked him as if screaming ‘this woman is dangerous, run.’

  “Calm yourself, Amaury. Remember, you were the ones who said no price was too high, you were the ones who begged me to bless you with a child. You sought me out, it was not the other way around.”

  “You could have told us, Lady Freya!” He shook his head, desperate and angry. “You could have told us what the price was.”

  When Celie had first told him that she’d heard of an old witch in the woods who would work powerful spells, he had been dubious. Amaury had never held any patience for childish nonsense, which was firmly where he placed magic; he believed in truth, medicine, physical science. Still, he’d never been able to say no to his beautiful wife, not once since they’d first met, so against his better judgement, they set off into the forest to seek the witch. Now he felt stupid, they should have taken it all more seriously, especially when the witch hadn’t accepted gold as payment. Lady Freya, as she insisted on being called, had merely intoned cryptically; ‘there will be a price one day, you must be sure you will pay it.’ They had agreed. Of course they had, what price could ever be too high for his wife’s happiness? Money was no object for them, they were more than comfortable, and possessions meant nothing.

  They only wanted a child.

  Something of their flesh and blood to complete their family.

  “Calm yourself.” The lady clucked, smoothing out her muddy skirts and inhaling deeply. “The baby survived then. How is it?” She didn’t wait for an answer before moving into the bedroom and scooping up the crying child into her arms. Amaury watched in horror as she calmed and rocked the new-born, ignoring the lifeless corpse of his Celie on the bed.

  “You killed my wife.” He accused, but she didn’t return his anger. Instead, she rolled her eyes and tutted, her voice soft, as if she were talking to the baby and not him.

  “I gave your wife what she most desired, what you claimed to desire. I planted a seed in what once was barren, and it grew and flourished. I warned your wife, nature does not react well to having its hand forced.”

  “You told her that she would die?”

  “She was aware she might not survive. She was never supposed to have children. But you knew that too. The physicians had already told you as much, time and time again.” Her tone was unmoving, even as Amaury visibly reeled at the information. Celie had known?

  “You should have told us the pri
ce.”

  “Her life was not the price.” And for a long moment, he baulked while she continued to soothe the baby. “It is unfortunate, but our account remains unsettled.”

  “So…is that why you’re here now? Like a vulture? Come to collect your payment. I won’t give you a penny. You ruined my life.”

  “I told you once, I have no interest in money.” She was impatient now. The witch moved, handing the child to him. It was the first time he had held it, and he took the bundle awkwardly. “I have given you a daughter. When she is grown, I would like to meet her, that is my price. On her eighteenth birthday, bring her to me, to my home in the forest.”

  “What?” Amaury grimaced, “why? Haven’t you taken enough from me?”

  “I gave you what you asked for. And now I’ve told you the price.”

  “Take her now!” He instructed, unable to look at the baby. He hadn’t pulled the blankets aside. Hadn’t seen the reddened, soft features beneath. The witch laughed, it made him uncomfortable. How could she be laughing at something like this?

  “The baby is of no use to me. Not yet.”

  “You killed my wife. You murdered her with superstition and desperation. And you want me to raise a child whom you intend to take away from me anyway? To what purpose? I don’t want her. I don’t want this. Can I trade it for my wife back, can I do that?”

  “I did not kill your wife. You can believe me or not, I did only what we agreed upon. Your wife died giving you a child, I would suggest you cherish her for that.”

  “And what if I don’t return when she’s eighteen? Why would I bring her to you at all? Why would I do anything for you?”

  “You will. This child, though yours by blood, was conceived in magic. Not in nature. It will alter her, change her. She will be wild. Uncontrollable. Beastly. As she grows, the darkness inside her will blossom. You will need my help, and so you shall seek me out, and bring her to me.”

  She was leaving him here, alone, to raise a monster? What hideous, deformed creature lay beneath the soft blankets? Was that why the midwives had not returned, had they been chased from here by an unnatural beast?

  “I won’t. Unless you take it now, you’ll never see it again.” He snapped petulantly, holding the child awkwardly. He had no connection with the bundle, it had no name, and he had no desire to be holding it. It was a thing, a nightmare, it had arrived and desecrated their happy home. Amaury already hated it.

  “We shall see.” And with a nod of her head, Lady Freya turned, grabbed her cloak and vanished back out into the rain.

  The man didn’t move for a long time, and when he did, it was uneasily. What was under the blankets? What had he gotten himself into? Taking a deep breath, he mustered any bravery he had left, then pulled back the covers from the now quiet child. He had expected her to be sleeping, but she wasn’t. Wide, brown eyes were staring back at him, with more understanding than he would have accredited a new-born.

  She was beautiful, there wasn’t a single flaw or blemish on any part of her rosy skin.

  Moving to wrap her back up, a small hand caught around his finger. He stood there, watching those little fingers squeeze for a while. She was still watching him, silently, Amaury had no idea what to do.

  Slowly, he bundled her back into her bassinet and resumed his heartbroken vigil at his wife’s bedside.

  Chapter One

  Was he really going to take his only daughter to a castle in the forest and leave her in the care of a horrible Beast? He could see no other choice. He could not take her to the witch. He had sworn to himself at his wife’s deathbed that he would never again seek out her help.

  Amaury watched his daughter Isabelle carefully. Guilt twisted his heart, and it was all he could do not to turn the carriage around. Surrendering his only child had never been his intention, but at this point, he was desperate. He could think of no other way to keep her safe, both from the world and from herself.

  He urgently wanted to tell her everything, to unload his desperation, to confide in her the truth about her birth, about who she was. But he knew he couldn’t. His resolve would break, she would blame herself for her mother’s death. Like this, Isabelle would be far away from the grasp of the witch and the truth of her origins. Moreover, he could sequester away that wicked fault-line which ran through her nature. Lock it away, where it could do no more harm. With the Beast, she would be unable to succumb to her parent’s folly.

  Isabelle would be safe.

  Besides, it wasn't forever, the Beast had promised him that. It would be just long enough for her beauty to fade. Long enough that she might learn some discipline, enough time for the townsfolk to forget. Even remembering the beast’s terrible visage made him falter, his hands had not stopped shaking since they set out on this fateful journey. Whenever Isabelle had enquired about his trembling, Amaury lied and blamed the cold. Better the Beast than the witch.

  He needed to do this, he had long since lost his ability to control his daughter. All she had to do was look at him, with those haunting eyes of the woman he had loved so much, and he would give her the world.

  Their journey had started with a lie; he had simply told his daughter that they needed to visit a benefactor to gain more funding for a breakthrough anaesthetic he was researching. Isabelle was to use her beauty to his benefit, perhaps even her learnings; she had a genuinely remarkable grasp on medicines. Amaury had been proud once, that he had steered his daughter into such a respectable profession. What could go wrong with science? As she had grown up, she had been his doting assistant, helping him with countless breakthroughs in his field. Isabelle’s innate understanding of plants had put his own name on the map, the world revered him because of her.

  He never thought he would have cause to regret teaching her so much.

  Now he was using a lie to lure his daughter deep into the forest so that he could desert her. Abandon his little girl, to the mercy of a horror he hadn't even imagined possible until he'd accidentally stumbled across that ancient, forgotten castle. He had faltered and taken to the forest to find the witch, something he’d promised himself he’d never do. Instead, he’d found something else, something better, something worse? The old man scoffed. Magic, curses, monsters; before Isabelle had been born, he hadn’t believed in any of it.

  Blinking back tears from his watery blue eyes, he watched his daughter. Isabelle hadn’t questioned his need for her. She saw nothing wrong with him using her like this, using her to his advantage. He had done it for her entire life under the guise of keeping her close to him; keeping her sheltered from the world, lest people learn her true nature.

  If he hadn’t returned home early from his last convention, things might have been different. It sickened him to question it, for how many more near-misses had he experienced?

  A terrible sight had greeted him upon his return, for on his sofa was a man named Gauge. He was infamous in their small village. A prize-winning hunter, handsome benefactor of many local businesses, faithful husband to the mayor’s daughter. Amaury had been revolted enough by the sight of the naked man, covered only by a blanket, spread out on his chair before the fire. The initial horror that Isabelle had seduced him in his home, shamed herself, would have been better than the actuality. Amaury had bellowed at Gauge to get out.

  Gauge hadn’t moved.

  Hadn’t even flinched.

  The memory was etched into Amaury’s mind with painful clarity.

  The feel of Gauge’s cooling skin as he gripped his muscular shoulder, the way his head lolled backwards sickeningly as Amaury attempted to rouse him.

  Amaury had seen dead bodies before, it wasn’t that which bothered him.

  It was the look on Isabelle’s face when she had seen him.

  She had stepped in through the door, holding blankets to her chest, when her eyes fell on her father. Guilt. She had dropped to her knees, begged her father not to throw her out for her indiscretion. She had sobbed like her heart was breaking. It wasn’t the guilt of a woman w
ho had been caught in flagrante with a married man; there was no embarrassed flush on her cheeks, no shy female blush. Amaury interpreted that it was a much deeper guilt.

  “I didn’t want him here, Papa,” she had cried, clutching the blankets to her chest as if they were her only shelter from her shame. “He forced his way in, told me that I owed him. He’s been getting worse for weeks, I thought I could steer him away.”

  “What did you do Isabelle?” Amaury still stood behind the sofa, watching her. His voice was a whispered hiss as if somebody might stumble past their isolated manor house in the dead of night and hear them.

  “Nothing…I…he came in and-”

  “He is dead Isabelle!” Amaury exclaimed. Isabelle paled, her eyes widened, and finally she looked at the man sprawled on the sofa. Was there a chance that she hadn’t known? Amaury didn’t know anymore. Even her emotions could lie, her expressions carefully chosen to convey only shock and disbelief. Yet there was something in her eyes, something which made him doubt her.

  “No.” She shook her head, “no, he can’t be.”

  Amaury clenched his jaw, moved forward and grabbed the arm of his daughter. Pulling her to her feet, he dragged her from the sitting room and into the kitchen.

  “You did something. You need to tell me exactly what it was.” He watched his daughter; it was like a switch flipping. Isabelle could play emotions like instruments. Her ability was flawless, as soon as one-note failed to resonate, she switched to another. There was still devastation etched across her face, but the hysteria abated, and mortified morality took its place.

  “I didn’t want to compromise myself. I made Gauge a drink, and I slipped him something to make him drowsy. I thought he’d pass out in front of the fire and wake up in the morning. I swear Papa, I never meant to kill him. I must have made a mistake, I shouldn’t have done anything, I was just so scared.” Amaury must have looked uncertain, because she fell to her knees before him then, sobbing and begging for him to believe her. Could he?

  Something about those doleful brown eyes, her trembling pale skin, the curve of her heaving breasts; it curbed his anger, he felt himself softening. He caught himself and pulled away from her.