Bastien Read online

  “Your name is Bastien Sauvage,” he says. “You are the master of this castle.”

  “No!”

  Jacques flinches but doesn’t retreat. “I know you are afraid. There is no need. We all know you. We know you would not harm us. Please, let us help.”

  “Can you ... save me?”

  Sadness. It weighs heavily on Jacques and the creature, too. “I’m afraid not.”

  I am a beast. The shining female called him that, so it must be true. His name is Beast. And he cannot be saved. He tears into his chest with sharp claws, throws his massive head back and howls. Far in the distance, in the deep woods that smell of darkness and mystery, a pack of wolves answer his wretched cry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Despite Jacques’ soft tones and reassurances, the Beast will not be coaxed out of the darkness. He can hear the others far below, arguing, weeping. They are terrified. Half of them want to run and the other half is ready to take up pitchforks and kill the Beast.

  Finally, Jacques relents and seeks out the others to tell them what happened. Jacques knows so much that the Beast is sure the man must have seen it happen, for even he doesn’t remember some of it. The butler tells them the enchantress cursed them all. They don’t believe him.

  Jacques sends a young boy to fetch Monsieur Lafarge. More people? Aren’t there enough already? The Beast stops listening. He cautiously comes out of hiding and stalks the chamber. It is somehow familiar to him, but he can’t be certain he’s been here before. It feels like his lair, smells familiar enough, but nothing looks as it should. So much he has forgotten. Jacques called him Bastien.

  There is a portrait of a man on the wall with a plaque which reads that name. He is handsome, with golden hair and a smartly cut coat. But his eyes are cold and hard, and the smile on his face is a mocking smirk.

  The Beast turns away from it and goes searching for more. He finds clothing tailored to a man, much too small for him, yet the fabrics match the tatters still hanging on his frame. Could they have belonged to him?

  The balcony is closed. He fumbles with the latch as gently as he can to open the door. The delicate hook breaks off in his claws, but the door opens and he can step out into the night. From here, he can see the forest surrounding this castle as well as lights in the distance, a village of some sort.

  Fauve. Yes, that is the name of it. The village of Fauve. And he remembers, too, that a Monsieur Lafarge lives on the other side of it. He used to know the man’s given name as well.

  Lars? Louis. That’s it. They are friends... or used to be.

  Memories flit like ghosts across his mind. They come slowly as the night passes him by. He doesn’t want to sleep, too afraid of what he might see in his dreams, but all too soon exhaustion claims him and he is plunged into a life that used to be his.

  It’s a nightmare. The Beast sees as though through the eyes of another. It must be another; some demon crawled up from the pits of hell. No man could be so cruel and heartless. Yet even as he denies his own past, he knows every detail to be true and it horrifies him.

  When he sees the enchantress, a matchless beauty clad in mist, beckoning to him, when he feels his treacherous body respond to her, he wakes with a roar. Blinded with fury, he lashes out at everything in sight. He shreds the bed to pieces with hardly a blink. The armoire breaks apart, the glittering bottles of liquor shatter all around. The Beast tears clothing into ribbons and then sinks his claws into the source of his misery—the portrait. Ripping that smug face off the canvas brings him little satisfaction.

  He collapses to the floor, breathing so hard he is growling without meaning to, and sees something red beneath a fall of tattered bedding. It stirs another kind of memory. He pads over to it and with a single claw draws out a card. It is a rose, with the word Strength written above it.

  “Well, my boy. It would seem I was right.”

  The Beast turns his head toward the voice. He didn’t hear the man enter, yet there he is.

  Louis Lafarge, his once oldest friend. His eyes are wide as he beholds what the Beast has become, but he does not fear. The Beast slides the Strength card back out of sight. “Have you come to gloat?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?”

  The Beast growls.

  “Come on, then, let’s see what we can do to make you more presentable.”

  The bathing room is attached to these chambers, just off the anteroom. There are mirrors in there so large the Beast can see the whole of himself. “I am a monster,” he says.

  His bulk is easily twice as big as any man. His jaws could crush a skull with ease. He has a short snout, but massive fangs. A lion’s mane, but the torso of an animal used to throwing its weight around. His front paws have an almost opposable thumb—he can grasp things, but with difficulty—and his claws don’t retract. His hind legs and paws are just wide enough that he can stand on twos, but his sheer size makes that the least favorable position. There is a tail, too. Not short, nor long, somewhere between a panther and a fox. The wicked Faery has turned him into a mismatched puzzle of animal parts covered in golden fur, with just enough humanity to make him the stuff of nightmares.

  “Yes, you are,” Louis says. “Some might say you always were.”

  The Beast drops his gaze.

  “Will you tell me what’s happened? Do you even remember? Jacques seems to think your memory was affected by the spell.”

  “I remember,” the Beast says. But he doesn’t tell. Caution keeps him silent; he doesn’t want Louis to know about the rose.

  “Very well, then.” Louis calls for servants to bring hot water and a tailor to clothe the Beast.

  He remains in the room while they work, an unspoken assurance that the overlarge monster is harmless. They still fear him. They can see what he did to his own chambers.

  Jacques is there, too. He tells Louis about the spell, that all of the castle and its inhabitants are affected by it. He says several servants have tried to leave already but were somehow...

  prevented from crossing the gates.

  “But the boy got through,” Louis says.

  “It would appear so,” Jacques replies.

  “The boy returned,” the Beast says. “The others would not have.”

  “Could it really be that simple?” Jacques asks.

  “Despicably simple, if it’s true. A clever little spell,” Louis says. “You can leave so long as you intend to return. If not, you are bound to the castle grounds. A lovely gilded chain she put on the lot of you.”

  “What if one leaves with the intention of returning and somewhere along the way changes his mind?” Jacques muses.

  Louis shrugs. “I would imagine in such a case the curse would somehow compel him to come back.” He chuckles. “The cruelty of it is... almost fitting.”

  The Beast hangs his head. He can’t look at them anymore. Because of his mistakes, and everything else he did with calculated intent, everyone in this castle must suffer with him.

  “Except it’s not, is it?” Louis says, watching him closely. “Bastien, tell me about the last woman you fucked.”

  The Beast snarls at him. “What your tongue!”

  Louis’ eyes grow wide again. “Bastien would have told me. He would have boasted and described every last detail.” He exhales a breath of stunned wonder. “Sweet God above, it’s not you at all.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The servants decide the only way to break the curse is to kill the Beast. It only takes them a week to rack up their courage. They chase him out of the castle and into the snowy garden. He is more certain out of doors. In the middle of the garden he turns on them and roars at the top of his massive lungs. Those at the front of the mob fall back and one man impales himself on a spear.

  All of them stop in shock and horror. They watch the spear be pulled from the dying man, watch his blood soak the snow, and do nothing as he gasps for breath. Then he stops breathing all together.

  “You monster!” a woman
screams at the Beast. She throws a rock at him. More follow, trying to chase him off. They throw anything they can get their hands on—his own people trying so hard to kill him without getting too close to his fangs.

  A large rock strikes his head, drawing blood. A pitchfork embeds itself in his hide, just deep enough to stick. He barely moves in time to avoid a spear aimed directly at his heart. The Beast roars again, hoping to frighten them away but the assault continues, edging him farther from the castle and he can do nothing without harming them.

  He’s about to run for the woods when one man shouts, “Wait!” It’s loud enough to make all of them stop. “Look!” He’s crouched next to the fallen servant. Before their very eyes, the dead man breathes a sigh and sits up, rubbing his chest. It’s miraculously whole and unharmed.

  Not a sound comes from the stunned mob that just moments ago nearly drove the Beast into the woods for good. Not one of them sees or cares when he pulls the pitchfork out of his hide and retreats into the castle.

  This is how the inhabitants of the Beast’s castle discover that one affected by the curse cannot break it. It means he can’t even kill himself to be free of it. Lilith said, “Find someone to love now, Beast, or stay this way forever.” Apparently, forever would be too short a time if one was allowed to die. The Faery princess gave the Beast and all his servants the one thing Louis coveted so much. Immortality.

  Now, as evening turns to night, Jacques is the one who brings the Beast supper. The others, though resigned to their fate, refuse to come near him.

  At least he doesn’t have to suffer the indignity of having them see his struggles to feed himself. It is difficult for the Beast to grasp utensils. He drinks his soup and eats meat and potatoes with his bare claws.

  The two speak little while the Beast eats. Then Jacques says, “The others will come around.”

  “You said that before. What will they bring next? Axes and bows? Hunting dogs?”

  “They’re scared. Rightly so. Because of your… because of the Lord’s carelessness they are trapped in here, quite possibly forever.”

  “As am I,” he growls irritably, but immediately ducks his head in shame. “I didn’t mean …”

  Jacques waves the comment aside. “It’s obvious that only love will break the spell. And you can’t be seen outside, so the solution is perfectly clear. We must help you.”

  The Beast laughs.

  “If we want to be free—”

  “What do you suggest? Will you be sending errand boys to Fauve to fetch me young maidens to terrify? There isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t run screaming at the sight of me.”

  “You must have hope, Master.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “As I recall, you said not to call you Lord. You are not Bastien and I will not call you Beast, Master.”

  The Beast scowls but can think of nothing to counter that. “Hope,” he says instead, thinking of the rose. There is something about it he’s forgetting. “Yes, just enough to torment me for the rest of ever.”

  Jacques clears the empty tray. “If that is what you wish to believe, Master. In my humble opinion, a monster’s visage over a good heart is always better than a pretty face with no heart at all.” By the door, he pauses. “The Lord wondered once why the servants were so cold. It’s not because of the man he was. It’s because we knew the man he could be. I believe I see that man in you now. The others will too, soon enough.”

  The Beast huffs.

  “Then again,” Jacques add, “the moon is full tomorrow night. Perhaps we shall see another side of you all together.” Despite his good natured smile, his words send a chill up the Beast’s spine. He rushes to the windows to seek the moon. Sure enough, only a minuscule sliver of shadow obscures its round face.

  The Beast doesn’t sleep a wink that night.

  As soon as morning dawns, he goes in search of the servants. Many cower at the sight of him. He has to corner three of them and growl them into silence for them to listen to his demands.

  “Bring me chains,” he says. “As thick as you can find, as many as you can spare or buy.”

  “Master,” one of them says, “is something the matter?’

  He doesn’t know, but a deep sense of foreboding makes him restless throughout the day.

  Jacques watches him curiously as he paces the gardens in the snow. The Beast shakes himself off every once in a while, but the flakes stick to his fur too well. Five men lug chains into the castle, up the stairs to his chambers. There’s not enough time to secure them to the wall. He must hope that there are enough, heavy enough to restrain him, should he somehow lose control of himself.

  Terrible visions of blood and bodies torn apart haunt him until supper time. He has no stomach for what’s on his plate and sends it back with his apologies. The servants are made even more nervous. They’re already locked in their rooms, no doubt barricaded in to be safe. If they could leave, they would.

  Only Jacques seems unconcerned by any of this. He goes about his duties as if this is just another day and nothing is out of the ordinary. While the Beast watches the sun dip lower with every minute, Jacques hums a tune to himself as he arranges the horse combs on the new armoire.

  When he cannot wait any longer, the Beast loops the chains around himself as best he can.

  They are so tangled and convoluted he will need help getting out of them come morning, but hopefully they will keep him restrained in the night. Once he’s sufficiently weighed down and can’t move, he asks Jacques to add more.

  With a shake of his head, the man obeys, and then sits in an armchair, tapping his foot in a merry rhythm as the sun sets.

  For a few moments, the sky retains some of its luminescence. Then even that is gone.

  Jacques smiles. He opens his mouth to say something when a horrible wail splits the air.

  The Beast roars, his body crushing in on itself, tearing apart and growing back together, smaller, so small he can’t breathe. His head feels as though it’s exploding. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear himself screaming for help. He can see flashes of Jacques staring at him in horror. Run! he wants to tell the man but can’t form the word. Death, that eyeless skull draped in a black, hooded cape, wraps its hands around the Beast’s throat. He is dying.

  Then everything stops.

  Incessant ringing echoes all around in the absolute darkness. One eye opens, then the other.

  The chains are crushing, but they are loose, easy to slip out of. A hand free, then the other. Every muscle aches and twitches, but works.

  Wait... hand?

  Yes. And one more. And a chest, arms, legs. A face! Laughter rings out loud and clear, so sweet because it is human. “I’m back!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “My... my Lord?”

  I laugh at the look on Jacques’ face. “So much for the Faery curse, eh?” My joyous bellow echoes in the chamber. I feel so alive my lungs are bursting. I strip out of the clothes too big for me and search for my old things while my butler stares. “What happened to my goddamn wardrobe?” All I find is a worn pair of brown breeches and a torn peasant shirt. I can’t think of why I would even own things like this unless it was for some lurid masquerade, but they will have to do. I don’t require the height of fashion, just something that will keep me decently covered until I take it off again.

  Why is Jacques so quiet?

  “Have you gone deaf? I asked you a question.”

  The man pales.

  “Speak!”

  Jacques pulls back his shoulders and puts on his most stern face. “I believe your clothes were destroyed… my Lord.”

  “Have them fixed. Better yet, I want new everything.” Luckily it seems my boots survived whatever tantrum took place here. I shove my feet into them, impatient to be out of here.

  “Are you going out, my Lord?”

  I pause at the door. Why is he saying my name that way? “Is that any of your business?” I am alive, I am free, and I am abo
ut to overindulge in every vice known to man.

  Jacques stands even straighter. “No, my Lord.”

  I take three steps back to him and lift him by his lapels. “Then the next time you feel the urge to ask,” I say, nose to nose with him, “don’t.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Jacques says stiffly. There is that tone again.

  I release him with a shove and run down the stairs, straight to the stables. I mount my horse bareback and ride out hard in Louis’ direction. The night is rife for sin of the sweetest kind and there is no one I would rather drag into it with me than Louis Lafarge.

  I almost break down his door in my haste. He almost knocks over his dinner table at the sight of me. I laugh at the look on his face. “What are you doing dining here alone?” I ask.

  “Bastien? How...?”

  I grasp his shoulders and shake him. “The night is young, and I am hungry. So stop dawdling and let’s go!”

  He fires questions at me which I have no intention of answering. I don’t care. I don’t care what happened to the Beast, or how I came to be myself again. I don’t care what the mopey bastard did since Lilith’s curse. I only care that I am free and the cold is biting. I ride straight to the brothel and spill a pouch of coin into the purveyor’s lap.

  A patron objects when I pluck his entertainer from his lap, but I silence him with a quick clip on the jaw. “You,” I drawl to the woman with a lusty grin. I look around the chamber, heartily amused at the shocked expressions on each and every face, and point out my selection.

  “You, and you. Oh, most definitely you.” Free or not, all of the women stop what they’re doing and come to me. It must be the bulge of my pants luring them. Within moments Louis and I are surrounded by drink and women eager to warm us from the cold.

  I drink deep and fuck hard until my body is heavy with pleasurable exhaustion. Multiple sets of hands roam over me. Tongues lave at me, mouths suck on me, and I laugh at the absolute rightness of it all. I am back, and more alive than ever.