Beastly Beauty

One

“I’m freezing my balls off,” grumbled Rodrigo. “Hungry as hell, too. What about you, boy?”

Beau didn’t reply. He couldn’t; his teeth were chattering too hard. Icy rain needled his face. It plastered his hair to his skull and dripped from his earlobes.

The storm had swept down upon the thieves as they’d ridden out of the merchant’s lands. It howled ferociously now, scouring the rocky hills around them, tangling itself in the branches of the bare black trees.

It seemed to Beau as if the thrashing limbs were warning them, waving them back. But back to what? They were lost. Riding with their heads bent against the driving rain, they’d missed the trail to the mountains. To the border. To safety.

Raphael was certain that if they just kept heading south, they’d find their way. A few more miles … a little bit farther … he kept saying. They’d passed ruined cottages, a deserted village. They’d ridden through dense woods and crossed a river, but still could not find the path.

Beau hunched down in his wet coat now, seeking comfort and warmth, but found neither.

“What’s the matter, Romeo? Missing Her Ladyship’s pretty smile?” Rodrigo asked. He was riding on Beau’s left.

“Look at him, melting in the rain like he was made of sugar!” taunted Miguel from Beau’s right. He leaned in close and grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “That pretty face is your fortune, but what happens if I carve it up, eh?” He pulled out his dagger.

“What happens is that Raphael carves you up, you fool, since my face is also hisfortune,” Beau replied.

“Poodle,” Miguel grumbled, sheathing his blade. “All you do is beg rich women for treats and kisses while we do the hard work.”

“Begging for treats and kisses is hard work,” Beau said.

He pictured his mistress now. Former mistress. She was older than he was, but not by much. Married to a man who only loved his money. She hadn’t given Beau this information; he was a thief—he’d stolen it. He’d taken the sorrow in her smile, the hunger in her eyes, the ache in her voice, and he’d used them. Just as she’d used him.

“Oh, you beautiful thing,” she’d whispered to him last night, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger.

He’d been standing in her bedchamber, looking at the books on her night table. His eyes had lit up when he’d seen Candide.

“I’ve read everything Voltaire’s written,” he said, turning to her excitedly, thinking he’d found a kindred spirit, someone—the only one—in his life he could talk to about a book. “Could I borrow this? Just for a day or two? I’m a fast reader.”

But his mistress had only laughed at him. “You’re just a servant, boy. I don’t pay you to read. Or talk,” she’d said, pulling the book from his hands. Then she’d tugged at the ribbon that bound his dark hair and caught her breath as it tumbled around his shoulders. A moment later, her lips were on his, and the things he’d wanted to say, the thoughts he’d wanted to share about books and ideas, turned to ashes on his tongue.

Beau pictured her face as she’d learned that her servant was gone, and her fine emerald ring with him, and remorse pinched him like a pair of borrowed boots. He fought it, telling himself that her husband was wealthy; he’d buy her another ring. He almost believed it.

The ring was nestled safely inside a slit he’d made behind a button on his jacket—a place where its contours couldn’t be felt. Raphael often patted them down after a job, all of them, and Beau had seen him beat a man bloody for keeping back a single coin. The ring would buy him the thing he wanted most: a way out. For himself, for Matteo.

The boy had been unwell the last time Beau had seen him, listless and pale, with a rackety cough. A fever. It will pass, Sister Maria-Theresa had said. Beau had written to her two weeks ago, to ask if his little brother was better, and just that afternoon he’d received a reply, but he’d tucked the letter inside his jacket unopened. There had been no time to read it. Not with the robbery planned for that very night.

“It’s not fair. I could be the inside man. Why not?” said Miguel, breaking into Beau’s thoughts, jutting his chin at him. “What does he have that I don’t have?”

“Teeth,” said Rodrigo.

“Hair,” said Antonio.

“A bar of soap,” said Beau.

Miguel threw him a venomous look. “I’ll get you, boy. When you least expect it. Then we’ll see who’s laughing. Then we’ll—”

“Shut up. Now.”

Raphael’s words fell across the men like the crack of a whip. He was several strides ahead of them, but Beau could still see him through the lashing rain—with his felted black hat, water dripping from its brim, and his sodden gray ponytail trailing down his back. His shoulders were tensed; his head was cocked.

An instant later, Beau heard it—the baying of hounds. Amar, his horse, danced nervously under him. The pack likely numbered a dozen or so, but the hills amplified their cries, making it sound as if there were a thousand.

“The sheriff’s men,” Rodrigo said tersely.

Raphael gave a grim nod and galloped off. Beau and the others followed. The wet ground made for treacherous footing and they had to work to keep their seats. The rain had let up, but a heavy mist was moving through the trees now. One minute, Beau could see the thief lord up ahead of him; the next minute he vanished.

Faster and faster the men rode, but the hounds still pursued them, their cries savage and bloodthirsty. Beau’s heart slammed against his ribs. Not now, he thought desperately. Not here. This was supposed to be his last job. Just a few more miles, and he’d be beyond the reach of sheriffs and jails and gallows. Beyond Raphael’s reach. Him and Matti both.

The baying grew louder. Amar’s nostrils flared. He surged ahead, trying to catch up to Raphael’s horse. Every second, Beau expected him to stumble over a fallen limb or break his leg in a ditch. He could see lather on the animal’s neck; he could hear him panting. They would have to surrender. The horses couldn’t keep going.

And then came a shriek that severed the night like a saber.

“Hold up!” Raphael shouted. “Nobody move!” It was his horse that had made the awful sound. He was rearing, his hooves slashing at the air. Beau, right behind him, only had a split second to halt Amar.

“Whoa! Whoa, boy!” he shouted, yanking on the reins. The bit caught; the horse stopped short, snapping Beau forward like a rag doll. He jammed his weight into his stirrups to keep from falling.

The others halted behind him, jostling, swearing, their hands on their weapons. Eyes searched for movement, but the mist blinded them. Ears strained for sounds, but the baying had stopped. All they could hear was the panting of their played out animals. They waited, hearts thumping, blood surging, bodies tensed for an attack, but none came.

Instead, the mist receded like a treacherous sea falling back from jagged rocks, and the men saw a cliff, high and sheer, sweeping down into nothingness. Raphael, perched at the very edge of it, had come within inches of an ugly death. Yet fear, if he’d felt any, had not lingered on his hard, scarred face. Instead, his features were fixed in a look of astonishment—a look that only deepened as the ebbing mist revealed what lay on the far side of the abyss.

Beau squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, but they were not playing tricks. He clearly saw the things around him—the mist, the men, their stamping horses. These things had all been there a moment ago.

But the castle had not.