Beastly Beauty

Six

No one, not even God, can teach a man to pray like fear can.

As Beau shot out of the great hall, he prayed to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of thieves. He prayed to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.

He prayed for speed. He prayed that the outer doors would still be open. He prayed that he would get to them before the beast got to him. But the saints weren’t listening. He was running so fast, he didn’t see the carpet in the entry hall, bunched up by scuffling feet. His toe caught against it. He tripped and hit the floor hard. Pain lit up every nerve in his body. As he lay there, his eyes closed, his breath coming in short, hot gasps, two words thrummed like a drumbeat in his head … get up, get up, get up, get up …

With a wrenching groan, Beau forced himself to his knees. The sound of the beast pounding across the floor behind him got him to his feet.

“Please don’t be locked, please, please, please don’t be locked …” he panted as he stumbled through the dark hall. He nearly melted with relief as he reached the doors and saw that one was ajar. He heaved himself across the threshold and slammed the door shut, hoping to stop the beast or at least slow it, but as he turned away from the castle his stomach dropped. The courtyard was empty; the thieves were gone, the horses, too.

Then a movement caught his eye. A dozen or so men, mounted on their stamping, anxious animals, were bottlenecked at the gatehouse. They were shouting and shoving, each trying to get ahead of the other. Beau didn’t understand why. The archway was wide. They’d ridden through it two abreast on their way into the courtyard. Had they not been able to raise the portcullis?

“Wait!” he shouted. “Wait for me!” But no one heard him; he was too far away.

I can make it to them, he thought, breaking into a stiff, shambling trot. His eyes scanned the crowd for a riderless horse, for Amar, but he couldn’t see him. And then he did—the animal was tethered to Miguel’s horse.

Miguel’s threat echoed back to him. I’ll get you, boy. When you least expect it. Then we’ll see who’s laughing …

Dread drove a spike through Beau’s heart. Miguel had seen his chance to make good on his threat and he’d taken it. He never planned to come back. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

Beau ran now, ignoring his pain, arms knifing through the air, legs pistoning. He had to get to the thieves before they crossed the bridge. Once they were on the other side, they’d gallop off into the woods and he’d never catch up to them. He was halfway across the courtyard when Miguel disappeared through the archway. Only two men remained outside the gatehouse now.

“Wait!” Beau bellowed at them. “Carlos … Tonio, wait!”

Antonio nudged his horse forward. Carlos turned around in his saddle. His eyes found Beau; he motioned at him to hurry, but then his gaze abruptly shifted to something behind Beau and the blood drained from his face. “Run, boy! Run!” he shouted, kicking his horse. The animal charged through the arch.

Beau risked a look back and his guts turned to water. The monster was in the courtyard. It was running, too. And it was faster. As they locked eyes, it let out an earsplitting roar. The high stone walls caught the sound and amplified it.

Beau knew he had only seconds left in which to live or die. He reached the gatehouse, only to discover what had caused the bottleneck—not the portcullis, that was up, but the old bridge. It was crumbling under the thundering weight of the horses. Huge chunks of it were already gone, swallowed up by the moat. The frightened animals were charging over the remains, their ears flat to their heads, their eyes wild.

Beau knew he had to get across. Now. He took a deep breath, then took a careful step onto the teetering structure, his arms outstretched like a tightrope walker’s.

Up ahead, Carlos and his horse neared the far bank; they were only a few yards away from it when what was left of the bridge lurched sickeningly. The boards in front of the animal heaved up, then tumbled end over end into the moat. The terrified horse let out a shrill whinny, tensed his back legs, and jumped. His front hooves found the grassy bank; his back hooves scrabbled at loose rock, then miraculously found purchase. As he reached flat ground, Carlos turned in his saddle.

“Run, Beau! Run, you bastard, run!” he shouted.

Groans from the ancient bridge crescendoed to a death cry as what was left of the deck trembled and swayed. Beau grabbed for the railing, but it fell away under his hand, spiraling down into the black water. The boards under his feet bucked and splintered, throwing him off-balance. Windmilling frantically, he toppled onto his rear end, then scrabbled backward. He managed to heave himself onto the gatehouse’s threshold just as the bridge crumbled completely.

There, he watched in stunned horror as the last boards fell into the moat, raising geysers of water, then he lifted his eyes to the far bank, telling himself that the men there—men he’d lived with for years, men he’d called family—would help him. He told himself that they’d push a downed tree across the moat. Or somehow throw him a rope. And for a long, desperate moment, he believed it. Until Antonio made the sign of the cross. Until Miguel gave him the finger. Until Raphael said, “Get up, boy. Die on your feet like a man.” He watched, feeling sick, as they slowly turned their horses away. As the trees closed around them. Then he stood and walked back through the gatehouse.

The beast was waiting for him in the courtyard. Torchlight danced in its cruel eyes. Did it want him to run? To make the hunt more exciting? He would not. He took a few steps in its direction, then stopped.

Die on your feet like a man …

But he wasn’t going to die. He couldn’t die. Because if he did, Matti died, too. He was all the boy had.

Beau knew what to do. He would draw the creature near, then go for its throat with his bare hands. He needed courage and a little luck. He would only get one chance.

“Come on …” he whispered.

The creature started toward him. Beau caught its killer’s gaze and held it. Nearer and nearer it came, until it was only a few feet away.

Closer, he silently urged. Closer …

The creature leaned toward him, drawing in his scent. Beau refused to give it the thrill of his fear. He didn’t flinch; he didn’t blink. He knew where it would strike. Somewhere soft and unprotected. His neck. His belly. He had to strike first, before his blood sprayed across the cobblestones and his guts hit his boots.

But the monster chose a different place—a hard and armored place, one covered in a cage of bone.

It reached out an arm and placed a clawed hand on Beau’s chest. He had not expected that, and for a few seconds, he froze. Only his heart moved, slamming against his ribs, beating out the rhythm of his terror. The monster could feel it. Its claws tightened, piercing his clothing and his skin, digging in, as if it would tear his heart out. The creature’s ears flattened. Its black lips drew back.

Now, Beau told himself. Do it. Do it now!

He drove his hands upward, aiming for the monster’s neck, hoping to smash its windpipe. He was quick, the strike was strong and well-aimed, and had it hit its mark, it would’ve done damage—but once again, the creature was quicker. It saw the strike coming.

Beau heard a scream of rage. He felt claws sink into him. Felt his feet leave the ground and his body fly through the air.

Then his vision exploded in a blaze of white.

And he felt nothing at all.