Fifty-Two
“I’m not leaving you. I won’t let it hurt you. Take my hand, Arabella.”
But Arabella’s gaze was inward now. She seemed to not even hear Beau. He started toward her, determined to get her out of harm’s way, but before he’d taken three steps, she cried out, then doubled over.
“Arabella, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t touch her!” a voice boomed from behind him.
Beau whirled around; it was Valmont. He barreled toward Beau, reaching for the iron ring at his hip, and fumbled a skeleton key off it. Percival was close on his heels. Their faces were pictures of barely contained terror.
“Something happened to her … she’s hurt,” Beau said.
“Get away from her,” Percival commanded.
Beau was shocked by his callousness. “But she’s in pain!”
“Leave, you fool!” Valmont thundered. He pressed the key into Beau’s hand. “Get to your room. Now. Lock yourself in.”
“I’m not going anywhere! She needs help!” Beau shouted. “Look at her!”
Arabella had sunk to her knees, keening. She was in agony.
Valmont grabbed Beau by the back of his jacket, strong-armed him to the doorway, and threw him into the entry hall. Beau stumbled, caught himself on the edge of a table, then turned and ran back, but the doors slammed shut on him.
“Yeah, Monty? You think so?” he said.
He ran up the broad stone staircase, sprinted across a landing, veered through a narrow corridor, and hurtled down the servants’ stairs into the kitchen. A moment later, he was striding back into the great hall, fury snapping in his eyes.
“Beau, no!” Percival shouted, rushing at him.
But Beau, agile as a panther, ducked him. He ran to the pitiful figure, now crumpled in a dark corner. “Arabella, talkto me,” he demanded, taking hold of her arm. “What’s going—”
A rolling scream of pain and rage ripped through the air, and the next thing Beau knew, he was lying on his back, his head throbbing where it had smacked against the stone floor. He pushed himself up and looked around. Arabella had flung him clear across the room.
“Why … how …” he mumbled, dazed.
“Stand up, Beau. Slowly. Very, very slowly. Then walk back to the kitchen and hide. It’s your only chance,” Valmont said quietly.
“Arabella,” Beau said, ignoring him. “Talk to me. Please.”
A growl rose, and then Arabella emerged from the darkness slowly, deliberately, like a stalking predator. Horror seized Beau as he met her gaze. Her eyes had grown round, the pupils impossibly large. Her canine teeth had lengthened into powerful, curved fangs that shone whitely against her darkening lips.
Her hand shot out and wrapped around the back of a chair. Only it was not a hand; it was a furred paw, tipped with knifelike claws. Her clothing was gone; it lay in shreds behind her. Thick fur covered her body, and though she stood on two legs, her back was arched, and her limbs bent.
As the last stroke of midnight echoed and died, Beau raised his eyes to hers, to the woman he had just held in his arms, and found himself staring into the face of the beast.