Fifty-Three
Arabella was a nightmare come to life.
A silver skein of saliva dripped from her jaw. The velvet fur of her snout was furrowed; her lips were drawn back in a vicious snarl.
But it was her eyes that made Beau’s guts tighten. There was nothing there. No mercy, no pity. Just cold calculation. She was studying him, the way a wolf studies a stag to figure out the best way to bring it down.
Closer and closer she came, head low, eyes boring into Beau. Don’t bother running, they said. You won’t make it.
But Beau didn’t believe she’d attack him. Not until the very last second.
It was as if an invisible tether had snapped. She hurtled into him, snarling, teeth bared. He had just enough time to get his arm up and protect his throat. Her claws missed their target and slashed through cloth and skin instead, drawing blood. The impact sent Beau sprawling. As he hit the floor, the beast careened toward a wall, but with a predator’s sinewy agility, she managed to spin herself around before she hit it. Her eyes narrowed in fury; her ears flattened to her head. She readied herself to charge again.
Beau didn’t have time to get up before she was on him. “Arabella, it’s me … me …” he shouted, bracing his hands against her shoulders.
She lunged at him, teeth snapping only inches from his face. As he struggled to hold her off, he was dimly aware of voices around him. They were shouting at her. Valmont had an iron poker. Percival had grabbed a log from the stack near the fireplace. Beau heard Camille yelling, too. She’d snatched a carving knife from the table. They were all trying to help him, trying to draw her off.
“Stop, Arabella, please,” Beau rasped. “Before you kill me.”
His words did what shouts and weapons could not. With a roar not of anger now but anguish, Arabella backed away. For an instant, the human girl—scared and tormented—surfaced in the depths of the beast’s silver eyes.
Beau got to his feet. “It’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid,” he said.
Arabella hesitated. Beau could feel her listening to his words. He could feel her wanting to believe them. But then she shook herself, like a wolf shaking off water, and with a last, agonized roar, she was gone. Out of the great hall. Through the castle’s massive doors. And into a swirling snowstorm.
Beau, holding his wounded arm, watched her go. Then he turned to the others.
“Arabella is the beast? Arabella?” he asked, his voice raw.
Percival nodded.
Inside Beau, rage ignited. He strode up to Valmont. “You lying sack of—”
“Watch your mouth, boy,” Valmont warned.
“You owed me the truth!” Beau shouted, shoving him.
“I owed you nothing, thief,” Valmont spat, his hands tightening into fists.
“Stop it!” Camille shouted, getting between them.
Beau stepped back, shaking with fury. “Where did she go?” he asked Camille.
“To the forest. To the darkness,” she replied. “It’s dangerous when she turns. She barely knows herself, barely knows us. She’s lost now. Until morning nears. Until the light changes her back.”
Beau grabbed a napkin off the table and quickly tied it around his arm as a bandage, then he headed for the doorway.
“Where are you going?” Valmont demanded.
“To find her.”
And then he was gone, too, running down the long servants’ hallway to the kitchens. He stopped by the door to yank a heavy, hooded coat off a hook and snatch a pair of gloves out of a basket. He grabbed a lantern burning atop a table, then he stepped outside. The storm wolf howled down as if it had been lying in wait for him. The wind tore at his clothing. The snow blinded him.
He took a few steps, shielding the lantern as best he could.
Before the storm wolf closed in, and swallowed him whole.