Beastly Beauty

Fifty-Six

The pack moved out of the trees. They looked like shadows in the lantern’s weak light. Their leader advanced toward Beau in a crouch. The others fanned out, surrounding him.

Beau knew he was in serious trouble. He’d run out of the castle and into the forest armed only with his anger. It was an unforgivably stupid move. If he died out here, Matti died, too. He turned in a circle, stamping his feet, swinging his lantern, yelling, trying to make himself look bigger than he was, but the wolves kept coming, closing in, tightening the noose.

He never saw the silver one. He only heard the creature’s feet, whispering through the snow behind him in the instant before it sprang.

The impact knocked Beau to his knees. He dropped his lantern; it hissed out in the snow. He struck at the silver wolf, and the creature backed away. The darkness emboldened the others, though. One ventured close and lunged. Beau saw it coming out of the corner of his eye, kicked at it, and felt his boot connect with its snout. It yipped and fell back. A third loped forward and snapped at his shoulder, but he moved, and it missed his flesh, burying its teeth into the cloth of his coat instead. He was yanked sideways. His arms flailed above his head. The silver wolf saw another opening and lunged for Beau’s belly but missed its mark and sank its teeth into his leg.

Beau bellowed in pain. He battered the wolf with his fists, but it wouldn’t let go. He heard snarling, snapping, and then a roar so loud and full of fury, it shook the snow from the pine boughs. Were the wolves fighting one another now? He could see so little in the darkness, but he heard the leader howl loudly, and an instant later the silver wolf released him and retreated into the shadows with the rest of its pack.

Beau flopped back into the snow, his breathing ragged. Blood from his wound ran into the whiteness, weakening him. It looked as if he were lying in a field of crimson poppies, misshapen and obscene. He didn’t know why the wolves had run off, but he knew he had to get back to the castle before he lost more blood. Already the cold night was stiffening his limbs. It would creep into his torso next and turn his heart to ice.

He tried to drag himself up into a sitting position, but a sickening bout of dizziness caught him and pulled him back down. He stared up at the sky, hoping to find a star to focus on, so he could stop the horrible spinning in his head. Instead, images whirled together in his brain, in a blur of color and sound.

He saw a winding city street. A nun, her head bent, a rosary twined in her fingers. He heard the sound of a wet, hitching cough. A church bell ringing.

“Get up, get up, you useless bastard,” he rasped, his voice breaking.

But he couldn’t. His body had been through too much. His strength was seeping out of him, along with his blood. Tears leaked from his eyes. He had time to whisper a few last words to the sky before the darkness closed in.

“I’m sorry, Matti … I’m so, so sorry.”