Beastly Beauty

Eighty-Five

Beau felt as if he’d been skinned alive.

The water in the moat was so cold, it flayed every nerve in his body. He’d hit feet-first, plunged deep down, then pushed himself back up and broke the surface screaming.

Swim, damn you, swim!his brain shouted, desperate to get his body out of the water.

Something else in the moat wanted to kill him, too. Beau heard them, bobbing up through the icy gray slurry, growling and gurgling.

The undead didn’t mind the cold. They felt Beau’s frantic thrashing movements and heaved themselves toward him. In no time, they’d surrounded him. He managed to push his way through the frothing scrum, but then one of them grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged him down. Heart hammering with terror, he swam harder, fighting to keep his head above water, but more of the creatures crowded in upon him. He got one last gulping lungful of air before the monster gripping him pulled him under.

Beau struggled to break its grip but couldn’t. His lungs were bursting. Bright lights were exploding like fireworks behind his eyes. Pushed far past its limits, his body began to give out. His hands raked through the water, fingers scrabbling helplessly for the vines, but they were too far away. The fireworks started to dim. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. Any second now, his lungs would convulse, forcing him to inhale the turbid water.

He prayed to the saints to make his death a quick one, but the saints weren’t listening. Or perhaps they were. Perhaps they had been all along. Because something hard hit him in the head. He jerked around and saw what it was—a board from the ruined bridge. He grabbed hold of it and, with the last of his strength, drove it into his attacker’s face. There was a sickening crunch as the monster’s skull gave way. Beau felt its grip slacken, saw it sink through the water. He kicked his legs hard and surfaced, gasping for air, turning in a circle, trying to locate the wall. More moat men lunged for him. He drove the board into the torso of the nearest one, shoving the creature out of his way, then whacked another so hard, his head flew off his neck. Bit by bit he made his way to the wall, jabbing and thrusting at the monsters, until at last the vines were in reach.

Just as Beau grasped one, though, another monster surfaced, only inches from his face. Its skull was covered in green slime. Gnarled black vines twined up through its gaping mouth and spread across its face in a web. Its bony fingers clutched at Beau, but he soon saw that it could do little more than claw his clothing, for more vines, snaking through its rib cage, tethered it to the wall.

“Excuse me, friend,” he said as he started to pull himself out of the water.

One foot sunk itself into a V between two vines, another found a toehold in the crumbling stone. Inch by painful inch, Beau made his way up the castle wall, willing his numb fingers to hold on to the vines.

Finally, he reached the dangling chain. The frozen metal burned his hands as he grabbed it. Ignoring the pain, he planted his feet on the stone wall and leaned his weight into them, then pulled himself up the chain hand over hand. Halfway up, a fit of shivering seized his body. It was so violent, he thought it would peel him off the wall. He waited, eyes closed, until it was over. Then he made his way to the archway and grasped the iron ring.

Now came the hard part. The ring was several inches to the left of the threshold, and there was nothing inside the archway he could use to pull himself over it. If he wasn’t careful, he would lose his balance and fall back into the moat. Steadying himself, he put his right foot on the threshold, and his right hand flat against the arch’s inside wall. Then he started rocking his body left to right, faster and faster, until he’d built up momentum. With a guttural yell, he let go of the ring and pitched himself sideways. His right foot caught his weight and pivoted him into the gatehouse.

He stumbled but caught himself. Blood was seeping from the knee he’d gashed when he’d fallen into the stream, but he didn’t even notice. He’d made it.

Night had descended, and as he staggered out of the gatehouse and across the courtyard, he saw fires burning in the torches at either side of the castle’s doors, just as they had when he’d first come here. Terror tightened his ribs around his heart. He’d just made his way through a blinding snowstorm, had barely avoided freezing to death and then drowning, but these things were nothing compared to the fear he felt now—a fear that he was too late to save Arabella.

When Beau had first seen the clockmaker, he’d had the unshakable feeling that he’d met him before, but he didn’t know when or where.

Now he did.

The first time the clockmaker had come to visit, he’d come dressed as an undertaker. He’d lifted Beau’s mother’s lifeless body from her deathbed, though Beau had begged him not to.

The second visit occurred a year later. The clockmaker had been one of the men who’d pulled his father’s corpse from the river.

The third time happened when he was lying in a dirty alley with a knife sticking out of his chest. The clockmaker had knelt down by him, but Raphael had snatched Beau away. Now the clockmaker wanted Arabella.

Though Beau was half-dead himself, he made it to the castle doors.

The three times the clockmaker had come to call, Beau had been a boy.

This time, he was a man.

And this time, he would fight him.