Chapter 29
“The Duergar are described as being of low stature, with short legs and long arms, reaching almost down to the ground when they stand erect. [c] They are skilful and expert workmen in gold, silver, iron, and the other metals.”
After searching Brimmond Woods for hours and stopping in the village of Fleuriste three separate times, I return to the manor unsuccessful.
I am pondering if I can station the soldiers at the manor and ride to Maudite Castle.
Perhaps Isabeau went there in search of her tonic.
Knowing it has an addictive nature makes that a real possibility. I could ride there and—
Isabeau is sleeping in her horse’s stall, curled up like a child in a calm dream. The sun is spilling across the sky, and the duke is nestled in the hay alongside her fearsome horse.
“Isa?” I walk closer to her. “Isabeau!”
Her eyes open as she jumps to her feet. She looks around. “You can’t be here. Where is the door? If anyone sees you in my room—”
“Stable,” I interrupt. “You are sleeping in the stable, not your room.”
For a long moment, Isabeau looks around again. This time, her face is a mask of confusion. “Why? How?” She backs away from me. “How did I get here? I went to the room, locked the door, and paced. I don’t know why I was awake so long.” A beatific smile blooms on her face. “I saw the stars.”
“Where were you?”
“I walked to the window and opened it to see the stars.” Isabeau frowns. “Then I opened the door and . . .” Her eyes widened. “How did I get here?”
“Do you remember anything else?” I step closer, wanting to comfort her.
Isabeau shakes her head. “I saw the stars and opened the window to taste the night air. The next thing I know I am in the stable. Did not having my tonic—”
“It’s a sleeping tonic. Poppy juice, valerian, Saint-John’s-wort .
. .” I take her hand. “I need to speak to the dowager duchess, Isabeau. The tonic is poison. I want to know where she gets it, why she gives it to you, and who cursed you. If there even is a curse . . . because the tonic is why you sleep.”
In a very quiet voice, Isabeau asks, “Am I not cursed then?”
“I suppose we can find out tonight.”
“But if the tonic is why I sleep, what is the curse?” Isabeau’s voice increases in volume. “The queen and my mother have said I was cursed.”
“I know.”
“What is my curse if not that I sleep like the quiet dead?” Isabeau looks at me. “What could be so horrific that they insist I sleep through it?”
I do not want to add to her fears, but when she says, “The murders started when I was cursed.”
“Yes.”
“Did the Beast of Brimmond curse me in some horrible way?” Her eyes are wide in panic. “What curses do we know? There was the one where everyone in the castle slept. Transfiguring everything you touch so you starve. Become a frog or toad or . . .” She looks at me, but her words die.
“There are as many curses as there are imaginations. We will know more about your situation when the sun falls.” I lace our fingers together. “I will stay with you. You will not take this new version of your tonic. That way you’ll stay awake, and we’ll see what happens.”
After a deep sigh, Isabeau says, “Ride with me to Maudite Castle?”
“I want to bring my family. The soldiers can come and watch them, but if I have no answers from the duchess, I need to go to the city. The queen knows more than she’s admitting.
If all else fails, I will go to Faerie and demand to speak to their queen about the beast and about whatever afflicts you.
I cannot allow the Beast of Brimmond to terrorize people, but the people with answers are not sharing them. ”
Isabeau nods. Her voice is rough as she declares, “I will accompany you or guard my future mother-in-law. Your choice, Hunter.”
I cannot believe she might be a monster.
She is still the person I knew as a child, wandering off staring at the nighttime sky.
My fears are getting the best of me. Isabeau being missing from her bed is not reason to think she is a beast. I was missing from mine, and I am not the Beast of Brimmond.
Humans do not turn into beasts, and even if they did, I’ve known Isabeau my whole life.
She holds steel weapons in hand. No faery in Alveus can do that.
She might not even be cursed at all, my heart adds. The whole thing could be a ruse to control her. I would not be surprised if the dowager duchess did such a thing.
Gently I tell Isabeau, “There will be pains if you don’t take the tonic. It’s addictive.”
“That’s probably why I wandered to the stable, seeking comfort or maybe thinking about trying to find you,” Isabeau muses.
“I can’t believe that my tonic has sleeping medicine!
Can you imagine if the curse is a lie some physician told my mother?
I was grieving and the additives to my tonic made me sleep. ”
I squeeze her hand. Although I have my suspicions, I cannot suggest that her mother is likely complicit in whatever duplicity this is—either to control Isabeau or to hide her secret. For now, I keep my silence.
Within the next hour, our group prepares to ride into Brimmond Wood. I am unaccustomed to traveling in a group. I am also uncomfortable with the thought that my beloved was missing in the dark of night.
I map security with my W?chter squadron.
“At all costs, my mother must be kept safe,” I tell Anders, Lowell, and Nolan.
Anders says, “The countess and Lady Rylan will—”
“Ry can fight as well as any of you.” I speak loudly, knowing that my sister and the other W?chter soldiers hear. “We’ve trained since we were old enough to hold a weapon. The duke has, as well. My mother is the priority.”
“Aye, Hunter.” Nolan sets off, barking commands and getting things in order.
As the group finishes preparation, Isabeau pauses at my side. “They all know you are the Hunter.”
“Yes, the W?chter knows. The queen has laws on which people may know.” I cannot allow myself to be affectionate with her right now.
“But not the duke who lives nearest the gate to Faerie? The queen’s niece?” Isabeau prods.
“You would have known in time. Your father did.”
“I have more questions, love.”
“And I will answer them, but not now. In private, I can be the person I want to be with you, but here . . . I am only the Hunter. The mission comes first. Always.” I make a gesture, circling my hand over my head, and the assembled group begins to ride out into the woods.
Though no one addresses it, I know I face three obstacles—the monster in the woods, the possible curse upon the duke, and the desire to keep all of my group safe. I feel like my goals are at odds.
Mother and Rylan are in a light post-chaise, a covered carriage that seats two riders.
Typically, a postboy would drive the carriage, but today one of the armed soldiers drives.
Within the carriage, Rylan is incredibly well armed, functioning as our mother’s personal guard.
I trust her above all others to protect our mother.
Isabeau and I are on horseback on either side of the carriage, and the eleven W?chter soldiers on horseback surround the group.
Three soldiers—including Anders—ride behind the carriage, two join Isabeau and me on each side, and three ride in the front as the tip of the spear.
All but Nolan are women. He is in the front.
At each side is a tried-and-true fighter. Even still, I worry. Anders and Nolan are reliable, as are Rylan and Isabeau. The other soldiers—selected by Anders, Lowell, and Nolan—are well trained, gazes attentive. The beast is smart, though, and Brimmond Wood is thick.
“Do you see anything?” Rylan asks, voice pitched low.
“No.”
“Hear anything?”
“Silence. More than I would like,” I admit. “As if . . . the forest is waiting.”
“Trust your instincts.” The countess glances at me before returning her gaze forward. She is tense, face pinched, but I am unsure whether it is the quick ride or the circumstances.
We’ve only traveled as far as the far side of the village when Anders raises an arm above her head and says, “Hunter?”
I bark orders quickly, “Halt. Hold your positions. Stay alert.”
I urge Clatterbuck forward, knowing without doubt that a dead body waits for me.
When I reach Anders, I feel a cold chill wash over me.
Seeing the dead is always hard, but the man half buried in the fallen leaves is not a stranger, and death hits harder when the dead are familiar.
A noise escapes me, even as I try to stifle it.
“Hunter?” Rylan asks. The single word is a blur of questions. Are you well? Do you need me? Twins do not actually share a secret language, but we have known how to communicate since we shared a womb.
I shake my head against the hot saliva filling my mouth. The scent of death is worse in the humid air. The mingled scent of death and decay make me need to pause. I can’t look back at the group as I say, “Girard.”
At first, I am stricken by the competing urge to send riders to the village and to not let a soul leave our side. Then, training takes over, pressing my emotions down deep.
I tell Anders, “Soldiers face outward. Eyes alert on the perimeter.”
Then: “Ry? Assist or guard?”
“Guard.” Rylan’s voice is steady. “Isa can assist you.”
“Nolan? Anything?”
“No, Hunter.” His voice is low and rough. “No motion.”
The other soldiers one by one echo, “Same.”
In the next moments, the soldiers reorganize themselves, and Isabeau walks toward me, hand outstretched with a vial. In her other hand is a steel box. “Your sister says that you need these to collect samples?”
I pause to notice that the steel does not hurt her. That ought to be a good sign, but I am sure of nothing today.
My heart insists, She cannot be a faery.
My logic points out that she vanished, and a man is dead.
“Ocular fluid. Wound blood. Skin samples. Any hair or plant matter.” I squat in the ferns, reciting my list.
As the soldiers stare outward, I know my mother undoubtedly watches me.
I begin gathering each sample, sealing the vials and dropping them into the box.
I do not think about the fact that the only man I have ever taken to bed is now a brutalized corpse.
I do not ponder the last words I said to him.
Angry words. I do not think about the fact that once, before lovers, we were friends.
I cannot be Gabrielle Fleuriste, woman, just now. I am the Hunter. I can be nothing else right now.
“Would you like soldiers to go to the village to have his remains taken to—”
“Victims of faeries do not have burials, Maudite.” I meet the duke’s eyes and wonder if I am staring at Girard’s killer. I cannot fathom how that could be true, but the seed of doubt lingers. “I need you to take the sample box to my sister.”
Isabeau holds out a hand as if to help me to my feet.
“You cannot touch me. I am possibly contaminated.”
“Salt,” Isabeau mutters. “The soldiers must have—”
“No need. Fire cleanses, too.” I motion for her to step backward.
Once she does, I grab a fallen branch and carve a fire break around the body.
It’s hasty and not as deep as I’d like, but the morning is still new enough that dew drops cling like diamonds across leaf and blossom.
The moss underfoot is spongy from either recent rain or morning dew.
In truth, there’s little chance of the fire spreading, and I am confident that I could smother it if the flames tried. Hunter’s magic is strange that way.
Trying not to meet Isabeau’s eyes, I hastily search Girard’s pockets for any clue I might find useful still. His pockets are empty. No jewelry marks his wrist, hand, or throat. Satisfied that I have missed nothing, I put the stick on him crossways like a sword.
“I wish you peace in the next world, my friend,” I whisper.
Then I spread my fingers, palm down, and speak the word for fire so quietly that only the mist can hear me.
It is enough. Flames burn like a small rosebud in my hand, spreading outward, searing hotter than any fire I’ve ever made through human means.
As I wait for him to burn, I bring my other hand forward and lock my thumbs together. The flames spread from one palm to the other, and the searing fire crawls over Girard’s body like a living thing.
No one speaks as I reduce a man to ashes.
When I stand, I walk to the carriage, where my sister pours salt water over my hands and offers me a rag. Our eyes meet, and every word that I need to hear is somehow there. I cannot break, not here, not now. The Beast of Brimmond has killed my father and my ex-lover, but I cannot weep.
I am the Hunter.
I turn and go to collect my horse. I refuse to look at Isabeau, certain I’ll find revulsion in her expression, and worried that she’ll see accusation in mine.
Did she kill him? I have no answer, and if my trust in her is responsible for his death, I think something inside me will be forever broken.
But when I turn, Isabeau pulls me into a fierce embrace, holding me tightly as if I have just fought a monster. “What do you need?”
“What?”
“How may I help you?” she asks.
“You held the sample box and—”
“Not with Hunter things. Your heart? What does it need?” Isabeau kisses my temple. “Your mind? What can I do to ease your sorrow?”
I pull back and stare up at her. “I just burned a man to ash.”
“He was dead. Possibly carrying sickness from whatever faery killed him,” Isabeau rebuts. “You are the Hunter, protecting the people of Alveus.”
“You aren’t repulsed?” I whisper.
“You protect the nation and shield us all with your calling. Let me protect you.” Isabeau strokes my cheek with her fingertips. And I feel like something inside me cracks open. Hope slips into the cracks like warm honey. I’d expected revulsion, and instead I find acceptance.
Please don’t be a monster, every part of me prays. Please don’t make me kill you.
I say nothing, though. I cannot, especially as I stand at the site of my friend’s death.
I cannot, especially as I am surrounded by soldiers.
Hunters do not protect monsters. But whether her curse is real and responsible or not, I feel a growing fear that Isabeau’s request that I kill the monster might be a worse fate than either of us yet knows.