Sixty-Nine
Beau didn’t mean to fall asleep.
It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t pushed himself so hard. If he hadn’t been so weary. And hungry. And cold. And stubborn.
He’d sat down close to the small fire he’d built on the gatehouse’s floor and leaned back against the wall, meaning to close his eyes for just a few minutes.
Two hours later, he’d fallen so far down the black well of sleep that he didn’t hear the chimes of the golden clock carry faintly across the courtyard as they struck the hour—midnight.
It was a soft, dry crunch that woke him. The sound of footfalls on dead leaves.
His eyes snapped open and instinct kicked in. He was instantly alert, every sense prickling with alarm. He looked around but could see no one. Had he only imagined the sound? His fire had burned down; just a few embers were left. Time had passed … how much? His eyes flicked to the archway. Snow raked the darkness. A sickening plunge in his belly told him that it was too late. He should have left the gatehouse hours ago. He should have made his way to the safety of the stables and locked the door.
Calm down, toddler, he silently told himself. There’s no one here but you.
And then he saw the glow of the embers reflected in a pair of silver eyes and realized he was wrong. She was there, on the other side of the gatehouse, crouched in the shadows.
For the briefest second, he thought about bolting, but knew he could never outrun her.
His eyes darted around, searching for something he could use as a weapon. But the hammer … the saw … the planks … they were too far away. He didn’t even think about shouting for help. It was pointless. No one would hear him.
He was alone with the beast.
And utterly defenseless.