A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  Finally the carbine came free. The jerk of motion nearly knocked her from the saddle, but she grabbed her horse’s mane and held on hard.

  Righting herself, Babette banked her horse to the side and reined it in. The creature whinnied at being denied the chase, but it obeyed. Ahead, the deer kept running, no doubt entertaining some illusionary hope of escape.

  Babette raised the carbine and fired, just as Korbinian had taught her. The deer jerked, stumbled, and fell, pierced in the chest. Babette kicked her horse and hurried across the field to where the deer lay.

  It was not dead—far from it, indeed. It thrashed about, trying to stand again that it might yet escape. Babette tilted her head and watched it with a sort of dread interest. How strange to see the weaker animal struggling for survival. How cold and detached the sensation, far removed from the delicious bloodlust of the chase.

  Korbinian rode up alongside her and drew his rifle. It was a peculiar repeating weapon from America, a “Volcanic” as he called it. Babette watched as Korbinian took aim at the hapless deer and shot it twice through the head.

  “The chase always begins in cruelty,” he said, “but ends in mercy.”

  Babette felt the hint of a smile creep upon the corner of her mouth.

  “As in love,” she said.

  Korbinian took her gloved hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “Ja,” he said, “but in the hunt, it is the prey who suffers cruelty and is relieved by mercy. In love, it is the hunter.”

  “A gentleman should not speak of love so freely,” Babette said as she withdrew her hand. She reached up and touched her wild hair. “My hat is gone. I must retrieve it.”

  “Leave it. I prefer your hair as you are: free and spirited.”

  Korbinian caught her wrist and pulled it toward him. Babette gave a token resistance before allowing him to take her hand. She sighed as he pressed his soft lips to the underside of her wrist, just where the sleeve and glove met. Babette closed her eyes and allowed the sensation to enfold her senses. Soon there was nothing in the world but her wrist and Korbinian’s gentle kisses.

  At length, Babette finally found the strength to pull away.

  “My hat,” she said, opening her eyes.

  She thought that Korbinian would be angry with her, as men were when they did not get their way. Instead, he smiled at her with his mysterious, knowing expression and said:

  “Fetch it, then.”

  Babette turned her horse and retraced their path along the park. After a few minutes, she found the hat where it lay discarded among the grass, black upon green. She dismounted to claim it and walked back to Korbinian, leading her horse by the reins.

  When she returned, she found Korbinian stripped to his shirt and vest, his sleeves rolled up to reveal long, graceful arms. He had his knives and tools spread out upon a blanket of leather on the ground and was already in the midst of butchering. Babette caught the scent of fresh blood and smiled, not knowing why. They had hunted together for the past three months, and each time it was the same: they chased, they killed, and then Korbinian prepared the carcass. Three months ago, Babette had only occasionally tasted venison. Now she scarcely knew how to go without it.

  Korbinian looked up from his work and regarded her. He had blood on his hands and forearms.

  “Come,” he said, motioning to her.

  “No,” Babette replied. “I think I shall sit awhile and read my Schiller.”

  “No, no, come here,” Korbinian said. “I want to show you something.”

  “Very well,” Babette said.

  She knew what to expect. Since they had started hunting together privately, Korbinian had taken it upon himself to demonstrate the finer points of skinning and butchering to Babette. He seemed to delight in it, just as he delighted in showing her how to shoot or to read German.

  She knelt beside him and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Another lesson?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Korbinian said. “I have taught you anatomy. Now it is time for you to put what you know into practice.”

  “With a deer?” Babette asked.

  “The animal is not so unlike a man in body,” Korbinian said. “A pig is closest, but the deer shall suffice.”

  “I find this all very questionable,” Babette replied.

  “Here, remove your coat,” Korbinian said. “I will show you.”

  Babette did as instructed and took the added step of rolling up her sleeves. There would be a great deal of blood involved.

  Korbinian knelt behind her and placed his hands upon hers. Babette smiled to herself at the sensation of his touch. The deliciousness of his scent—stronger now from the sweat and vigor of the chase—tickled her nose, tempting her toward follies that she would not allow herself to indulge.

  “Take the knife,” Korbinian said, pressing it into her hand. He had already cut back the hide from the top flank of the deer. “Begin cutting here.”

  Babette allowed Korbinian to guide her in cutting a long slab of meat from the flank.

  “There,” Korbinian said. “You have a good hand. Steady. But I knew that from the way you write your letters.”

  “You are too kind, Monsieur von Fuchsburg,” Babette said.

  She leaned back and turned her head to look at him. They shared a smile. Korbinian gently tilted her chin up and kissed her. Babette closed her eyes and leaned back into him, feeling his chest against her shoulders.

  When Korbinian drew away again, Babette’s eyes fluttered open and she said, dreamily, “I think you ought not to have done that, Monsieur von Fuchsburg.”

  Korbinian placed one finger against her lips, painting them with a smear of blood. The taste of it was delicious.

  “I disagree,” he said. “A fitting reward for a fine cut.”

  “A kiss for a cut?” Babette asked. “That seems a dangerous trade.”

  “Dangerous, but fair,” Korbinian said.

  Babette grinned at him and gently sliced off another slab of meat. The smell of heated blood mingling with Korbinian’s scent made her confused and heady. She closed her eyes and savored the sensation of the knife sliding through flesh. It was such a strange experience to find violence so sensual.

  Father would never have approved.

  Babette removed the next slab of meat and held it up for Korbinian to see.

  “A good cut?” she asked.

  “Perfect,” Korbinian said, kissing her.

  Babette dropped the knife and took Korbinian’s face in her hands, holding him close to her as their mouths pressed together. Amid the blood and excitement, she hungered for his touch and his kiss as she had never hungered before.

  Korbinian took her in his arms and pulled her close to his chest. They pulled at each other, practically devouring one another in a fury of passion and desire.

  Without thought of what she was doing, Babette tore Korbinan’s vest from his body, sending the buttons flying into the grass. His fine shirt beneath came untucked as they tumbled about in the soft, sweet smelling grass. She felt his warm hands caress her body, gently undoing the mother of pearl buttons down the back of her blouse. In reply she strained against the confines of her corset, yearning to feel the touch of Korbinian’s fingers against her skin. She felt hot and alive. All sense of reason vanished into a sweet burning haze.

  They had held each other many times over the past three months and kissed more often than Babette could count, but this was different. She had delighted in Korbinian—in his touch, his smile, his kiss. Now she yearned for him in a way that she could not describe.

  She pulled herself up and away from Korbinian, breaking their kiss abruptly as she pushed him back against the grass. He fell gracefully on his back, his hands ever so gently resting on her hips. His gray eyes stared intently into hers for a moment, a charming half-smile playing about his lips. Babette shifted slightly, the rustling of her skirt enveloping them. She moved atop him and kissed him while his hands caressed her shoulders and arms. She ran
her hands through his black hair and down to his soft shirt.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she tore open his shirt to expose his smooth, pale chest. So elegant. So beautiful. She ran her fingers against his warm skin.

  Korbinian grabbed Babette’s throat, making her gasp in surprise. His grip tightened and he pulled her to him until their lips met again. Korbinian ran his fingers through her hair, tossing it wildly about her face. Babette smiled and laughed softly. She kissed him, biting his lip and drawing blood. She savored the taste of it.

  Korbinian took her hand in his and gently pressed her fingers to his lips, kissing each fingertip in turn.

  “Liebchen,” he whispered, his voice heavy with desire.

  “Korbinian—” Babette breathed.

  “Babette, my love,” Korbinian said, brushing back the hair behind Babette’s ear. “You are like fire. You are the heat that has drawn me in from the cold.”

  He kissed her palm and wrist tenderly, making Babette gasp with delight.

  “Ah, my love, my love!” Korbinian cried, as he held her close, his hands caressing her tightly corseted waist. “Since first we met I have desired you with all my being, with my very soul!”

  “Your words, Korbinian,” Babette said, “they are my words to you!”

  “Liebchen!”

  Korbinian held Babette tighter still and kissed her fiercely. Babette held him in turn, feeling the lean muscles of his back rippling beneath his shirt.

  “Free me,” Babette whispered, pulling off her blouse. Together, she and Korbinian tore at her clothes until she was reduced to skirts and corset. She tugged at the corset but it held fast.

  “Allow me,” Korbinian said.

  He drew one of the knives and cut the laces along Babette’s back in a single, smooth stroke. The corset fell to the ground, and a shiver of delight flowed through Babette. Free from the confines of her stays, she clutched Korbinian with renewed vigor, yearning to feel his touch upon her skin.

  “We are as one,” Korbinian said, kissing her neck with gentle lips. “Now…and forever.”

  * * * *

  William was in the back hallway, on his way from the library to the stairs, when he scented blood. It was not fresh—an hour or two old perhaps—and it was faint. But it was there.

  He turned and saw Babette and Korbinian standing near the side door. Some effort had been put into straightening their clothes, but lost buttons and torn laces could not be covered up.

  They were damp as well. They had washed themselves in the river before returning. They had been hunting and must have butchered their kill. The thought made William smile a little.

  And there was something else as well.…

  William stopped his pondering. Babette and Korbinian stood still as stone, looking at him with apprehension, like mice caught by a cat. Ready to run.

  William looked both ways along the corridor and saw that they were alone. He nodded toward the servants’ stairs.

  “Be quick,” he said.

  He allowed Korbinian to pass but caught Babette by the arm when she tried to follow. Korbinian looked back at them, but William matched his eyes for a moment and forced the young man to relent and withdraw without comment.

  William turned back to Babette and asked, “Do you love him?”

  “I do, Grandfather,” Babette said, looking up at him in earnest. “With all my heart.”

  “Good,” William said. He released her and patted her hand. “Go, make yourself presentable for dinner.”

  Babette smiled and said, “Yes, Grandfather,” before hurrying off toward the stairs.

  William smiled and stroked his beard. All was progressing to his satisfaction. Over the previous months, he had seen Babette and Korbinian drawing ever closer to one another, sharing heat and desire, passion and accord. Any lingering doubts about either of them were fading away.

  Now there remained but one person left to convince, the most critical to arranging Babette’s marriage:

  Her father.

  Chapter Seven

  Autumn, 1861

  The arrival of autumn came as a relief to Babette. It meant the end of the social season, and with it the end of their regular trips back and forth between home and Paris, which she could not help but regard as an unnecessary interruption of her time with Korbinian. Each trip to the metropolis had done little but bore her and force her and Korbinian to restrain their natural impulses beneath the chains of decorum.

  Which was not to say that it had not been enjoyable smiling at one another across the ballrooms and parlors, sharing a private joke at a distance amid the ignorant masses of the elite. But there were only so many times she could watch Korbinian snicker at the follies of their peers without giving in to the desire to kiss him. In Paris, the temptation had been unbearable.

  But safely returned to Grandfather’s estate, Babette lost no time in taking advantage of every moment to be spent with Korbinian. Her studies had been repeatedly interrupted by the trips to the city, and now she threw herself back into them with abandon. The changing of the season renewed the discussion on the nature and qualities of plants, while the arrival of the harvest invoked great excitement in Korbinian, who took it as an excuse to discuss different harvest celebrations across Europe. From there, the lessons quickly began to embrace the study of folklore. Babette was certain that Father would not approve.

  With the air still pleasant but free of the oppressive summer heat, they spent more and more time walking the grounds, especially the forest that dominated one side of the property beyond the gardens and orchards. Korbinian loved this part of the estate the most, he often told her. The romance of those deep woods reminded him of his home, and he often spoke at length of it and of the many delights that Babette would find there when they were married.

  Marriage was a point on which neither of them had any doubts.

  * * * *

  “I feel,” Korbinian said, as they strolled through the forest arm in arm, “that we must make an expedition to Mont Blanc. I am given to understand that the primeval horror of the view is most inspiring.”

  Babette sighed at him and rested her head against his shoulder. She could not have done so in company, but there among the ancient trees, they were free to profess love and affection, whether in triumphant oaths or quiet gestures.

  “You have been reading Shelley again,” Babette said.

  “And what if I have?” Korbinian asked. He raised Babette’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “Herr Shelley is a fine poet. He stirs the soul with his words, even if they are English.”

  “Oh, what nonsense!” Babette scoffed at the very idea.

  Korbinian caught her by the chin and turned her face toward him.

  “You do not agree, liebchen?” he asked in his usual charming way.

  Babette looked into his eyes and smiled.

  “You may call it a ‘philosophical dispute’ if you like,” she said, “but I assure you that I do not agree with you. Nor can you convince me otherwise.”

  “Is that so?” Korbinian asked as he leaned in to kiss her.

  “It is,” Babette whispered as she closed her eyes and inhaled with anticipation.

  As her lips brushed his, Babette heard a noise in the trees. She pulled away and turned sharply. Her eyes darted about as she searched for the source of the sound. Korbinian, surprised at the abrupt change, placed a hand upon the back of her neck and gently stroked her hair.

  “What is it, my love?” he asked softly.

  What a question! Could it be possible he had not heard the sound? But no, surely not. It had been so loud and clear to Babette’s ears.

  There it is again, she thought. Closer this time.

  “Something’s approaching,” she said.

  Korbinian listened carefully and said, “I hear nothing.”

  “Nevertheless, it is there,” Babette said.

  She finally fixed on the sound’s direction and pointed.

  Korbinian drew his pistol and held her cl
ose at his side.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” Babette said, clutching his arm.

  She heard the sound again, closer and louder, accompanied by snorting and growling. This time Korbinian heard it too. He swung his revolver around and aimed it into the brush.

  “Whatever it is,” he said, “I will kill it.”

  “With a pistol?” Babette asked.

  Such beautiful arrogance. What a typical hussar.

  The brush and branches a dozen feet away split apart in a torrent of leaves and splinters. A dark figure lurched through the opening, knocking aside a sapling and uprooting it in the process. At first Babette thought the creature to be a bear, for its massive, hunched body was covered in coarse brown fur. But its head was of an improper shape—too broad of jaw, flat of snout, and sharp of brow—quite unlike any of the skulls Babette had seen in Grandfather’s study.

  The creature lumbered forward, walking on its knuckles like an ape. It studied Babette with pale eyes for a moment and sniffed the air. Satisfied by something, it turned its gaze toward Korbinian, and its mouth split open to reveal pointed teeth, ivory amid hungry red.

  “Gott in Himmel!” Korbinian cried.

  He fired his revolver at the beast, but the beast showed no reaction, not even a hint of pain. It continued its advance with slow, measured steps. Korbinian fired again and again until his weapon was empty, but the beast merely grunted.

  To Babette, it almost sounded like guttural laughter. With each shot the beast seemed to smile.

  The beast lunged forward into the last two shots, taking them as easily as pebbles thrown by a child. First it struck Babette, backhanding her in the chest and flinging her away. The force of the blow made everything go black. Time vanished and, for what seemed like ages, Babette forgot who and where she was.

  The first sensation she recognized was the hard discomfort of the ground digging into her back. Babette forced her eyes open and raised her head. Scarcely moments had passed since she had been struck, though it felt like it had been ages.

  “Liebchen, flee!” Korbinian shouted.