by Lindsay Mead
She stood, already smiling at the trick’s success, and turned to see the gloriously shocked look on Gastone’s face. She curtsied. “Fifteen.”
Gastone tensed, then he drew back his shoulders. With a high-hatted expression, he cued his horse by Charming and stopped over the hellhound stuck with knives. He pointed his gun, tugged back the hammer, and sent a bullet into its head. A tendril of smoke swirled over the barrel and up his arm.
Belle tossed up her hands and trudged back toward her horse. “What did you do that for?”
“I was killing the hellhound. Fourteen.”
“Oh, I do all the work and you claim the kill?”
“Your knives hit his back muscles. Flesh wounds at best. He wasn’t dead yet, so I finished him, making it fourteen to fourteen.” Gastone shifted around to watch Belle gather up her knives and remount. Sauntering his horse by, he added, “And I did it without all of the fancy.”
This made Belle laugh. Fancy was the perfect word for the stunt. It was unnecessary and a silly risk, she could admit, but still she had to do it. Just once. “Sometimes, a little fancy is completely needed.”
“Indeed.” Gastone guided his Friesian over, making room for Belle to ride alongside.
Dual sets of high-pitched songs and an eruption of yellow light trailed them back to the group. Belle and Gastone approached as Friar Clemens and two other Hunters arrived. Friar Clemens drove one cart while the new recruit steered the second. Franck rode his own horse, eyes on the forest and gun at the ready.
“Hello, messieurs. How goes it?” Belle greeted.
“Very well. Merci, mademoiselle,” Clemens replied. He didn’t wear the same traditional society clothes as everyone else. His style was little more than basic; brown monk’s robes with a plain cloak for added warmth. “Simple clothes for a simple man,” he’d once told her.
“Aside from the dead ones.” Franck pointed to the carted bodies they’d picked up along the way. “We didn’t encounter any hounds. The forest seems pretty well cleared.”
Belle nodded. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
“Well then…” The new recruit, Jack, hooked his reins to the wagon and climbed down. “Let’s get these bodies loaded. I’m pert near sick of this cold.”
That was typical Jack Lloyd. He was brash, cocksure, charming, hardworking, and the only American Belle had ever met. He’d traveled all the way from the Colorado Territories in search of an adventure. Said he’d worked on his father’s cattle ranch till he finally decided to see if the world was as pretty as the prairie. He hopped on a train, then boarded a ship, went from Australia to Europe, and somehow found himself in Glace—broke and looking to make some fast cash. Instead, he became their latest recruit.
“Come on big fella.” Jack slapped Jean’s thigh. “Why don’t you give that horse’s back a break and help us.”
With a grunt, the ever-massive Jean dismounted. He, along with Franck, Jack, and the friar, set to work loading the bodies. The others kept a lookout. The woods seemed empty, but the forest could be deceiving. Belle knew better than anyone what they were dealing with; her life had been irrevocably shaped by the dangers within Vakre Fjell.
Five years ago, her father was attacked while traveling home from the Inventor’s World Fair. Not knowing what exactly he’d shot, he carted it straight to the cathedral. Belle remembered waking up to the call of the church bells, running past the unusual guards at the entrance, and pushing through the swollen crowd of onlookers. Most of all, she recalled seeing the bloodied hellhound on the floor. Henri thought he’d killed the creature, but given it took so long to become human again, it must have clung to life before it finally died.
Questions were shouted. The crowd’s fear was palpable. But when the demon suddenly shifted into a human, stunned silence took the room.
It was Bishop Sauvage who broke the quiet. As Archbishop, he often traversed the province, visiting the churches in his care. He’d heard tales of hellhounds in his travels, and explained how some sinners could be claimed by the devil. He then foretold of how these creatures would try to consume the world.
The town hung on his every word, rapt by the power behind his voice. When he proposed forming the Hunters (or holy warriors as he called them) everyone agreed. Being the first to kill a hellhound, Henri LeClair was given the charge.
To accommodate the volunteers coming from all over, the LeClair family uprooted to the local inn, and their home was redesigned. Continually more and more hellhounds were finding their way south, forcing every second to be devoted to the cause. Henri desperately sought to perfect their hunting skills and weapons, and oversaw the building of the gas-lit paths. Many men died in those days, so by thirteen, Belle was in training. Barely a year later, she was hunting alongside her mother.
They were just starting to find a sense of normalcy, then her mother died and again everything changed. Her older sisters were shipped off to live in Paris with their aunt, where they could join society like normal young ladies. Henri put new pressure on training, especially on Belle’s. More men were recruited, and in a short time, she was named captain of the next hunting party.
Five years, that’s all that had past—yet it felt longer. Even now, as Belle stood guard with her Hunters, it was hard to fathom all that had happened. Many great changes—she watched as Jack and Franck swung a body into a cart—and much of it terrible.
Once the corpses were loaded—which took some time as there were many—the group traveled farther into Vakre Fjell. The lampposts looped the trail around and throughout the woods, then led back to the original entrance. To collect the deceased, the Hunters walked the entire path before they returned home. Absolved in death, these sinners needed their last rites to be laid to rest.
Though, at times, Belle was conflicted over the truth behind these hellhounds, she did not doubt this ritual. These people may have been victims or maybe they were sinners, but they did deserve peace. Likely, more than others.
Nearly an hour later, they reached the blessed Glace border. Belle pulled her fur cloak tighter around her. A sheet of white fluff had settled over her and Charming. She had a high tolerance for the cold, but after several hours on horseback it was starting to get to her. Despite her leather gloves, Belle’s fingers were numbing. That is until she flexed them, then they exploded with sharp pain. Her toes weren’t faring any better.
“Headed to Le Géant Tranquille?” Franck asked as he rode up next to her, a glint in his eye.
Going to the pub after a hunt was a long standing tradition. No doubt he was remembering his own escapades there with Henri and fellow Hunters. Belle could practically taste the awaiting mug of ale, and feel the warm fire on her skin. They moved onto French land and a gust of cold wind slipped up her sleeve, reminding her that she wasn’t there yet.
“Yes, we are.” Belle indicated the corpse-filled carts as they rolled out of Vakre Fjell Forest, the rest of her hunting party in tow. “Would you like some help before we leave? That’s going to be some work.”
Franck looked at the carts. “No, I don’t think even that comes close to the weight you and your men took on tonight.”
She glanced up at the sky. A small break in cloud cover unveiled a stretch of twinkling stars. “How long does that kind of weight have to be carried?”
“I don’t know.” Franck sighed. “I’m still carrying mine.”
Belle dropped her gaze to the ground, nodding. “You have a good night, Franck.”
“You as well,” he responded.
Steering Charming onto the main road, Belle started for Contefées. Her hunting party also bid their farewells to accompany her. Franck and Jack would stay behind to tend to the dead. Not a desirable job, but until Jack swore the Hunter’s Creed before the church and God, he had to pay his dues.
The stallions’ long legs trotted effortlessly through the heavy snow, hastening their journey. Full manes and tails glided behind them. With coats as black as night and necks arched, the Friesians ex
uded both elegance and power.
For good reason, the majestic breed was the only kind that Hunters rode. They were locally bred, trained for survival, and Hunter and horse often bonded for life. When Belle was astride Charming, she felt his strength empowering her own. He would fend off the wolves at her back and carry her through the most brutal of snowstorms.
Reaching the hilltop, Belle halted Charming with a softly uttered command. The other Hunters did the same, stopping in a line abreast with her. No one spoke as they looked down the hill at their sleeping town. Tonight, it was safe.
Contefées sat quiet and settled for the night. The great Catholic cathedral loomed above the snow-topped buildings like a dark Goliath. Two sparkling lanterns hung at its doors; a welcome to any late night worshipers. The Hunters made their way down the hill and onto the cobblestone. As the Friesians walked along, their clopping hooves echoed off the buildings.
Illuminated lampposts lined the streets, showing that most shops and homes were shut tight. Save for Le Géant Tranquille, which spilled light and music out into the town’s center. Here were some of Belle’s favorite buildings; the church, tavern, bakery, and the bookshop.
In the middle of the circling cobblestones was a fountain, topped with the same style lantern that dotted the streets. It was too cold the majority of the year for the water to run, but instead of the structure being a waste, the town’s people started a tradition of placing candles along the fountain’s edge. Candle after lit candle, they built up and consumed the stonework. Now, solid waterfalls of wax drooped over the sides. There was nothing more lovely than a still night when old and new candles flickered around the fountain, and the overhead lantern cast a warm glow upon it all.
Outside Le Géant Tranquille were a set of hitching posts. They were fashioned into tiny horse heads cradling metal circlets in their mouths. Belle dismounted and looped the reins loosely through one of the rings.
From the back of her saddle, she removed and unrolled a large blanket. She spread it over Charming. The other Hunters did the same. Just a little something to keep the snow off the horses while they waited. Delano and Nicolas used the butts of their rifles to break the ice in each trough, allowing the Friesians access to the water beneath.
“Shall we, messieurs?” Belle asked as the men finished up their tasks.
She unbuttoned a clasp at her waist, which released her skirts, and they fell freely to the ground. Belle had sewn the buckles into her dresses years ago. It didn’t take her long to realize that running or even mounting a horse was much more complicated when her legs were engulfed by layers of fabric. With a button on the outside of her dress and a strip of cloth stitched underneath, she could lift the skirts over her right hip and pin them up with ease. It revealed entirely too much leg for a proper lady…but the rules of higher society didn’t have much place on a hunt. However, so as not to offend anyone’s sensibilities or to sully her own reputation, Belle covered her legs in the presence of non-Hunters.
“After you, mademoiselle.” Gastone pushed open the tavern door and waited for Belle to enter.
She smiled as raucous music, laughter, singing, and slurred speech filled her ears. The Hunters followed close behind, eager for warmth. As cold air swirled into Le Géant Tranquille, the patrons glanced their way, and the crowd broke into a cheer, welcoming the Hunters’ safe return.
For Belle it was a tradeoff; being a Hunter hurt any prospects she had for marriage, but in its place came great respect from the town’s folk. As was the way of the world, the men did not have this issue. In fact, being a Hunter made them more desirable as suitors.
Belle accepted this reality. Her duty to protect Contefées always came first. The only time this bothered her was when she thought of her parents. They’d loved each other deeply, standing together against many enemies. Her mother’s death was a devastating shock. More so for her father, who disappeared into his workshop for weeks afterward.
Even now, Belle would catch a certain look in Henri’s eyes. A look that said he wasn’t with her at that moment. He was with the memories of his wife. She knew because his eyes somehow shown both love and sorrow. Belle might give up hunting for that sort of love—a love that gripped the soul and didn’t let go.
“Gastone!” Medford, a nearing middle-aged miner, stumbled his way over. He was scruffy and unkempt; the sort to only keep his money long enough to gamble it away.
“Medford!” Gastone brushed back the loose, black strands of his ponytail, the side of his mouth upturning in a half grin, and grasped the man’s shoulder with strong, wide hands.
Belle eyed the way the gas-light fell on the stark line of his jaw and it was no wonder that eligible women flocked to him. He was the handsome son of a Count, who was also a remarkable Hunter. Any young lady would be lucky to have his attentions.
Upon Belle’s seventeenth birthday, Henri intimated that she might be just such a woman. Though he would never push the subject, he did tell her that local gossip expected Belle and Gastone to begin courting. Apparently, despite her not coming from a family of great financial means, she did come from a respected name and her position as Hunter captain afforded her some social standing. Moreover, her beauty remedied any damage done by her having a man’s profession. But this was idle talk and nothing more. All that really mattered were the thoughts of Gastone and his family.
Unfortunately, if Gastone gave Belle the same consideration for marriage as the town had, he never verbalized it. The way he looked at her sometimes set her nerves on fire, but no tokens were ever given, and until Gastone made his intentions clear, a courtship between them couldn’t happen. Society gave way on some rules for Belle to be a Hunter; such as her living in a house with potential suitors. On other rules, they would not bend. Belle still had to conduct herself as a lady and follow courtship etiquette.
“The guys and I have a bet on who can fit more escargots in his mouth, you or Ivon. I’m betting on you, of course.” Medford took hold of Gastone’s arm in return and dragged him toward the bar. “Oh yeah, and the Pêcheur sisters have been asking about you.”
Of course the Pêcheur sisters have been asking about Gastone, Belle rolled her eyes and her gaze fell on the voluptuous two. Odette and Josette were the only other set of identical siblings born in Contefées—the other being Belle’s two older sisters. The Pêcheur twins were the daughters of a local fisherman. As such, they had little money and no social standing, which meant their corsets were kept tight and their bosoms high. They often frequented any establishment filled with eligible men. Currently they pressed their chests against the wooden piano, singing along, and gawked after the group of attractive Hunters.
Gastone seemed unsurprised by the twin’s attention and didn’t bother looking their way. “Who can fit more escargots, huh? With or without shells?”
Medford thought briefly. “Uh…With. Definitely with.”
Smugly, Gastone raised his chin. “Challenge accepted.”
Belle chuckled. One minute he’s saving the world, making young ladies swoon, and the next he’s stuffing snails in his mouth.
Belle began weaving her way through the maze of tables and patrons. The other Hunters went about their own business, joining friends, placing bets on Gastone and Ivon, or going straight for the ale. At Le Géant Tranquille, Hunters drank for free.
The tavern’s décor was truly something to behold. Filling every free space, the walls were covered in animal trophies hunted by the townsfolk. But it even went beyond that. The chandeliers were enormous, pointy concoctions of candles, gas lamps, and antlers. Horns were hidden throughout the pub’s furnishings, furs covered the chairs, and a massive bear rug, complete with roaring head, rested in front of the hearth.
The fireplace in Le Géant Tranquille was an elaborately carved masterpiece that filled the entire room with its heat. The frame was designed to be a collage of wildlife. They toppled over one another and blended together. The fire’s glorious blaze illuminated some animals perfectly and ca
st others into shadow.
Fireplaces may have been essential tools against the bitter cold, but in this arctic land they were also a fashion statement. They had to be big, and they had to be works of art. This was so important that, when invited into someone’s home, it was considered impolite not to remark on the size and aesthetics of their hearth.
Stopping at a table of her usual town companions, Belle removed her cloak and draped it over a chair left empty for her.
“Hey Doc!” she called to a man drinking alone in the corner and waved him over.
“He’s a doctor?” said a stranger from the table next to her.
“Yes, monsieur.” Her eyes swept over his group. They were outsiders to be sure. British, by the look of them. “He’s the only doctor for miles and miles.”
The man watched the physician trip into his own table as he tried to get up. “He’s not fit to do any sort of doctoring.”
“Doc’s the best at what he does,” Belle said simply, refusing to defend the doc’s soft soul to someone who couldn’t understand what it was like here.
“You never said you were injured before.” Gastone appeared behind her.
His hand went to her arm, and she felt the other upon her back. Peering at the cuts, he twisted her in the light. Several deep punctures bled down her back, painting her skin and dress. His touch was gentle and warm; she inwardly reveled in their feel.
With a quirk of her lip, she replied, “I thought you were eating snails.”
Gastone chuckled. “Snails can wait.”
Belle bobbed her head back and forth, pretending to weigh the value of his words. “Hm, they are rather slow.”
“So can death be.” He turned her to look at his face. “Don’t go dying from something as trivial as an untreated wound.”
Being so close to him, Belle noticed that his dark eyebrows arched in the most interesting way. She fought the urge to reach up and trace one softly with her thumb. Immediately aware of how indecent her proximity to Gastone was, Belle stepped away.
