by Lindsay Mead
Belle had to trust in Charming. Only he could keep his senses in the blizzard. But his pace began to slow. His head came up, his ears searching. When Charming stopped completely, Belle knew it was not because of the storm.
She tried to slow her breathing, listening for the coming hellhounds. Her whole body trembled; the cold crawled over her skin and slipped into her lungs. Belle held up her gun, watching the barrel shake within her unsteady grip.
The cold was sobering, freezing the wild emotions from before. Quickly, Belle removed the cap from the bullet chamber of her gun. Empty. She’d used all of her bullets shooting at Fenrir. When she’d aimed it at Laramie, the threat had been empty. It was unlike her to be so reckless, and that fact was starting to become apparent.
Not able to think on it further, Belle reached for her bullet pouch. Her fingers touched only the fabric of her dress. Her pouch, of course, wasn’t there. It’d been packed away by some servant. She was entirely unprepared for this journey.
Charming nickered and danced in place. She felt his uneasiness. Quickly, she stashed the empty revolver and retrieved the other. A quick check told her it had been loaded.
There was a blur to her right, the sound of a snarl. One, she counted. A branch snapped on her left. Two. Then there were multiple growls over her shoulder. Oh God.
Belle pointed her gun and they come into view. Bang. Bang. Bang. She fired in rapid succession. Smoke twirled up from the barrel as the bodies dropped. There was no time to breathe. Another hellhound came from the left. Belle swiped two knives from her chest harness and flung them. They buried into the hound’s fur and he went down with a clipped yipe.
Two more hellhounds attacked from different directions, giving Belle little time to react. She put the first down immediately, but her defense was too slow for the second hound. Her bullet lodged in its heart, as the creature barreled into Belle and knocked her from the saddle.
The impact was jarring, but not as bad as it had been the last time a hellhound got the better of her. Belle scrambled to her feet. Another two hounds approached, as though they had decided to attack in teams. She straightened her shoulders and shot the first easily. The second hound ran across its friend without missing a step, gaining speed with its anger. Belle fired. Click.
Her eyes widened. The gun was empty. Belle stepped back, reaching for the last of her knives—knowing that she wouldn’t be able to draw them in time. The hellhound came within feet, his fangs bared and eyes gleaming.
Charming lunged in front of her, blocking the hellhound. The stallion reared up and slammed his hooves down at it. He stomped, huffed, and grunted. The hound snarled. Charming reared and thrust his hooves down again, pushing the creature away. It growled but cowered from the large horse.
Charming kept on him, forcing him farther away from Belle. The blizzard swallowed them up when they were only meters away. Belle pressing her back against a tree. She listened for the horse and hound, catching their sounds on the wind, then those were gone too.
Pulling the last of her throwing knives from their harness, she gripped them in each hand. Wind howled through the forest, carrying thick snowflakes upon every available inch. There was white everywhere, it filled the air and gathered upon her handmade dress and fallen hair. She was starting to feel damp, and that was dangerous in this cold.
“Charming!” she called. All she heard was wind and snow. Her breath puffed on the air.
Belle was alone.
Belle’s clothing and cloak were now worthless. The cold seeped through them and it felt like her skin was slowly freezing. She leaned into the tree, trying to use it to shield her front. Her hair whipped in the wind.
Charming still hadn’t returned and Belle was left to worry about him. She couldn’t walk home, being as she had no bearing on where she was. Belle would give anything to see those gas-lit lamps right then.
Growls snatched her out of the daze the cold had lulled her into. Belle squinted, attempting to see anything other than white. Then she did. Bits of black. Flashes of yellow. There were many of them and, judging by their growing snarls, they were circling her.
The smell of warm blood had drawn the hellhounds in, but the scent of their dead brethren was making them wary. They knew she was a threat and they were gauging just how much of one. Soon the hounds would decide that the risk was worth it and they would come at her.
Belle’s mind raced through her options. If she threw her knives from a distance, she could kill two. Then all that remained were the spring-loaded bayonets attached to the base of both her revolvers. They were Belle’s last line of defense, but each hellhound had to be deadly close. Even if she managed to kill one, perhaps two, they’d soon overwhelm her. Or she could kill herself. The small thought whispered from the back of her mind. It would be better than being torn up while she was still alive.
Tears returned. Belle knew she couldn’t take her own life, even as the idea came to her. But she would still die today. Part of her knew this would always be her likely demise—she wasn’t ready for it, all the same. God willing, they’d go for her throat. End her quickly.
With shaking hands, Belle held up her throwing knives and blinked away the tears. She planted her feet and let the tree guard her back. To be sure, it was no substitute for her Friesian. The first hellhound to charge could be her last and final kill. Belle would certainly be taking at least one with her.
An immense howl broke through the rage of the storm, making her jump. It sounded in the distance. It was hearty and fierce, like a call to battle. The voice was familiar, like the mournful keen she’d heard at the castle. The idea that Fenrir might have followed her chilled her to the core.
Just beyond her line of sight, there was a growl. Belle jerked at the sound. A fight ensued with snarls and snaps. Then a whimper. Seconds of silence, then it started again. There was a blur as a hellhound tried to run, but something bigger took it down. For a moment, the snow seemed to open up, giving her a glimpse of multiple hounds running toward it. They jumped on the hulking figure and disappeared into the blizzard.
Growls, snarls, barks, whimpers, and a deafening roar. It sounded like it was all around her. Belle searched through the trees and sheets of snow, but couldn’t see them.
Quite suddenly, there was silence. She didn’t move, hardly breathed. Belle only listened.
The blizzard moaned on, but within its cries she heard the subtle sounds of a lone whimper. Then it stopped. A moment past and she wondered if maybe they were all dead, even whatever had saved her.
Crunching snow dashed away that spark of hope. Belle clenched her knives once more. Through the white cascade of snowflakes, a large dark figure began to emerge. She knew who it was right away. Fenrir.
He moved through the snow with great sweeping steps. Graceful and controlled. His fur became defined along with his massive claws and pointed ears. Belle couldn’t just throw her knife. He was too fast for that. She had to wait until he was close—too close—before she struck.
Just when Fenrir was about to step into full view, a sterling light burst before him. Belle blinked in surprise. When a hellhound corpse became human, the light was gold. This wasn’t like that at all; this was flawlessly silver. When the light disappeared, the wolf god was gone. In his place was a man.
Belle’s breath caught in her disbelief. His steps seemed to falter, but he didn’t stop. He stepped just inches from her knife. Her jaw dropped.
Aleksander.
It couldn’t be. He was trapped in a cell, only to appear in her dreams. There was no way he was standing before her now. It was impossible.
With a casual hand, the man pushed away Belle’s knife and she didn’t stop him. He wore slacks and a loose, partially open white shirt. His untied hair whipped freely in the wind. It was the same look he’d adorned the day the curse hit. There were several large and bleeding gashes over his body, but he didn’t seem to notice them. The man who looked like Aleksander stepped up to her, stopping only inches away.
<
br /> “Belle…” The way he uttered her name was so breathless, it was as though saying it too loudly would shatter its existence. His hand went to her cheek, cupping part of her jaw and neck gently. Their eyes met. His were familiar soft blues. Soft blues, that seemed to reveal all of his emotions.
The words that tumbled out of her were of complete, joyful surprise. “It is you.”
Aleksander answered by leaning in and capturing her lips with his. The kiss was soft, careful, but there was a surety to it. She tasted his need. He didn’t want to devour her though; he just wanted to kiss her. His lips slowed, lingering against hers. The warmth of his mouth and body caused Belle to tingle in response.
Gradually, Aleksander drew away from her. His eyelids fluttered, then his eyes rolled back in his head. Belle anticipated his fall, throwing her arms around him. His weight was too much and she was pulled down with him. Into a heap, the Prince crumpled into the snow. She pushed the locks of hair from his face. He was unconscious.
Belle called for Charming again and again as she tried to wake Aleksander. He didn’t respond. She checked his wounds frantically. They were deep and in need of stitches, but they hadn’t bled enough for him to faint. Something else was wrong.
“Stay with me, Aleksander,” Belle shouted over the wind. Tearing a strip from the hem of her dress, she attempted to staunch the bleeding as best she could. Belle then removed her cloak and placed it over the Prince. She watched for hellhounds and leaned in the snow to caress Aleksander’s hair soothingly. “Don’t leave me now.”
He gave no reaction, no indication that he heard her. Dread filled her stomach, bringing with it a fear for the worst. She called for Charming again, and that worry only increased when the stallion still didn’t return.
Minutes drawled by. Belle anxiously searched for alternatives should Charming not return. If he…She couldn’t even think it. Not then. Not when both she and Aleksander stood on the precipice of death as well. She needed her Friesian; she needed him to live.
Belle pulled her eyes away from Aleksander’s face at the sound of crunching snow. Out of habit, her hand went to her weapon. She squinted her eyes in the sound’s direction, seeing just a shading of some tall form in the heavy, falling snow. Belle exhaled in relief—a smile broke over her face. It was Charming. He passed among the trees, his long legs lifting high over the snow. Soft nickers rumbled in his throat, and she stood to greet him. Thankfully, he was unharmed, but Belle doubted that the hellhound was.
Leading Charming to stand beside Aleksander, she coaxed him into laying down. Once again, grateful they’d practiced such a large repertoire of tricks. First Belle put her cloak on, then she lifted the Prince by the arms. It wasn’t easy; he was no small man. With a great deal of determination, she dragged Aleksander across the saddle and onto the back of her stallion. Belle then urged Charming to stand. The horse came up fast, but steady with the Prince in tow.
Moving quickly, Belle unclipped the rolled blanket at the back of her saddle. Aleksander was hardly dressed for being out in the woods. She tossed it over him and rifled through her saddlebags to find the small pouch of bullets and Electro-Phonic Chip. She hooked it around her ear and tested the signal. Not surprising, Belle was out of range. Reloading her guns, she tied her bullet satchel to her waist and then retrieved her knives from the human corpse. Ready for any attacks that were to come, it was time for Belle to get the Prince to safety.
“All right, boy. You need to lead us home.” She came over to Charming and lovingly caressed his velvety muzzle. He puffed hot breath against her fingers. “Walk on.”
Charming started in some direction that looked to Belle like any other. She walked alongside, keeping vigilance of their surroundings since there was no room in the saddle for her. Aleksander hung over the horse, his head and arms bouncing with the stallion’s movements. Belle tucked the blankets tighter around him. Please be okay.
The surging snow made the journey extremely slow. The wind pushed against them like it wanted to stop them from leaving. After an hour, possibly longer, Belle’s body involuntary shook. Her toes and fingers felt like they were being repeatedly stabbed with small needles. The pain was incredible.
But she kept on. One foot forward and then the next, Belle pushed through the pain and weariness. She had too. Aleksander needed her. He’d risked his life, risked his kingdom—all to save her.
There was a crackling in Belle’s right ear. At first she was confused, the cold making her brain sluggish. Slowly, she realized her communication chip was grabbing a signal. Hope flaring in her chest, she tapped the device and croaked, “Hello? Hello?”
Belle pressed the button again and waited. Her attention faded in and out as they walked. They had to keep walking—they couldn’t stop. Maybe they weren’t going to make it? Belle couldn’t fight the cold much longer. Aleksander still hadn’t stirred. The storm was winning.
“Belle? Are…there?”Andre’s voice reached her. It was faint and Belle’s daze made her response slow.
“I’m here,” she rasped. “I’m here.”
“We’re coming, Belle.”
“I don’t know where I am.” She had stopped walking without realizing it. Charming stood at her side. Belle’s ears caught a faint hissing sound, followed by a series of muffled pops. An orb of light appeared above her. Belle gasped at the sight of the lamppost; her first sign of something familiar. She’d been standing almost directly beneath it and still hadn’t been able to see it through the storm. “I’m by a lamppost, but I can’t see any others.”
“Just stay where you are. We’re coming to you,” Andre reassured.
Belle wasn’t going to argue. Her strength was gone and what little she had was trying to keep her warm. Brushing away the layer of snow that coated Charming’s head and neck, she cooed to him, telling him what a good horse he was and thanking him for getting them this far.
Then Belle stepped over to check Aleksander. His skin was cold though it was hard for her to tell, and his breathing was shallow. There was little she could do for him now. She adjusted his blanket and then laid her face next to his, resting her arms over him. At least she could block the wind. She could still do that.
Belle didn’t realize that she’d fallen asleep until Charming’s body shook with his loud whinnies. She remained slouched over the Prince, unable to straighten or twist to see who approached. Belle heard shouts. Someone brushed her hair away to touch her face, but she couldn’t seem to open her eyes. Belle recognized her Hunters’ voices and inwardly smiled.
There was a great deal of commotion and Belle found herself suddenly being lifted. She whimpered from the pain, feeling like each movement shattered her frozen veins. Someone cradled her gently against their chest. Belle felt a saddle beneath her and the motion of a horse. Gentle hands rubbed her arms and back, bringing some warmth back to the surface. Gastone’s voice reassured her that she would be all right. Belle rested against him, letting him bear all of her in that moment.
Gastone smelled like wood upon the hearth and the dust that settled on a good workhorse. In an instant, Belle could see her home; see her father within her mind. And just like that, she felt safe.
Letting herself doze, Belle knew she couldn’t fight the sleep. Though the thumping of boots on metal soon roused her.
“Jack, ride into town and get the doc. Take a carriage. Be careful, the storm will slow you down, but we can’t wait for it to pass,” commanded Henri. Her heart soared to hear him sounding so strong. “Andre, take the gentleman into the guest room and, Gastone, take Belle to her room. Nicolas and Delano—”
“I stay with him,” Belle croaked with sudden desperation. It took all of her energy, but she lifted her head from Gastone’s chest to look at her father.
There was a long pause where Henri contemplated her, and she stared determinedly back. Then with the perfect poker face, he amended, “All right, put the gentleman in the bed and Belle in an armchair nearby. Get every available blanket. It will probabl
y make it easier on the doc to have his patients in one room anyway.”
His commands went on, but Belle stopped listening and relaxed back into Gastone’s warm embrace as he headed for the stairs. In front of them walked the mute Jean. He carried the Prince slumped over one massive shoulder with no trouble at all. Her eyes again grew heavier with each ascending step.
Belle awoke only when she felt the fire engulfing her fingers.
Belle’s eyes shot open from the pain and she tried to jerk away her hands, but Andre held them firmly. “Easy now. It’s all right. You have frostnip.”
Everything suddenly came into quick focus. Her hands were not being held in fire, but in a bowl of warm water. Patches of solid white marked her fingers and was warning enough to sit still.
“Had you been out there much longer, we’d be dealing with full frostbite,” Gastone said, tugging at the ties of her boots. Sliding a pail of water between them, Andre got started on her other boot. Belle’s feet were in for the same treatment as her throbbing fingers. Gastone gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine though, once we warm you back up.”
In the bed beside her lay Aleksander. He was sound asleep, looking more soft and vulnerable than she’d ever witnessed. Just like Belle, he was mounded with blankets. Delano came in just then, carrying bricks warmed on the fire to wrap within Aleksander’s blankets.
“There is something extremely familiar about him that I cannot place,” Henri was saying to Jean.
His brow was creased and he scratched his jaw in thought. Jean nodded his agreement. The scarf he wore today was blue and gold.
Belle cleared her throat to quote the Prince verbatim, “He is Prince Aleksander the First, of House Haraldsson, Crowned Prince Regent of Vakre Fjell.”
Everyone stopped their work and stared at her. Henri, however, never looked from Aleksander and his eyes lit with recognition. “My God, it is him. How?”
