by Kyle Shultz
“Why don’t you go upstairs and read a book?” I suggested, grabbing a heavy, battered volume and handing it to him. “A nice long one.”
He stumbled a little under the tome’s weight and scowled at me. “Fine. But sooner or later, you’re going to have to explain to me why you’re still all hairy.”
“I will,” I promised him, pointing to the staircase. “Upstairs. Now.”
There was genuine concern in his eyes, and I felt a pang of guilt as I watched him go.
“You could have let him stay,” said Cordelia. She refused to meet my eyes.
“I think you and I need to thresh things out between us before I talk to him,” I said. “Clearly, you’re angry with me.”
“I’m not,” she protested.
“It was my decision, Cordelia,” I said. “I did what I had to do. You have to understand—”
“Of course I understand!” She began pacing across the burned floor, shoving tattered books aside with her foot. “I had a terrible decision to make too, remember? For the last time, I am not angry with you.”
I folded my arms. “Well, if you aren’t, you have a funny way of showing it.”
“Perhaps I do. But the point is, I’m actually angry with myself.” She picked up one of the few books left on the shelves, glanced at the cover, then threw it aside in frustration.
I dove for the book just before it could hit the floor. It was an only-slightly-damaged copy of The War of the Three Bears. Still quite valuable. “Why should you be angry with yourself?”
“Why shouldn’t I? This whole mess was my fault. I put you in this position to begin with.”
“Well, I don’t see how it could have gone differently. Your father was going to get his hands on the Clawthorn Rose one way or another. I think you were better off having a monster on your side to fight him.”
She winced, shutting her eyes. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Calling yourself a monster. Being so glib about it. You’re not a monster.”
“Not in the worst sense of the word, perhaps. Not like your father.” I paused. “I’m sorry, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For what you had to do to him.” I scratched the back of my neck, feeling uncomfortable discussing this particular topic. “Do you think he’s—”
“Dead?” She hugged herself, as if she had felt a sudden chill. “I think it’s probably much worse than that.”
“Do you even know what happened to him?”
She shrugged. “He was caught up in an unstable magic spell, thanks to me. It turned him into a creature so bizarre, it couldn’t exist in this reality.”
“So he is dead.”
“I said ‘in this reality.’ This isn’t the only one.”
I gave a low whistle. Or tried to. Fangs don’t exactly lend themselves to whistling. “I guess that proves that you trying to disenchant me would be a bad idea, then.”
“I’m afraid it would be a terrible idea. In any event, if I’d had the time to do it properly on Father, he would definitely have died. With the Rose gone, he was the source of his own enchantment. Just like you are.”
I sat down heavily in a nearby armchair - battered and burned, with upholstery poking out of rips in the cushions. It promptly collapsed under my weight. I continued sitting on the remains - they were still more comfortable than the floor. “Oh, well,” I said, flicking my tail morosely. “I suppose I could always get in touch with a few of my dad’s carnival contacts, see if they could use a good sideshow attraction—”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Cordelia exclaimed, horrified.
I gave her a wry grin. “Calm down. I was joking.”
“Well, don’t.”
“I can probably manage to make a life for myself somewhere,” I said. “In the wilds, if nothing else. Maybe I could go to Grimmany, build myself a little cabin in the Black Forest—owwww!”
Cordelia had grabbed me by one of my large ears, and was now twisting it as she hauled me to my feet. “Shush,” she said angrily. “You’re not going to just give up.”
“There’s nothing to give up on,” I reminded her, gently detaching her fingers from my ear. “I’m the source of the spell now, which means it’s unbreakable. That’s what you just said. There’s no other way.”
“This is magic we’re talking about! There’s always another way!”
“I thought you said magic had rules. That you couldn’t just do anything with it.”
“Well, it’s still magic!” she insisted. “The rules of magic were made to be broken! Do you know how many other magical artifacts are out there in the Afterlands besides the Rose? Not to mention all sorts of spell-books, powerful magical beings in hiding—”
I half-smiled. “Sounds like wishful thinking to me.”
“Maybe it is. But don’t expect me not to try.”
I shook my head. “No, Cordelia. We’ve already nearly been killed dealing with one magical relic. I’m not having you risking your neck searching for more. Not for my sake.”
“You don’t have a say in the matter. Besides, I’m going to need something to occupy my time. It’s not as if I’m going to be spying on my father anymore. And Madame Levesque and her friends in the Council will be looking for me. I’ll have to stay on the move if I’m going to keep them from finding me.”
“Cordelia—”
She began pacing again, her eyes bright with excitement. “I’ll find somewhere for you and Crispin to stay. There aren’t any safehouses left in Talesend, but I have a few contacts in the north. You could stay in Caledon, or even Fionn.”
“Cordelia.” I grabbed her arm and spun her towards me. “You can find a place for Crispin to stay if you want, but I’m going with you.”
“Me too!” Crispin piped up from the staircase. He was sitting on a step, shamelessly eavesdropping.
“No,” I growled, “you’re staying put until we get your powers figured out.”
“And you’re staying too,” said Cordelia, looking sternly at me. “I’ll be fine on my own. I don’t need you to protect me.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Magic, remember?”
“You could still use some help,” I said. “I’m a detective; I have skills of my own. I can help you track down leads; filter out the hoaxes from the authentic relics.”
She bit her lip. “Nick, I hesitate to bring this up, but how exactly do you plan to gallivant around the Afterlands looking like that?”
I grinned. “What, you’re embarrassed to have a travelling companion with this much body hair?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“You don’t need to protect me either. I can find a way to manage, even like this. I’m good at improvising.”
“Nick—”
“If I can’t stop you from going, then you can’t stop me from coming along. That’s final.”
Crispin hurried back down the stairs. “This will be fun!” he said excitedly, leaping over the last few steps. “Lady Cordelia and the Brothers Beasley, adventuring across the Afterlands.”
I bent over him, putting my face inches from his and giving him a deep growl. “Read my lips. You. Are. Not. Coming.”
The color drained slightly from his face. “Right. Fine. Of course.”
I turned back to Cordelia. “All settled, then? Lady Beaumont and Mr. Beasley, off to find the lost relics of magic?”
“For the last time, it’s not Lady Beau—” She broke off, exhaling slowly.
I grinned. “What?”
She shook her head in resignation and smiled. “Never mind,” she sighed. “Never mind.”
She betrayed me.
It’s dark. I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know what I am.
I’ll make her pay. I’ll make them both pay.
I just have to get back.
I have to hold on. To remember who I am.
I am Jackson Beaumont, Earl of Whitlock.
Jack
son Beaumont, Earl of Whitlock.
Jack…Beau…Earl of…what…where…lock
I don’t know…who…Ja…Ber…Wock.
Jab-ber-wock.
Jabberwock…
Hi everyone, Kyle here. Thanks for reading The Beast of Talesend! I hope you enjoyed the story. If you did, would you consider writing a review of the book on Amazon? And if you’d like to be in the loop for future announcements about the Beaumont and Beasley series, you can follow my blog at www.kylerobertshultz.com and/or my Twitter account at the handle @kylerbrtshultz.
In the meantime, I can reveal the title of Beaumont and Beasley Book 2, coming soon… (cue dramatic trailer music)
The Stroke of Eleven
Spoiler alert: Nick and Cordelia die.
Repeatedly.
About the Author
Kyle Robert Shultz was born in 1990. Afterward, he went on to get older, though there is some debate as to whether or not he actually grew up. His exact age is difficult to determine due to his complex relationship with the space-time continuum. Cave paintings have been discovered which depict him taking selfies with dinosaurs, and his face appears on wanted posters from Wyoming Territory in the 1880’s. He is also believed to have become emperor of the solar system in at least three alternate timelines.
Kyle became a writer at the age of twelve when he was bitten by a radioactive book. Ha ha. We biographers are such cards. No, seriously, he started writing at age twelve, and proceeded to create various monstrosities he had the audacity to refer to as “novels”. Having subdued these with the aid of nuclear weapons, he went through a period of intense insecurity about his writing skills, fearful lest he craft yet another abomination. Then, in his late teens, he began drinking coffee, which granted him the power to write so fast and furiously that his inner critic was unable to catch up with him in time to stop him. Over time, he gained a greater degree of control over his immense storytelling powers, causing the world to breathe a sigh of relief…until he took up digital painting.
Kyle currently resides in the wilds of southern Idaho, removed far enough from civilization to keep humanity safe should any of his rough drafts break through the electric fence. In addition to writing and art, he enjoys horseback riding, kayaking, hiking, worship leading, and watching sheepdog trials. He has a brilliant plan to become the second Walt Disney. Failing that, he has a brilliant backup plan to awaken the first Walt Disney from cryostasis.
