Beautiful Beasts

by Nicholas Knight

  Sir Moreau dismounted with a bow and handed over his letter of introduction.

  She took it, glanced at it, and then tucked it away up her sleeve. “The Conde Rodriquez sent a courier to inform me of your coming. I am Vizcondesa Augustina Velasquez,” she said, glancing at Loretta.

  There was much in that glance. Dismissal, authority, and the power to back up both. Had Loretta actually thought to plead with this woman for help? Fresh shame washed over and through her. For her weakness at even considering coming to one of her peers from such a lowly position, for no doubt looking as disgusting as she felt, and for being seen as anything less than the Maradona heiress she was. The vizcondesa did not see a person before her when she glanced at Loretta. At most, she saw a tool in need of cleaning.

  Hot fury filled Loretta’s belly and her tail went on end. How dare she! The vizcondesa glanced back at her. Loretta froze. She had not even realized she had begun fidgeting. Fidgeting! Like a child. Why could she not be still?

  “Your beast is ill mannered,” the vizcondesa said.

  Loretta didn’t know which was the more insulting. To be considered a beast at all, or to be thought that she was anything less than the absolute best at whatever it was she did. Ill mannered? She had trained her entire life and was more capable than this diminutive vizcondesa could ever hope to be.

  Moreau did not react. “I’m sure she knows better than most how to behave around a diamond souled, my lady.”

  “Does she now?” The vizcondesa asked. Her full attention fell upon Loretta.

  Loretta’s connection with Moreau vanished.

  It was like having the ground drop away from her. One moment there was something fixed in the world, unyielding and certain, the next, it was a gaping, hungry void.

  The void did not remain empty for long. Something indefinable and just as hungry rushed to fill it. It had a sense of motion, of rhythm, and suddenly she knew that it was her own anima. It had been turned upon her, somehow inverted, and in so doing, had been set free to rampage through her very soul.

  The internal motion of it thrashing about, that hunger, that rage warred at the edge of her mind, and it was all she could do not to make a sound. It wanted to take her over. Wanted her to return to that state she’d been in before Moreau, but it couldn’t take her mind. Not yet and not completely. Aside from her connection with him, it felt as if an appendage were gone. That motion now filling the void had been inside her limbs and heart—now she was more still than she had been since Falling.

  This was a true woman before her. Now, Loretta fully appreciated what that meant, diamond souled or no.

  She had never known, or cared, how horrible it was to be on the receiving end of the power she had wielded as a woman. This wasn’t just a severing of her connection with Sir Moreau. If it had only been that, it might not have been so terrible. This was an invasion that turned her own spirit into a traitor. Something deep within her that she did not fully understand was cut off and taken from her, locked away behind an invisible barrier while she mentally clawed at the inside of her own skull to remain capable of thought.

  Madness, horrible, all-consuming madness, was slowly encroaching on her mind. Every second she could feel a little bit more of her sanity, her very self, bleeding away. If the vizcondesa kept this up, she would eventually be reduced to a helpless, insane wreck.

  Fear took hold of Loretta to her very core such as she had never experienced. There had been some part of her that had taken a measure of reassurance from the thought that if she ever lost her connection with Moreau and descended into a Rampant state, she would remain dangerous. Capable of eliminating threats to her person and savaging any who opposed her.

  This rotund little grandmother had taken even that illusion from her. She was left with nothing but the barest fingerhold on her sense of self.

  The vizcondesa was talking. Had been talking. Loretta tried to focus on what she was saying. It was so very hard.

  “Conde Rodriquez indicated you were starting over from nothing,” the vizcondesa said. “I did not fully believe him until now.” She held up a hand, as though to stave off a protest, though Moreau gave no indication of being bothered by her words. “Apologies, sir, almost nothing. None would dare strip your title after the services you’ve performed for Freutsche.”

  Loretta’s splintering mind latched onto that and her head whipped around, the tail of hair flying behind her. Services to their queendom? Moreau? Sir Ragamuffin?

  The vizcondesa noticed her, causing Loretta to shy back. She never wanted to be noticed by this woman ever again.

  “Your beast doesn’t know?” Vizcondesa Velasquez asked.

  “I suspect her family knows, and that was why they allowed me to keep her.” There seemed to be more left unsaid than said. It was galling to know on some level that she would have possessed the insight necessary to piece together that unspoken meaning had her mind been her own in that moment.

  Loretta had not wondered too much about Moreau as they’d traveled. There had been more immediately pressing things to keep her occupied, and she had not considered just how thoroughly stuck with him she may be. That had been a mistake. She let out a little snarl of effort. Thinking was so hard. The smell of the people around her…their blood would taste so sweet.

  The woman frowned at her. “You are very newly Fallen, pet, aren’t you?”

  Loretta managed a shaky nod. She could not even muster up the effort to be insulted at being spoken down to. “Y-yes.”

  The invasive presence of the vizcondesa’s anima within her vanished, and Loretta gasped. It was all she could do not to fall to her knees in the dirt. That had been the worst thing she had ever experienced.

  The memory of her father’s face, looking down at her as she lay upon the ground, his face twisted with disgust as he kicked away her hand, floated to the fore of her mind, and with it, pain. Perhaps the second worst thing.

  “It is a strong-willed creature,” the vizcondesa said appraisingly. The way one might comment about a horse a friend had just purchased. “That will either be very good or very bad for you, sir. From what I’ve heard about you, however, you are no doubt up to the challenge.”

  If Moreau responded, Loretta did not hear it. She was struggling to relearn how to breathe. She staggered forward through the gates and into a courtyard, eyes darting about. She needed something, anything, to focus on, to take her mind from the shock of what had just happened.

  The castle was a small town unto itself, bustling with activity. She spotted gardens within the wall that would sustain the people inside if ever they came under siege. There were men with teams of beasts and several practicing various oddities in a courtyard. A bird caught her eye as it swooped over the training beasts and then up, alighting upon something metallic that glinted in the brilliance of the sunset.

  A railway had been constructed that wound the length of the castle wall, sticking out over the courtyard. Her eyes traced along its length, scanning for whatever it might have been put up to support. Loretta fixed her attention upon it and put her mind to the task of puzzling out what it was used for. When she found it, she gasped. “Is that a Mark III?”

  The Mark II Gatling Gun had only been in production in the last year and was ungodly expensive. But it couldn’t be a Mark II. The Mark II was not that big and had eight barrels, two more than the Mark I. This engine of death had ten.

  “It is,” said the vizcondesa from beside her, and Loretta jumped. The woman gave her a disapproving look before turning to address Moreau over her shoulder. “Your beast has an eye for weaponry.”

  Loretta sensed that was intended as a compliment. Steeling her courage, she asked, “How did you get it?”

  The weapon must have been modified to fit on those tracks. Traditionally, they were mounted on a device that looked like wagon wheels and were so cumbersome and unwieldy that they rarely saw use beyond the start of a battle. With this system, the vizcondesa’s men
would be able to quickly reposition the weapon anywhere along the walls in a matter of minutes, if not seconds, and clear an entire field of enemies. This castle wasn’t just a fortress—it was a deathtrap.

  The vizcondesa’s eyes twinkled. “The Company of Golden Swords’ service is prized first for our effectiveness and second for our discretion.”

  Which meant that the Gatellas, the family famed for their gunsmiths, had been in need of her Company’s services, whatever those might be. A sense of awe came over Loretta. The Gatellas were not highly ranked, but they were widely respected for their craft and lethality. If they had procured this Company of Golden Swords’ services, then this was a force that she would have learned of when she became duquesa. The purpose of the guards at the gate suddenly became clear. They were bait.

  “How many rounds per minute?” Loretta asked, as much from genuine curiosity as to keep her thoughts from her rightful title that the world seemed intent on denying her.

  “Two hundred and fifty,” Vizcondesa Velasquez said, a proud, slightly manic gleam in her grandmotherly eye. “And that with .58 caliber rounds, mind you.”

  Loretta nodded. A dangerous weapon, and an even more dangerous woman.

  The vizcondesa spun to address Moreau. “You’ll want to see our quartermaster, of course. And bring your team to see our wizard.”

  Wizard? Loretta spun to stare at the vizcondesa open mouthed. The Gatling gun was one thing. A wizard in this woman’s service was something else.

  The vizcondesa gave Loretta a pleased smile before continuing. “You have not had your new beast properly inspected yet, I imagine.”

  Loretta recoiled. Inspected? Like a horse or a dog? Repugnant as that thought was, another was quick to replace it. Would the wizard be able to tell that she had been cursed? Surely, one of them would be able to tell. She tried not to let her hopes rise, or for that hope to bleed over into eagerness.

  “Not yet,” Moreau admitted. “She is only freshly harvested.”

  Something passed behind his dark eyes. Some thought Loretta could not guess. She needed more information about this man who would call himself her keeper. Who, it also seemed, kept her insanity at bay.

  “I shall inform Master Jacquemin to expect you in the morning,” Vizcondesa Velasquez said. “Rest and see to your beast’s hygiene. I took the liberty of sending a servant to prepare him when you were seen approaching.”

  Loretta wrinkled her nose. Moreau’s hygiene was in no less need of maintenance than her own.

  “That is most gracious of you,” Moreau replied.

  The vizcondesa gave a self-satisfied grin. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Loretta did not know what to make of the exchange. It almost seemed as if the vizcondesa were glad to have Sir Moreau joining her Company. A company even the Gatellas respected. Who was this man? Or was there something more at play? That had to be it. She would have to remain alert if she intended to piece together this puzzle. It would not do for her to be caught up in some scheme that would prevent her from restoring her humanity.

  Soon she would see this wizard, Master Jacquemin, and, unless he was in league with Lorenz Gage, which she had a hard time believing, then he would reveal the truth of her condition. She only needed to endure until then.

  A servant guided them through the halls of Kerkenhal and down into its depths, eventually pausing before an entryway and allowing them through, where Loretta discovered the castle’s hot spring. It was nothing like the Maradona hot spring, which was carved with artistic designs and lit with electric lights. No, this spring was primitive, more cave than chamber.

  Mechanisms, pipes, and vents cascaded over the roughhewn walls and ceiling, like the vines of some parasitic species on a great tree. Rather than being affixed to anything or decoratively arranged, electrical lights hung naked from wires strung up between the cavern walls. There were even torches, actual flaming torches, positioned at various points.

  Their flickering light played an eerie trick with the steam rising from the spring. Loretta had always found the steam from the Maradona spring seemingly possessed of a life of its own. So too did this steam seem alive. Rather than providing a welcoming presence, however, the effect here was not unlike looking into one’s riding boot and catching a glimpse of a slithering coil.

  Chest and shelves had been worked into the cavern walls by the door, and, on glancing at them, she discovered Sir Sigmund Moreau, the ragamuffin hedge knight, disrobing.

  Loretta nearly shrieked when he stripped off his cloak and shirt, revealing a muscular, if dirty, upper body, and a belt laden with two pistols, a sword she quickly realized was broken, and a silver flute that was far too fine an instrument for this man. She turned as he undid his belt and tossed his weaponry on a shelf. His trousers and boots quickly followed. Her face felt as if it were aflame.

  It was common knowledge that men could not love beasts. It was also common knowledge that they were known to slake their lusts upon them. Sir Moreau had been out in the woods for a very long time. Knight or no, he was only a man. Whatever sense of propriety he held was more than likely warped from such a lengthy stay of isolation, if not altogether absent.

  “W-what are you doing?” she stammered.

  “Bathing.”

  An unwilling glance over her shoulder revealed that he had at least protected his modesty with a bathing towel wrapped around his waist. A part of her found that mildly disappointing. Moreau’s ill-fitting clothes had not done his lean, dare she say lethal, frame justice. He was riddled with scars and corded with tight muscles.

  She looked away. A moment later, she heard the sound of him entering the hot spring, followed by a relieved sigh.

  Loretta bit her lower lip. She would kill for a hot bath. Her entire body ached with small injuries and fatigue. She felt positively disgusting. She would not, however, demean herself by bathing in Kerkenhal’s spring. Beasts loved the springs. Beasts bathed in them whenever they could. She was not a beast. This was not something she would do.

  “This hardly seems appropriate,” she said without looking at him. With only the two of them, her words echoed around the cavern.

  “Oh?” His voice was casual, as if they were discussing the weather and not his sudden nudity.

  “Y-you are naked, sir, and I….” she trailed off, unsure what she was. She’d almost said, “am a lady,” but she wasn’t anymore. Not until she could break Gage’s spell. This Jacquemin must know some way to counter it. She simply had to endure and remain strong until the morning. Then she would be made human again and this nightmare would be over.

  “You should get in the spring as well,” he said. “It will be good for you.”

  “No, thank you.” With an effort, she stilled herself. What would it take to make her finally be still?

  “Then you may join the other keepers’ menageries in the barn,” he said.

  She flinched.

  Menagerie—now there was a word she’d never thought could include her. She was a part of Sir Sigmund Moreau’s menagerie…and he was naked only a few feet away from her. She was keenly aware of how little she actually knew about the man she was now bound to obey. They had spent only a few scant moments in each other’s company—her awakening, and then just before he stepped into the motor carriage. That said, after her time with the conde’s menagerie, she knew exactly where she would rather be if she had to choose between him and other beasts.

  “No. Here is adequate.”

  He chuckled. “Adequate.”

  Heat rose up her neck and face and she bit down angry words. No man had mocked her to her face since she was a child. Instead she settled for, “Your company and this lodging are far preferable to whatever menageries may be waiting for me. They are animals.”

  “You think yourself an animal now?” he asked from the water, tone mocking.

  She stiffened, gritting her teeth as she silently fumed. Infuriating man. How dare he taunt her! Her stupid tail went ri
gid, standing straight up.

  “If you’re going off your experience Rodriquez’s menagerie,” he went on. “I think you’ll find that their dislike of you is far more human.”

  She ground her teeth together, feeling their razor sharpness. “What would you know of it?”

  “More than you. You seem pretty clueless, though. I thought it might be because you were coping with your Fall, but I’m beginning to suspect it’s a condition that affects your brain.”

  She spun on him, forgetting that he was all but naked until she was facing him, at which point she nearly stumbled upon her words. He was looking back over his shoulder at her, a mocking grin on his face. The bastard. “This is not right. I am not meant to be here. My name is—”

  “You have no name,” Moreau interrupted, voice soft but stern. “Whatever name you once held was lost to you when you Fell. I haven’t given you a new one yet.”

  She straightened her back and bared her fangs. “I am Loretta Maradona, firstborn daughter of Duquesa Fiammetta Maradona.”

  Moreau shifted in the water to fully face her and stood up. “Loretta Maradona suffered a tragic accident at a ball a few days ago and passed on. Her obituary will be in every newspaper across Freutsche by tomorrow morning. So, you see, you cannot be Loretta Maradona. She is dead.”

  Loretta felt suddenly cold. “But, I’m not dead.”

  “And you can thank Conde Rodriquez for that. Your father wanted to kill you on the spot after you Fell.”

  The words hit her in the stomach like a physical blow. “No. No, he couldn’t. My father loves me.”

  Sir Moreau shrugged. “He loves his family, wealth, and station. Your Fall threatens all of that. Duquesa Maradona is known to have more pure blood than him, she’d have been within her rights to divorce him for your Fall and disown your sister. She probably would have, too, had she been made aware of your condition.”

  Loretta did not want to hear this. Each word was another slap, a strike to her very soul. Yet they were so sharp because she knew them to be true. The scandal alone of a diamond soul Falling would have ripped her family apart. Even if her mother did decide not to abandon her father and start a new family than risking her descendants being tainted by bestial blood, the scandal would follow her. But to think that he would want to kill her? No, that was not possible. Besides…