The Beast Queen

by Felicity Partington

  Isabelle had killed a man tonight, and he had been about to forgive her with no more trouble than if she had forgotten a chore or left open the stables gates.

  There was more damage done than murder that night. For the first time, Amaury understood that once childlike obedience and familial adoration would not work on him, she would simply change her approach. She would continue to evolve, the evil inside her was too intelligent. Once she could no longer fool him, would he be the next to run afoul of her sleeping potions? Had the witch been right all those years ago? It was the first time Amaury had been afraid of his daughter. He looked down into her wet, brown eyes, watching him through dark lashes, there was something more evil than murder in her eyes. It was as if he was looking down into the face of his wife, it was uncanny how much she looked like her. The ghost of his alive, breathing, young wife, chest rising and falling rapidly, the aftermath of her hysteria. He hooked a finger beneath Isabelle’s chin, felt the heat of her skin and the delicate flutter of her pulse. She really was beautiful, and he wished it was the first time he’d noticed.

  No. This was his daughter. Not his wife. Never his wife.

  Isabelle’s hands fell away as he rushed across the kitchen, emptying the contents of his stomach into the sink. He forced himself to see, in his mind’s eye, images of her growing up. Of her as a child. Of his little girl. He was utterly ashamed of himself.

  He knew what she was. The evil her flawless and unparalleled beauty covered. This wasn’t her fault, he’d helped create her, she was unbridled, unnatural, pure wrongness.

  He needed to protect them both.

  The Witch had been right.

  He wanted to fix this.

  Needed to fix this.

  He was afraid of what he might do.

  As good as he tried to be, as well as he tried to live his life and conduct himself, he was just a man, and even good men had their breaking point.[FH1]

  To clean up her mess and buy himself time, Amaury had made haste to the mayor’s house. He had embellished the truth somewhat, told him that Gauge and Isabelle had been having an affair.

  It had seemed so easy, from there the mayor had taken care of everything. He wanted to spare his own daughter the shame of a scandal; ultimately, wasn’t that their job as fathers? Men from town carried Gauge from Amaury’s house in the dead of night. His wife found him the next day in his own sitting room, stone cold. It was concluded a heart attack, a terrible tragedy for it to seize one so young and virile, but nothing more than a cruel twist of fate. There had been no reason to suspect Isabelle.

  It left Amaury with only guilt. The reason he had moved them to a small town in the middle of nowhere was to stop anything like this happening again. It was an all too similar story to that of his first apprentice back in the city. A promising young man called Edward, Amaury had adored him, Isabelle had been terribly jealous. She had hated that Amaury thought a boy was more adequate a choice than her. No matter how much Amaury explained to Isabelle that it was the way of the world, she continued to resent him. When he’d told Isabelle through tears, that he’d found young Edward dead in his bed she had shrugged, ‘it is the way of the world, Papa.’

  Amaury had no evidence to suspect Isabelle had killed him, she had been only thirteen then, but her cold reaction seemed to him, a warning. He did not take another apprentice, and he moved them to the country where he could give her his undivided attention.

  It took until Gauge’s death for Amaury to finally understand. There was evil blossoming within her, self-destructive and unforgivable. It was a malevolence which would consume everything, and in trying to protect Isabelle, it would destroy him too.

  Conceding to the witches terms wasn’t easy, so when instead of the witch, he had stumbled upon the cursed Beast, it seemed like an intervention of fate.

  When had Isabelle changed from the beautiful little child who used to climb into his lap hugging him, accosting him with her insatiable thirst for stories? If he’d noticed exactly when that innocence had faded, he could have done something sooner. How many others had fallen afoul of his ineptitude? All those times he had left her unattended.

  If he had been a better father, then they would not be here now.

  If he had simply accepted that he was not meant to be a father, he and Celie could be cuddled up in front of the fire now, old and happy. He imagined Celie’s smiling face, untouched by time, the firelight flickering over her pale skin.

  “Can we not find somewhere to stay Papa?” Isabelle’s voice broke the silence and made him jump, Amaury glanced around guiltily, he could see the incline of the mountain in front of them. He returned his attention to the road and adjusted some levers on the steering device he had manufactured, a crude instrument designed to allow him stretches inside the carriage. It was intended to prolong travelling time and prevent hypothermia. At best, it was temperamental and clunky, and the horse hated it. Still, it kept him from freezing.

  “With the snow the way it is, we best prevail lest we get stranded. It is not much farther.” His tone was firm, he was barely holding himself together. Isabelle didn’t speak again, and Amaury was once more left with his guilt.

  The biggest problem was that his daughter was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. If she had been hideous, or even plain, then she might not cause so much trouble. She turned heads wherever she went, Amaury had not known anybody like her, men flocked to her, hung off her every word. Isabelle thrived off attention and men fell over themselves to provide it.

  She was seventeen, and he’d already received more proposals for Isabelle than he could count. Of course, she had dismissed them all.

  Amaury’s simple wish was for her to marry a nice man and be looked after, to be happy and faithful, it was all he desired for her. To know that when he was gone, there would be somebody to keep her from trouble, to protect her no matter what. She was ruining that dream. He was growing old and wouldn't be around indefinitely.

  The Beast will tame her.

  If he thought it enough, he might begin to believe it.

  Chapter Two

  The carriage bounced down the isolated roads, lurching along the rough tracks sickeningly. The cold cut bitingly through the thin glass windows. It was a conscious, continuous effort on Isabelle’s part to keep her teeth from chattering. She did not travel with her father much, perhaps it was because she was a terrible passenger. She would prefer to ride atop the horse, run through fields, pick her way through forests; not locked away in a carriage, bouncing uncontrollably with every stone and dip in the road. Even swathed as she was in layers upon layers of furs, she was shivering but worse she was so painfully bored.

  For the entire journey, her father had been quiet. More so than usual.

  No amount of begging had managed to sway him into letting her ride Briar. Begging had never failed to persuade him before, it was worrying her that he was so cool towards her now. Perhaps she had overplayed her hand after the Gauge incident. She made a breathy sigh. Amaury didn’t even glance her way.

  Her father adored her, and she was happy to use that to any advantage she could. But the old man was angry with her, so the frosty silence ensued. She wasn’t a fool and knew that the only reason she was here at all, was because he didn't trust her home alone, who knows who else she might murder. She scowled darkly at the side of his head.

  Really she had nobody to blame but herself.

  She had been sloppy, and now she was paying the price.

  Isabelle pursed her lips and regarded her reflection thoughtfully. She was paler now; the cold had chased the usual pinkness from her cheeks. She used her gloved hand to wipe away the condensation on the window to see more of herself. Her dark hair was tied into a respectable, neat plait which rested demurely over her shoulder. She softened her expression, practising her remorseful penitence. It was what he wanted, her to seem guilty. He wanted to see her humanity.

  Defiant ochre eyes stared back at her, like those of the mother she didn’t remember. They ch
allenged her, ‘pout your pretty lips all you like’ they said, ‘Gauge had it coming. He’d raped half the girls in the town, and you were next.’ Isabelle quieted the stubborn voice in her head; men didn’t care about the plights of womanhood, they were expected to remain weak, submissive, anything else was considered evil. As far as Isabelle was concerned, she was merely levelling the playing field. Bring on the silly little boys who expected a malleable little lady; they deserved everything they got.

  She had apologised profusely, but short of telling him the absolute truth, Isabelle was not sure what else to do. There was no guarantee that he would understand if she did confess, men were different beasts than women, how could he know the degradation of being hunted? Gauge had expected her to faint and submit, a poor, inferior woman melting against his rugged strength. It was sickening, Isabelle didn’t intend to bow to anybody; especially an imbecile like Gauge. At first, he had been sweet, like an overly enthusiastic puppy, but as that wore off the glaring chasm between them grew. Gauge was dull and tedious, by the time his devotion turned to desperation and anger, Isabelle was bored.

  She expected him to get angry when she withdrew his prize before he claimed it, they always did. Gauge was especially hot-tempered. Isabelle hadn’t counted on him sneaking into her house in the dead of night to take her while she slept, if she hadn’t have been roused by a dream not ten minutes before, he would have been on her before she could have fixed the situation. Luckily he had been moved by her remorse and graciously allowed her to fix him a drink, to chase the winter chill from his bones before they stole away to her room for a night of passion.

  Her mistake was not choosing the time or the setting.

  It had lessened her control, and that left her here, locked in icy silence.

  She huffed.

  Still, Amaury paid no heed.

  She was better than him.

  At this rate the only way he was going to forgive her was if she made some massive gesture of humanity, if she had to get married to stop her father treating her like an errant child then she was going to be immeasurably put out.

  No part of her wanted to be married, not ever, least of all to any of the sad little bachelors in town. The thought of festering amongst chickens and children for the rest of her life turned her blood cold. There had to be something else to achieve. Something exciting, something which ignited her desires and made her ache with the longing, something that made her as excited as medicine made her father. But if there wasn’t, if she was destined to grow old and dreary like every other woman she’d ever met, then she was going to squeeze as much enjoyment out of her youth as possible.

  Isabelle had seen the way men treated their wives, taking them for granted, ignoring them. She had no wish to be bored at home while her husband lavished his attention on every other pretty girl who wandered by. Counting her wrinkles and brooding upon memories of her long past beauty. But at least if she had a husband, she’d have a guardian with whom to stay home, perhaps if he were a simple, pliable one it would be easier than continuously balancing her father’s forgiveness and love.

  Marriage or atonement; freedom wasn’t an option.

  Isabelle stared at the snow-blanketed horizon.

  She watched the trees whip by but had no idea where they were. She ached for answers, but her father was frustratingly vague, he was not in a mood to indulge her questions.

  He rarely was these days.

  Luckily there were plenty of others willing to give her attention. Isabelle had been just fifteen when she realised that she was different from other women. Men would go out of their way to win her favour, even a glance or kind word. Isabelle had been anxious at first, as the men’s heads turned, so the women shunned her. Her friends had ushered her away from their boyfriends, husbands. Ultimately Isabelle had little choice for company other than the men who desired her.

  It hadn’t taken long to surpass just companionship. It may have started that way, but then she discovered that they would give her anything she wanted. Money. Jewels. Devotion. They even tended her chores for little more payment than a flutter of her eyelashes and a smile.

  Gauge had promised to leave his wife for her.

  His father-in-law, the mayor, had all but promised to make her mayoress. As if being the dutiful, silent queen of a remote and tiny little farming village was the height of her ambition.

  The cart stopped and broke her from her reflection. Isabelle remained quiet, intently watching her father open the rusted, frozen wrought iron gates which barred the road.

  “Are we here?” She asked, but only silence answered her. The bitter flurry of cold from the open door was nearly debilitating. She was grateful when he got back in and closed the door, but the short breath of fresh air had exacerbated her restlessness. She might be cold, but her legs were stiff and aching from sitting for so long.

  They were about to cross a bridge, she pushed to the edge of her seat to get a better look. Ice crystals dusted the brittle windows. Isabelle glanced at her father. He was watching her curiously. Isabelle arched an eyebrow, then she wrapped a badly moth-eaten fur cloak around her shoulders. It wouldn’t be enough to keep the cold from biting at her, but it would have to suffice. “If you’re not going to answer me, I see I’ll have to look for myself.”

  Taking advantage of the horse’s cautiously slow speed, she opened the door and hopped out, ignoring the astonished protests of her father. Now he had something to say.

  The cold was decidedly worse out here, it was breath-taking, exhilarating. A stark contrast to the dead stillness inside the carriage. The wind whipped at Isabelle’s hair viciously. She tightened the blanket around her, but it didn’t soothe her trembling skin.

  Vertigo hit her the second she peered over the steep sides of the stone bridge, her fingers traced the frozen rock, and she followed the distant shapes with her eyes, awe-struck. They led to the ghostly silhouette of a formidable bastion high in the mountain. It did not look like the home of one of the old eccentric millionaires who usually funded her father, but it was beautiful and haunting all the same. Hundreds of questions rushed through her head as she inspected the flawless, beautiful stone carvings on the bridge.

  Where were they?

  Who lived in that castle?

  Was this old bridge safe?

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she pulled the cloak tighter around herself, staring through the flurries of snow to the freezing rushing waters beneath, they broke on jagged rocks, clear enough to see from even this height. A fall would be fatal. Snow usually made everything look pretty, soft, safe. But here the thick snow wasn’t enough to mask the serrated rocks which led down to the waters. Overwhelmed by the intense sense of foreboding, she yelped when she felt a firm grip on her arm.

  “Get back inside the carriage Isabelle, before you freeze.”

  “Are we going to that castle?” She gestured to the great shadow in the distance. Amaury ignored her question again; she stood still for a moment before climbing back into the rickety carriage with no more protest than a sigh. Had he been here before? It seemed like he was familiar with the area, otherwise he would have been as gobsmacked as Isabelle by the severe beauty. Isabelle was hurt he had not told her of this place.

  When they came to the end of the bridge, on the precipice of stepping through the stone arch and onto the smooth road, the horse faltered and would go no further. With no other options, Isabelle climbed back out of the carriage and went to soothe the animal, long fingers stroking along his flank until she came level with his face. Pressing her nose against the flat plane between his eyes, she whispered;

  “Come on, Briar, it’s just a castle.” The horse was yet another male that yielded to her behest. Her father had followed her out, but instead of trying to urge the horse on, he took a few tentative steps and planted himself in the centre of the narrow road.

  “We should turn him around ‘Belle, we must not stay here, get back inside.” The sudden shift in his demeanour
worried Isabelle. Before he had been aloof, but now he was rounding on her with an urgency that bordered on terrified.

  “All this way and you’re ushering us away without so much as looking?” Isabelle was indignant, she longed to explore this place.

  “Now, Isabelle. Quickly.”

  Isabelle responded to his desperation; she’d have been lying if she said his terror wasn’t making her uneasy. She gripped the carriage to step back inside when a loud, metallic crash echoed around the silent mountains. Isabelle flinched; her father’s eyes widened. “The gates!” He exhaled in terror, “he’s closed them!”

  Chapter Three

  Amaury was glancing around desperately, squinting through the snowfall, following the road with his eyes to see if there was any other way out. Isabelle watched him for a long moment before speaking.

  “Calm down.” Isabelle soothed, looking at the problem logically “we can just turn back and open the gates.”

  “No,” he shook he head “he will have locked them. He did last time.” Amaury was panicking, Isabelle’s delicate features creased into a frown.

  “Last time?” She paused, he offered no elaboration, so she tried a different question. “Who would lock them?” Her father’s eyes widened further and filled with tears. Isabelle dropped her hand from his arm, dread turning her blood to ice more effectively than the snowstorm. “What’s going on?”

  “Forgive me, Isabelle,” he half sobbed, “I-” he inhaled a trembling breath, “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “What have you done?” Her voice was colder now, sterner as if she were now the parent and he the child. She looked up at the distant castle and then back to the closed gates. The old man was openly sobbing and making no sense with his ramblings. Isabelle’s mind was working overtime.