Beauty's Beast(60)

The rough stone scraped his right knee, his right hand. He began to shiver as the dungeon’s cold crept into him, and with it the certain fear that he would never see Kristine again, that Charmion would keep him down here until the transformation was complete, until he was fully a beast, incapable of speech, his mind and his humanity forever trapped in the body of an animal.

He heard a whispered word and a candle sprang to life, its pale light illuminating an iron-barred cell.

“Your new home,” Charmion said as she opened the door.

He summoned all his willpower, all his strength, in an effort to resist her, knowing if he entered the musty cell, he would not leave it again, at least not in his present form. “I. Will. Not.”

“Ah, but you will, my lord Erik. You are not strong enough to resist me.” She crooked her finger at him. “Come, my pet.”

“No.” The word was torn from his throat, but even as the sound of his voice echoed off the damp stone walls, he was crawling inside the cell.

The door shut behind him, closing with the finality of life’s last breath.

He collapsed on the cold stone as she withdrew her power, his body feeling as weak as that of a newborn colt.

Charmion stared at him a moment, and then she turned away. The candle guttered and died as she retraced her steps toward the stairway, leaving him alone in cold and utter darkness.

Shaking with pain and rage, he grabbed hold of the bars and drew himself up. He was a man still; he would not lie on the floor like some dumb beast. But, try as he might, his legs refused to support him, and he dropped to his knees, his forehead resting against the bars.

“Kristine . . . Kristine . . .” Her name trembled on his lips. What was to become of her, of their child?

Steeped in bitter despair, his body aching as the hideous transformation continued toward its inevitable end, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness.





He woke to a blaze of light. He sprang to his feet, a curse issuing from his lips as he glanced around the dungeon. Mirrors, nothing but mirrors. Large and small, gilt-edged, framed in wood, veined with gold. Mirrors everywhere he looked, and for the first time since the curse had made itself known, there was nowhere to hide from what he was becoming. His reflection stared back at him at every turn, mocking him.

When the transformation first began, he had removed every mirror from the castle save the small one he used when he shaved. Never since that day had he looked into a full-length glass, never had he seen just how truly hideous he had become. Daily, he had examined his left hand, his feet, but never before had he seen the sum total of what he now was. It was his worst nightmare magnified a hundred times, illuminated by a hundred flickering candles.

“Charmion!” He clutched one of the bars with his good hand as he bellowed her name. “Charmion!”

One minute he was alone, the next she was standing outside his cell. “Is something amiss, my lord?” she inquired with sugary sweetness.

“Take them away!”

She smiled at her reflection as she glanced around the dungeon, inordinately pleased with her cleverness. Mirrors of every conceivable size and shape hung from the walls outside his cell, from the ceiling above, out of his reach but never out of sight.

“Take them away,” he repeated. “I beg of you.”

Her hell-black eyes met his, filled with hatred. “For every tear my daughter wept, my lord Erik, for every drop of blood she shed.”

Drawing himself up to his full height, he stepped away from the bars. He would not beg, would not humiliate himself before her. He summoned his own hatred, felt it wrap around him, strengthening his resolve. He would not be brought down by his own reflection, monstrous as it was. He would not grovel. Nor would he surrender to the despair that flowed through him. He was still alive, and while he lived, he would resist her. Somehow, he would find a way to escape and free Kristine. Somehow . . .

“Has your lady wife seen you as you are now?” Charmion wondered aloud.

Muttering a vile oath, he lunged forward, his good hand reaching through the bars, reaching for her throat, but she stepped nimbly out of danger, a cackle of laughter spewing from her lips.

And in spite of his resolve, he found himself pleading once more. “I’m begging you, don’t bring her down here, don’t let her see this. Think of the child.”

“Unlike my Dominique, your little street urchin is made of strong stuff,” Charmion said, her words bitter. “She may scream, she may faint, but the child is well-rooted within her and will be in no danger.” A cruel smile twisted her lips. “Think how pleased she will be when I tell her you are here.”

Laughter bubbled from Charmion’s throat, faster and faster, until he thought, hoped, prayed, she would choke on it.