Page 31 of Beau and the Beast

He waited for something—anything—that told him that Beau couldn't handle the surreal landscape that he'd walked into.

Instead, Wolfram watched in amazement as the slight man got to his feet, graceful as a crane. Wolfram stopped in his tracks.

And then the most incredible thing happened.

The reporter took a step toward Wolfram with an open hand.

It had been so long since he'd seen the gesture that Wolfram almost didn't know what it indicated—thought at first that the man wished to pluck something off of him.

He wants to shake my hand,he realized with awe.

"Mr. Wolfram, I'm Beau Blake," the reporter said.

He was close—closer than most of Wolfram's own staff, who had known him as this monster for years, even cared to get to him. Beau’s skin was porcelain-smooth and the color of milky chai. Wolfram could sense the reporter’s heartbeat as it thudded away as fast as a hare’s—but Beau wasn’t afraid, Wolfram realized. There was no acrid dump of adrenaline stinking up the air between them.

Beau’s hand stretched out in the air, fingers long and delicate, waiting.

Gently, Wolfram took the hand in his own, careful not to squeeze, painfully aware of howdifferenthis own hand must feel, the tough black pads on his paw-like hands up against Beau’s soft skin. He held the man's hand still for a moment before shaking it.

A stranger who wasn't afraid of him. Maybe Beau was brain damaged.

* * *

Mr. Wolfram lookedat him cautiously, enormous pupils dilating in the golden saucers of his irises.

He was stunning up close—so distinctly a man and yet... not. He had the expressions of a man, the full lips of a human only barely hiding the tips of cruel canine teeth that begged to protrude from his mouth. The curved planes of his face were covered with a fine fur that looked soft, almost downy, blending in a smooth gradient into the long mane of darker hair that framed his face and fell past his shoulders.

In another world where creatures like this were the norm, Mr. Wolfram could almost behandsome—but Beau had to shake his head at the thought.

Finally, Mr. Wolfram spoke.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Beau Blake."

The voice was deep and gravelly, like a rolling purr in the man's barrel chest. Beau was aware of how small he was, his hand disappearing in Mr. Wolfram's. He dropped Beau's hand and nodded, never taking his eyes off of Beau’s.

"Would you like some tea?"

Beau realized he was smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt.

"I'm not much of a tea drinker, but I'll try it," Beau offered.

It was clear that Mr. Wolfram planned on sitting down, so Beau took his spot on the cushion once again, watching Wolfram as he selected a large cushion and dragged it to the other side of the table.

He understood, then, why there was no furniture. Surely the man weighed too much, was too large to fit on anything made for a normal human.

Why was it such a pleasure to see the man move? Was it the novelty of it? Was it the same thing that compelled people to stare at animals at a zoo?

The thought struck him.

I shouldn't gawk at him, Beau thought quickly.He's simply a man. Look at his eyes and you'll remember that he's only a man.

Beau forced himself to comply, to punch down the impulse to treat Mr. Wolfram like a circus lion.

He watched as Wolfram delicately plucked the teapot from the table, maneuvering it slowly in a practiced way with his large hands. He extended one finger to hook into the handle and Beau noticed a wicked looking claw. His claws hadn't touched Beau when they shook hands. Did he have control over them, like a cat did?

Delicately, carefully, he poured dark tea into two cups before sliding one over to Beau. His movements reminded Beau of the way that his brother did certain tasks around the house, the things he’d had to re-learn after he’d been burned: opening a can of soda, locking a door with a housekey, buttoning his shirt.

"Thank you," Beau said, nodding and accepting the cup.

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