Page 81 of Beau and the Beast

Something had forced Beau’s dreaming mind into overdrive. The fire was hotter, Noah’s screams were louder, and everything was in sharp focus. In the dream, Beau saw details that he thought were long forgotten: Noah’s stuffed polar bear that they’d both scrawled their initials onto in magic marker, the ceramic nightlight that never put out enough light to ward off Beau’s fears of the dark, the way individual particles of ash had floated through the light cast by the fire, like dust motes on a lazy afternoon.

It was as if the dream had something to prove to him that night, had goals of its own. It had unavoidable truths that it wanted Beau to think about, to never forget.

His parents were gone and they would always be gone. Noah was burned and he would always suffer because of it. No magic existed in the world, no consolation prize for losing everything.

When he woke in the dark, alone in the cavernous room, the realities of the dream were pressed up against his spine like a knife blade.

But it’s wrong, Beau thought angrily to himself, still half-asleep, confused, adrenaline still dumping into his system.It’s wrong. Magical things do happen in the world.

Something half-remembered pushed to the surface of his consciousness. Wolfram.

“I want you to come to my door and let me know what happened. You need not spend a moment of your time here alone and afraid.”

Beau had been confused and especially alone, strangely isolated from Wolfram after he’d acknowledged that he felt somethingmorefor the man. Despite the turmoil he felt surrounding him, Beau knew that seeing Wolfram would be good in that moment—would make him feel unafraid.

He didn’t want to sit with his loneliness.

Beau got out of bed in his pajama pants and fumbled for a sweater in the pile of things that Violet had picked out for him. In the dim light, he couldn't see the patterns or colors, but soon his fingers found a fabric that was familiar. His sweater from the first day he'd arrived.

He pulled it on over his bare skin, not wanting to take the time to get dressed, just wanting to see Wolfram, to talk to someone and not be alone.

The penthouse was dark when Beau left his room, padding down the hall. He'd never ventured out of his room in the middle of the night—never had any reason to. There was a faint glow from the living room. Someone was still up watching television, even in the middle of the night—and Beau wondered what else he might have missed by staying in his room every night.

The penthouse was silent and he moved swiftly to his destination, feeling as if he was doing something wrong by showing up at the door of the study uninvited. He slipped inside.

Wolfram had shut off all the lights and it was pitch dark in the room. The total darkness made Beau's heart thud in his chest. He didn't have a cell phone to use as a flashlight, no matches or any way of making it lighter inside.

Christ, I don't even know where there are any light switches in this place, Beau realized. His hand fumbled against the wall by the door where switches would normally be, but instead he felt one of the butterfly shadowboxes. He was lucky he hadn't knocked it off the wall.

Opposing instincts warred in his chest. He wanted to be in the same room as Wolfram, to not be alone. He also wanted to be somewhere where he could see—not be in the frightening darkness.

Did he remember the room well enough to make his way across it, to find the door at the other side?

And then what would he do? He'd never been through the door at the back of the study. What if it didn't open up immediately to the door where Wolfram was? What if there was another long hallway, pitch black and unnavigable?

* * *

Wolfram's dreamthat night went funny in the middle. It was the type of forgettable thing that happened most nights, random electrical storms firing off in his sleeping mind, fantasy mixed with memories. He'd been sitting in his office on Wall Street, but it had been on top of a mountain, and somewhere a siren was going off.

Someone should turn that thing off, he thought, annoyed in the dream.

But the sound continued, stretching out, changing, until the siren was his name, repeated and pleading.

That shook him and he surfaced from the dream.

"Wolfram?"

Someone reallywascalling his name. Beau.

Reality was jumbled with dreams in his mind as Wolfram pushed himself out of bed frantically, finding his breeches and pulling them on before bounding to the door. Where the hell was Beau?

When he opened the door to the study, though, Beau's scent hit him immediately—acrid with fear but otherwise familiar, pleasant, the scents he'd grown to associate with a deep and steady happiness like nothing he'd felt in years.

It was nearly pitch black, but Wolfram could spot his shape immediately. Beau was crouched by the table where they had tea, holding his shin in both hands.

"Beau, what's wrong?"

"Fuck, Wolf—I can't see shit," he said, sounding pathetic, his voice husky and strange like he’d been crying.

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