Page 69 of Beauty's Beast

“Please, Charmion, for the love of heaven—”

“Don’t speak to me of love! Your love killed my daughter as surely as if you had plunged a knife into her heart! I have thought of her, grieved for her, these past five years. Be glad I do not destroy the mother who bore you, as well!”

With a wave of her hand, Charmion disappeared in a swirl of thick, dark smoke.

Days passed. Food appeared in the cell once each day. Raw meat for Erik; rich, nourishing meals for Kristine. Erik refused to touch the meat, though with each passing day it grew more tempting. Kristine offered to share her food with him, but he accepted only a little, not wanting to deprive her or the child of the sustenance they needed.

They clung to each other, not knowing how much time they had left, how long Charmion would allow them to be together. He watched Kristine constantly, wanting to imprint her image so deeply in his mind that, man or beast, he would never forget the smoothness of her skin, the clear green of her eyes, the beauty of her smile.

At night, while she slept, he paced the length of the narrow cell, his soul sinking deeper and deeper into despair. He could feel the curse creeping over him, feel it working its hideous magic on his body, his mind. His dreams were dark, filled with the scent of blood and death. In his dreams, he was no longer human, but fully a wolf. He dreamed of stalking his prey, of bringing it down, of burying his fangs in warm flesh and tearing it to shreds. He dreamed of Valaree, of hunting alongside her in the light of a full moon.

Valaree.Her name whispered through his mind.I need your help again, Valaree …

Too soon, Charmion came to his cell and took Kristine away. The witch had let them spend a week together. It had not been kindness on her part, Erik knew that well enough. Never kindness. She had given him a week to bask in Kristine’s love, togrow accustomed to her nearness, to the company and comfort of another human being, and then Charmion had taken her away, knowing his loneliness would be all the more awful to bear when she was gone, and he was again alone.

He howled his anger and frustration, the sound of his rage echoing off the damp stone walls, reverberating in his own ears until the wild animal sound penetrated his mind and he clamped his mouth shut, horrified that such a beastly cry had come from his lips.

Left alone, he padded restlessly back and forth, and everywhere he looked, his image stared back at him, mocking him, tormenting him. Though still manlike in stature, he was not a man. His whole body was covered with thick black fur now, his feet and his left hand were paws. His left ear was wolflike. Only his right hand and the right side of his face remained human. For now, he looked like a man in the costume of a wolf, but soon, soon … The horror of what he was becoming made his stomach churn, made him long for death, for the forgetfulness of oblivion.

He wrapped his right hand around one of the bars, wishing he could bend it to his will, wishing he could sink his teeth into Charmion’s black heart. He cursed her for taking Kristine from him. As much as it had bothered him to have her imprisoned in the dungeon, he had treasured Kristine’s company, had loved her all the more for letting him hold her when he was in such monstrous form. Sometimes, he had caught her staring at him, her beautiful green eyes filled with pity and compassion, but never with revulsion or fear. He had the feeling that her presence had been the only thing keeping him sane, feared that being alone with nothing but his own hideous reflection would soon drive him mad.

His fingers tightened around the bar of the cell, his knuckles going white with the strain. He had to get out of there!

“Please,” he prayed, “if I am damned to be a wolf, then let me forget that I was once a man. Let me run wild with Valaree and her pack. Please don’t leave me here, in Charmion’s power, to know that she has destroyed my love, to see my babe and never be able to hold her.” He groaned low in his throat. “Please, please … ”

He wondered if Charmion would grant him the opportunity to see a priest and confess his sins before the transformation was complete. Would she think it punishment enough to condemn him to hell on earth without damning his eternal soul as well?

Without Kristine, the days passed with agonizing slowness. He paced restlessly back and forth, hour after hour, oblivious to the rough stones that scraped the pads of his feet until they bled. A harsh, bitter laugh rose in his throat. His paws, he amended as he stared at the bloody paw prints that stained the cold gray stones.

“A fine end you’ve come to, my lord of Hawksbridge Castle,” he muttered. “If only your father could see you now!”

He was going quietly mad, he thought, and welcomed the madness that would wipe away the memories of his past, of Kristine, of his unborn child.

He smiled as he thought of how disappointed Charmion would be if he lost his mind. She was looking forward to the time when his mind would be trapped in the body of an animal, but it would never happen if he went mad. Insanity would cheat her of her final victory.

Kristine paced her chamber, her arms wrapped protectively over her womb, her throat and eyes aching from the tears she had shed. She couldn’t seem to stop crying.

She looked around the room, at the sumptuous furnishings, and thought of Erik, locked in a damp cell in the dungeon below. She had a warm bed to sleep in, a soft mattress, fluffy pillows. He had a cold stone floor. She had a wardrobe filled with dresses of the finest silks and satins and soft wools. Erik was naked. Her meals were served hot on plates trimmed with gold; she had clear, cool water or wine or tea to drink. Erik was given a bowl of water and a platter of raw meat.

She would have refused to eat, refused the comfort Charmion offered, had it not been for her child, but she could not starve herself without harming the babe, and she could not risk her child’s life. Even knowing Charmion would take it from her, even knowing she would never see the baby again once it had been born, she could do nothing to cause harm to Erik’s child. Charmion might kill her, might kill Erik, but their child would live, proof that they had once lived. And loved.

She sought forgetfulness in sleep, but her dreams were dark and troubled. Sometimes she dreamed that Erik was a werewolf, that he was stalking her through dark shadowed woods. Sometimes she dreamed they had escaped from Charmion’s castle and returned home and that she was forced to keep Erik locked behind bars to prevent him from tearing their newborn child to shreds.

Charmion came to visit her morning and evening, making certain she was well, asking if there was anything she needed. A midwife had been summoned from the village. A nursery was being readied. Dominique’s cradle was being refinished.

Kristine didn’t know which was worse, the nightmares that haunted her sleep, or the waking nightmare that her life had become.

She thought longingly of Hawksbridge Castle, of Mrs. Grainger and Leyla and Lilia, of Nan and Yvette.

She missed riding Misty.

She missed falling asleep in Erik’s arms … Erik, Erik. Waking or sleeping, he was ever in her thoughts, her prayers.

Daily, she begged and pleaded and demanded to see him again, and finally Charmion agreed.

Kristine’s heart pounded with anticipation as she followed the witch down the narrow flight of stairs to the dungeon. She had forgotten how bright it was down there with the candlelight reflected in the mirrors, candles that burned but never went out.

Charmion halted at the bottom of the stairs. “Enjoy your visit, my dear,” she said, her voice filled with mockery. “I shall return for you within the hour.”

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