Hunted(41)

She came to another hall, lined on one side with what had once been a series of stained-glass windows, most of which were smashed now. Snow had blown in through the empty stone frames, lying in wispy drifts in front of each window. Yeva crossed over toward one that still had some pieces of the original glass clinging to its edges. She reached up to trace her fingers over the vivid gold tips of a bird’s wing. There’d been no illustrations in her father’s book of tales, but Yeva had always imagined the Firebird this way: wings outstretched, golden, shining even in the palest winter light. She felt a sudden pang of loss for the images the windows had once held.

Her boots squeaked against the blown snow as she turned, but the sound made her pause. True, her steps had crunched against the snow, but not on the broken glass that should have been scattered everywhere if centuries of storms had blown the windows in. Yeva crept to the edge and gripped the window frame as she leaned out, peering down below. There was only the empty expanse of a snow-covered courtyard. But she knew that somewhere beneath the drifts of white would be the remains of these windows. Because someone had broken them from the inside.

Yeva left the snowy hall and moved on. She found the latrines, and the kitchen, covered in cobwebs, each pot and dish dull with dust and age. She found no bedrooms, for they must have been on the second or third floor, but she did stumble across enough sitting rooms with moldering divans and sofas that she could certainly make a bed for herself if she could stand the smell of mildew and age. Given a choice between the cleaner divan in the Beast’s room underground and a pallet on the floor of a sitting room within reach of the outdoors, she’d choose the latter without hesitating.

Her stomach was growling unhappily, but Yeva had seen no sign yet of the Beast, or of food he’d left for her. She’d given her word not to run away, but did that include leaving the castle to find something to eat? He’d confiscated her bow and she had no wire for snares, but even in winter she might be able to find edible roots if she searched. Though roots would do little to satisfy her hunger.

If only she had some way of finding the Beast and asking for her bow.

As if the thought had summoned him, a roar echoed through the halls, vibrating through the soles of Yeva’s boots. Her heart jumped into a flurry, and Doe-Eyes pressed in sideways against her leg, ears flung back flat against her skull. Yeva pushed the instinctual flash of fear down.

He needs me, she reminded herself. He won’t hurt me.

And yet he’d killed her father.

The sound came again, and this time Yeva thought she heard words in it. “Girl!” the Beast was roaring. “Where are you? Come.”

Irritation rose up, warming her where fear had frozen her feet to the ground. “Who does he think I am?” she asked Doe-Eyes. “Some quivering servant? To be summoned whenever he wishes?”

Doe-Eyes didn’t answer.

“Girl!” the roar came again. “COME.”

Yeva’s hands balled into fists, and she took off back the way she’d come. From the many-faceted echo of the Beast’s roar, she guessed he was in the grand foyer. She burst into the hall, Doe-Eyes skittering along beside her, and drew in a breath to shout back at the monster as soon as she saw his great bulk silhouetted by the pale light coming from the open door.

But the Beast was laden with something, leaning backward and dragging a large burden in his teeth. He stepped sideways, ears flicking straight up as he heard her footsteps, and halfway turned. The thing he was dragging was a deer, glassy-eyed as its head lolled toward Yeva. The Beast stopped, his great red-gold eyes rolling toward Yeva, his teeth clamped around the base of the young buck’s neck. He opened his mouth to drop his burden, working his jaw for a moment as if relaxing the muscles there.

“I have brought you food.” The Beast staggered a step to the side, then dropped onto his haunches, jaw still hanging slightly open as he tried to conceal his quicker breathing.

Yeva was struck so suddenly and so vividly by a memory that her own mouth fell open. He looked so very much like Pelei, her other dog, whenever he brought home a dead squirrel or rabbit he’d caught—where Doe-Eyes was tidy, Pelei would bring the mangled carcasses straight into the house, deposit them on Lena’s clean rug, and then stand there amid the blood and the fur, panting and grinning proudly as if to say, Aren’t I a good dog?

The Beast was still watching her, clearly waiting for some response. When Yeva didn’t say anything, his face darkened, the brows lowering and his jaw closing. “Well?” he demanded.

Yeva’s breath caught up with her and she frowned. “Well, what? Do you expect thanks? You’ve made me your prisoner. I’m not going to thank you for feeding me.”

“Eat or don’t,” growled the Beast. “I care not.”

Yeva took a deep breath. There was no question: no animal could be this temperamental, this . . . childish. There was without a doubt an element of humanity, however deeply buried, within this Beast. “You care because you have gone to all this trouble to catch and train me, for whatever purpose you won’t explain.”

The Beast just snarled at her, and turned to stalk away, toward the opposite side of the castle from the one she’d explored.

“Beast!” Yeva called. “Wait!” And when the Beast paused, she did as well, gathering her thoughts. “Do you know how to dress a carcass, or only how to devour it?”