Hunted(55)

We see the way she looks at us. We are not blind.

She hates. When she forgets herself the hate retreats, like the river’s waters in summer, but the damp sandy scars that stretch through the valley tell of the groundwater still there, still carving its course through the forest. And her hatred is still there, and its scars mark her face every time she sees us.

She must not know the truth. All we need is for her to stay, and complete her task, and if the thirst for revenge is what will keep her at our side, well, then we’ve thirsted enough to know she will stay until time robs her of youth and leaves her bent and trembling.

I wish just once she would look at me without hate.

But wishing is for men. Wanting is what brought us here. Desire and greed are human traits.

We are the Beast.

And yet . . . I wish.





SIXTEEN


WHEN THE STORMS RETREATED, the Beast began to take Yeva hunting again. Yeva had expected the weather to shift, for by her makeshift calendar she’d spent many months here, and spring ought to have begun creeping delicately in at the edges of the forest. But the valley remained blanketed with snow, a new dusting falling every few days to erase their tracks and give them a fresh canvas from which to work.

Yeva began to use that glimpse of magic the Beast had shown her, and slowly she became better at it. Soon she could track the Beast for leagues before she lost his trail, and the thrill of hunting prey that could outwit her, outsmart her, quickened her steps and sharpened the air in her lungs. She slept more soundly and deeply than she had in weeks cooped up in the castle.

Sometimes the Beast would spring from nowhere, shortly after she lost his trail, and demonstrate that he’d been two paces behind her for the last half hour, and Yeva would let herself laugh. The sound seemed to hearten the Beast, and Yeva felt his body language shifting, his manner warming. Spring had not come to the wood, but it was coming to the Beast’s heart. And at the same time, she hardened her own.

It was no different from tracking him through the wood. Day by day she grew better, faster, more sensitive to the hints of magic that would alert her to his presence. And day by day, inch by grueling inch, he let down his guard.

One night Yeva returned to the castle after giving up on the Beast’s trail to find that he had beaten her back, and had moved a number of pieces of furniture from the underground room into the one she’d chosen for herself. The blue velvet divan was there, and the table, and a big flat cushion stuffed with wheat husks and hay had appeared before the hearth. It was onto this cushion that Doe-Eyes sprang immediately and rolled around until she could stretch all four snow-covered paws out toward the fire, which crackled merrily.

Yeva stood in the doorway, fingering the tip of her bow, which she had not yet unstrung. She stared, feeling vague and uneasy, heart rebelling at how swiftly she felt at home here. This was not, could never be, home.

“Is there anything else you wish for?” The Beast spoke from a few paces behind her.

Yeva swallowed. “It’s wonderful.”

The Beast hovered just beyond the doorway. His gaze was on her hands, which still gripped her father’s bow.

She took a deep breath and then slipped her leg between bow and string so she could bend it across her thigh and unstring it, there while the Beast watched. She set it in its corner and turned her back. She had to stop to remember how, and then, with effort, turned to smile at the Beast. “Thank you.”

The Beast’s ears flicked, flattened, then shot up again, which spoke to Yeva of surprise, then pleasure. He shuffled back a step, and before her eyes, he shimmered. It was the same eye-straining blur that occurred when he needed dexterity for locks or latches, but this time it was all of him, and for a moment he seemed like something else, someone else. Yeva heard a swell of music, like that she heard in the wood—only this was a song all his own, a thread she could separate and listen to and know.

Then the Beast shook himself and the mirage fell away like a shower of stray hairs. He took another step back.

“Good night, Beauty,” he said, and quickly hurried into the shadowy corridor.

Yeva waited, controlling her breathing with an effort. She knew the Beast would hear the sound of her quickening breath if she let him.

“Sleep well,” she whispered—then sat down to wait.

“Stay,” Yeva whispered to Doe-Eyes, catching and holding the dog’s gaze. She didn’t like asserting her dominance, for it made Doe-Eyes unhappy and uncertain, but Yeva couldn’t risk the dog coming after her anyway and alerting the Beast. Still, the fleet hound rose up, head cocked uncertainly, as Yeva moved toward the door. “Mind the house,” Yeva said automatically, the command that had for years stood for two things: that Doe-Eyes must stay, and, most importantly, that Yeva would return.

Doe-Eyes sat back down and then, with reluctance, dropped her head onto her paws.

Yeva slipped into the corridor, knife resting comfortably in her palm. It was the blade the Beast had given her for butchering and carving, and if it was not quite as sharp as her fletching knife, it was much larger, and she’d grown familiar with it over the months. She let it hang from her hand beneath her cloak, easy to hide should the Beast be awake and spot her.

He could be watching her even now, from the shadows—but Yeva did not think so. She felt certain if he were near, she’d hear that thread of magic, that song that was all his own. If he were watching her, she’d hear the way that song quickened when he saw her, quickened to match the rate of her own heartbeat. And though her heart was racing now, she could not hear the Beast’s song.