Hunted(56)

As she reached the hidden spiral stair leading to the turret, her heart pounded even harder. She wished she could control it as she could her breath, but she settled for controlling her speed, and moved quickly up the stairs and through the door. She slipped to the right and pressed her body against the side of the wardrobe. The room was lit dimly by the remains of a fire, and she saw the bulk of the Beast on the daybed along the wall. The steady rise and fall of his outline told Yeva that he slept.

Or pretends to sleep.

She’d thought of bringing her bow, so she then wouldn’t have to risk crossing the room and getting close to the Beast. But even if her arrows could penetrate his hide, her best shot would be to perforate a lung, and it would take him far, far too long to suffocate to death. Enough time, certainly, to kill Yeva for what she’d done. Further, Yeva didn’t know the extent of his magic, and whether he’d be able to heal such a wound. Her attack would have to be decisive, and brutal in order to be final.

If she could kill him from here, though, she would not have to see his face. And he would never see hers. Never know who had struck the killing blow. Never know it was his Beauty that had ended him.

She forced herself to shed those thoughts. She would have to be close to him when she struck. Her best chance was to cut his throat. He would kill her instinctively unless she penetrated deeply enough to nick his spinal column and deaden his movements. But even a Beast would bleed to death in seconds if she could open his jugular. Too quick for any magic he might summon.

She crept closer, watching for the slightest change in the rise and fall of his body. She breathed silently, forbade herself from taking any deeper breaths, forbade herself from swallowing her nervousness, for the tiniest sound could wake him. Something tickled at the back of her mind that the scene wasn’t right, something about the proportions of the room that made her feel as though she were in a dream and watching the world distort. She felt too large, and the room too large as well. . . .

She realized what it was: the Beast was smaller.

And then he rolled over, and she saw why.

His form was human.

Not entirely human—it was as if the aspect of the wolf was laid overtop him like a costume. And like a costume, it didn’t seem real. The ears and the teeth and the claws were but shadows. Yeva froze, staring down at his face with the knife clenched in her hand.

She’d long known that the Beast had two natures, and that they fought within him. She’d seen him use his hands, seen him shift a little when she treated him with kindness, saw the humanity in his eyes when he was at his softest.

He seemed to shift without thinking, without comment, and Yeva had wondered if it were possible he wasn’t aware of it, or if his outward appearance shifted as involuntarily as the beating of his own heart. The knife felt like lead in her hand.

Do it, said the vengeful voice in her heart. Before he catches your scent and wakes. Now! He is your father’s murderer no matter what face he wears.

Yeva lifted the knife.

The Beast’s lips parted, his eyelids flickering. “Yeva,” he mumbled. “Beauty.”

She froze. He was dreaming about her. She swallowed before she could stop herself, body flooding with every ounce of uncertainty she’d been pushing into the dark, unseen corners of her mind where she wouldn’t have to face it.

She swallowed, and the Beast heard it, and his eyes opened.

They met hers, still clouded with dreams, hazel-gold reflecting the firelight and holding no other hint of red. “Beauty,” he said again, more distinctly, and his mouth was human, and Yeva could not move. His mouth. She couldn’t look away.

The Beast’s face cleared of sleep, and he blinked, and then he saw the knife. For an instant his eyes snapped back to Yeva’s, shock and confusion and hurt mixing together, and in that moment he was human, and Yeva saw it, that only his human aspect could register and respond to this kind of betrayal.

She knew in another heartbeat he’d be the Beast again. And because she knew she’d die when he was, and because the animal instinct deep in her heart knew what to do, she struck.

The knife stabbed deep into his throat, and hit bone, and Yeva gasped aloud as she jerked the knife sideways, trying to slice. It wasn’t quite sharp enough and it met with resistance, all the tissues and tendons in his neck fighting her. His gasp turned to a gurgle and to a whimper. And then the knife was out, and there was blood everywhere, blood on the rug and blood spattering the wardrobe. Blood spattered the pages of a book that had been left open by his bedside, as though he’d been reading just before he slept. Blood hissed and spat in the coals. Blood mixed with the tears Yeva suddenly found coursing down her cheeks and dripped, watery red and thin, onto her tunic.

The Beast moaned again, and he was once more every inch the wolf, except that Yeva thought she heard a word in the horrible hissing gurgle: “Beauty.” Was it her name? Or was her heart searching for the word, somehow wanting to find it in that sighing death rattle?

A final breath. And then he was still.

Yeva dropped the knife, discovering that part of the moan echoing through the tower had been her own, and her voice petered out into a thin, reedy cry until she gulped for air. She staggered back and fell, landing on the plush carpet. The room spun as she lifted her hand to her face, and she inspected herself, because she could not be sure the Beast hadn’t struck her before he died.

But she was whole.