“Papa?” she called, slipping through the giant iron-banded—and strangely unlocked—front door.
The abandoned building was almost pitch-dark, of course.
“Papa?”
Her voice quickly echoed back at her off tapestry-covered walls and furniture and statues that she could barely see…statues with seemingly dead eyes, claws, and fangs.
Did she hear footsteps up ahead, pattering and quick?
Was that the golden glint of a lantern, shining briefly off a slick, cold mirror?
“Hello? Papa?”
Unsure it was the right thing to do, she hurried after it.
The carpet under her feet was cold but soft and mostly unworn. The columned loggias beyond the foyer were unlike anything Belle had ever seen in person; she had only sighed over pictures of them in books about warm foreign countries. Suits of armor, alabaster urns, and enormous ancient paintings decorated every possible inch.
Not paying attention at all to her feet or where she was going, Belle almost tripped over the giant formal staircase that led up to the mezzanine.
There it was again—the slightest tap against the floor. Normally she wouldn’t have said her father was delicate or light-footed, but noises echoed strangely in the castle….
And there was no one else there…right?
Thieves, she told herself quite reasonably, and highwaymen—they would have accosted me already.
Right?
They would have already grabbed her and divested her of…whatever it was they wanted from her. She had been yelling; they would know where she was.
She climbed up through the castle, heading toward where she thought the sounds were coming from. The walls grew closer and the stairways became narrower until finally the steps began to spiral steeply and she had to stoop. I’m probably in one of the towers, she thought. The air was colder and damper here, and the cobwebs thicker.
She unconsciously put her hand to her neck, forgetting for a moment that she hadn’t brought her cloak and therefore couldn’t clasp it any closer.
“Papa?”
A niche in the wall was lit by the happy glow of a little candelabrum, which should have cheered Belle. Instead it only made her shiver—who lit it? And left it there? Wouldn’t her father have taken it with him?
More pitter-patter. The slide of something wooden against an uncarpeted floor.
“Hello?” she called out, trying to make her voice, at least, seem brave. “Is anyone there? I’m looking for my father! Please…?”
“…Belle?”
Her heart leapt as her father’s voice echoed weakly through the stone halls.
“PAPA!”
She ran down a bleak corridor whose dire accoutrements hinted at the cruel purpose of this place: iron manacles and rotting, long-unused stocks. Ringing the room were a number of identical doors that were heavily banded and locked.
A single torch flickered in a sconce next to the first one and Belle hurried toward it.
“Papa!” she cried.
“Belle!”
He stuck as much of his face as he could fit through the narrow bars in the door. Then he pulled away as a paroxysm of coughing overcame him.
“Oh, Papa….”
Belle reached through the bars and he clasped her hands eagerly. She gasped in shock.
“Papa! Your hands are so cold—we have to get you out of here!”
Maurice, despite his pallor, gave her an ironic look. “Belle, my dear, I think my health is the least of our issues right now. Listen, please: go get help.”
“Absolutely not! I won’t leave you!”
“Belle, you have to get out of here! I mean it! Run!”
And then it was as if the shadows themselves suddenly congealed and took form beside her.
Something black and clawed grabbed Belle’s shoulder and spun her around.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” the shadow roared.
But, a part of her noticed, it didn’t threaten her. Not outright, anyway.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, squinting into the gloom. “Who are you?”
“I am the master of this castle. And once again, I demand to know what you are doing here!”
“I’ve come for my father,” Belle said, a little spark of anger igniting within her. “Let him out. He’s sick and he’s done nothing wrong.”
“He shouldn’t have trespassed!”
The voice sounded petulant. Not diabolical.
It gave Belle hope, how human it seemed. In all of her fairy tales and adventure books—the ones with the heroes who were clever rather than strong—this was how you outwitted an opponent. By finding a chink in his armor, a personality flaw to exploit. Then you got him to show off his power by turning into a tiny (and easily stompable) mouse, or slitting open his own stomach.
All she needed was a flaw, and time.
“Is there nothing we can do? I can pay you…” She thought back to their house, full of bits of metal, books, dust, and occasionally food. “Something,” she finished, a little lamely.
The voice roared with laughter. “I am the master of all that you see. What could you give me that I don’t already own?”
Belle looked around desperately.
“Me,” she said without thinking.
“Belle, no!” Maurice shouted.
“Me. Take me,” she repeated, with a deep breath. “I’ll be your prisoner. Just let my father go.”
She would think of something eventually. All the heroes did.
“Belle, no! I forbid it!”
“I agree to this,” the voice finally said. “But you must promise to stay here forever.”
Wind roared in Belle’s ears as this strange tipping point in her life suddenly rose before her, consumed her, and passed by. Just a few hours before she had avoided an ambush wedding and dreamed about what life would be like far from the village when her father won money at the fair.
And now she was trading all those possible futures for a life behind bars in a haunted castle.
She needed to see what she was up against. All the heroes in her stories were granted that, at least—a last request.
“Come into the light,” she ordered.
The voice chuckled nastily.
With the complete silence of a terrible predator, something dragged itself into the orange glow of the little candelabrum.
Belle caught her breath in shock.
Disparate parts of creatures that didn’t belong together were combined in one horrible body: a monstrous clawed foot, bigger than that of a bear’s or a lion’s; a narrow waist; a massive chest. An even more massive neck. Thick, matted brown hair…a cloak.
It wore a ragged purple cloak with a gold pin clasped at its neck. Torn blue pants hung in tatters down legs like a giant dog’s.
It had a face the size of an oven. A shiny black nose, flaring and wet. Tusks that protruded out of its skull like a mistake. Startlingly blue eyes…with intelligence behind them…
Wet, hot breath and slavering tongue.
Belle fell back despite herself. If it was entirely an animal, she might have been able to deal with it. Like a dog. If it was a demon or ghost, she would have at least known where she stood with her opponent. She had read many, many stories about those sorts of things.
But this…
Some sort of monstrous, sick, half-human, half beast…