Beauties of the Beast (The Yellow Hoods, #4): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale (2 page)

“You’re a monster,” said Gretel, on all fours, clutching the ground. The world was spinning, and she felt increasingly nauseous.

Hans grinned from ear to ear. “Monster? No, I’m the Gingerbread Man. Maybe I’ll be known for creeping into the homes of little boys and girls and robbing them of their innocence. Yet again, maybe I’ll just steal cookies. Who knows? I’m free, so very, very free.” He crouched down and stroked Gretel’s hair, loving her inability to resist. “It could have been
us
taking on the world. Maybe it still will. Maybe you’ll join in the second act, after you come back to being the
real
Gretel, and not this pathetic, broken girl.”

Gretel fell flat, unable to feel her arms and legs anymore. “Please, stop!”

“Ah, the begging. Are we here already?” he looked skyward, as if the sun would answer his question. “Can you feel the moment coming? I can. It’s exciting.” He rolled her over on her back. “I’ll tell you what. If you don’t want to be a part of this, just get up and walk off. I won’t chase after you. Come on, just walk a yard and you’ll be out of my reach. My Gretel would have it in her, she’d stop at nothing. She was
ruthless.
Come on… prove to me you don’t want this!”

Gretel tried to talk, but her mouth was no longer willing to do her bidding.

“Need a hand? Well, I am a gentleman, after all,” he sneered, picking up her limp body. “I’ll even give you the first two steps for free.” He moved her and then let her go. He crouched down beside the crumpled heap on the ground. “Just one foot, Gretel. Crawl it, walk it, I don’t care.” He poked her with his finger. “What’s that? You want to stay?”

Gretel mumbled.

Hans stood and raised his arms in victory, breathing deeply. “I love the air here! It’s so… inspiring. Now, why don’t I show you where those wonderful little dreams you have of me come from, hmm?” he said, a vicious grin shining from his dark soul. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

“Glad to hear it!” yelled the Hound, tackling him to the ground.

Gretel sighed with relief as she passed out.

CHAPTER TWO

Cat's Bel

The Lady in Red was quite pleased with herself. She’d been able to pick up Abeland’s trail quickly, and after Simon St. Malo’s failure, she’d decided to tend to it personally. She’d only needed to wait a day for Abeland to put himself somewhere that would be easy to surround and secure. The small two story inn had provided little hope that he and his companions would escape, but still, she knew better than to underestimate him. He was famous for getting out of difficult situations with little more than a smile or a clever word. She’d been watching him from a distance for years.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure,” said Abeland, brushing himself off and handing over the pistol to the soldier stepping forward for it. He glanced over his shoulder at the inn as the fire consumed it. Richy, Bakon and Egelina-Marie all had rifles trained on them from some of the dozen mounted soldiers.

“Oh, we have, actually,” said the red hooded woman. “Mind you, it doesn’t matter. I really should thank you, on behalf of your father and all your collective work, for laying all the groundwork for our grand return.”

Abeland furrowed his eyebrows. There was something distinct and familiar about her voice. He studied the gold embroidery on the edges of her cloak. “Fair enough, I suppose?”

“Hmm, funny,” she replied with sharp disdain. “You know, I was prepared for your antics, though to be honest, I’m surprised you’re still doing them at
your
age. Now, to the business of shooting your friends and bringing you for a very public trial. See, I remember how you like an audience.”

Audience?
thought Abeland. Now he was certain. He waved for her to stop talking, surprising everyone with his audacity. “They’re not my friends, and, to be more specific, you wouldn’t want to shoot the one you’re pointing at.”

The woman cocked her head to the side. “Now why would that be?”

Abeland smiled. “Because, Cat, he’s your son.” 

She stared at him in disbelief, she could feel herself losing focus. She glanced at the unshaven man and was ready to give the order to have him shot, when she found she couldn’t. “Give me a lantern,” she commanded as she dismounted. With lantern in hand, she pushed the night back and studied Bakon’s face in detail. After staring at the ground in thought for a while, she turned to Abeland. “I don’t believe you.”

Chewing on his lip to hide his satisfaction at confirming her identity, Abeland shrugged. He wondered how she could possibly be alive, and if somehow his brother Lennart was also alive. It seemed like only yesterday that the message had arrived with news of Lennart, Catherine and their three boys’ deaths. “Then shoot him. Go on, shoot your long lost son Beldon and be done with it,” he said, forcing himself to stand straight. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the ripple of confusion spread from one soldier to the next. The whispers of rumor quickly followed.

She stared at Bakon, looking at his build as much as his face.

“By the way, do you go by the Lady in Red, Duchess Catherine or Caterina Maurice? So many options, and to be honest, I like to be really clear about people’s names. I’m a bit obsessive about it,” said Abeland. He hoped that after all the years, her ruthless father’s decision to change her name when married was still a sore point. Gaston Maurice had been a particularly cold and scheming man.

“Given we’re old friends and you’ll hang soon, Regent Caterina,” she answered sharply.

Abeland blinked in surprise.
Regent?

Caterina pulled back her hood, revealing her blotchy, heart-shaped face, and a scar that went from her left eye to her chin.

“Oh, you've changed,” said Abeland. “More menacing. It’s like all your anger and disappointment is trying to break free through that scar.”

She struck him in the mouth.

He rubbed his jaw. “Fair enough.”

Staring at Bakon, Caterina asked him, “What’s your name?”

Bakon swallowed uncomfortably, not sure exactly what games were being played or how the Lady in Red and Abeland knew each other. He glanced at Abeland, wondering how he intended for all of this to play out, or if he had any plan at all. He looked back at the woman. There was something vaguely familiar about her face and her name. With a steady breath, he squeezed Egelina-Marie’s hand and answered, “Bakon Cochon.”

Caterina raised the lantern again. This time illuminating the grey streaks in her otherwise dark hair. Her green eyes were menacing and feline. 

Richy’s eyes went wide as he saw the family resemblance. “Woo… you
are
his mother, aren’t you?”

Egelina-Marie squeezed Bakon’s sweaty hand.

Caterina turned to Egelina-Marie. The intensity of the woman’s gaze was nothing like Eg had felt before. “Are you his wife?”

“I’m… I’m his girlfriend,” she replied, nervously.

“Is there anything of note on his back?”

Egelina’s eyes darted around. “Ah…” She looked at Bakon trying to remember.

“Don’t look at him, look at me,” commanded Caterina.

Eg’s memory was a locked vault until she saw the hope hidden deep in the woman’s eyes. Relaxing, she remembered. “You mean the birthmark on his shoulder, right? It’s… ah… it’s about the size of a small coin. It’s shaped like a… crescent.”

Caterina stepped forward and, with her thumb and forefinger, rubbed one of Bakon’s earlobes. Both she and Bakon immediately knew. Her cheeks went red and her eyes darted away. 

“He’s gone!” yelled one of the soldiers. “Abeland Pieman’s gone.”

“Hunt him down,
now!”
commanded Caterina. She was furious at herself for having taken her attention off one of the few people remaining who could upset her plans. She gestured to Richy. “Hand him over to the local authorities, I have no need of him.”

“No!” said Bakon, a pistol immediately making him stop in his tracks as he moved to protect his young friend.

“I’ll be okay,” said Richy to Bakon. He didn’t mean it, and Bakon knew it.

Egelina-Marie gave Richy’s arm a squeeze. “We’ll see you soon. I promise.”

“When pigs fly,” said the soldier hauling Richy away.

Caterina leaned into Bakon. “Understand this: Nothing will derail me from my plans. If you die here, it will be a curious drop in the river of history, nothing more.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, and there was no doubt in her mind. Somehow, her little Bel was standing right there, before her. She hadn’t felt so rattled in a long, long time.

Twenty years ago, in the snow-covered Republic of Ahemia, six-year-old Beldon accompanied his mother to the signal spire of the castle. He was worried about her. Her feet were dragging, her shoulders slumped, her words had a heaviness to them lately. He hoped holding her hand somehow made things better. 

“Duchess Catherine,” said the weather Conventioneer she’d summoned.

Caterina winced as she always did at that name. “Thank you for coming. What news do you have of the snow? Will we see a break in the next few days?”

The old conventioneer lowered his eyes, his large white mustache and bushy eyebrows hiding most of his features. “Regretfully, I must to say no. The stories from the farms align with our best instruments, which all point to more snow of this magnitude falling for several weeks yet. My apologies, duchess.”

Caterina forced a smile and thanked the old man. She wandered the corridors aimlessly until she came upon Beldon, his beaming little face lifting her shoulders.

“Mama, where are you going?” he asked, tilting his head preciously.

With a sigh, she replied, “I have to go to see the signal master.”

“Can I come?” he asked. She could see in his eyes that it was past his bedtime. He took her hand. “Please?”

“Okay. You know it’s a lot of stairs, though?”

“I know, Mama,” he replied, setting off in the direction of the signal master’s tower.

She’d spent weeks planning and preparing for her husband’s surprise birthday party. It had been Beldon’s idea, his hope to bring his parents closer together. Now, she’d have to cancel it. With each step, everything seemed colder, lonelier.

Lennart and Caterina had been arguing, loudly, for months. They’d lost their ability to stop when the boys were around. When Beldon asked, as he sometimes did, what it was about, neither of them felt like explaining it. Part of it was rooted in the ambitions of their respective fathers, Marcus Pieman and Gaston Maurice, and part of it was because neither of them knew how to bridge the ever growing gulf between them.

As Caterina knocked on the signal master’s bedroom door, she gazed down at little Beldon, who was still holding her hand dearly. “I love you Bel. You know that, right?”

He smiled up at her. “Yes, Mama. I know. I love you, too. Oink!” he said, scrunching his face up.

She smiled back, tapping his nose. “Oink.”

“Can we play little piggies when I get to bed?” he asked. “I know it’s late already. And it’s okay if you say no.”

“Well, Bel,” she said, drawing out her words. “I don’t know…”

“I already got Skells and Bore ready for bed,” he offered, his face filled with hope.

She wondered when he’d be old enough to notice when he mispronounced Selvin’s name. Half the time he seemed to get it right. She didn’t want it to go too soon.

Just as the door started to creak open, she gave Bel a confirming nod. A blurry eyed signal master squinted at the duchess and the little master. “Is there something you need at this hour, my lady?” he asked, rubbing his wrinkly, tired face.

“Sorry to disturb you at this
still
most reasonable hour, but I need you to announce that the party for Duke Lennart is canceled on account of snow.”

He scratched his stubbly face. “You know I cannot—”

“Give the reason why, yes, I know. Just get it done,” she snapped. 

With his instructions understood, the door closed. Caterina and Beldon started their descent down the spiral staircase.

“Mama?” asked Beldon sweetly.

She was in her own little world. The signal master had reminded her that everything seemed to be a struggle lately. It only made matters worse that she’d been getting letters about her father’s heavy-handed attempts at rallying some of the smaller Fare factions under him against the Piemans. The letters were either filled with pleas for her to do something about him, or telling her how they would prefer to follow her, both of which were a joke. She had no influence over Gaston Maurice, and had no proven ability to lead.

Her marriage to Lennart Pieman had been her father’s
brilliant
idea, a means to unify the Piemans with the rogue Fare factions he’d gathered at the time. It hadn’t worked. She’d been a pawn then, and felt like one now. A few months ago, two of the Fare faction leaders had shown up out of the blue. Lennart had been home, and their presence had taken an open secret and cast it into the light. In the ensuing epic argument, she’d revealed her distain for the Piemans and their vision of the world, and in the heat of the moment, she’d told her husband she couldn’t respect him because of it. Everything had gone down hill rapidly from there.