Beauty and the Werewolf

Sebastian said nothing was to change, and sent out word of that when he came of age. As keeper of these forests, I abide by what he says, and this makes sense. I don’t hold with making a man desperate. Purely because it isn’t practical. The most dangerous man there is, is the one who’s got nothing to lose. I can tell when game’s getting thin, I give out a few warnings, people move to another valley for a while for their hunting, and until now, everyone’s abided by the rules.”

She nodded, silently. That was just good common sense, the sort that the King exercised all the time, and encouraged his judges to use.

“But this fellow — ” Eric spat in disgust “ — he’s a disgrace. He’s not a poacher — he’s a butcher. He traps anything, and whatever he traps, he skins and takes only the hide, leaves the carcass to rot. He’s trapped out three valleys so far, and if I don’t stop him, he won’t stop till he’s trapped out the forest, and then what will the folks here do for a bit of extra meat? They’ll say it’s the Duke’s men who took all the game, and never mind Sebastian hasn’t any men.”

She nodded again.

“So, that’s why we’re here. I know he runs these traps just before sunset, counting on me wanting to be back behind the Manor walls by then. I can see three of those traps from here, and when he turns up, we’ll have him.”

“Can he see us from down below?” she whispered.

He grinned without looking at her. “If he could, we wouldn’t be here.”

Well, he’s the Gamekeeper…

“And there he is.”

She looked where he was looking, peering down into the shadows, down through the mist of barren twigs. It was only by the furtive movement that she saw him, if indeed it was a man, slipping through the underbrush and then pausing. The only reason she could see him at all was that he was dark against the white snow. If it had been summer, and all those trees and bushes thick with leaves, he would have been as “invisible” as her servants.

“He’ll be busy for a while. That trap has a mink in it, and he won’t want to spoil a hide that valuable,” Eric breathed. “Now, follow me, but stay a good fifteen lengths or so behind me. If he has friends, I want you to be a complete surprise.”

Eric eased his horse down the hill. When he was far enough ahead that the only thing she could see in the deepening shadows was the darker shadow of the moving horse, she followed.

The mule wasn’t happy about going downhill in such uncertain light, but she picked her way down the slope, anyway. Bella had no real idea of how far down the hill their quarry was, until suddenly Eric’s voice rang out in the cold air.

“Hold, in the name of Duke Sebastian!” His voice crackled with authority.

Which their quarry did not seem impressed by.

“Duke Sebastian ain’t here,” the poacher replied, sounding as calm as if he and not the Duke was the rightful owner of these lands. “And you can kiss my butt, Eric the Gamekeeper.”

“Brave words for a man with an arrow pointed at his heart,” Eric retorted.

“Man doesn’t have to be brave when his partner has a knife to your partner’s throat.”

What? she thought — and that was when something dropped out of the tree above her, landed behind her on the mule with a jolt that shook them both and grabbed her from behind before she could catch her breath

“Be very quiet, laddie,” said a voice in her ear, as she felt the cold edge of a blade press into her throat.

A mule’s reaction to something unexpected was to freeze, with all four legs planted — which, this time, was not in the least useful. Her captor had plenty of time to wrap the arm that did not have a knife at the end of it around her, pinning her upper arms to her chest.

Terror hit her like lightning, and just as in the forest, when the wolf had begun chasing her, she acted without thinking.

Her captor’s arm didn’t quite reach all the way around her; she wrenched her right arm free, but instead of going for the unfamiliar knife at her belt, she grabbed for the quiver. Somehow she got a crossbow quarrel in her hand, and she jabbed behind her with it.

The man screamed a curse as she hit — something, some part of him — with the arrowhead. He flinched away, she felt him start to lose his balance and she shoved harder.

With another screech, he fell off the mule, and she jabbed the point of the arrow into the mule’s haunches.

Not hard, but enough to hurt, and that, combined with the man’s shrieks, was too much for the mule. She half reared, but couldn’t get too far up on her heels — just enough so she could pivot and bolt back the way they had come. She dropped the arrow and the reins and hung on to the front of the saddle with both hands for dear life.

Branches lashed her face, cutting her like whips, until she crouched down and hid her face against the mule’s neck. She cried with pain and fear, but when the mule faltered, she grabbed another quarrel from the quiver and lashed her with it, goading her into running again. Only when she came to a shuddering halt, sides heaving, head hanging, did she let her be. That was when she raised her face from her neck and saw that the forest around them was nothing but a confusing blur of dark blue shadow and the black trunks of trees.

She had no idea where she was.

She slid down off the mule’s back into the snow; scooped up some of it in her glove to apply to the burning welts across her face and listened as hard as she could. She thought she heard the echo of men’s angry voices in the distance, but she couldn’t tell the echo from the original. They could be behind her, or in front of her.

The mule’s sides slowly stopped heaving; she patted her neck, and clambered awkwardly back into place. It would be an hour, maybe more, until the moon rose, but even then, that would be no help —