Amarrah Brewer is desperate and grief-stricken.
For ages, the town of Bitterburn has sent tribute to the Keep at the End of the World, but a harsh winter leaves them unable to pay the toll that keeps the Beast at bay. Amarrah volunteers to brave what no one has before—to end the threat or die trying.
The Beast of Bitterburn has lost all hope.
One way or another, Njål has been a prisoner for his entire life. Monstrous evil has left him trapped and lonely, and he believes that will never change. There is only darkness in his endless exile, never light. Never warmth. Until she arrives.
It’s a tale as old as time… where Beauty goes to confront the Beast and falls in love instead.
Table of Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Bitterburn
Ann Aguirre
For every “witch” who’s ever been blamed
for pointing out a problem instead of
those who caused it in the first place
Copyright Information
BITTERBURN
Copyright © 2020 by Ann Aguirre
Kindle Edition
Edited by Johanie Martinez-Cools
Cover art by Indigo Chick Designs
Print design by Indigo Chick Designs
Proofreading by Isabel Ngo
Formatting by BB eBooks
Content warning: This story contains violence, dark magic, death, and mentions torture (off-page).
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form whatsoever, without written permission from the author except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.
Acknowledgments
First, thanks to the readers who are still with me after twelve years of stories.
I’ve always wanted to do a Beauty and the Beast retelling, so I could fix everything that bothered me about the original. Readers, I’m so pleased with how this turned out, and I hope you love Bitterburn as much as I do.
Without delay, let me thank those who support me and offer moral support when I need it most: Rachel Caine, Christa Desir, Bree Bridges, Lilith Saintcrow, Kate Elliott, Yasmine Galenorn, Alyssa Cole, Donna Herren, Thea Harrison, Shawntelle Madison, and Charlotte Stein.
So much appreciation to Skyla Dawn Cameron at Indigo Chick Designs for the gorgeous cover art. This is a cool story—I bought the cover art premade years ago because I fell in love with it, and I sat on it until I hatched the perfect idea like a dragonling from an egg. I studied the image. ‘Doesn’t it look like a frozen keep? But why it is frozen?’ Without this cover, Bitterburn wouldn’t exist, and that would be a shame as I’m so proud of this book.
My editor, Johanie Martinez-Cools, polished this book expertly, and she’s a dream to work with; I will never let her go. Her suggestions were flawless, and I loved squeeing with her, as she was the first person to finish reading the story after I did. Thanks also to Isabel Ngo for the wonderful proofreading. I couldn’t do this without the whole Tessera team.
Finally, thanks to my family. I appreciate their support more than I can say.
Please enjoy this first installment of Gothic Fairytales. I hope the story offers a bit of respite from the real world and that you look forward to the next one.
Prologue
In my tenth winter, I discovered that a monster bided at the Keep at the End of the World. We didn’t call it that, of course; that was the poetic name granted by minstrels and troubadours who romanticized such a foreboding fortress. They gazed from a distance, imagined the mysteries within, wrote their odes, and passed through, ensuring that others would come to gawk and marvel.
Villagers just called the citadel Bitterburn, for the frozen lake that surrounded it. Born from a lack of creativity perhaps—our town bore the same name, and I didn’t refine much upon it. Back then, I listened to the whispered stories with wide-eyed awe and ate roasted chestnuts with vicarious glee as the merchants packed crates full of tribute—dried fish, spices, and grain—to get the beast to leave us be. That winter I had a new, red coat and shiny black shoes, and all my friends had plenty of wood to keep them warm.
In my fifteenth winter, the stories were less riveting. I had someone special then and we walked out together, whispering of secrets, the details of which I’ve long since forgotten. Supplies were a bit scarce, but we ate more porridge and made do during the long ice. I remember that Owen and I kissed beneath a tree laden with snow, and as our mouths touched, shy and tentative, the boughs broke and dumped white all over us.
He had nothing, did Owen, but it didn’t matter. I loved his crooked smile and his scarred hands; he was apprenticed to the smith, and one day, he would make the nails to build our houses, staves for barrels filled with our beer, and shoes for the animals that worked our land. We only had to hold on through a few more winters. But Owen took ill when I was ten and nine. He died of fever before the thaw. Life was bleak and unfair. That was the lesson I learned that season, engraved on my heart with indelible ink.
In my twentieth winter, the town of Bitterburn barely saw spring. We went from cold to cold with two scant months of sunlight. The farms brought little to harvest, and we could scarcely afford to send anything to the keep. Yet the Burgher insisted, and so we did, out of fear of terrible consequences. My anger grew as people starved.
In my twenty-first winter, I’d had enough. I would go to the keep myself and see an end to this, one
