Page 6 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Six

Fierro

“This isn’t going to work,” I growled the words through clenched teeth, my claws twitching with the urge to strike.

The bitter taste of failure already coated my tongue as I glared at Marcel, who stood before me with that infuriating military posture—spine straight as a bayonet, head held high, hands clasped behind his back.

A perfect statue even before the sun’s final rays abandoned us.

The fading afternoon light filtered through the plantation shutters, casting prison-bar shadows across the worn cypress floors of my bayou mansion.

Outside, cypress trees jutted from murky waters while Spanish moss swayed like ghosts in the evening breeze.

The air hung heavy with impending transformation—that familiar electric charge that preceded Marcel and Colette’s nightly metamorphosis, mingling with the primal scents of water and decay that marked my isolated domain.

Soon they would be cold marble, and I would be left alone with her. With the witch.

“ Monsieur , you must try.” Marcel’s French accent thickened with his growing urgency, his eyes flicking nervously to the antique clock on the mantel.

The pendulum’s tick-tock counted down the precious seconds of his mobility, competing with the distant chorus of frogs and cicadas that serenaded the coming night.

“She’s a witch,” I spat, the word tasting of ancient hatred and fresh fear. My beastly form bristled, making my shoulders hunch forward as if preparing to charge. The earthy, slightly sweet scent of water lilies drifting in from the swamp did nothing to calm my rattled nerves.

He sighed—a deep, centuries-old sound—and ran a trembling hand through his silver-threaded hair.

The gesture was so human, so vulnerable, it momentarily disarmed my rage.

“She is,” Marcel conceded, his voice softening as the first hints of stone crept up his ankles, “but I suspect she doesn’t know she is one. ”

The last crimson finger of daylight withdrew from the room, leaving us in the blue embrace of twilight. Marcel’s eyes met mine one final time—filled with a desperate hope that pierced my hardened heart—before the transformation claimed him completely.

The familiar loneliness drifted over me like fog across the bayou, seeping into my bones and settling there with the heaviness night always brought now.

I slumped against the cold windowpane, my shadowy form—distorted and beastly—staring back at me with hollow eyes.

Night was the most miserable time for me now.

The darkness that had once been my ally had become my prison .

As a vampire, I’d savored the night life in New Orleans—gambling at Crimson Stakes where the scent of whiskey and blood mingled in intoxicating waves, playing late night poker games with cards sliding silkily between my fingers and cigar smoke curling above the table like ghostly dancers.

I’d reveled in hunting on Bourbon Street, where the music pulsed through the cobblestones and into my veins, where laughter and screams were sometimes indistinguishable.

But those late night pleasures had been viciously snatched away from me.

My claws scraped against the window glass, leaving thin scratches as I curled my hands into fists.

I was confined to my decaying mansion, trapped in this grotesque form while the cypress trees stood sentinel around me like bars of a cage.

A growl rumbled deep in my chest at the thought of Tinker Bell.

If I could get my paws on her, I’d rip her apart, feel her bones crack beneath my grip, watch the smug light fade from her eyes.

And now I had a witch locked up in a room upstairs.

The floorboards above creaked with her movements; each footstep a reminder of her presence, each sound sending my heightened senses into alert.

My ears twitched, tracking her like prey.

All thanks to Marcel’s foolish notion that she could be the one to break the curse.

His words echoed in my mind, mingling with the distant thunder rolling across the swamp.

He suspected she didn’t know she was a witch, but he didn’t say why he thought this.

The uncertainty made my hackles rise. What if she was conjuring a spell right now?

My nostrils flared, seeking traces of magic in the air; that distinctive electric scent that made my fur stand on end.

My fangs extended involuntarily at the thought, sharp against my lower lip.

If she was casting, she was a dead witch, beauty or not.

I’d tear out her throat before I’d let another spell touch me.

I stalked toward the staircase, the wood groaning beneath my misshapen feet.

My breath caught in my throat as I passed Colette, her porcelain beauty both mesmerizing and disturbing in its stillness.

The scent of her perfume—lavender and vanilla—still clung to the air around her statue form, a ghost of humanity that made my chest tighten with longing for what we’d both lost.

She stood next to the bedroom door, transformed into cold marble, her elegant form now petrified in the deep purple twilight that settled through the hall window.

The last fading rays of sunset cast long shadows across her frozen features, making the hollows of her cheeks seem deeper, more haunting.

Her crisp white blouse and tailored pants appeared strangely formal in stone, the sharp creases and folds captured perfectly in her transformation.

Her once-lively eyes, now glassy and vacant, remained fixed on the door, a marble sentinel.

Her delicate hand hung frozen in midair, fingers slightly curled as if she’d just released the tarnished brass doorknob before the transformation seized her.

A cruel illusion forever captured in stone.

I crept toward the door, my massive paws making the floorboards creak despite my attempt at stealth.

Swallowing hard, I pressed my furry ear against the weathered oak door, straining to detect any whispered incantations or the telltale crackling of arcane energy.

But the room beyond was uncomfortably silent.

A silence so complete it felt like a physical presence pushing back against me.

The only sound was the thundering of my own heart, its uneven rhythm echoing in my sensitive ears and vibrating through my clawed fingertips where they rested against the wood.

A bead of sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades, dampening the coarse fur there.

What was she doing in that oppressive silence?

Plotting? Preparing? My nostrils flared, seeking any trace of witch scent—that peculiar mixture of herbs and ozone that might reveal her true nature.

My jaw clenched, fangs pressing painfully against my lower lip as a growl built in my chest.

Time for her to know the rules if she wanted to survive.

I flexed my claws against the door frame, leaving fresh gouges in the cypress wood as I steeled myself for the confrontation.

The witch would learn the boundaries of her gilded cage, or she would become just another regret haunting my endless nights.

I grabbed the doorknob and twisted it then barged inside without waiting for an invitation.

The girl gasped and braced herself against the wall, her face draining to the color of bone china. Her fingers splayed against the rose-colored wallpaper like she could somehow melt through it if she tried hard enough. “What do you want?”

Her fear permeated the room, sweet and intoxicating, but she was a witch and I couldn’t care less what terrors kept her up at night. Everyone in this bayou feared something—usually me. The curse that twisted my features made sure of that.

“I have some rules I want to go over with you.”

She swallowed hard, the delicate column of her throat working visibly. Her thumping heart echoed in my ears like a pounding headache—a metronome of panic that both annoyed and satisfied me. “Rules? What rules?”

I gave her a smile, or at least what smile I could manage as a beast. It was mostly teeth; sharp, gleaming points designed by the curse to inspire nightmares, thanks to Tinker Bell.

“The kind that keep pretty little things like you alive under my roof.” I took a deliberate step forward, watching as she tried not to stare. “And the kind that’ll make you wish for death if you break them.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks despite her fear. Was that anger? Interesting. Most would have cowered completely by now.

“I didn’t ask to be brought here,” she whispered, a spark of defiance flickering behind those wide eyes.

“Nobody ever does, little one.” The curse tightened around my chest as I moved closer. “That’s what makes it so goddamn tragic.”

I made my way toward her. The chandelier’s light cast my shadow over her trembling form; a monstrous silhouette that stretched across the polished floor between us. “Rule number one, you can’t leave.”

She lifted her head to meet my gaze, a flicker of recognition—or perhaps resignation—crossing her features. “Yes, you mentioned that one earlier.”

I raised two fingers, the gesture almost comically human from a creature like me. “Two. No witchcraft.”

She laughed nervously, the sound brittle like thin ice cracking. “That’s an easy one. I’m not a witch.”

Was she playing games with me? I could smell her magic, brewing inside her like honeyed wine—untapped, perhaps unconscious, but potent nonetheless. I drank in the scent that made my curse pulse with recognition.

“I’m not a fool, Rosalie.” Her name felt dangerous on my tongue, like an incantation. “If you try to perform any spell, I will kill you. Am I clear?”

“Are you serious?” A tremor ran through her voice, confusion mingling with her fear. The power in her blood called to the beast in mine, a siren song neither of us fully understood .

I put my hand around her slender throat, her pulse fluttering against my palm like a trapped moth. “Yes. I am.”

A tremor ran through her, but she didn’t try to pull away.

“I promise I won’t,” she squeaked, her eyes huge pools of amber in the dim light, reflecting my monstrous form back at me. “I promise.”

I held up one finger, the claw at its tip catching the light. My voice dropped lower, a dangerous whisper that seemed to make the shadows in the room grow longer. “The last one: don’t ever...don’t ever...go into the north wing.”

The words caught in my throat as unbidden images flashed through my mind—the ever-changing portrait hidden away in the darkness, brush strokes altering, attempting to complete their transformation.

If the painting were to be finished with me as a beast, the curse would become permanent, my monstrous form sealed for eternity.

I couldn’t risk her seeing it, couldn’t risk her latent powers sensing what needed to be done to complete my damnation.

She frowned, a tiny crease forming between her brows. For a split second, she looked more curious than afraid. “What’s in the north?—”

I growled, the sound rumbling from deep in my chest, primal and threatening. The beast momentarily overtaking the man. “Your death if you don’t follow my rules.”

The mansion seemed to creak around us, as if responding to my threat. In the distance, a clock chimed, marking another hour closer to my potential damnation—or salvation.