Page 6 of Beast of Blood and Roses
Marcel came into my study where I leaned back in my seat, the leather creaking under my weight. I was staring at my portrait—the one painted before everything went to hell—that now showed more beast than human. My reflection in the glass covering the canvas caught my eye: green irises, elongated canines, patches of coarse fur along my jaw. I swallowed hard and looked away, fingering the pendant around my neck.
The financial arrangements I’d entrusted to Volaris were supposed to run seamlessly in my absence, and the bastarddared to steal from me. The scent of Marcel’s anxiety reached me before he did.
No one dared to cross me.
Except David Volaris.
“Monsieur,” Marcel said, lingering in the doorway with that careful tone he’d developed since my transformation, his fingers nervously adjusting his cufflinks, “David Volaris and his daughter, Rosalie, have arrived.”
Perfect. Let the bastard see that his supposedly dead victim is very much alive. My stomach twisted. I could smell strangers—perfume, gasoline, and something else. Fear. I growled low in my throat. “This isn’t going to work, Marcel.”
“But,monsieur, the painting—” Marcel stepped forward, his shoes clicking against the hardwood floor, sweat beading at his temples.
I slammed my fist on the desk, making the pens jump. “I know what the damn painting looks like.” The words came out as a snarl, spittle flying from my elongated teeth.
Marcel’s voice dropped to barely a whisper, “We have had no girls come here. This may be our only chance to break the curse.” His eyes pleaded with me, the same desperate look he’d worn for seven months.
I got up from my chair, the muscles in my back coiling with tension. My throat tightened as I closed the silk curtains covering the painting like I always did when I left my study. As much as I hated to look at what I once was and what I was now becoming, I could never tear my eyes from it when I was in here. The silk whispered against the canvas, a sound that still made my fur bristle. My feet were more like paws and no shoes would cover them, so I walked across the hardwood floor, my nailsclipping on the wood; a constant reminder of my transformation with every step.
Marcel led me down the round staircase that led to the living room, his shoulders hunched with anticipation. I could hear his quickened heartbeat, the pulse of blood through his veins—one of the vampire senses the curse hadn’t taken from me.
Then it hit me. A dreaded scent permeated the air—the smell of witchcraft. Burning sage, exotic herbs, and something ancient, more potent. My nostrils flared, and a growl bubbled up from deep in my chest. Anger pumped through me, hot and sharp, turning my vision red at the edges. I grabbed Marcel’s shirt and yanked him back with such force his feet left the ground. My claws sliced through the fine fabric.
I narrowed my eyes, baring my teeth as saliva pooled in my mouth. “I smell witchcraft,” I snarled, my voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. “Is Volaris’ daughter a witch?”
“Monsieur, please.” Marcel’s voice trembled, his hands raised in supplication. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “She may be our only chance.”
I dropped him as if he was a hot coal, my palm burning with shame. Marcel stumbled, catching himself on the banister, his breath coming in short gasps. “I will never,” I hissed, my chest heaving, “I mean never, love a witch.” The word witch came out as a curse, bitter and sharp on my tongue.
“Will you at least meet her,s’il vous plaît?” Marcel straightened his torn shirt, swallowing hard. His eyes, though frightened, held determination. “I have seen her at Crimson Stakes where she works as a waitress. She’s very beautiful.” He said the last part softly, a peace offering.
I brushed past him, my claws scraping againstthe banister as I descended. The witch’s scent grew stronger with each step, making my fangs throb painfully against my gums. “She’s a witch.” I growled, my voice thick with months of hatred. “She’s probably used a spell to cover up her ugliness.”
“Monsieur,” Marcel hurried after me, his shoes squeaking against the polished steps.
I whirled around, my eyes burning, nostrils flaring wide enough to catch every note of fear radiating from his skin. “I’ll meet her.” I leaned in close enough to feel Marcel’s quickened breath against my muzzle. “But don’t think the curse will be broken. I have other plans for this witch and her father.” My claws flexed involuntarily at my sides, the promise of vengeance making my blood sing with anticipation.
Colette stood at the edge of the stairs, her posture rigid as a queen’s guard. Her dark hair was loosely braided, a few wisps escaping to frame her face, which remained carefully neutral despite the tension crackling in the air. She had on a crisp white shirt and a pair of dark pants that rustled softly with each breath. Like always, she was dressed prim and proper—a stark contrast to the monster I had become.
She gestured with her arm, the movement graceful yet mechanical, her silver bracelets clinking softly against her wrist. “May I present,Monsieur, the owner of the estate.Monsieur, this is David Volaris and his daughter, Rosalie.”
The blood drained from David Volaris’ face as his eyes took in my monstrous form. His mouth fell open in a silent scream, his gaze traveling from my elongated fangs to the curved horns jutting from my forehead. “Who…who are you? What... what are you?” he gasped, his voice cracking with terror. “I was told the owner wanted to see me, but I don’t understand…”
Ice flooded my veins. David Volaris—the man who'dbeen stealing from me for months, who knew every detail of my business—was looking at me like a complete stranger. Tinker Bell's curse had worked even on him. The bastard who'd betrayed me had no memory of me at all.
A mixture of rage and bitter satisfaction churned in my gut. He didn't remember me, but he'd still been managing accounts under my name, stealing blind from someone he thought was dead.
“Your worst nightmare,” I growled, my voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through his bones. “The new owner of this estate. And you owe me money.”
His terrified eyes darted around wildly, confusion mixing with terror as he tried to process what he was seeing. He pressed himself back into the couch cushions, as if trying to melt into the furniture itself. “Who…who are you?”
The pungent smell of his fear-sweat and something else—the acrid scent of someone who’d nearly lost control of their bladder—reached my sensitive nostrils. His entire body shook as he stared at the monster who was now his creditor.
“That is not your concern. The problem remains that you took what doesn’t belong to you.” Telling him I was Fierro Bastia was pointless.
But it was the young woman that sat next to him on the couch who captured my attention. Her amber eyes were as big as saucers and her face paled to the color of fresh snow, the blood draining from her cheeks. She had on a faded black sundress that matched her dark hair and outlined her curves, the worn fabric suggesting a life of work rather than leisure.
She turned from me to her father, watching him shake with a terror so complete it seemed to leach into her bones. “Dad, you brought me here to meet him? Did you know what hewas?” Her voice cracked as she pressed closer to him on the couch, as if seeking protection from someone who was clearly beyond offering any.
