Something had changed between us in that moment. I was no longer merely his mate, claimed through primal instinct and desire. I was something else. Something important to the magic of this place, to whatever battle raged between the sanctuary and the corrupted forest beyond.
Queen Charlotte’s journal might hold answers about the curse, about Beast’s transformation. But standing there, surrounded by creatures of myth and magic, I realized that the answers to who I was, to why I had this power, might lie not in her words but in my own blood. In the amber eyes I’d inherited from my mother, the same eyes that watched me now from the faces of creatures that shouldn’t exist.
I needed to read more of that journal. And soon.
twenty-one
Gaspard
The key turned in the lock with a satisfying click, sealing me inside my private sanctuary. No one in the village knew about this room. Not ever the leading elder who clapped my back after successful hunts, not the tavern wenches who spread their legs hoping to become the next Mrs. Coventry, and certainly not the bumbling Alf who followed me like a dog desperate for scraps.
This room was mine alone, filled with trophies too rare, too illegal, and too magical for common eyes to behold. I ran my fingers over the nearest mount. A griffin’s head, its eyes replaced with amber glass that caught the candlelight and glowed with false life. Even dead, it looked more noble than any man I’d ever met.
I inhaled deeply, savoring the lingering scents of preservation spices and magic that hung in the air like expensive perfume. The hidden chamber adjoined my bedroom through a false wall that appeared to be nothing but a large wardrobe to anyone who might venture inside my private quarters. And if I had a pet for a while, they were locked in the same room Isabeau had enchanted.
The only person who might know, knew better than to cross me. Margaret, my housekeeper, knew to stay out unless summoned, and the few women I’d brought to my bed from the tavern never stayed long enough to grow curious about the house’s architecture.
My boots echoed against the wooden floor as I moved deeper into my collection. Unlike the trophies displayed in my main hall—the mundane deer and boar heads that impressed the simple villagers—these prizes told the true story of my hunting prowess.
A selkie’s pelt hung stretched on the wall, its silver-gray fur still shimmering with otherworldly luster despite being separated from its owner for over a decade. Beside it, the preserved wings of a harpy, each feather still sharp enough to slice flesh. The taxidermied body of a baby kraken, tentacles arranged in an eternal grasping motion. And the centerpiece of it all, a completed unicorn skeleton, assembled with painstaking care, its spiral horn mounted separately in a glass case where I could admire its pearlescent glow each night before bed.
Every kill represented weeks of planning, tracking, and perfect execution. Every creature had fought for its life, some withmagic, others with tooth and claw. And every single one had failed against my superior skill and intellect.
“Look at you all,” I murmured, trailing my fingers along a shelf of preserved eyes. Each pair a different color, a different shape, taken from different magical species. “My beautiful collection of failures.”
The village saw me as their hero, their protector against mundane beasts. They showered me with praise for bringing down the wolf that had been stalking their sheep, or the wild boar that charged a farmer’s child. How they would recoil if they knew what I truly hunted. How their admiration would curdle to fear if they discovered that the magical creatures they whispered about in children’s bedtime stories had fallen to my arrows and blades.
Magic was forbidden in Durand and the surrounding villages. A law passed generations ago after some incident none now remembered clearly. The official story claimed magic brought corruption and suffering. The church reinforced this belief, painting practitioners as servants of darkness. All perfect cover for my family’s true pursuits.
My grandfather had taught me the truth before he died. Magic wasn’t evil. No, it was power. And power should belong to those strong enough to claim it, to those born to rule rather than serve. Isabeau was a woman, inferior. She should not possess anything that might make her stronger than the man who was meant to care for her.
My family had understood this logic for generations, hunting magical creatures not just for sport, but for the residual power that lingered in their remains. Each trophy in my collection was more than decoration. It was a repository of ancient energy waiting to be tapped.
Yet none of these treasures could compare to what I sought now.
My eyes drifted to the large wooden chest in the corner. Its surface carved with symbols that would make a priest cross himself in terror. Iron bands reinforced the ancient wood, and a lock of strange black metal. Not quite iron, not quite silver had sealed its contents from curious eyes. I’d had it out when I first brought Isabeau here, but then I saw it glowing. Just in case, I placed it in an enchanted chest. Now that I knew Isabeau had power, it made sense as to how the mirror had been activated without a touch.
I approached it slowly, savoring the anticipation. The key hung around my neck on a leather cord, warm against my skin from constant contact. It had never left my person since the day I acquired it and its precious contents from that desperate merchant outside Durand’s walls. The man had been on the run from the king’s magic hunters, willing to part with his most valuable possession for enough gold to flee the country.
He hadn’t fled far enough. I’d made sure of that after buying what I could from him.
The lock opened with a whisper rather than a click, as if recognizing my touch. Inside, nestled on black velvet, lay the golden mirror. Its handle was long and ornate, twisted vines of gold wrapping around what looked suspiciously like human finger bones beneath the metalwork. The glass itself wasn’t glass at all, but some liquid-solid substance that rippled occasionally of its own accord, even when perfectly still.
I lifted it carefully, feeling the familiar surge of power that accompanied its touch. The mirror’s weight always surprised me. Heavier than it should be, as if the spirit trapped within added its own substance to the gold and jewels.
Isabeau Dubois.Her name burned in my mind like a brand. The girl who had defied me. The beauty who had escaped my rightful claim. The witch who had thrown me across a room without laying a finger on me.
My fingers tightened around the mirror’s handle as I recalled her sleeping face during those precious days she’d been mine. How peaceful she’d looked, unaware of my nightly vigils at her bedside. How her chest had risen and fallen with each breath, the swell of her breasts visible beneath the thin nightgown I’d provided. I’d been patient then, waiting for the right moment to claim what was mine without breaking her completely.
That patience had cost me. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
“I need you,” I whispered to the mirror, my breath fogging its surface momentarily. “Show me where she hides.”
The mirror’s surface began to swirl, a miniature maelstrom contained within its frame. Then the mist parted to reveal not a reflection, but the face of a young woman—translucent, ghostly, with eyes that reflected not light but entire landscapes within their depths. The young spirit of someone pure enough for the deadly barter.
Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her features contorted in eternal agony. The sound came a moment later, a piercing shriek that would have shattered ordinary glass had it not been contained by the mirror’s enchantment.
“Now, now,” I chided, as if speaking to a petulant child. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
