“One night,” I remind her. “Perhaps less. You saw the night sky when you went without the tonic. We might know sooner than the next hour what the curse is, and if you are cursed at all.”
We are both watching the night sky, and I feel such guilt when Isabeau asks, “Do you always sleep with your weapons on the floor beside you? Or is that because you fear that I am a monster?”
“No. They are often on the bed beside me.”
As she stretches out on the bed in preparation for a curse that has not yet arrived although the sun has fallen, she says, “If I am fully uncursed, I will not apologize for replacing the sword that used to claim the space beside you.” She takes my hand and kisses the palm. “And if I am cursed in some awful way, I am glad you have weapons and can use them.”
I nod, tears blurring my sight as she squirms. Her brow is damp with fever, and she shudders with small tremors. I feel her skin, and she seems to be burning up.
“Do you think I am the beast? Did I kill your father? Your former lover?”
“I am going to grab a few clean cloths for your fevers,” I whisper instead of answering. I don’t know if she is the monster—and I cannot say that to her. “Would you like anything to drink or ...”
She shakes her head. “I am so cold.”
I pull a warm quilt over her.
“I will be right back,” I promise before I walk away to get a damp cloth to wipe and cool her skin. I hastily pour water into a stewpot I find in the cook’s pantry and carry it back to Isabeau’s room.
“There you are, little wisp.” The creature is sitting on the edge of the bed. “I could not rest until I knew you were safe, love.”
I toss the water at it. AtIsabeau, who is covered in fur and wiping her face with clawed hands.
“I need no cool water; I am not feverish now.” She makes a sound that I realize is meant to be a laugh. Then she pulls the quilt over her, lets out a recently familiar purring sound, and drifts to sleep.
“Isabeau?”
For the second night in a row, I pray I am wrong. I cannot look away from the creature now nestled in Isabeau’s bed. My worst fears have come to fruition. I have been in love with a monster, with the murderer of my father and my friend, with the creature I vowed to slay.
That’s her,my mind insists.
She is not a killer,my heart argues.
The alternative, though, is that Isabeau is missing—or hidden in the room, dying or dead. The impossible is that the creature is imitating my beloved. In desperation, I search the room, every cupboard, each wardrobe, and as I make my way through the entire house, I keep returning to check on the creature in Isabeau’s bed.
I am the Hunter. I kill faeries,I try to remind myself. The creature I am to kill is here. Now. Asleep.
I peer out the windows.
I cannot kill Isabeau,my heart objects.
Instead, I hold my sword in my hand like a child’s toy and take a seat on the chaise. I watch over the sleeping creature, hoping I amsomehow wrong. Exhaustion blurs my eyes, but I stay awake. I pinch my arm several times when I start to doze.
Finally, as the light of dawn steals into the room, the creature fades into the form of the woman I have come to love. I am still holding a sword, but I am unable to raise it.
Isabeau is the monster.
She stares at me with sad but love-filled eyes. “I am cursed, then.”
Mutely, I nod.
Isabeau tumbles from the quilt that was encasing her like a cocoon. “Love? Gabrielle?”
Still I cannot reply. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say anything.
Isabeau crouches in front of me and takes my sword. “Gabrielle?” She stares into my face. “Are you injured? Did something horrible happen?”
“I saw the creature,” I whisper.
