Beau and the Beast Read online

  BEAU AND THE BEAST

  …The man said nothing for several moments, and then went on. “I think you should stay with me for a few more days. Get yourself more properly healed and then, when you’re ready, I will not only see that you are clothed, but that you have safe transport back to Seattle. And if you need, we can also get you to a doctor. I suspect, though, you’re still in a bit of shock and that’s affected your memory.”

  “Why would you do this?” Beau wondered.

  “Why wouldn’t I? What kind of beast would I be if I left you all alone, bleeding and hurt, in that alley? I only did what I would want someone to do for me if the tables were turned.”

  “But all of this….” Beau gestured to the room with his hand. “All of this seems above and beyond the call.”

  “Perhaps for some. I suppose I could have left you at an emergency room and washed my hands of you. But that’s not me. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty to bring you here.”

  “I don’t know what to think. I wish I could remember what happened.” But Beau wasn’t so sure he wanted that wish granted. Already, shadowy images were swirling around in his memory, hooded figures, cold—and they filled him with dread.

  “You will.” The man stood. “Now, I think you should eat before everything gets totally cold. There’s roast chicken there….” He took a few steps toward the door. “In the morning, I’ll bring you some clothes and we can go outside, if you feel up to it.”

  The man was closing the door behind him.

  “Wait!” Beau called after him. “Who are you? You haven’t told me who you are.”

  The man turned slightly and gestured toward the mask. “Just call me Beast.” He chuckled, but the sound carried no mirth, only despair…

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  BEAU AND THE BEAST

  BY

  RICK R. REED

  AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC

  http://www.AmberQuill.com AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK

  This book is a work of fiction.

  All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2012 by Rick R. Reed ISBN 978-1-61124-346-8 Cover Art © 2012 Trace Edward Zaber

  PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA For everyone who believes in fairy tales—and happy endings.

  CHAPTER 1

  Seattle’s Elliott Bay, Beau thought, was a study in gray. With his artist’s eye, he could appreciate the gunmetal shade of the churning waters, here and there supporting the weight of massive ferries taking late afternoon commuters to Bainbridge and Vashon Islands. Beau thought the clouds appeared pearlescent in their pale tones of faded white, smoke, and touched with peach as the sun, all but invisible on this drizzly day, set over the water. Even the buildings, across the sound, and lining Alki Beach in West Seattle, appeared as colorless geometric shapes, stalwarts assembled against the approaching night.

  Beau had been here almost all afternoon, just behind Pike Place Market, hoping even on this chilly and damp day that he would be able to attract tourist trade from the busy marketplace. After all, even Seattle’s tepid winters drew tourists, and their favorite destination, equal to the Space Needle, was Pike Place Market and the Elliott Bay waterfront behind it.

  But today, the blustery winds, constant drizzle bordering on mist, and oppressive dark skies more suited to night, kept most tourists pursuing activities indoor in nature.

  Yet here Beau sat on his little collapsible folding stool behind the market, easel set up and hoping to do a portrait or two to make enough money to perhaps get himself a room for the night in one of the fleabag motels lining Aurora Avenue farther north. He hoped for the added bonus of a little something extra to lessen the aching emptiness of his belly. The reality of the term “starving artist” was not lost on poor Beau.

  His skin was moist and he had grown weary of smiling and trying to cajole those tourists that did walk down to the waterfront to let him try to capture their likenesses with charcoal and paper. Now, all he wanted to do was find a place to hole up for a while, to try and dispel this chill that had crept into his very bones. Seattle was like that in the winter—even though the temperature seldom dipped down to freezing, the damp caused the chill to seep in, thwarting even layers of flannel, wool, and fleece.

  On better days, Beau sometimes walked away from this area with enough money in his pocket to treat himself to teriyaki and a room, if he was lucky, for more than one night. On better days, Beau engaged with the tourists and locals who posed for him, getting an original portrait for only ten dollars (the highest amount he found he could charge, to his dismay).

  Packing up his art supplies, Beau tried to warm himself by remembering the praise he would get on those good days, when he would do several portraits. He remembered one woman, a regal looking, olive-complexioned lady with a mass of graying hair she had pulled sloppily atop her head, effusing over her portrait. In it, Beau had captured the beauty that shone from her, luminosity not immediately apparent to the casual observer. He didn’t think the woman was being conceited when she smiled at the drawing, tears springing to her eyes, and said, “Why it’s like you captured my very soul.”

  And that’s exactly what Beau tried to do when he drew someone—find their essence, some unique feature that made them them. He knew he was good, better than the hardscrabble existence he eked out, but aside from times being hard these days, he also constantly told himself that, albeit poor, he was free. He had no boss to answer to, save himself and his own biological imperatives—which were sometimes very demanding indeed—no set hours around which he would be forced to fashion his life.

  Yes, he had to admit to himself, he was homeless, even though he usually made enough money to keep him off the streets most nights. Yet he had no permanent address, no real place to store his art supplies and to hang the straw hat he favored wearing. But when the fact of his aimlessness left him low, he could always remind himself he was free.

  Free.

  And alone.

  Beau finished putting what he could in the large backpack that

  transformed him into a beast of burden. He folded up his easel, compacting it, and turned to look once more at the waters of the sound, now still and shiny, mirror-like, reflecting the last of the dying light of day. Below him, rush hour traffic rushed north and south. He checked his pockets, pulling out its meager contents. Today, he had five dollars and fifty-three cents to his name, barely enough to buy him a bowl of pho, the flavorful Vietnamese noodle soup that could be found in just about every neighborhood here in Seattle. It certainly didn’t leave him enough for shelter for the night.

  That was okay.

  He w
as free.

  He would find a doorway in Belltown, the close-to-downtown

  neighborhood, and curl up in layers of fleece and denim, and perhaps tomorrow would dawn a brighter day—and a more prosperous one.

  He began trudging away from the waterfront and toward the market and Post Alley, looking forward to being away from his makeshift workplace, to eating some pho, and finding a quiet place where he could sleep for a while.

  The walk toward food and possible shelter was all uphill and Beau wished he had not left it so late to attempt to find either. Quickly, as it did in winter, the sun beat a hasty retreat behind the mountains, barely noticeable anyway behind its thick shield of dark clouds—and now it had fallen to dull dark, the only illumination the artificial lights of the city.

  Beau squared his broad shoulders, looking forward to sitting down for a while in the little Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Bac, near the downtown Greyhound station. He could practically taste the savory, star-anise flavored broth as he trudged uphill toward downtown, imagining the steaming noodles wrapped around chopsticks, the Thai basil, bean sprouts, and mint leaves floating in the soup, the tender pieces of beef tendon.

  Simple thoughts like these kept him going, kept his mind off the ache in his shoulders and back from lugging around virtually everything he owned.

  He was so focused on food, as hungry people often are, that he didn’t notice the two strangers trailing him. They were young men about Beau’s own age, but lacking his delicate, fragile, yet manly grace and beauty. These two were thugs, apparent in the cockiness of their walks, the fierceness of their frowns framed by dark stubble, and their attire, which leaned toward too-baggy jeans, hoodies, and heavy, steel-toed boots.

  When Beau at last did spy the pair out of the corner of his eye, it was too late to do anything about avoiding them. He had already slipped down an alley, planning a shortcut to the pho restaurant, and there, the bricked pavement was barely visible among the claustrophobic shadows.

  Beau was not too weary to tense when he first felt, then spied, the men. They were too close, too quiet, to simply be passing the same way as he. He had lived on the street long enough to be able to tell the difference between ill intent and coincidence.

  He began talking to himself in his mind, trying to ward off the panic and the fear. Why would they bother you? You have nothing. You’re probably poorer than they are.

  But Beau knew he had art supplies and a leather satchel that would be worth something in a pawnshop. And if these two were hungry for their next fix of horse or Tina, they might be willing to take him down, even though it would be easier to rob someone who had some cash on him or at least looked like he did.

  Don’t let them know you sense their presence. Don’t hurry. Don’t run. Just walk at a normal pace. Maybe you will get to the mouth of the alley—and brighter light—before they overtake you. Perhaps they will see you for the bad prospect you are.

  Perhaps they don’t care. Perhaps they, fueled by whatever chemicals are thrumming in their systems, get off on pain and cruelty. And here you are—alone and isolated—just as beasts prefer their prey.

  Beau tried to swallow, but found his mouth had gone dry. His heart was beating at twice its normal rate. In spite of the damp and the chill, he felt a crawly trickle of sweat run down his back on insect legs.

  He was almost to the end of the alley when he sensed them coming closer, heard their throaty, whispered laughter.

  Had one of them called him a faggot?

  Was it that obvious?

  At last, Beau started to run and that was when he knew—for sure—he was in trouble.

  He heard their pace pick up to match his own.

  The mouth of the alley, the streetlights, the buses and other passing traffic, were only a few feet away, but Beau would never get to experience them because it was then he felt the blow, hard, to the back of his head.

  His vision blurred. He dropped to his knees and could hear only laughter. He braced himself for another strike before everything went black.

  CHAPTER 2

  When Beau awakened, he wondered if he had arrived in heaven. No, there were no angels strumming harps, clouds underfoot, or St. Peter standing at the Pearly Gates.

  But what was before his eyes was something unexpected and something, well, plushbeyond Beau’s wildest imaginings. He sat up slightly in the large bed he was lying in. Rich, thick sheets slithered to his waist; a fluffy white down comforter was folded up at the foot of the bed. He surveyed the room he was in, despite the pain such movement caused to rise up in his head. It felt like a little man with an ice pick was wielding it behind his eyes, rhythmically striking again and again and again.

  Through a wave of nausea and vision that went from clear to blurry with no warning, he managed to take in a gorgeous, sundappled bedroom. He lay in a sleigh bed of rich mahogany wood, carved at the top corners with a delicate oak leaf pattern. Light streamed in through plantation shutters at each of the two windows. The floor was highly polished hardwood, stained black, a wonderful contrast to the faded parchment color of the walls. Across from the bed was a little sitting area, with a loveseat, small table, and two overstuffed chairs, all covered in a deep velvet, the cushions so fluffy they begged to be sat upon. The table was piled with books, leather-bound.

  On the walls were black and white framed photos of Seattle — the famous elephant of the Pink Elephant car wash, the Needle, a neon sign in the window of a bar called the Five Point where someone had blocked out the words “cook on duty” to read “cock on duty,” the Crittenden locks in Ballard, Gas Works Park, Mt. Rainier, sunrise over the Cascade mountains. Yet, Beau noted there were no mirrors on any of the walls.

  He was curious to see how he looked. Was he bruised? Did he have one or two black eyes? He reached up gingerly, touching his head, which pounded, and felt layers of gauze.

  How bad off was he?

  And where was he?

  He tried to put his feet to the floor, but that same floor tilted

  when his feet connected with it and a wave of nausea rose up from his belly, shooting bile he imagined as a sickly yellow up the back of his throat, burning.

  He lay back down, panting, trying to remember the last several hours of his life, so he could figure out what had brought him here—wherever herewas….

  But all he could see in his mind’s eye was h imself set up on the Elliott Bay waterfront, his art supplies at the ready, should a tourist want to take him up on his offer of a portrait for the bargainbasement price of only ten dollars.

  Everything after that was a blank.

  Beau tensed as he heard footsteps approaching. His gaze moved to a heavy oak door opposite the bed. The footfalls sounded heavy, indicating someone large drawing closer, closer. Beau felt a sudden flash of irrational fear course through him and he pressed his back against the bed’s headboard, eyes intent on the brass doorknob, waiting for it to turn.

  He found it hard to breathe.

  Only seconds passed as he listened to the silence created by the footsteps stopping outside his door. As he had imagined, he watched the slow turn of the doorknob. He felt like he was in some kind of horror movie and the notion made him feel panicky and giddy all at once—the absurdity of it causing him to restrain a hysterical giggle lodged deep in his throat.

  Whoever was out there, opening the door—Beau did not want to see. What he wanted, really wanted, was to know where he was and how he had gotten here.

  The door opened and a large figure, clothed all in black, stood for a moment, framed in the doorway. His massive shoulders were so broad that Beau wondered if he would have difficulty making his way across the threshold. The man—and Beau was sure it was a man despite not being able to see his face—stood well over six feet tall, perhaps closer to seven. In the form-fitting black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, Beau made out a pumped-up body in which the muscles were piled on like slabs. His hands, huge, dwarfed the silver tray he clutched, a tray containing a ceramic teapot and
several bowls and plates.

  Breakfast? Dinner? What time was it, anyway?

  And, more importantly, was he a prisoner here?

  The last thought came unbidden, but bolstered by the logic of the most mysterious and disconcerting aspect of the man standing before him—his face was completely covered.

  And it wasn’t merely covered, but covered in a most unusual fashion: with a mask made of rubber that looked surprisingly realistic—the visage of a wolf. The salt and pepper fur crowning the top of the mask blended perfectly with a mane of salt and pepper hair that hung halfway down the man’s back.

  “Who are you?” Beau managed to stammer and his words seemed to propel the man forward, although he offered no response. His silence was equal to his appearance in eeriness.

  Beau caught his breath as the man approached the bed, his footfalls echoing on the hardwood. Beau wanted to ask more, but suddenly lost the power to form words. He could only stare.

  The man paused at the outstretched. Beau imagined recoiled, drawing back.

  But all the guy did was push the Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table over a few inches, so he could set down the tray. Once he positioned the tray just so, he stood back up and clasped his hands together, staring down at Beau.

  Even though Beau could not see his face, he had a certainty that this man, creature, whatever was hiding behind the mask, was smiling. Beau glanced up at him and, for the first time, their eyes met.

  Beau was struck by the intensity of the eyes peering out from behind the holes in the wolf mask. Not only was the gaze fixed and passionate, but also the eyes themselves were remarkable. They were a pale green, the palest shade of green Beau had ever seen on bed and stooped over, one hand he was going to touch him and a person, almost a kind of aquamarine, and they were rimmed by long black lashes.

  They were the kind of eyes, Beau thought, that had inspired that careworn cliché for the eyes: the window to the soul.

  Just this connection with the man’s eyes calmed Beau somewhat. Even though the man had spoken not a word, there was something in those eyes of his that told Beau he was safe and that the man standing above him meant no harm.