Beau and the Beast Read online

  Beau cocked his head and repeated his original question, “Who are you?”

  But the man said nothing. He reached down and gently patted Beau’s leg beneath the sheet. He straightened back up and pointed to the tray, nodding. Then, just as silently as he had entered the room, he turned and left it, closing the door with a barely audible click.

  Beau’s heart rate and breathing had returned to normal levels and he found he felt marginally better, well enough to at least sit up in bed and turn and look at what the creature had left for him. The tray contained two soft-boiled eggs in cups and a pot of Earl Grey tea that Beau could recognize because of the delicious aroma of bergamot wafting up. There was also a linen napkin in a sterling silver ring, and a plate upon which rested two slices of golden buttered toast, cut into thin strips for dipping. A small silver bowl held a sectioned orange.

  This could all be poisoned. He could be trying to kill me or at least put me out so he can do God only knows what kind of unspeakable acts and I won’t fight.

  Beau shook his head. The man’s green eyes, the kindness in the way he touched him, reassured Beau—he knew it wasn’t logical, but he felt a kind of warmth and trust for his savior.

  The name—savior—had come to him without conscious thought, and suddenly seemed right.

  Beau could not recall what had happened to him. But he knew it was bad and something deep within his mind—no, make that heart—told him, with no doubt at all, that the man who had left him breakfast had played a role in his salvation.

  Beau breathed easier when he realized he could sit up enough to turn toward the bedside table, placing his feet on the floor.

  With a hand trembling only slightly, he poured himself a cup of tea and added a couple of sugar cubes. He then lifted a spoon with which to crack the first egg.

  Suddenly, he was ravenous.

  CHAPTER 3

  The food must have calmed something deep within him to allow him to sleep. When Beau next awakened, the light coming in through his windows was wan, watery, the shadows long. The house, as before, was silent all around him, as if he had come to here alone—as if the place, indeed, had some sort of supernatural life of its own.

  Beau found he could now sit up in bed with no pain other than a slightly annoying headache. Cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. So far, so good. Testing himself, and keeping his hands braced on the mattress behind him, he tentatively stood.

  And it was all right. The floor did not tilt; the room did not spin. The contents of his stomach stayed put. Another urge came upon him, with a vengeance —the need to pee. He glanced around the room, searching for another doorway aside from the one through which his mysterious visitor had entered and exited. And there it was—a similar door to the main one, standing open upon a darkened room.

  Beau hurried over and flipped the lights on, confirming his suspicions—and hopes—that the door led to an en suite bathroom.

  The room was done in shades of ochre, cream, and black, the floors polished marble and the walls a darker shade of beige, almost brown, with a hint of yellow. There was a large, glassenclosed shower with a rain showerhead, and a garden tub, surrounded by candles of varying hues and sizes, big enough at least for two.

  But enough of admiring the plumbing—Beau’s own plumbing reminded him urgently. He hurried to the toilet and sighed as he relieved himself, one hand braced on the wall above him.

  Finished, he headed over to the sink to wash his hands and here is where he finally had an encounter, face-to-face, with himself.

  Here was a mirror.

  The silver glass, bordered with a scalloped gilt frame, threw back a surprising—and horrifying—image. Yes, all the usual parts were in place and Beau recognized himself—the shock of amber hair, wavy, that often fell fetchingly or annoyingly, depending on his mood, over his right eye. His eyes were the same, a slight almond shape, filled with hazel irises. His cheekbones, chin, and nose remained where they always had.

  But there, the difference between what Beau saw in the mirror before and what he saw right now, became apparent.

  Those same features, once handsome, youthful, vibrant, with a kind of artsy allure, had been twisted almost beyond recognition. His piercing hazel eyes, once rimmed by long black lashes, were now bordered by swelling and bruises, in shades of deep purple, lavender, and yellow. The bridge of his nose was swollen and wore the same violent shades as the bruises around his eyes. With a shaking hand, he reached up and touched the nose, wincing at the pain a gentle prod created. Still, he had to know, so he pinched his nose at the base and moved it cautiously from side to side. At least it appeared not to be broken.

  Most of his hair was hidden behind a turban of gauze that had been wrapped around his head. Near the top of his forehead, a splotch of blood had seeped through, now dried to an almost chocolate brown. He touched the bandages and wondered if the stranger in black had been the one who had wound the fabric so tightly around his skull, stopping the bleeding of whatever wound hid beneath.

  Beau stood back, looking down at his body, clad only in a Tshirt and boxer shorts, both new and neither his. Below the neck, he seemed to have fared better, with only a dull ache around his midsection. He lifted the T-shirt and saw that the side of his torso and his belly both bore red, purple, and yellow signs of violence.

  Beau turned away from the mirror, feeling like weeping. It was obvious he had been beaten and he wished he could recall who had done this to him. Was it his mystery man? He left the bathroom and wandered back out into the bedroom, which had now grown dark—winter’s pale light had a way of fading quickly.

  He located the lamp on his nightstand and pulled the chain to illuminate it, flooding the room with warm yellow light. He sat down on his bed, tired again, the newly discovered bruises on his face and body aching like bad memories.

  From the bed, he scanned the room once more and was depressed at what he didn’t see—anywhere. None of his clothes. His art supplies, if they were here anywhere, were nowhere in sight.

  All it seemed he had was this clean white T-shirt and these pale blue boxers with a repeating design of navy ducks on the cotton.

  Had his mystery man beaten him in order to kidnap him, to keep him a prisoner? Were unimaginable sex games planned for when the bruises subsided? Panicked, Beau sprung from the bed and hurried to the door through which he had seen the wolfmasked man enter, certain he would find it locked from the outside, but the door opened easily.

  Beau peered up and down the length of a hallway with the same black hardwood floors as his bedroom, covered with long, tasseled Oriental rugs. Candles burned in wall sconces, dispelling the gloom, but causing the ends of the hallway to vanish into shadow. All up and down the corridor were doors similar to his, all closed.

  Did they also hold young men, also showing recent signs of abuse?

  Beau retreated back into the relative safety of what he now thought of as his bedroom, shutting the door once more. He was not ready to explore the house further, especially not clad so vulnerably. He went to the windows and opened the plantation shutters farther.

  The twilight outside, shades of navy and deep purple, pressed against the glass like heavy velvet. The darkness was so complete Beau could find no clues to his whereabouts. All he could discern was that he was no longer in the city. There was no ambient light from building and streetlights; no sound penetrated the windowpanes. All Beau could see was a constellation of stars, so bright, dazzling, and crowded, it confirmed his belief he was now far outside Seattle.

  “Tomorrow perhaps you can admire the view.”

  The voice startled Beau, coming from behind him. It was deep and somewhat raspy. The man stood there, holding yet another tray. He was attired the same—in his funereal clothes, topped with the wolf’s head mask—that made Beau both want to laugh and shriek at the same time.

  But at least now he had spoken.

  Beau could ask him some questions. Beau turned
to him and took the tray from his hands, glancing down at the silver-covered plates and cutlery. The smell of something rich and savory wafted up to his nose, igniting his hunger.

  He set the tray down on the bedside table (its predecessor, he noted, had been taken away while he slept), then sat down himself on the bed. He would have preferred to stand, but his legs still felt weak, his mind still muddled, and the fear nipping at the edges of his consciousness was easier to keep at bay if he sat.

  He looked up at the beast—he had never thought of him this way before, but what else do you call someone built like a linebacker and wearing the menacing face of a wolf?

  The beast had started to turn away. Beau surmised that since he had made his delivery, his services were no longer required.

  Well, he was wrong about that. Beau needed answers and he had waited long enough for them, even if he was not entirely certain just how long “long enough” had been.

  “Wait a minute,” Beau said, his voice coming out tentative, soft. He would need to remedy that. If he was being held here against his will, if he had, in fact, been beaten and abducted, he would have to play his cards carefully—and the most important card to play was the one that told him not to show any fear, to be strong.

  “Hold it.” Beau’s voice was stronger now, clearer; he put some breath and bass behind his words.

  The monster, beast, whatever he should be called, stopped in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around. He remained facing away from Beau, but Beau could tell from his body language that he had captured the man’s attention.

  “Can you just come back here and talk to me? Why the silent treatment? I needsome answers.” Even though it was a betrayal of his idea not to show fear, Beau said, “I’m afraid.” That was honest—and maybe it would appeal to his captor/savior’s sense of right.

  The man turned and came back. Beau was surprised when he sat down on the bed next to him, leaving a space of about a foot or so between them.

  “I wanted to let you rest,” the man began. “That’s why the ‘silent treatment.’ I thought you would talk when you were ready. It appears you’re ready.” The man’s voice was deep, mellifluous, like honey with a hint of grit. It was a very manly, calming voice.

  “Will you take that stupid mask off?” Beau asked, impatiently.

  “Not yet.”

  Beau sighed. “Well, at least give me my back story, because I am not remembering much. Most of all how I got here.”

  The man let out a long exhalation through the mask. “You were lucky I found you. I do not go into the city more than a few times a year and I only go when I need to stock up my reserves of food. I had just finished a shopping trip when I spotted you at the mouth of an alley. You were covered in blood, groaning, and it was obvious someone had beaten you horribly.”

  “So you brought me here? Where is here, anyway? And why didn’t you just take me to a hospital?”

  “One question at a time.” The man paused, as though he were pondering which question to answer first, prioritizing them. “I thought about taking you to a hospital, but I don’t like to have much contact with other people. It’s a long story, but let’s just say I don’t have healthy memories of my time among them. I did, however, examine you, right there in the street, checking to see how severe your cuts and bumps were. I was able to determine, best I could, that while you looked like hell, nothing had happened to you that couldn’t be fixed with time and care.”

  The wolf’s face turned to Beau and he could feel the man’s gaze upon him. “I still don’t know if I made the right choice. Your admission that you don’t remember what happened to you concerns me; perhaps I need to reconsider.

  “In any event, I checked you over and determined that you needed help, so I brought you here, to my home. We are in a remote area east of Seattle, in the foothills of the Cascades. I had this house built for me to meet my need for solitude. I did not bring you here to keep you against your will; let me make that clear. You are free to leave whenever you like.”

  Beau looked around him. He had never, in his whole life, been ensconced in such comforting and comfortable surroundings. Still, this was weird. “My things? Where are my things?”

  The man put a gentle hand on Beau’s knee. “You had nothing, just the clothes on your back and those were torn and bloody.” He paused. “I had to throw them away. We’ll see that you get some new ones when you want to go.”

  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. “It’s what I am, anyway.”

  Before Beau could say anything else, Beast had closed the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day, Beast awakened Beau early, bearing another tray of food. Beau sat up in bed, feeling much better than he had. His sleep had been heavy and dreamless, reparative. He smiled. “You, sir, are going to spoil me.”

  Beast set the tray of food —oatmeal with blueberries and maple syrup, a pot of tea, a sectioned grapefruit—on the bedside table. “The pleasure is mine. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to care for.”

  Beau could not see behind Beast’s mask, but he wondered why he stopped speaking so abruptly, wondered if it was emotion choking him.

  “Did you once?” Beast’s voice emerged, soft, choked…and Beau knew. “Did I what?”

  “Have someone to care for?”

  “Eat up your breakfast. Take a shower. I was able to find you

  some clothes and thought maybe you’d like to go outside. It’s a rare clear and sunny day out there and the mountains look gorgeous.” Beast hurried from the room.

  Beau watched after him. Now, in addition to wondering what had happened to his own self, he wondered what had happened to Beast as well. Although he couldn’t see the man’s face, he could feel his pain.

  Beau picked up the tray and set it on his lap.

  * * * When Beast returned an hour or so later, Beau was waiting for him, showered and smelling of shampoo. Just getting clean somehow made everything hurt less. He didn’t know how, but it was true. The warm spray of water had energized him, making him feel more alive than when he had first waked in this strange place.

  Beast held out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of athletic socks, and a gray hoodie with a purple University of Washington insignia embroidered across its front. There was even a pair of beat-up, but serviceable, running shoes
placed on top of the clothes.

  “These will never fit me,” Beau said, taking the clothes from Beast’s outstretched hands and sizing the man up again. Where Beau was slight, Beast was a giant. “Not if they’re yours.”

  “They’re not mine.” Before Beau had a chance to ask any questions, Beast was hurrying from the room, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Beau slipped into the T-shirt, jeans, and sweatshirt and found they all fit his thin, wiry frame perfectly. Even the shoes, half a size too small, were not so tight as to impede his wearing them.

  There’s no way these clothes could belong to the Beast. So whose were they? Was there someone else in the house? Had there been someone else in the house?

  Beau stood, testing his balance in the shoes, and wondered if Beast would answer his questions. If Beau couldn’t be privy to his own background, he could at least know about Beast’s.

  Beast opened the door. “Feel up for a little walk?”

  Outside, the air was crisp and cold. Beau was grateful. The mountain air was invigorating and had a sweet cleanliness to it that didn’t exist in Seattle. Breathing in deep, surrounded by pines and snow-capped mountain peaks, Beau immediately felt stronger, more whole, as if the air itself was cleaning and healing him from the inside out.

  They walked for almost an hour and Beau felt he could have gone further, but Beast said, “We don’t want you to overdo things on your first time up and around. Let’s head back.” Gently, he took Beau’s hand. Beast’s hand was so large, Beau’s own felt lost in the warmth of it.

  He also felt safe.

  Beau’s hopes to find out more about Beast were dashed as they walked along the trails, the pine trees towering over them, making the air nippy, revealing slashes of sunlight and shadow and glimpses of blue skies and clouds, up high, moving fast.