Beauty Killed the Beast

I woke much too early, well before noon.

Another night of fitful dreams and haunting memories. Lovers of ages past, enemies long rotted, battles won, treasures claimed, fortunes lost, lifetimes wasted.

I’d given up that existence, walked away from it, but it came back to torment me all the same.

The night bottle was empty, forcing me out of bed and downstairs.

“Wine,” I told the innkeep.

When sleep denies you, what else is there to do but drink?

Half a bottle of the red ere breakfast. The rest to wash away the unpleasant aftertaste of a morning meal of salty broth, dry bread, butter, and lukewarm ale.

Afterward, I called for another red, just to pass the morning hours with a semblance of company. Not much for conversation, the bottle, but willing to give me its all. No friend better.

The sun was nearing its zenith when the second bottle ran empty.

I called for more.

The old me would have demanded music and women to go with the drink. But that man was gone, buried deep in distant lands, forgotten.

The innkeep gave me that sour look that precedes a nay. The gold five-sovereign I set spinning upon the table—more than most men could hope to make in a year—convinced him otherwise.

“Would Master like another red?” he fawned instead.

It would be my third for the day. Nothing to write home about, but the local vintage was sour, heavy, and generally disagreeable.

“Bring me something else,” I told the innkeep. “Something to my liking.”

“What would please Master?” the bastard asked.

“Surprise me,” I told him.

The old me would kill if the surprise weren’t to my liking. The new me wouldn’t.

The man was all smiles and helpfulness now that he had the measure of my true worth. Greed and fear. Gold and magic. The coin and the spell that would keep it spinning until the end of the world if I so desired.

Why had I done that?

Old habits, bad habits.

Nothing more to it.

I was cradling my second—or third—brandy. Something local made from plum. Too thick. Too sweet. Too heady. It mingled with the sourness already inside me and upset my precarious equilibrium.

I regretted, and not for the first time, coming into town.

Another bad old habit that was hard to break.

The door to the tavern flew open, letting in unwelcome light and a gust of fresh air equally unwanted.

Without thinking, my hand slid down, unseen beneath the wooden table, to where—for the longest time—I had borne my trusted blade, Quicksilver.

I no longer carried a sword. I didn’t need one. I was no longer in the killing business.

Live by the sword, die by the sword. Or so the bards claimed.

I had left mine in the heart of the last man I murdered.

How terribly I missed it sometimes.

A finer sword had never been forged. The perfect balance. The razor’s edge that never dulled. The fuller that drank blood and souls in equal measure.

A woman stood in the doorway.

At first glance, I took her for a girl of sixteen or seventeen. She was young and sweet, supple as a sapling. Her skin was the pale of snowy winter fields, her hair the color of those same fields in summer, ablaze.

I smiled then, for it occurred to me that years ago, I had set this shire on fire.

Pillaging and burning. Another business that was no longer mine.

She had to duck to get inside. Gods, was she tall.

I looked her over again as I would a horse I wasn’t sure about. There was a tiredness beneath her bright eyes, the wary set of her mouth. I had misjudged her age. Nineteen, twenty, perhaps. Past marrying age around these parts, but no wedding band on her finger.

She danced forward on legs so long and slender. Her clogs and the old maid’s dress she wore didn’t do her justice. Someone should take her to the seamstress and have her made a new dress.

Jewels to sparkle with her eyes.

And shoes. Legs like that should have heeled shoes, like those worn by the painted women of Southron courts, or go barefoot.

Not me, though. I no longer whored, no longer seduced.

The old me had. The forgotten me. The warlock. The reaver. The heart-stealer.

“Did you hear?” she shouted eagerly, her robust soprano cutting through the muted bustle of the inn.

“Hear what?” the barkeep replied.

“The beast is dead,” she fluttered.

“Really?” I said out loud, much to my surprise.

“Yes,” she shrilled.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“The hunters found it assaulting a fair maiden picking flowers in the meadow. That’s how they finally got it. Beauty killed the beast, so to speak. The news is all over town.”

I fell silent for a spell.

So did she, thankfully, or I might have strangled her.

“Tell you what,” I finally replied in a tone more mellow. “Proof, or it’s not true.”

“Is too,” she snapped at me. “The hunters came in from the forest with its head in a bag.”

“And what monster did they slay?”

“A tartar, a demon, with hooves for feet, the face of a beast, and antlers instead of hair.”

A tartaruchi, here? What was the world coming to? Get rid of one monster—me—and another one rises to take its place.

“Show me,” I said and got to my feet.

The room swayed.

I regretted my rash words but could not make them unsaid without killing all in the room. And I was no longer the cold-hearted slayer of yesteryear.

She looked at me. Didn’t like what she was seeing. It was written all over her face.

I didn’t care; my eyes were on her chest, not her face.

Soft breasts against calloused hands. Old memories, fond memories.

She was about to say no, but her eyes caught sight of the gold coin still spinning on the table—and its twin, held in my left hand.

Behind my back, the innkeep swooped in to gather his prize.

With a flick of my fingers and a touch of magic, I set the second coin spinning in the palm of my hand like I had the first.

Round and round it went, golden surface lit by sunlight filtering through the door.

Her eyes were riveted to it, as mine to her body.

Like for like.

“I’ll show you,” she said.

I lifted my arm, coin still spinning.

She watched intently, trying to divine its purity, then snatched it, turned around, and ducked outside.

I loved watching her go. How long since last I saw a woman walk out on me? Too long by far.

Outside was too warm, too bright. A late summer’s day with altogether too much sun. There was a reason I had stayed indoors.

“Who are you, anyway?” the beauty said to me.

“I am Bacchus,” I told her.

I had known a Bacchus back in the day. One of the few men who could best me at the drinking and seducing game. But a terrible swordsman. It was as good a name as any. I was not giving the little vixen my true name.

“And you?”

“I am Antigone,” she replied.

“Quite the name for a country girl.”

I had figured she was an Anna or, at best, a Hedwig.

“My mother’s name is Jocasta,” she told me with great gravitas. “That’s a royal name. My father felt I should have a name of equal worth.”

I wanted to ask if her father was also her mother’s son, but decided against it. That story was so old none of these country yokels would know it. Instead, I nodded her on.

“You look like a vagrant, but I don’t think you are.”

Frank, this one—and perceptive.

“The trick you did with the coin… I’ve never seen that before.”

She turned the coin over between her fingers. Satisfied, she slipped the sovereign beneath her dress, into some hidden pocket.

“Are you some kind of sorcerer?”

I smiled at her.

Sorcerer indeed; the dark and terrible kind. In ages past, I had walked the shadowy paths of the Abyss, consorted with demons, and made pacts with the darkness.

And now?

How far the mighty had fallen.

“We had a magician at the midsummer fair,” she went on. “He could make cards disappear and pull ribbons from his sleeve.”

“Like this?” I said, pulling another coin from my sleeve, this one sitting on the Queen of Hearts, wrapped in a ribbon of black velvet.

She laughed then.

Before she could take the coin, the queen seized it, and the card grew wings like a bird and flew off.

I tied the ribbon around her braid while she gawked.

“How do you do it? Is it really magic?”

“I can show you,” I said, holding out my hand.

She hesitated, clasped her hands in front of her chest, and smiled innocently at me.

“Not using my coin, you ain’t.”

Not wholly innocent, then.

“I have plenty of coins.”

Her smile became wide as the ocean, her eyelids fluttered to the beat of my heart.

“How many?”

“As many as I want.”

She laughed then.

“Not enough for my dowry, old man.”

Funny girl. Tempt me, then hit me over the head with marriage.

The old me would have cast a spell on her, had her mount me in the city square for all to see—or compelled her to join me on my horse, away from this hole, never to be seen again.

The new me wouldn’t.

“How much does your father ask?”

“My father doesn’t ask. He drinks.”

“Then perhaps I should pay him in wine.”

“He’d sell me for a cask.”

She said it lightly, but her eyes did not smile.

“Then I shall bring him a cartload of the finest wines.”

“You don’t have a cart, silly.”

When was the last time a woman had called me silly and laughed at my tricks?

“And even if you did, you’d drink all the wine yourself.”

A cart, I could have managed. But the part about the wine was probably true.

“What is it that you truly want from life, Antigone?” I said in a tone I hadn’t used in ages.

She looked at me, then ahead down the street.

“To leave.”

No hesitation.

“And go where?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

------

In the square were four hunters and a host of peasants and townsfolk. A chopped-off head, with antlers and everything, was on display.

They seemed so pleased I didn’t have the heart to tell them: It was no demon. Just some unfortunate shifter caught in the act, cut down, beheaded.

Probably a local boy. If they did an inventory, I was sure they’d come up one young male short. More likely than not, a handsome, popular one.

Antigone was watching me all the while.

I caught her eye.

She held my gaze, then stepped closer and took me by the elbow.

I was surprised.

For her to touch a man who disgusted her, perhaps scared her. The girl had hidden qualities. A spine was one of them.

“You don’t seem convinced,” she said in hushed tones.

She was very close now, pressed against me by the multitude of people.

The old me could easily have kissed her sweet lips.

“It’s no demon,” I spoke into her ear, breath heavy with liquor.

She didn’t flinch. Her father was a drunk, then.

“It’s a stag shifter. Probably one of your own. No more evil than you.”

I almost added and me, but caught myself.

I had quit the lies when I put down the sword.

“A shifter?”

The timbre of her voice spoke of honest confusion.

“Someone who can take the form of an animal,” I explained, as a schoolmaster would a somewhat dim-witted pupil. “Surely you’ve heard of shifters? They aren’t that rare.”

“Like a werewolf?”

Her eyes shone with elation.

“Exactly. But not a wolf in this case. A proud and handsome stag.”

She looked back at the severed head.

“Did she know?”

“Who?”

“The maiden.”

“Almost certainly. In fact, maybe she sought him out. Shifters are always so popular with the girls.”

She did not protest.

“And she told the hunters it attacked her?”

“Who knows. Perhaps she was frightened. Perhaps they found them together, and she told the first lie that came to mind.”

Antigone watched the crowd cheer around the dead boy’s head.

“Perhaps she was ashamed,” she said.

“People are often ashamed when caught doing what they truly want.”

She turned towards me.

“What makes you an expert on monsters?”

I had many answers to that question, but none that wouldn’t send her running, and I didn’t want to scare her away.

Sweet Antigone. So tall and effortlessly poised, neck so slender and proud. Her hair should be up, bound by ribbons, held by a net of diamonds and adamantine. A dress of black should she wear, ankle-length, laced up the back, shoulders left bare.

“I’ll show you,” I told her.

Her eyes narrowed. “Show me what?”

“The nature of the beast. Then you’ll understand.”

The five-sovereign was back in her hand.

She studied it, judging its worth against the burden of the unknown. She knew better. Surely her father had warned her about strangers. But the gold-fever was on her skin, burning in her eyes.

She licked her lips. “Four more.”

“Twenty sovereigns?”

It was quite the sum. Easily her dowry’s worth twofold, if any man in this miserable shire was able and willing to pay.

I cared not. Gold was no more precious to me than the lead I transmuted it from.

“You drive a hard bargain,” I said as I pulled four more coins from my sleeve.

She gasped, then squealed with delight.

I closed my fist around the gleaming metal.

“Not here,” she said. “There is a hanging willow by the river. You can show me there.”

------

It was a good spot.

Hidden from view, but not so far that she couldn’t get help. Lapping water loud enough to hide the odd squeal of delight, but not loud enough to drown out the screams of a distraught maiden.

Except everybody was still in the square with the hunters.

Maybe she’d forgotten.

“Close your eyes,” I told her.

“I’m not giving up my virginity,” she warned. “Not for a hundred gold. If you want me, you must ask my father,” she added after a pause.

“I could pay you a hundred, easily, and you’d give it up. All of it,” I told her as I stripped to bare skin. “But it’s not your maidenhead I’m after.”

Her breathing changed.

“It’s all of you.”

She giggled.

I doubted she understood.

But the lass had surprised me before.

I plunged into the river with a splash.

“What are you doing?” Antigone shouted and opened her eyes.

“Upholding my end of the bargain,” I replied as I rose from the waters. “Twenty pieces of gold to show you the nature of the beast.”

She looked at me then, mesmerized, seeing the true me, the old me, for the first time. The tallness of my body, toned muscles underneath perfect skin, hooves for feet, mighty horns, clawed fingers, tongue split, pointed teeth, devil-eyes, the works.

She staggered backward against the willow.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Now do you understand?” I asked.

“Please...” she whispered.

It didn’t sound like she meant it.

“Beauty does not kill the beast. The beast does what it wills with the beauty—and she lets him because deep down, that’s what she’s always wanted.”

“No.”

Her voice was stronger now.

For a moment, I thought sense had found her at last.

I took one step towards her.

She didn’t flinch.

“Go, then,” I said. “And keep the coins.”

She stared at me, eyes wide, chest heaving.

But she didn’t cry out.

“Run back to your father. Buy him all the wine in the shire. Marry some farmer and bear him ten red-haired brats. Tell yourself this was a fairground trick.”

I turned away.

I could have stepped beneath the water and emerged as the man she had followed from the inn. I could have clouded her memory, restored her innocence, and spent another lifetime drinking myself into oblivion.

I did none of those things.

Something hard struck my muscled back.

The second clog missed, splashing into the river.

I looked back.

Antigone stood barefoot at the edge of the water, her old maid’s dress gathered in one hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you.”

“Showing me what?”

“That I don’t want ten red-haired brats.”

She stepped into the river.

The water reached her ankles. Her knees. Her hips.

She trembled, though whether from cold or fear I could not tell.

She looked back once towards the smithy, the square, the town beyond.

Then she looked at me.

“Can you take me away from here?”

I should have said no.

“Anywhere.”

She took another step.

“And make me beautiful?”

“You already are.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not like this.”

She pulled the dress over her head and let it fall. The current caught it and washed it away.

------

I pulled her from the water and dressed her in black silk and the Southron shoes, painted her lips, gave her jewels that shone with her eyes, kissed her hair dry with the setting sun, and bound it with ribbons of adamantine set with diamonds.

She ran her hands down the dress, touched the diamonds at her throat, and tossed her flaming hair.

“Is it real?” she asked.

“Real enough.”

“Will it last?”

“As long as you please me.”

There. The bargain spoken plainly at last.

Her eyes found mine.

“And if you cease to please me?”

I laughed. As if.

She lifted one hand and touched the curve of my horn.

“I accept,” she said. “I’m yours, by my own will, until the day we grow tired of one another.”

Maybe it was the shoes that won her over, or perhaps it was the diamonds.

Perhaps it had been the first sovereign, spinning forever upon a tavern table.

Perhaps it was the path leading away from this place.

Be that as it may.

By the time we got to the tongue, she was mine.

By morning, the old me was hers.