Rachel Hawkins - Grim

He didn’t flinch, didn’t let his eyes wander toward the hallway or the floor.

“Doris.” Helm knew. Just like he knew everything else. “If Doris has her, then your girl just got an eyeful. We picked Calen’s apple and cut her up real nice. He’s sleeping off the meal.”

Locke’s peripheral vision went black. He gritted his teeth, his mind spinning with urgency. Do not react. Do not react. Do not react.

“Did you want a piece?” Helm took a step back, in the direction of the door. “Or did you want to wait for dessert?”

The footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Britt huddled deeper into the corner, the concrete block cold against her back. She hugged her legs tighter to her chest. Locke. Please, let it be Locke.

Helm’s voice. “Doris! More wine. We have a second course.” He circled the room, his huge hand slamming the top of each barrel. “Come out, princess. I’m still hungry.”

Locke rushed through the doorway, and one word burst from his lips. “Me.”

If Helm moved his gaze ten inches to the right, it would land on Britt. Instead, he turned to face Locke. “You’d take her place?”

“I’m clean,” Locke said between heaving breaths. He was still shirtless, and the light from the fire shadowed all the dips and curves of his muscled torso. “You know how much I could bring in. True?”

“Men are less careful with their bodies. Unmarked flesh like yours...near priceless.” Helm walked to Locke and held out a glass of white wine.

Locke took it and downed it in one gulp. “Purity.”

Helm crossed the room to take the red wine from Doris. As he turned his back, Locke met Britt’s eyes and mouthed the word run.

Her heart pounded, equal parts terror and gratitude.

Locke tore away his gaze and reached for the red wine. “I’ll sacrifice for Britt but only if you spare her.”

Helm smiled. “You can hope I will, brother. But sacrifice is a moment, not a lifetime.”

“Do you want the golden now, sirs?” Doris asked, but she didn’t move.

“No.” Helm wanted to peel back Locke’s skin while he was alive.

Locke moved to the metal table. He pulled a switchblade from his own pocket and held it up. “Take it.”

Helm stared at the sharp blade. “You’ve used that knife plenty. Did your sweet Britt know when you tasted her flesh that you wanted to use your teeth?”

“You and Calen are the ones who make meals of your prey.”

“That’s what hunters do. Living off the sale of their skin doesn’t make you noble.” Helm reached out and plucked the knife away from Locke. “Does she know you tried to leave us because of her?”

“I’ve wanted to stop for a long time. She wasn’t the reason, but she was the deal breaker.” He’d found his humanity the night he met her.

Helm leaned back against the wall, his attention fully on Locke. “Give me an incentive to let her live longer than a day.”

Britt heard the swish of the blade, and before she could look away, Locke brought it down on his own hand. Blood dripped to the floor and crept toward the drain.

“That’s a start.” Helm smiled. “Doris? Leave us.”

The old woman shifted her position until she was in front of Britt. When she began shuffling sideways, Britt shadowed her. “I’ll step outside,” Doris said. “Strip the marrow from the bones.”

Britt lurched out the back door. She sucked in fresh air, averting her eyes from the bloody tarp on the grass. A jangling noise caught her attention.

Doris held out the keys to Locke’s truck.

Britt acted without thought, racing across the yard on her bare feet, hoping the slickness of the grass was dew and not something more menacing. When she reached the vehicle, she launched herself into the driver’s seat. Jamming the keys into the ignition, she started the engine and revved the gas. To get their attention. To stop Helm and the movement of the knife.

She prayed Locke would anticipate her intent. She shifted into Drive and crashed the truck through the window.

Headlights met glass.

Locke dove out of the way, while Helm stood frozen. The truck stopped moving. Locke pushed through debris, and Britt climbed out the passenger’s side. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her, running his uninjured hand over her skin to make sure she was safe.

“I’m fine.” She stood on her tiptoes among broken glass to kiss him back. “Your hand—” She took it gently in hers. His ring finger was almost severed.

A deep groan sounded in the far corner of the room. Helm, impaled by a thick shard of glass. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, tears from the corners of his eyes.

If Locke had any sympathy, he’d put Helm out of his misery. As things stood, he couldn’t find any to spare. He let Britt go. After picking his way through the wreckage, he took the switchblade from Helm’s hand, closed it and tossed it into the fire. He stared at the flames, watching the plastic handle as it began to melt.

Behind him, Britt trailed a curious finger through the blood on Helm’s chin. His last breath left him as she held it to her lips.

And licked.

* * * * *

The briars twined and climbed over the wooden frames to form an arch, giving the garden the feeling of a cathedral, hushed and golden and hung with roses. The thief walked so softly that the blades of grass barely bent underneath his feet.

Against the evening sky hung a single perfect rose. Its petals glowed, red so rich it seemed luxurious, conjuring up images of costly things like velvet and silk and blood.

The thief reached out to seize the rose, but something else seized him first.

The creature moved faster and quieter than a mortal man could. Its vast shadow fell on the thief only an instant before the creature itself did: he grasped the man’s shirt in his claws and lifted him toward the sky as easily as if he was a plucked flower.

The thief gasped, horror choking off his voice so it was little more than a rattle in his throat. Outlined against the evening sky was a vast horned and furred creature, terrible scimitar-shaped fangs glinting in the dying light.

“Dude,” said the Beast. “Who steals roses? That is so not cool.”

“And then what happened, Father?” asked Gabrielle, the oldest sister. “However did you escape?”

Beauty, the youngest sister, sat crouched by the hearth. She had been trying to be so good and sensible, asking for a flower, because she hadn’t wanted her father to spend money they didn’t have.

It had been wonderful since Father had lost all his money. Beauty, for all that people liked how she looked—hence the nickname—had been terrible at being a court lady. She could not dance or flirt with her fan or make idle conversation the way a lady should. It was sad for Gabrielle and Suzanne, who had been perfect ladies, but the small house that needed fixing up and the single elderly white horse that needed tending suited Beauty much better. Time had eased the memories of tripping over her elaborate skirts, saying something shocking and knowing her behavior injured her sisters’ chances of good marriages.

She had forgotten how it felt, to have made a terrible error which would hurt her family. She remembered now.

Her father had tried to steal a rose for her, and a beast had attacked him.

“I’m surprised he didn’t eat you,” said Suzanne, who was of a morbid turn of mind.

“Of course I could tell that was what was on its mind,” Father said sagely. “One look and it could not disguise. It had hungry eyes.”