Beauty in the Beast

by Christine Danse

Overview

Journeying by steam-powered sled to London's Frost Fair to perform, Tara and three friends are trapped in a blizzard in the woods. A gruff, handsome stranger offers them shelter—and wants one thing in return. Stories.

The travellers are glad to oblige. Their host, Rolph, is especially captivated by Tara's story of an orphaned girl raised by the Fae in the world of the spirits. Equally intrigued by Rolph, and aware of an electric pull between them, Tara encourages him to share a story of his own. When Rolph weaves a tale of a man who is doomed by his own folly to turn into a wolf at the full moon, Tara suspects there is more than a grain of truth in his words.

When the veil between the mortal and spiritual worlds is parted, and danger threatens, will Tara make the ultimate sacrifice to save Rolph?

29,000 words

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781426893360
Publisher:	Carina Press
Publication date:	03/05/2012
Sold by:	HARLEQUIN
Format:	eBook
File size:	692 KB

Read an Excerpt

On good days, I hated my goggles. They pinched the tender skin around my eyes and squeezed my head till it ached. Only on nights like these did I appreciate them, when the air was so thick with snow I could hardly see my outstretched hands and I feared my eyes would freeze tight in their sockets without the shielding glass.

I huddled like a pigeon against Elizabeth as the sled jostled and shuddered beneath us. We had nothing but faith that it was truly moving, for we could see nothing of the landscape. The single gas lamp above us illuminated only an angry flurry of swirling white snow. For all we knew, we were sitting still in an embankment, and the movement we felt was no more than the wind buffeting us.

Without the guidance of the stars we also had to keep faith that we were heading west toward London. We did not dare stop because we feared that the stomper pulling us would freeze up, leaving us stranded here. Somewhere just ahead of us and out of our view, Miles—the unofficial leader of our small outfit—sat atop the stomper, staring avidly at the path to assure we didn't crash.

Bitter, bitter, bitter cold, I chanted in my mind, unable to imagine how my companions felt, less resistant to frigid weather than I. Beth and I rocked against each other, as if to assure each other we were both still conscious. Still alive. Frederick sat against Beth's other side, a large warm body but a poor replacement for her husband. I knew she worried for Miles, though admittedly his was the warmest seat of all—just beside the boiler that fed the stomper's steam engine belly.

Under the high, constant roar of the storm I occasionally heard a low sound that sent shivers dancing under my skin. Frederick singing, voice muffled by his scarf.

"Frederick." I leaned forward, humid breath warming my nose. "Frederick, hush. I hear something." I could barely make out my own strained voice over the roaring wind. I reached over Beth's lap and pushed against what I guessed was Fred's knee, padded by layers of clothing. He leaned forward to peer at me, and I placed a gloved finger to the scarf over my mouth.

Fred hadn't the energy to protest. He fell silent and I pricked my ears, sure I could sense something else out there in the night. My stomach tightened and I cast my gaze out over the rail of the sled, hugging my arms tighter around my middle. Often on harsh nights like these, I sensed dark presences. Like sharks circling a ship as they waited for it to sink, they circled just out of view. Sometimes they smelled of fallen leaves and bayed like dogs in distant howling voices. Other times they were little more than phantoms. Scentless, soundless...just waking dreams. They waited for me, but I was not theirs. Not yet. But if we could not find reprieve from the storm, I could do only one thing to try and save my friends, a thing that would take me into their waiting jaws. I wondered if they could read my thoughts, and anticipated me.

I tugged the scarf from my nose, and the cold stung my nares. But I could sense the thing now. It was a smell—a low, gritty tang that laced the air, too acrid to be the smell of rotting leaves.

"Smoke!" I cried hoarsely, the words instantly snatched away by the swirling wind. I leaned my mouth to Beth's ear. "Stay here!" I dropped from the sled to the ground below with Beth's shout of alarm chasing after me. I sank into snow up to my knees, and immediately the wet chill pierced my skin through the pant legs. I thanked all that was good and holy in the world that I'd had the foresight to don my only pair of men's trousers that morning instead of a skirt.