Read The Beast for Free Online

correct, mademoiselle. God will surely strike you down as he did your mother.” He had turned just enough to see her face. “Knowing that, if the hellhounds do not kill you, it’ll be a sign that you are not a servant of God—but, in fact, a mistress of Satan.”
    Belle inhaled. Shock splayed across her face. It was almost inconceivable. In one swift statement, he’d implied that Liliane LeClair’s death was an act from God—a punishment for being a Hunter—and that Belle was possibly the Devil’s lover.
    Father Sinclair opened his mouth but seemed to choke on his words. He looked from the Bishop to Belle. She could see the sympathy in him, but he said nothing. No matter what sorrow he felt, it wasn’t enough to make him stand up to his better. His mouth closed and his shoulders sagged. Finally, he looked away from her.
    Belle’s heart beat grievously against her breastbone. Breathing became harder. Belle drew her shoulders back, pressing her lips into a thin line. The turbulence of emotions raged inside her and thundered for release. Painfully, she held them back, refusing to break in front of these men.
    With the ghost of a grin, the Bishop watched her. “Though, I am sure God will come through.”
    Unable to stand there any longer, unable to speak, Belle pushed through the office door. She rushed through the church, along row after row of pews. Raw emotion tumbled out of her in waves of gasping, shallow, breaths. If there were people around, she didn’t see them. She just wanted to get away from there—away from those awful words.
    Tears welled in Belle’s eyes, blurring her sight. Delicately made murals and sculptures became smears of color. The front entrance was open, washing the floors in natural light. Street noises breached the cathedral’s threshold. Belle stopped short of the entryway. She couldn’t go out there like this; heart racing, tears brimming over her eyelids and down her cheeks.
    Her breath caught and, quick to hide, Belle dashed behind one of the large pillars. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle her sobs, and leaned against the column for support. Her throat was tight with pain; pain from humiliation.
    How could the Bishop say something so terrible? To not just call her a whore, but to also insult her mother’s memory, was unthinkable. Belle was not unfamiliar with the meanness of others, but no one had ever spoken so cruelly to her. The vulgarity alone was appalling. Worse yet, Father Sinclair had done nothing.
    Not wanting anyone to see her so undone, Belle rested her head against the stone column and closed her eyes. One last tear slipped by. She took her hand from her mouth, placing it on her stomach to lend fortitude. With deep breaths, Belle summoned her composure.
    It struck her then, the oddness of her emotions. Belle killed for a living. She’d seen things—grotesque things. Belle had buried family and friends, stood alone in a dark woods while creatures stalked her, but little of it ever got to her the way the Bishop’s words had. Only words, but they’d cut deeper than claws.
    Swiping away the last obstinate teardrops, Belle opened her eyes. She pushed off from the pillar, letting her own feet support her. Needlessly, Belle smoothed her dress. She blinked several times, feeling strangely lighter.
    Holding her head high, Belle left the cathedral—vowing that the next time she saw the Bishop, she would be ready for his callousness. She might even dare to strike back.

 

    Henri slashed his sabre through the neck of a champagne bottle. Foam erupted forth, spilling onto the wood floor. The Hunters cheered from around the dinner table. Henri held it out until the foam receded, then handed it to Friar Clemens who started filling glasses.
    “Oh, I
like
that French tradition!” Jack pounded the table, making the dishware rattle with his enthusiasm.
    The Friar’s dinner for their early Noël party had been wonderful. Dishes of all sorts had been laid out. A variety of