Beloved Beast

Chapter Forty

A violent wind howled, and tree branches bowed as thick columns of rain ensued in vast torrents; flooding steep valleys, washing away loose forestry, and dampening the earth for days to come as enormous storm clouds drifted above, depicting a daunting view.

In just a short period of time, the intense deluge of rain had drastically slowed the raging fire, and in other areas, had extinguished the flames altogether.

By good fortune – or because a witch had summoned a downpour, the village and forest would mercifully be spared.

As relieving as that notion was, it did not quell the restless energy teeming Esme's veins. Indeed, she was beside herself with terror and worry as she dashed haphazardly through the small spaces bracketed by the trees, hissing in pain when her shoulder clipped the solid bark, and nearly losing her footing.

Fear and adrenaline overrode the exhaustion and cold weighing her sodden limbs. As she veered erratically through the storm, the rain pelting her skin like stinging barbs, she was heedless of potential danger as she at times trudged through ankle-deep mud, hurtled over slick grass, or stomped through large pools of murky rainwater.

The brutal weather and unforgiving landscape were fixed on discouraging her from her destination, but she plowed onward, determined to reach the village.

Bedraggled and sopping wet, seeing no further than a few slippery steps as the harsh rainfall battered her icy face, she was chilled to the bone for more reasons than one, and couldn't help but think with a regretful heart that her little sister was gone forever, and that filled her with tremendous despair.

Getting to the village was her only prerequisite.

Get to the village and warn the others. Get to the village. Warn the others.

That was the mantra that she recited religiously in her head, primarily to keep the panic at bay, fearing any moment that more of those horrendous beasts would resurface in the gray light, but they had also been Lord Rossetti's parting words to her just before he and the woman with the long, white hair – a de Ceville, she recalled with unmitigated shock and disbelief, set forth in the opposite direction.

I am your end, weakling. I am Seraphine de Ceville.

Esme couldn't believe it.

No one had seen or heard from a de Ceville in nigh on two decades. They had seemingly disappeared shortly after the south village was brutally massacred. Some believed them dead, others speculated that they went into seclusion once their mother, Vivian de Ceville was burned at the stake, a stark warning to any and all that dared to engage in magic.

Collectively, all of England had heaved a sigh of relief.

Although she personally had not experienced or remembered their seasons of terror – she had been too young, the sensible part of her found most of the stories relayed by the village elders to be exaggerated or a bit fabricated to be truthful, spun excessively merely for the awe and shock factor of its audiences. But like all the rest, she too leaned in close in a circle of eager children, listening with a keen ear as a neighbor described vivid renditions of the fearsome duo that engendered unthinkable chaos and tragedy, crippling the countryside with fear.

At one point in time, the sisters were revered, depicted as honest noblewomen, the 'talk of the ton' at court, so it was rumored, with unparalleled beauty fitted with lavish gowns, the finest of ribbons and lace, a score of devoted admirers, and sizable dowries that captured the eye of many gentlemen. They were considered like any other titled woman hoping to procure a respectable union with a lord of the manor.