The Beast Within Read online

  Adapted in part from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast

  Cover illustration © 2014 by Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  Copyright © 2014 Disney Enterprises, Inc. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-9637-2

  www.disneybooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter I: The Witches in the Rose Garden

  Chapter II: The Refusal

  Chapter III: The Prince

  Chapter IV: The Withches' Little Sister

  Chapter V: The Portrait in the West Wing

  Chapter VI: Gaston's Grand Idea

  Chapter VII: The Princess and the Portrait

  Chapter VIII: The Wilting Flower

  Chapter IX: The Statue in the Observatory

  Chapter X: The Observer in the Observatory

  Chapter XI: Morning Tea

  Chapter XII: The Mystery of the Servants

  Chapter XIII: The Bounder

  Chapter XIV: The Descent

  Chapter XV: The Hunt

  Chapter XVI: The Sun Goes Down

  Chapter XVII: The Prince in Exile

  Chapter XVIII: The Odd Sisters' Spy

  Chapter XIX: The Wolves in the Woods

  Chapter XX: The Beauty in the Library

  Chapter XXI: Beauty and the Beast

  Chapter XXII: The Enchanted Mirror

  Chapter XXIII: The Witches' Plot

  Chapter XXIV: Belle's Betrayal

  Chapter XXV: The Witches' Party

  Chapter XXVI: The Enchantress

  Chapter XXVII: Happily Ever After

  About the Author

  Dedicated to my dearest love, Shane Case

  —Serena Valentino

  The Beast stood in his rose garden, the overwhelming scent of new blossoms making him slightly dizzy. His garden always seemed to have a life of its own, as if the twisting thorny vines could wrap themselves around his racing heart and put an end to his anxiety. There were times when he wished they would, but now his mind was filled with images of the beautiful young woman inside his castle: Belle, so brave and noble—willing to take her father’s place as a prisoner in the castle dungeon. What sort of woman would do that—give up her life so easily, sacrificing her freedom for her father’s? The Beast wondered if he was capable of such a sacrifice. He wondered if he was capable of love.

  He stood there looking at the view of his castle from the garden. He tried to recall how the castle had looked before the curse. It was different now—menacing, and alive. Even the spires of his castle seemed to consciously pierce the sky with a violent fervor. He could only imagine how the place looked from a distance. It was tall and imposing and perched on the top of the highest mountain in the kingdom, and it appeared as though it were cut from the very mountain itself, surrounded by a thick green forest filled with dangerous wild creatures.

  Only since he had been forced to spend his life hidden within its wretched walls and on its grounds had he done such things as take in his surroundings this way—actually see and, indeed, feel them. He now contemplated the moonlight casting sinister shadows on the statues that flanked the path leading from the castle to his garden—large winged creatures more frightening than anything from the ancient stories the tutors of his youth had made him study. He couldn’t recall these sculptures being there before the castle and its lands were enchanted. There had been many changes since the witches had brought their enchantments. The topiaries, for example, seemed to snarl at him as he prowled the labyrinth on evenings like this, attempting to take his mind off his troubles.

  He had long since gotten used to the statues’ watchful eyes glancing at him when he wasn’t looking at them directly—and their slight movements he caught only out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched, and had almost gotten used to it. Almost. And the grand entrance of his castle seemed to him like a gaping mouth prepared to devour him. He spent as much time outdoors as possible. The castle felt like a prison, and as large as it was, it confined him, choking the life out of him.

  Once, when he was still—dare he think it!—human, he spent much of his time out of doors, stalking wild beasts in his forests for sport. But when he himself turned into something to be hunted, he shut himself away in those first years, never leaving the West Wing, let alone the castle.

  Perhaps that was why he now detested being withindoors: he had once spent so much time locked away by his own fear.

  When the castle was first enchanted, he thought that his mind was playing tricks on him—that simply the idea of the curse had driven him mad. But he now knew everything that surrounded him was alive, and he was fearful any further misdeeds on his part would send it into a frenzy, and his enemies would make him suffer even more for the pain he had caused so many before he became a beast. The physical transformation was only part of the curse. There was much more, and it was far too frightening to think of.

  Right now he wanted to think of the only thing that could calm him even slightly. He wanted to think of her.

  Belle.

  He looked upon the lake to the right of the garden, the moon creating beautiful silver patterns on the rippling water. Apart from his thoughts of Belle, this was the only tranquility he had been afforded since the curse. He spent many hours here, careful not to catch sight of his own reflection, though sometimes he was tempted. He was fully aware of the revulsion it would bring.

  He had been almost obsessed with his reflection when the curse began to take hold, and he quite liked the little changes in his appearance at first, the deep lines he mused had made his young face more fearsome to his enemies. But now…now that the curse had overtaken him completely, he couldn’t stand the sight of himself. Every mirror in the castle had been broken or shut away in the West Wing. His terrible deeds were engraved on his face, and that sent a hollow, wretched feeling deep into his gut, sickening him.

  But enough of that.

  He had a beautiful woman within his walls. She was a willing captive, someone to talk to, and yet he couldn’t even bring himself to face her.

  Fear.

  It gripped him again. Would his fear now keep him outside, where once it had shut him in? Fear of going withindoors and facing the girl? She was a wise woman. Had she no idea his fate was in her hands?

  The statues watched, as they always did, when he heard the click of tiny boots on the stone path heading in his direction, disturbing his musings.…

  The odd sisters! Lucinda, Ruby, and Martha, an indistinguishable trio of witches with inky-black ringlets, a milky pallor with the texture of bleached driftwood, and red baby doll lips, were standing before him in his rose garden. Their faces were glowing in the moonlight like those of ghosts with mocking expressions. Their finery glittered like stardust in his dark garden while the plumage in their hair made their birdlike gestures all the more grotesque. There was a nervousness about them; they were seized by a constant series of little twitches and gestures, as if they were in continuous communication with
each other even when they weren’t speaking. They seemed to be taking measure of him. And he let them. He stood in silence, as he often did when they came to him, waiting for them to speak.

  They appeared whenever they pleased and always without warning. Never mind it was his castle, and his gardens. He had long before given up on insisting that they appear at his will. He soon discovered his own desires were of no consequence to them.

  Their laughs were shrill and seemed to mock the tiny glimmer of hope the witches detected within his dark and lonely heart. Lucinda was the first to speak, as was their custom. He couldn’t help being transfixed by her face when she spoke to him. She looked like an odd doll come to life, with her porcelain skin and ratty clothes, and her unfaltering monotone voice only made the scene more macabre.

  “So, you’ve captured yourself a pretty little thing at long last.”

  He didn’t bother asking how they knew Belle had come to his castle. He had his theories on how they always seemed to know everything about him, but didn’t care to share them with the sisters.

  “We’re surprised, Beast,” said Martha, her pale blue eyes watery and globelike.

  “Yes, surprised,” Ruby spat with an eerie wide grin animating her too red lips morbidly, like a dead creature brought to life by evil incantations.

  “We expected your condition to have progressed by now,” said Lucinda, her head cocked slightly to the right while she looked at him. “We dreamed of you running in the wood hunting smaller prey.”

  Ruby continued, “We dreamed of hunters tracking you down.”

  Martha laughed and said, “Hunting you like the beast you are and mounting your head on the Huntsmen’s Tavern wall.”

  “Why, you’re even wearing clothes, we see. Holding on to the last shred of your humanity, is it?” they said in unison.

  The Beast did nothing to betray his terror—terror not of the witches’ magic but of his own threatening nature, of which they were reminding him. They were holding a mirror up to the monster within, which was longing to escape. It was a beast that wanted to kill the witches and everything else in its path. He longed to see blood and bones, to taste their flesh. If he tore at their throats with his claws, he’d never have to listen to their shrill taunting voices again.

  Lucinda laughed.

  “Now that is what we expected of you, Beast.”

  And Martha said, “He will never capture Belle’s heart, Sister, no matter how desperate he is to break the curse.”

  “He’s too far gone now, I daresay.”

  “Perhaps if he showed her how he once looked, she may have pity on him,” Ruby said as a maddening cacophony of laughter filled the rose garden.

  “Pity him, yes, but love him? Never!”

  The Beast used to hurl insults back at all of them, but it seemed only to fuel their passion for cruelty, and he didn’t dare stir up his own anger and desire for violence, so he just stood stock still, waiting for their little torture session to end.

  Martha spoke again. “In case you’ve forgotten, here are the rules, Beast, laid out by all the sisters: You must love her and that love must be returned with true love’s kiss, before your twenty first birthday. She may use the mirror as you do, to see into the world beyond your kingdom, but she must never know the details of the curse or how it’s to be broken. You will notice she sees the castle and its enchantments differently than yourself. The most terrifying aspects of the curse are reserved for you.”

  The Beast stared blankly at the witches.

  Martha smiled creepily and continued, “This is your one advantage. The only thing in this castle or on its grounds that will frighten Belle is your visage.”

  Lucinda chimed in. “When was the last time you looked upon your reflection, Beast? Or saw to the rose?”

  There had been a time when the rose wasn’t out of his sight. Lately he tried to forget it. He had almost expected the sisters’ visit this evening would be to inform him that the last petal had fallen off its enchanted stem. But they were just here to mock him, as always, to tempt him into violence, and they’d love nothing more than to see his soul further besmirched.

  Lucinda’s cackling voice brought him out of his reverie. “It won’t be long now.…”

  Martha continued, “Not long at all, Beast.”

  “Soon the last petal will fall and you shall remain in this form with no chance of transformation to your former self.”

  “And on that day…”

  “We will dance!” they finished in unison.

  The Beast finally spoke. “And what of the others? Are they to remain as they are, doomed to enchantment as well?”

  Ruby’s eyes widened in wonder. “Concern? Is that what we detect? Isn’t that odd?”

  “Concern for himself.”

  “Yes, for himself, always himself, never others.”

  “Why would he concern himself with servants? He never gave them a second thought, unless it was to punish them.”

  “I think he’s afraid of what they might do to him if he doesn’t break the curse.”

  “I think you’re right, Sister.”

  “I am also interested in seeing what they’ll do.”

  “It shall be a gruesome spectacle indeed.”

  “And we shall take much pleasure in bearing witness to it.”

  “Don’t forget, Beast, true love, both given and received, before the last petal falls.”

  And with that the sisters turned on the heels of their tiny pointed boots and clicked their way out of the rose garden, the sound fading little by little until they vanished into a sudden mist and the Beast could no longer hear them at all.

  The Beast sighed and slumped down on the stone bench in the shadow of the winged creature statue hovering above him. Its shadow mingled with his own—his face and its wings—merging into what looked like a Shedu, the winged lion from ancient myth. It had been so long since he’d seen even his shadow that he hardly knew what he looked like, and this shadow stirred a great interest in him.

  With an infusion of light the shadow faded into nothingness. Remaining was a new stark white statue, wearing a passive expression. It was neither male nor female—not as far as he could surmise, anyway—and it was standing completely still with a small brass candelabrum in one hand, candles burning, while the other hand pointed toward the castle entrance. It was as if the stone figure was commanding him back to the castle, back into the gaping mouth.

  He feared if he returned, the castle would at long last devour him.

  He made his way back, leaving the silent statue and the sisters’ taunting words in the garden. The light from the candelabrum looked tiny now, like fireflies in the distance.

  The statue would make its way back to the castle in its own time, more than likely when the Beast was far enough away. They never moved or came to him while he was looking at them directly; they were always sneaking up on him while his attentions were elsewhere. It frightened him, really, to know they could come up to him at any time and do with him what they would, but that was yet another portion of the curse he had to contend with.

  He thought about what the sisters had said, and wondered how Belle saw the castle’s enchantments and how its cursed servants appeared to her.

  As he made his way through the foyer toward the dining room, he stopped to listen to the muted voices coming from Belle’s chamber but couldn’t quite make out what was being discussed. He was creeping down the hallway, hoping to get a peek at whom she was speaking to, when he heard a gentleman with a French accent inviting her to dine. She slammed her door and refused.

  “I won’t! I don’t want anything to do with him! He’s a monster!”

  Monster! His anger got the better of him. “If she won’t dine with me, then she won’t eat at all,” he growled, turning the corner and half expecting to see another of the living statues standin
g there to torment him, but the only evidence of anyone having been there at all was the small gold candelabrum he’d just seen in the rose garden, now extinguished, with a tiny ribbon of smoke curling up from the smoldering wick.

  “She thinks I’m a monster!” he fumed.

  He felt his anger mounting, raging out of control as he stormed his way to the West Wing. Monster! His claws gouged the wooden banister as he went up the long stairway, wishing it was flesh and blood, not splintering wood.

  Monster!

  There was very little light in this part of the castle. It was completely dark apart from the moonlight that came through the tattered red draperies of his bedroom. Leaning on the far wall were stacks of different shaped mirrors covered in white moth eaten cloths. Among the mirrors were portraits, some of which had been destroyed by his anger and frustration, the visages mocking him as the witches had, taunting him with his former likeness.

  Monster!

  He couldn’t light a fire in the staggeringly large fireplace or the torches on the wall brackets. His paws couldn’t master tiny things like matches, and the servants weren’t allowed into the West Wing. Not even the sisters came to this part of the castle. He had escaped their mockery for long stretches of time when he spent most of his days here in the beginning—hiding away, letting his anger swell to epic proportions, fearful of what he was becoming, yet intrigued concurrently.

  It had been that way at first, hadn’t it? Intriguing. The subtle differences in his features, the lines around his eyes that frightened his foes when he narrowed them. Using a look rather than words to strike fear into his enemies was very useful indeed.

  He had looked upon himself in the mirror in those days, trying to distinguish which sorts of deeds caused the most horrific alterations in his appearance. Knowing that this was a degenerative curse that wouldn’t abate.

  The sisters seemed to know of his compulsion and teased him about it, saying he would suffer the fate of their cousin’s second wife if he wasn’t careful. The sisters were always talking nonsense, always speaking in fragments, and suffered from fits of laughter so severe he hardly knew what they were on about most of the time. He was not sure even they were aware. Could it all be the rambling of maddened minds? Here he was—taunted by insane crones. He, who had once been a prince.