Spread and Howl

Published by Evernight Publishing ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2015 Lilith Duvalier

ISBN: 9781772333244

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Katelyn Uplinger

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To my boyfriend, who really wanted a book dedicated to him. You’re ridiculous, but I like that about you.

SPREAD AND HOWL

Lilith Duvalier

Copyright © 2015

Prelude

Copper and Blood

Copper coins collected in Marius’s hand like drops of blood pooling together. After the death and horror that the Beast had brought on Gardenne-sur-Seine in the last few months it was impossible to see the coins as anything else.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

Marius closed his fist before he could receive any more payment. Monsieur Bonfils hesitated, his hand still outstretched, another coin pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Marius stuck his hand and the coins into his trouser pocket with finality. The other man cleared his throat, gathered his cloak around him, and took a few heavy steps toward the door. With one more glance backward, Monsieur Bonfils lurched out onto the street.

Marius waited for the door to fall closed, then turned to the corner of his shop, and the neatly stacked slabs of stone that stood there. He was starting to run low. Soon, he would have to risk going down to the river to cut more, but for now there were too many other pressing tasks.

He lifted a few large stones out of the way. There were still a few small ones left toward the back. Monsieur Bonfil’s son and nephew had been young.

They wouldn’t need large gravestones.

Chapter One

Lips and Wine

The King is a drunken fool.

Guillaume didn’t say it out loud. No one would ever be stupid enough to say it out loud. Not in the throne room. Not within the palace walls. Not out on the grounds.

But, in a room full of people watching in complete silence as the King knocked over his third wine glass then missed when he attempted to swat the behind of the serving girl who bent to retrieve the goblet, the sentiment could almost be heard in the air.

The King is a drunken fool.

Even the peasant here in supplication seemed to be aware. He held his hat in his hands as he watched the production of the serving girl versus the King, versus the errant goblet. With every moment it went on the man seemed to droop further and further toward the floor, as though he were a melting candle.

It was, according to the laws of the land from time immemorial, the duty of the King to hear petitions from his subjects at the beginning of each year. Peasants had been lining up outside the palace gates for days, sleeping on mats they had carried with them and going without water and food so that they could bring an issue to the King for themselves, their family, or sometimes their entire village. Having heard the plea, the King would dispense justice, or sometimes aid. The King’s Mercy, it was called.

Being invited to watch these special courts was considered a great honor, one Guillaume had been thrilled to receive after he had first become the King’s Master of the Hunt. But now that he’d been in attendance at a few, and watched the King work his way through flagons of wine while pushing off the actual dispensation of justice and aid to his advisors and coin masters, the novelty had worn off.

The peasant who had been speaking before the King’s wine glass trouble started stood stock-still as the King was brought a new goblet, the serving girl got away, and a new cup was filled. He seemed utterly terrified of speaking out of turn.

As the King’s drink was dealt with, the flock of cupbearers flitted around the chairs of the other attendees, filling glasses quickly and silently. Guillaume held his glass out for an approaching young man. He was blond, good looking, and skinny with apple-red lips. Guillaume did his best to conceal a smile when the young man touched his fingertips to Guillaume’s shoulder ever so lightly, and spread his red lips wide while he poured. The touch was familiar, but inconspicuous.

But really quite forward when you knew what it meant.

What is your name? Guillaume asked him softly.

Jacques, if it pleases you, came the reply.

I think it could please me very much, Guillaume answered.

The young man dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment, then looked at Guillaume through his long, blond lashes before moving on to fill the next cup.

It was a short, simple interaction. But it was enough.

Guillaume had never fucked a pretty court lad before. It was easy to have a tryst with a fellow knight in the forest, and inexpensive to drop into a well-stocked and very discreet brothel at the outskirts of the city. Young men at court could be a gamble. Some were savvy enough to find a way to tell everyone that a knight was a cocksucker while somehow never implicating themselves of the same crime. Others were too stupid to be discreet. And Guillaume had heard rumors from other courts about squires and kitchen boys going mad with heartbreak and making life very difficult for the knight who had made the mistake of sharing his bed.

But Guillaume was bored with the rigidity of court life. He hadn’t tumbled with any man in a few months. He was bored of the whores down at the brothel. The risk made it all seem more exciting.

Jacques the Cupbearer gave Guillaume another sly grin with his promising lips before he slunk away, his pitcher of wine firmly in hand. With the single-mindedness of a hunter, Guillaume watched the progress of the cupbearer’s firm, round ass making its way around the tables of nobles that lined the throne room. Guillaume resolved to send for the man later.

So intent was he upon his prey that he did not notice the peasant beginning to speak again, or the King addressing Guillaume, first by title, then by name. The King’s royal, if slurred voice, finally broke through Guillaume’s preoccupation. He sprung to his feet and delivered a crisp, apologetic bow.

Forgive me, Your Majesty. I serve you in the open air and the cold of the forest. The heat of the fire momentarily dulled me.

The King attempted a disapproving glare, which came off as more of a squint, then waved his hand at the peasant impatiently.

The old man turned to Guillaume and delivered his much rehearsed speech again.

Master of the Hunt. The man paused and gave a deliberate bow. A terrible monster has beset our village. Howling fills the night, and bodies fill the churchyard. Already it has killed a score of us. Those who go to hunt the Beast do not return. What little of their bodies we find can barely fill graves. We cannot save ourselves, and beg the aid of the King. We are very poor, and can offer no payment but gratitude.

The peasant bowed again, first to Guillaume, then to the King.

We have decided we will accept the creature’s head as a prize, and have it hung in our trophy room, the King declared, barely finishing his sentence before gulping more wine. So go shoot the damn thing, Guillaume.

Chapter Two

Woods and Wind

The cold wind groped against Marius’s skin like a possessive lover. It wormed in through the buttonholes of his cloak and pushed down between his neck and his collar, sucking warmth from his body as he marched toward the church. His boots pounded onto the cobblestones like a heartbeat in the empty streets. The wind whipping dead leaves against the shuttered houses sounded like a gasp for breath.

The graveyard, however, was silent, as though the sounds of the town square could not survive in the thick pools of gray fog that wound around Marius’s feet like hungry cats as he made his way to his family’s plot.

Only months ago, before the days had grown short and the reign of the Beast had descended, Marius’s neighbors described him as a gregarious, jovial man. He’d laughed with the priest as he worked on the elaborate stone altar carvings for which he’d been commissioned. He used the strength he’d earned carting and chipping stone to help his neighbors carry burdens. He’d loved to carouse in the tavern.

But then the Beast had taken his mother, and Marius could not bring himself past her grave to work on the church altar. Weeks later his father had been killed by a stray bullet when a hunter in his party panicked and shot wildly, and now Marius could not bring himself out of his grief long enough to help his fellows.

Then the Beast had taken his lover, Dominic.

Now, Marius did not drink or sing. He was quiet while he made headstones. He was sober when he visited the graveyard. He was alone while he hunted the Beast.

His parents were buried near the gate, and Dominic on the other side of the graveyard, near a weeping willow. Every time Marius came here, he told himself he would cross the yard. Stand over that grave. Say a few words. Sit in silence and try to picture Dominic’s beautiful smile and dark eyes. The way it always took him two tries to button his shirt up straight, and the way the shirt would gape crookedly on his first try. But Marius hadn’t been able to bring himself to visit the bare grass that covered the body of his lover yet.

Dominic’s headstone was still in Marius’s workshop. Perfectly shaped, perfectly polished, but still blank. Every time Marius readied himself to carve the name and dates onto the stone, he froze up. Lately, his work was interrupted so often by new orders he hadn’t even attempted to finish it. The stone just sat on his worktable.

The longer he sat at his parents’ graves, the heavier the bayonet felt on Marius’s back, and it grew heavier with every step he took out of the churchyard, past the edges of the village, and out into the trees. As the leaves eclipsed the sky, the forest grew hushed. The birds did not chirp, and the wind did not blow. Marius’s fingertips itched, eager to take hold of his gun, be ready at the trigger, but Marius ignored them.

With every new death, the cries for the Beast’s head grew louder, but the whispers grew darker. People were starting to say