Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Beatriz: Part Two

The forest felt different as Isabeau left the shack.

The smell of Beatriz's blood was still thick in the air, and it made everything feel heavy, oppressive, like the sky was a weight pressing down on Isabeau.

The shadows matched the black fury boiling inside her.

The moon was as sharp-edged as a sickle, sharp as her fangs.

She'd never been to the Galiano household, but Beatriz had talked about it so often, and Isabeau knew the lay of the land well enough that she found it easily.

It was a stone build, the roof punctuated by smoking chimneys, the smell of roasting meat drifting out, mingling with the whiff of horses from the attached stable. It was so much bigger than the farm that Beatriz shared with her family.

Had shared.

Isabeau clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms.

Somehow, she would have to let the Allende family know that Beatriz was never coming home.

She approached the Galiano house, listening carefully to the murmur of voices coming from inside, following them until she came to the back of the house, where laughter spilled from an open window. It was loud laughter, arrogant and grating, and it filled Isabeau with hate.

The back door was locked, but that didn't mean much to a vampire. She slammed her palm against the lock, breaking it, and then pushed the door open. The kitchen was the first room she walked into, a huge fire blazing in the hearth, heating copper pots that were tended by two young women in rough-spun dresses. They whirled to face Isabeau as she stalked in, and one of them opened a mouth to cry out, but Isabeau held a finger to her lips, her eyes bright red, and the maid fell silent.

"Run," Isabeau told them. "Do not tell anyone what you saw here, and do not come back. Tonight, this is a house of death."

The maids, wisely, fled.

Isabeau walked through the kitchen and down a dark corridor until she came to a large reception room, lit by a fire, and filled with young men. Beer was a sour reek on the air, but beneath it, Isabeau detected the tang of blood.

Beatriz's blood.

They had killed her, and now they were here, sharing drinks and laughing.

Hate was like a block of ice in Isabeau's stomach.

She walked into the room. "Which is you is Ulises Galiano?"

Silence.

Six young men gaped back at her, one of them dribbling beer down his shirt where he'd started to take a drink.

"Ulises Galiano," she repeated, moving further into the room.

One of the men, sitting in a chair nearest the fire, his legs sprawled wide on the floor, lifted his mug to toast her. "I'm Ulises," he said.

Isabeau studied him. He was young, probably only twenty, and handsome, with curling dark hair, a square jaw, and a full mouth. But that mouth was twisted in a smirk – one that said he knew exactly how good-looking he was, and he was more than happy to wield that to get exactly what he wanted. Even if he didn't have his looks, he still had the power that came being the son of a noble. He had the wealth and the rank and the breeding, and people like Beatriz only existed to serve him.

Ulises treated Isabeau to the same inspection, and his smirk grew wider. Apparently he liked what he saw. His friends were looking at her in the same way – it made Isabeau's skin crawl.

"What can I do for you?" he said.

"You can tell me why you murdered Beatriz Allende," Isabeau said.