The Beast's Ward

Chapter Eight: Blood Ties

The vase of roses from my dresser flew through the air. Christopher ducked and it crashed against the hallway wall behind him.

"You lied to me!" I hissed, picking up another vase.

Christopher held up his hands in defense, hoping I wouldn't throw the vase in my hand at his head. "Please, I can explain everything. Just…just put down the vase so we can talk."

"Why would I listen to a word you say? All you do is lie to me or give me half-truths, right?" I snarled. I threw the vase at him and it smashed onto the floor at his feet, narrowly missing his toes.

"Yes!" Christopher yelled. "I've lied to you, manipulated you, and kept secrets from you! I don't want to do that anymore! I don't!" He opened his arms up, giving me a clear shot at his chest. "I want to make this right, if you will only let me!"

I lowered my arms slowly, my whole body shuttering uncontrollably. I crumpled onto my floor in a pitiful heap. Tears poured down my face and I sniffled like a small child, unable to control it and the pain that was tearing into my heart. I had trusted him. I had thought that he was my friend, yet he had been lying to me this whole time, telling me only what he thought I wanted to hear. And now that I knew the truth, I'd be damned if I wasn't tempted to believe in him once more. Even if he had betrayed me, I cared too much for him to simply turn my back on him now.

Christopher knelt beside me and I felt his warm hand on my back. "Please, please forgive me. I will find a way to free you, whatever it takes."

"No more lies." I growled, wiping my face with the sleeve of my nightdress. "No more secrets. Promise me."

"I promise, no more lies, but there are still some things that I can never speak about." He said and I glowered unhappily at him. "Those things only surround the curse. Other than that, I will be as an open book to you."

He helped me to my feet and, holding my hand in one big paw-like hand, he led me out into the hallway. "First thing's first. Follow me and I will show you the third floor, the domain of all of the witch's secrets." We ascended the staircase hesitantly. He moved slowly, as if he had never been there himself while I trailed behind still trying not to cry. At the top of the staircase were two doors, opposite each other. One door was open. Through it, I could see a simple beast sized bed with a trunk for clothes at the foot. There was little else in the room besides a lonely vase of crimson roses on top of the trunk. The other door was closed to us. Christopher walked towards it and opened it, revealing a large room, filled with tall book cases and a strange sort of shrine of half melted red candles before an old silver mirror. We went inside and Christopher let me explore. The books in this library were different from any I had ever read. They were written in a foreign tongue, but judging by the illustrations and the few words I did recognize, they seemed to hold instructions for making poisons and potions. Some I feared were spell books. My chest ached at the prospect that Christopher could be more adept at magic than he let on. "Have you ever looked through these books? Perhaps the cure for your curse is in here somewhere. One you do not know about."

"I'm a simple gardener. Spells are far beyond my understanding. Only someone who has been taught in the mystic arts or someone who has a natural affinity for it could possibly even being to understand those spells. Besides, I doubt Rosalyn would be foolish enough to leave a possible cure here for me to find, whether I could understand the spell or not."

My attention left the book case and drifted to the painting that hung on the right side wall. It was obviously quite old, but whoever the artist was had done a marvelous job of rendering the people in the painting in a lifelike manner. Every detail had been included, right down to the slight wrinkles on the man's face and the graying hair at his temples. The man stared stoically back at me, looking extremely unhappy. By his side was his much younger looking wife. She was as beautiful as a sculpture of Aphrodite with pale gold curls and red lips that were stretched into a pleased expression. However, her eyes were a strangely dark black. The painter had neglected to include a reflection of light in her eyes, making them seem dead and spiritless. With the two adults were two young boys, around twelve years old. One boy with jet black hair that shone with a blue shimmer seemed to be a year or two older than the other. The raven haired boy smiled impishly out at me from the canvas, his sea blue eyes gleaming, looking like he might jump out at me and scare me just for the fun of it. The younger looked much too ordinary in this family portrait. He frowned at me, his thin lips pressed tightly together. Beneath the fringe of his shaggy brown hair peered a pair of sad eyes, the color of tree bark. I froze, staring at the younger child, unable to tear my eyes away from his. Something about the child was so familiar to me. "Christopher." I began my voice a soft croak. "Who are these people?" I asked, touching the dull boy's cheek with my fingertips, wishing that I could feel the real thing beneath my hand.