The hunter's head canted to the side as the strange woman began to hum, memories ebbing into his consciousness like water dripping through the cracks in a dam. In the end, he could do nothing but answer her, the repeated chorus of the song spilling from his tongue in a low, gravelly croon.
“Alouette, gentille alouette… Alouette, je te plumerai… Lark, I will pluck you,” Gascoigne murmured, continuing the lullaby. For someone of such a beastly nature, he spoke with a surprisingly soft cadence. “I will pluck your head, your beak, your eyes, your neck…”
His voice trailed off, and the sudden grin that split his lips was ferocious— full to the brim with far too many teeth for an ordinary man, tearing messily out from his gums. Despite the general softening of his demeanor after his initial wariness, that fanged smile dashed all illusions about his gentility, only one word leaping to the forefront of Christine’s mind:
Beast.
Everything about him practically screamed the word. From his lofty height to the monstrous span of his shoulders, right down to the shaggy, matted silver of his hair, remnants of rusty crimson clinging to his scalp like a crown of grisly thorns, it was all much of the same. Beast, beast, beast.
She was all too aware of his gaze upon her now, considering her from head to foot. Something about her bearing seemed to satisfy him, for the tightness around his grinning mouth smoothed into something far more even-tempered, less deranged. An almost kindly air, as if colored with a fond remembrance of the past.
“There must be a mistake between us, Madame. My heart would be devoured more quickly by a true beast than by such gentle manners,” Gascoigne chuckled, voice lilting into something almost playful in his amusement. “Though, given your peculiar scent... ah, I might not have been misled after all…”
Seeming to breathe her in once more—lips parting just slightly to suck in a raspy draught, almost as if he were tasting the air—the man appeared to arrive at a decision. Lifting one hand, he bent just slightly at the waist to tip his hat to her. The wide brim cast much of his grizzled countenance in shadow, though a sliver of that frightening grin was still plainly visible, glinting with just the slightest hint of subdued savagery.
“Father Gascoigne,” he pronounced gruffly, straightening up once more. “And I must admit, you have a lovely manner of speaking… for a beast.”
There was a pause as Madame Christine scoffed, her chin lifting to meet his gaze. The woman made a subtle, yet graceful movement as she changed her stance, exuding feline grace in abundance. Even such a habitual repositioning of her frame seemed like the sinuous dance of a serpent, designed to draw the eye and lure prey into a senseless lull.
To Gascoigne’s credit, he was no mouse. The bloodless husk of her body excited exactly none of his senses, seeming almost like a specter right there in the midst of the bustling hallway. Even having caught a glimpse of the raven-dark hair settling over her shoulders and the lush, sanguine red of her lips, the hunter found himself curiously unmoved, yet utterly focused on what she had to say… and speak she did, that charming accent of hers growing sharp in her vexation.
“Père Gascoigne, you say?” the lady inquired, dark gaze focused unerringly upon the bandages hiding his own eyes from her beseeching look. “Then we are astonished together, it seems. In my experience, a churchman would not tease a woman in such a way.”
Toothy grin faltering somewhat, the beastly man regarded the woman with open curiosity, now. There was something else about her, Gascoigne thought— something much darker than what a simple killer’s instinct could detect. He could recognize a hunger in her, an appetite quite similar to his own, but that was not all. No, Christine reminded him of a warning he had been given long ago, a saying meant to ward him away from the intoxicating pull of the hunt…
Whoever battles monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster himself. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.
As if in answer, his own words echoed back at him, calling to him as if through a deep fog.
“Beasts all over the shop… you’ll be one of them, sooner or later…”
Abruptly, the woman’s dark gaze seemed to pierce Gascoigne at his heart, the wells of soulless black striking down to his very marrow. The hunter gave a rough shake of his head to dispel the foolish notion, the downturned corners of his mouth returning to that same wide, wolfish grin.
Another reminder came from on high, a tinny, crackling request to proceed to another area of the facility. As one, Gascoigne and Christine fell into step beside one another, a pair of predators making the slow, winding journey to the Barracks.
“You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m married, as well, then, if that will improve your perception of my character,” Gascoigne mused aloud. “My wife… a patient woman she is, to suffer my ghastly mockery of decorum.”
Christine glanced at him sharply. “Marriage? For a man of your standing?”
And heaven help him, but Gascoigne laughed. A harsh bark of a laugh, the sound quickly tapering off into a more polite-seeming chuckle, but his playful demeanor had yet to dissipate by the time he was done.
“Oh, but is it such a surprise?” the hunter asked at last, lips still twitching with good humor. “Though I can understand your confusion. My affiliation with the church was severed long ago. It came to light that my beliefs do not match those of blood-addled vicars, you see...”
Some time later and after much conversation, the pair stood at the entrance to the Barracks, though it seemed a commotion had taken place inside shortly before their arrival.
Upon entering, Gascoigne’s attention turned to the sight of a… blue-skinned woman, her arms encircling the small body of a crying child as she glared at a nearby closed door. A child who happened to have green skin.
The woman beside him stiffened upon clapping eyes on the pair, hackles rising.
It was such an uncharacteristic response, utterly impossible for Gascoigne to ignore. Looking at Christine, he was distinctly reminded of one late summer long ago, back when he had been a younger man and far too bold for his family’s liking by far. Exploring the wilds as many young folk are wont to do, he had cleared a grassy rise and stumbled upon the den of a mother wolf nursing her cubs— at least six of them, by his count, and a healthy litter at that.
Even more clearly, he could still recall when the she-wolf had turned her muzzle to regard him, her bright golden eyes flaring with a keen, visceral aggression, the ruff of fur around her neck standing sharply on end. The look in her eyes had made her message plain. These are mine, and I will die for what is mine. Tread wisely.
It was that very same look that seemed to have overtaken his lovely conversation partner. And like dozens of disparate puzzle pieces falling into place all at once, the scene became clear in Gascoigne’s mind.
As the small green child approached the much-despised door, the hunter turned a dubious look Christine’s way— prodding the beast, so to speak.
“A pup of yours, then? I hadn’t envisioned you as the motherly sort.”
Christine hissed through her teeth. The air around her experienced a sudden drop in temperature at the sound, Gascoigne’s breath fogging in a pale mist in front of his face.
“I’m not. Non… not by blood, but he is mine,” the woman said after a long moment, seeming to rein herself back in. Her gaze did not stray from the scene before her. “You will have to excuse me, monsieur. I have business to attend to.”
“Very well, beast,” Gascoigne hummed, more subdued than the good cheer he had shown her thus far. “May your hunt bring much blood… and be wary, should our paths cross again.”
