Untamed: A Beautiful Nightmare Story Read online

  Untamed: A Beautiful Nightmare Story

  Copyright © 2021 by L.C. Son

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This short story and all parts of the Beautiful Nightmare Universe and its collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  www.LCSonBooks.com

  Print ISBN: 978-1-7336503-6-6

  Dedication

  To every woman who wondered whether she was worth it. You are. Don’t let those who aren’t willing to unearth your treasure make you discount the rare wonderfulness of you.

  Dream Well,

  L.C. Son

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty- Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty- Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty- Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Want more…

  About L.C. Son…

  More from L.C. Son…

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  For twenty years I waited. Hoped. Sometimes, I even prayed. To whom, I am not quite assured. Still, I remained hopeful someone would rescue us from this torment. This hell. Even at the tender age of seven, I knew the moment Dalcour Marchand rescued my family and I from fire and our impending doom, the tragedy that had become our life was yet to be determined.

  I suppose I have always known the truth.

  And that truth is simply knowing the joy which once held my family’s state ended the day my father took his final breath. Nothing has truly been the same since that day.

  Always a feeble and weak-minded woman, my mother slumped into such a depression at his passing of which she never truly recovered. Thankfully, we had my eldest sister Calida to serve as our matriarch.

  But we have her no more.

  Her zealous passions for the sciences and affections toward darkened skin men were her demise. With charges of witchcraft for alliances to both Decaux and studies of Galileo, her doom was assuredly absolute.

  Watching my sister burn at the stake for a crime only alleged by fearful and impotent men, kindled a fire in me that will never extinguish.

  Day by day that fire strengthens.

  As my lingering hope for Dalcour’s pledge to return to us lessened, the inferno, which was once my heart, grew ablaze. With my mother’s sunken state, her only recourse led her to make a brothel our new home. Landing the eye of a local banker, my second eldest sister, Victoria, took off within months after we escaped here from the Great Fire in 1788.

  Although young, I knew I had to do whatever I must to now be the caretaker of me and my youngest sister. And I have. Since my sixteenth birthday it became the expectation of my mother and her lover, Monroe, that I would oblige to the house rules. In fact, I have obliged the house rules with my eyes closed, and mouth gagged for more times than I can count. So as to ensure my little sister, Chalmette, never needed to serve up anything more than bourbon at the bar, I alone endured the nightly stench of sweaty, beastly, disgusting men if only to ensure she had a place to rest her head.

  That is why I do what I do now.

  I know with all confidence I will never allow my fate to become that of either Calida or my halfhearted mother. I also know I will never forsake my family like my wretched sister Victoria. It is clear I cannot rely on the salvation of men; supernatural or otherwise. Yet, I am required to still play their game. I must do more than match their parry. I will subdue them.

  It is with such certainty I also know the allegiance I now form is one made from the pit from which all darkness is derived. But I see no other way. I refuse to be either captive or pawn. And it is with this surety I declare I will come on the other end of this darkness both unscathed and untamed.

  Chapter One

  1808

  Natchitoches, Louisiana

  “We’ve got forty bottles of madeira, twenty jugs of rum, and only twelve of port,” I shout over my shoulder to Monroe.

  “Only twelve?” Monroe yells back from the corner table. He barely looks at me as DeLuca and I work to steady the trough before it falls and spills the meager supply.

  “Yes, I’m afraid this is all Ripley could spare without—Ow!” DeLuca squeals as I jar the heel of my boot into his foot.

  “We’ll get it to the middle closet, Monroe!” I force my words out before Monroe has a chance to make out DeLuca’s garble. Sure, Monroe knows he owes Ripley more than he can afford to pay, but it will not help matters hearing it from DeLuca. Even if he is right.

  Besides, Monroe hates being teased. He fancies himself a man of society, of which he is not. He is nothing but the keeper of a spirit tavern and brothel. While he hopes to hook the attentions of potentate gentlemen who are looking for a spirited drink and untethered coitus, nothing will come of his depraved ambitions. Between his day drinking and gambling, it is no wonder he is unable to remain afloat.

  “Goodness, Red! You didn’t have to stake my toe to the ground!” DeLuca whines, lifting his foot to his knee, posting himself to the doorframe. “I still have four other deliveries to make before nightfall or Ripley will have my hide!”

  “Oh shut up, DeLuca!” I reply with a shove into his shoulder before pulling the bottles out of the trough to place on the shelves.

  “Some friend you are, Red! Let’s see how you’d fancy towing the wagon to Borden’s and LaSalle’s with your foot throbbing in a thistle!”

  “Well, I’m certain I’d tough it out, unlike you my little Romani friend,” I answer with a chuckle and a light peck on DeLuca’s forehead. His big brown eyes stare back at me with a kindness I’ve only ever found in him since this life took me hostage. Still, I cannot resist squeezing his olive-skinned cheeks, puckering his rose-colored lips between my palms. “Now stop your bleating blabber or I’ll have to ask Chalmette to tend to your wounds. At least she’s no baby!”

  “All right, all right. Enough!” DeLuca grumbles, snatching two jars of rum from me. He places the remaining bottles from the trough onto the shelves as I mark the inventory, hopeful I can give Monroe an account of our holdings before we open thi
s evening.

  “So, speaking of Chalmette,” DeLuca quietly begins, leaning over my shoulder. A shooting ache pains through me as he says her name and for fear, I turn away from him, recounting the shelves. I have no desire for this conversation to go any further.

  “Please, DeLuca, do not even speak your next words!” I wistfully snap, peering over his broad shoulders and into the barroom. Thankfully, I only see Monroe, still checking his receipts, frustratingly trying to make heads and tails of his earnings.

  DeLuca steps in front of me, regaining my attention. “Look, Red, I know you don’t want to discuss it, but you must, at least with me. I am now and have always been your friend. Have I not?” He adds with a soft smile that folds into his square jawline. The sincerity I see in his gaze, entreats me to soften the tension I feel in my throat as I exhale.

  “Of course, you are my friend, DeLuca. But I am doing all I can to spare her my lot.”

  “I know you are. You are an adoring sister. Chalmette could ask for no better.”

  “She deserves much better.”

  “Well, you are certainly a fairer prize than Victoria. At least you did not run off and leave the girl to the dealings of Monroe, your mother or worse.”

  “Well, I fear worse has come for my dear sister. Her menses ended yesterday.”

  “Does Monroe or your mother know?” DeLuca asks, his eyes widened with the same fear I am certain reflects in my own.

  “No, well—not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “I’ve kept her in my room locked up. Monroe will normally grant seven full days and one for cleansing. Her days are far shorter, but they needn’t know. I sincerely hoped Victoria would hold true to her promise and find Chalmette work in town. At least then she’d be assured room and board far from this dreadful place.”

  “And you’ve not heard from her?”

  “No. I even went into town yesterday looking for her, but her husband said she was out.”

  “I am sorry, dear one. I know you do not wish for this to be her young life’s end, but do you think, perhaps, you should prepare her? You know—for what is to come. To be with a man?”

  “How could you even suggest such a thing?” I bite back, as a gnawing sting in my gut grows.

  “Because you are her sister, and you love her more than anyone. If she should hear it from your mother—or worse—Monroe, who knows what her fate will be. At least from you—”

  “From me, what? If I cannot keep her from the vehemence seeking to violate her virginity, what more can I do, DeLuca!” I contend, circling the trough in fear.

  “Calm yourself,” DeLuca begins, looking over my shoulder, placing his hands in mine. “You know more than anyone, the tricks of the trade. Do you not?” Squeezing my palms, DeLuca’s sincere gaze seeps into mine and I know he’s doing all he can to comfort me as he always has done.

  Batting my eyes, I force my forming tears to the deep pockets of my eyelids and swallow the hard knot in my throat. I nod in understanding to DeLuca’s questioning, and he smiles, loosening his grip. “Yes,” I whisper in reply.

  “Well, then you teach her all you can before your mother and her wretched beloved can get their vices on her. Teach her the things you told me in secret. The places you sent your mind. The songs you recanted. The lasting endearing memories of Calida and your father.”

  “But she has no such memories, DeLuca. She was only a baby when we took this place to be our home. What sweet songs does she have except the canter and strumming of barstools and prickling?”

  “Then give her something! Anything! If anyone can teach her to turn her mind away from the slobbering drunkard atop her—you can and you must, my dear one,” DeLuca answers, gently squeezes my wrist and strums my chin quickly, before pushing the empty cart out of the closet, leaving me alone.

  The thought of any scallywag nightcrawler resting his palms upon my sister is repugnant to me. Sickening. But I know DeLuca is right. She is eighteen. Monroe will not keep his front foot from her for long.

  I must do what I can to both prepare and protect her.

  “Chartreuse!” I hear Corrine, one of the oldest house girls call to me from the hallway.

  Pushing aside the tears that once again threaten their release, I rush out of the closet to see what is causing her angst.

  “What is it, Corrine?” I shout back when I see her standing frozen at the bottom of the staircase.

  Pointing up from her chin, she shakes her head and blows her blond tendrils from her face. “I’m sorry, darling. But you know you couldn’t keep him from her for long. It’s probably better this way. No need of giving her fantasies that will never come to be,” Corinne says, tapping my shoulder softly before walking back toward the bar.

  My heart beats like racing bulls in my chest as I race up the steps at her words. Glassy, tearful pools swathe my vision as I nearly knock several of the house girls to the ground as I storm down the hall to Chalmette’s room.

  Reaching her door, I am not surprised to find my mother blocking my entrance.

  “Move out of my way!” I demand, staring up at the hardlines now squaring my mother’s otherwise youthful face. Her sea blue eyes are always more pronounced in her anger and with the way her burnt ginger-laced curls frame her face, her glare is almost haunting.

  But I am not afraid.

  “Back away, Chartreuse! Haven’t you done enough to worsen matters?”

  “Me?” I say astounded, wondering what new blame she chooses to lay at my feet today. I try to push past her brooding frame, but she side steps me, placing her long arms across the threshold, preventing me further.

  “Yes, you! It is always you, is it not? Not only did you choose to deceive us, knowing full well Chalmette’s menses ended days ago, but now Monroe tells me your knicker-knocking with that Sincade DeLuca boy has given Ripley cause to cut the bar supply in half! How do you expect us to earn a living with you carrying around as you do?”

  Once again, Monroe has lied on me to spare himself and once more has my mother believed his lies. From the first day he climbed upon me, holding me at my neck to claim my innocence, only to tell my mother that it was I who seduced him, has she believed his folly. Now, because of his gambling, day drinking, and other manner of frivolity does he seek to blame me for his shortcomings.

  And now she stands idly knowing her lover’s intent to maim yet another daughter’s preciousness.

  I will not let Chalmette’s fate be that of my own. Not now or ever!

  “Whatever new lies you choose to believe of your beloved are your transgressions, not mine Mother! If I can even call you that! You are no mother! You are nothing more than a—”

  “How dare you girl!” Mother responds, striking a hard blow to my cheek. “You will not speak to me that way. Nor will I allow you to speak ill of Monroe in my presence. If it were not for Monroe, we’d be street peddlers. He is the one who took me in, when I was alone with you girls and pregnant. He’s never asked for anything. Only that we all pull our fair share.”

  “Really, our fair share? Is that what we’re calling it now? Father would never—”

  “Your father is dead.”

  Those four words sting more than the ache of her hand to my face. While I may have been young at my father’s passing, I shall never forget the kindness, generosity, and endearment of his manner. I doubt whether in this world or the next, there shall ever be his equal. Ever.

  “Please, Monroe, no! You mustn’t do this!” I hear Chalmette cry from the other side of the door.

  Mother’s nose twitches at the whimper of Chalmette’s voice and her posture softens enough for me to push past her, busting the door open.

  Chalmette is nestled against the bedframe, grasping her blanket at her chin. Her crestfallen face is flushed with red, and her eyes swollen with tears. Monroe is in nothing but a loose shirt with his trousers buckling at his knees.

  Racing to Chalmette’s side, I thrust
her into my embrace, as she sobs inconsolably. “I’ve got you little sister. I am here.”

  “This is no place for you girl! Get out of here!” Monroe shouts as he works to pull his clothing back to his waist, staggering as he does. I see his day drinking knows no bounds. He is such a slobbering mess. Looking at him I still don’t know what redeemable qualities Mother ever found in him. From his grease-laden, balding, coal black hair to his sunken eyes and rickety, missing teeth, he is revolting.

  There may have been no one to fight for me when he “broke me in,” as he called it, but there is someone to fight for Chalmette.

  Me.

  “Monroe is right, Chartreuse! This is not your place!” Mother contends as she tries to help Monroe with his fasteners, but he grumbles, refusing her aid.

  “Oh I know my place, Mother and it is right here. Between my sister and that foul fool at your side!” I shout. Gasps erupt from the hallway and I am sure the other girls and attendants can hear our every word. Most wouldn’t dare speak ill of Monroe. Somehow, he’s cast the same spell over them as he has over my mother. A few of the housemates have contested he is better than most men of his stead. Whatever kind regard they have for him bears no weight to me. He is and forever will be a monster to me.

  “Girl,” Monroe yells back, “step aside. Little Mette must learn the way of things. It is time she contributes to the house. I’ll not have freeloaders under my roof!” He falters, stumbling over the floor pillows as he tries to make his way to us.

  “Look at you! You loathsome loaf! How pray tell did you expect to rise to the occasion? You’re so full of Ripley’s rum punch you can barely walk!” I sneer. He is almost laughable, but I rein in my need to taunt him further.

  “Catherine, get your girl! I’ll not have her mouthing to me!” Monroe yaps his words over his shoulder to my mother. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn I spied her posture shift, repulsed by his actions. But that would be all too motherly of her and she is not so.

  “Chalmette does contribute to the house!” I quickly interject as my mother’s mouth parts to speak. Raising her brow, Mother tips her head to the side, curious of my intent. “She sings,” I say as though I were inspired. “Monroe, Mother, you both know she brought in much money singing last month. The bar was full every night during Mardi gras when she headlined the set. Why not let her continue singing? There are surely enough girls in the house. Chalmette needn’t add to the number when she can attract many more with her melody.”