The Beast

By Megan Derr

Alcor has it all: wealth, popularity, power. Whatever he wants, he has only to snap his fingers. He spends his days doped on dragonweed and enjoying the latest person seduced into his bed. He is cold, selfish, and cruel.

Then a dark faerie shows up at his birthday party, and a night of drugs and debauchery turns into a nightmare of fire and blood, killing everyone—except Alcor.

Instead of death, Alcor is left disfigured and cursed, unable to die, forced into a life of solitude, and his only hope for salvation is that someone can learn to love a beast...

Author's note: This story was originally released in Fairytales Slashed Volume 2. It has not changed significantly for this release.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Megan Derr
• Release date: Nov 19, 2019

Megan Derr

Megan is a long-time resident of queer romance and keeps herself busy reading and writing it. She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she’s not involved in writing, she likes to cook, harass her wife and cats, or watch movies. She loves to hear from readers and can be found all over the internet.meganderr.compatreon.com/meganderrmeganderr.blogspot.comfacebook.com/[e-mail]@meganaderr

Book preview

Alcor has it all: wealth, popularity, power. Whatever he wants, he has only to snap his fingers. He spends his days doped on dragonweed and enjoying the latest person seduced into his bed. He is cold, selfish, and cruel.

Then a dark faerie shows up at his birthday party, and a night of drugs and debauchery turns into a nightmare of fire and blood, killing everyone—except Alcor.

Instead of death, Alcor is left disfigured and cursed, unable to die, forced into a life of solitude, and his only hope for salvation is that someone can learn to love a beast…

Author's note: This story was originally released in Fairytales Slashed Volume 2. It has not changed significantly for this release.

The Beast

By Megan Derr

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

Edited by Samantha M. Derr

Cover designed by Megan Derr

This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

Second Edition November 2019

Copyright © 2019 by Megan Derr

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

Alcor loved the smells of a party, even if they would set his head to throbbing in a few more hours. Even when they did, he would continue to enjoy them until exhaustion finally snatched them all away and ended the revelry by force.

For now, he basked in the sweet-sour smoke of the dragonweed he'd bought earlier in the day, the way it made everything too sharp, too bright. Dragonweed brought faerie sight, the saying went, for it was the reclusive faeries who knew the meaning of true decadence.

Mingled with the dragonweed was the scent of wine and ale and spirits, the smell of rich food—and the smell of some of it burning as the laughing group by the fire tossed random bits into the flames to watch them burn.

He could also smell lust, musky and salty and sharper than even the dragonweed. He could smell it on the half-naked men collapsed on the long sofa with him, smell it on himself, smell it on the pretty little thing whose lips were wrapped around his cock.

Somewhere in the mess he could hear his father singing in his sloppy, drunken way, strong voice, for once, unsteady, the verses breaking off at random so he could recount the tale of his grand victory for the millionth time. The pungent scent of his black violet cologne mingled into the mess of scents, as well.

Alcor's own cologne was sweeter, softer, and by now mostly lost to the other scents in which he had drowned himself. He smiled in drugged contentment as a bit of dragonweed, crudely wrapped in cheap paper, was put to his lips. Pulling it in, unbothered by the bitter flavor of the smoke, he let it out slowly.

Knocking away the hand of the giver—one of several pretty men and women brought in to entertain and pleasure him—he pulled her into a slow, thorough kiss even as he thrust lazily into the mouth of the man between his legs.

He came with a shudder and pushed both the whores away with a sigh. Shoving off one of the drunken fools beside him, he took over most of the sofa and stretched out languorously, lacing up his pants again only as an afterthought.

The haze of smoke and myriad other scents made him sleepy, but the dragonweed kept him from falling asleep just yet.

But even drugged he could feel eyes upon him. Two sets of eyes, and it had not taken him long to find the sources.

He did not know either and did not care if they wanted to watch him—or join him, which would be amusing for at least a little while longer. The first one still sat where Alcor had first seen him, in a chair in the farthest corner of the room. He did not move overmuch, merely sat and sipped at some dark wine. He had long black hair, neatly tied, and his clothes were elegant and rich without being showy. Where everyone and everything else in the room seemed to move, he was still. Where all else was bright and gaudy, he was dull and somber. Handsome, but in the way a statue of a man might be handsome.

The other man was stranger still—pale gold hair, long and loose. He was slender and delicate and dressed in clothes that, while respectable, were old-fashioned and close to being described as tattered. Noble, from his bearing, but one long-fallen on hard times. He was quiet, but not in the same way as the first one. If the first stranger was a statue, this man had something of a lost kitten about him, fervently hoping to go unnoticed and find somewhere quiet to curl up.

He was drawn from his ponderings as something warm and soft and pliant crawled atop him. Laughing, Alcor permitted a kiss, then pushed the eager woman away, laughing harder as the man he had shoved off the sofa took immediate advantage of his sudden lapful of pretty.

Alcor returned his gaze to the table where the pale-haired man was sitting and saw he was now walking toward the corner where Alcor lazed. Up close, he was far more than pretty—Alcor might actually have described him as breathtaking, even if the hair was untidy and the clothes quite tattered indeed, and he was obviously awkward and shy and uncertain. An admirer, likely.

He sat up and invited the pale stranger to sit, but the man only shook his head. Around them, many of the others had noticed the odd man and were watching—some covertly, some blatantly—to see what Alcor would do with such an out of place stranger.

My lord, the stranger greeted, voice quiet but still somehow heard over the din. I came to wish you a happy birthday.

Alcor laughed. Indeed, why else would you come? Are you making yourself a present, pretty? That is a gift I would accept and enjoy, unless you are as tattered as those sad clothes you wear.

No, my lord, the man said quietly. I have brought gifts, however, if you would but accept them.

Alcor lifted one delicate brow, the pleasant buzz of the dragonweed fading beneath the peculiarities of the stranger. The only gifts I care for are great treasure or warm, eager flesh riding me hard. But let us see your gifts, then.

The man licked his lips and held out a small wooden box that Alcord had not noticed until that moment. It was made of some dark, reddish wood, carved with figures and shapes that he could not quite distinguish in the smoke-hazed light.

Wondering if perhaps there was some great joke at the end of all this, he took the box with an amused grin. He fumbled briefly with the catch, the gold gleaming brightly and somehow hard to grasp—or perhaps that was the dragonweed.

At last he managed a victory, however, and flipped it open. He had half-expected to find some perverse toy, something he could make full use of after stripping the stranger bare and spreading him over the arm of the sofa, something to tease and torment before finally giving the stranger his cock.

What he saw, however, he could make no sense of. Three objects, each more amusing than the last. The first was a dagger made of silver with a hilt of gold and sapphires. It almost seemed to glow, and he thought he saw markings in the blade itself, but when he looked more closely he saw only silver.

Loyalty, the stranger said quietly.

Alcor laughed and cast the dagger aside, then picked up the next object—a small crystal bottle with a delicate stopper, filled with some clear liquid. He could not tell if it was the contents or the crystal which sparkled.

Protection, the stranger said.

Oh, yes, Alcor said with another laugh, perfume to protect me. These are not treasures. He threw the crystal bottle over his shoulder and picked up the last object in the box. A single rose of a deep, rich red. The color was beautiful, to be sure, but a rose was a rose. Alcor yawned.

Love, the man said. I would give you all three, if you would accept them, instead of— He motioned to the room, the occupants, and the gaudy displays of wealth and decadence.

Alcor let the rose fall to the floor. I can find trinkets anywhere, pretty, but thank you anyway.

The man frowned. I know they seem but humble trifles, and my timing is poor—but they are more than they seem, and they are offered with love.

Alcor laughed again and reached out to snag the man, draw him down and close. He smelled like honeysuckle, though Alcor was surprised he could smell it at all. Love, pretty? Love is for fools and fairytales. Do I look like a simpleton to you? If you are not going to offer me pleasure, then I have no need of you. Take yourself off and give your love to someone foolish enough to take that bait. You are pretty, but not that pretty.

Then he let the man go, roughly enough that he stumbled and fell down awkwardly on his ass. Around Alcor everyone roared with laughter, calling out their own jibes and taunts before slowly returning to their smoking and drinking and fucking.

When Alcor looked up again, the pale-haired stranger was gone. The wooden box still lay on his lap, and Alcor tossed it aside in favor of drawing up the eager little thing he had rejected before, shoving the girl's face to his crotch and making it clear what she was meant to do with that delicate, pink mouth.

Before anything could come of it, however, the boy was shoved aside, and Alcor was yanked roughly to his feet. He bellowed in outrage, but stopped short as he met cold, violet eyes. The dark-haired man. W-who are you?

The dark-haired man said nothing, merely tightened his grip on Alcor's hair and dragged him away from the sofa and across the room to where Alcor's father had bent a dark-haired boy over a table and was fucking him enthusiastically.

His father stopped when he saw Alcor and the dark-haired man. Alcor tried to speak, but the man twisted his fist, pulling hard at Alcor's hair, making him cry out—and then he felt the cold, sharp point of a dagger at his throat.

Alcor's father pulled out of the boy and cast him roughly aside, absently refastening his pants. What is the meaning of this?

A life for a life, the dark-haired man said and drew the dagger lightly across Alcor's throat, drawing a thin thread of blood. It trickled hot and sticky down Alcor's throat, though he felt completely cold and entirely too sober. You took my family and my friends—now I will take yours.

You— His father made a choked, garbled sound, his lunge across the table turning into a clumsy, awkward slump. Who—

Alcor could practically feel the dark-haired man grin and swore as the knife at his throat cut a little deeper. Next time, make certain we are all dead.

Filthy dark fae, his father gasped out, but the anger in it sounded somehow weak and pathetic, as if his strength was being leached away.

Indeed, the dark-haired man said coolly. You were warned to leave us in peace. Your wife and daughter have already suffered. They died slowly, and their screams… The smile was back in his voice. Were quite sweet.

Bastard! his father gasped out, obviously struggling to move against some force keeping him in place.

No, the dark-haired faerie said. I am, or was, a true prince. Now I will make you and yours pay for your selfish, greedy ways. Did you enjoy the castle you stole from me? I hope you did, because that will it make all the sweeter when you burn with it.

Only then did Alcor realize the smoke he was smelling was entirely too strong; only then did he realize the haze in the room was not right for dragonweed. He could see in his father's face that he had only just realized too.

Then the screaming began.

The world turned into a hideous nightmare as smoke turned into flame and the smell of burning food became the stench of burning flesh, the bitter scent of dragonweed replaced by the metallic bite of blood. Screaming and shouting and sobbing filled the air as people panicked, as they tried to escape and found they could not. One by one they fell victim to the fire that quickly consumed the room. Alcor tried to close his eyes, but could not—he could do nothing but stand and watch as everyone in the room was burned alive.

When he started screaming, he did not know, but he screamed until his voice no longer worked, until smoke and ash seared his throat, ruined it. Smoke burned his eyes, and he could feel the fire and yet not feel it, not quite.

Eventually, it seemed only he, his father, and the faerie remained alive. Then his father started burning, and Alcor found he could still scream. When nothing remained of his father, Alcor felt cold steel at his throat and then he mercifully felt nothing more.

Part One

Chapter One