Page 48 of Cardinal House

I can’t stop the frown, but I don’t think it actually shows on my face, it’s just something I can feel deep inside, right beside the little black thread of Wolf. His darkness hollowing out its space inside of me even further, burrowing deeper. I want to stitch it there.

“I’m going to go and set the table,” she beams, pushing to her feet, her smile bright and white. “Do yo-”

“Okay,” I say quietly, cutting her off, holding her gaze like a stare in defiance until her smile drops away and she turns back towards the house.

I track her with my eyes as she goes, watching the dress drift around her, her huge, thick, curly ponytail swishing. My fingers curl over the poorly rabbit’s neck just as Haisley hops up the front steps to the house, her head coming over her shoulder to glance back at me as she pauses in the open doorway. I don’t smile at her, holding her eye, and when she disappears inside, I feel the crack vibrate up the length of my arm more than I hear it as I snap the sick bunny’s neck.

Chapter 22

Wolf

“And she was fine?” I ask Haisley for the fifth time since Thorne and I walked in the door less than twenty minutes ago.

Luna is still outside, sitting between tombstones and crumbling rock headstones. She saw the car pull in, but she’s still out there. She likes the fresh air, the open space, she doesn’t much enjoy staying inside this dark and dingy old house. Not that I blame her, it could do with a good clean and the windows need some serious help, they’re awash with a layer of grime from the heavy snow and rain of winter. Still, I think she just prefers to feel the air on her skin.

Haisley has her back to me, reaching up to grab a stack of plates for the dinner we brought home from a cabinet above the microwave. I watch her clasp four of them in freckled fingers, a big glistening rock on her left ring finger, a thin, gold band securing it. She places the china down on the counter and then turns to me, resting back against the work surface, her eyes flicking hesitantly to Thorne as he leaves the kitchen before coming to mine.

“She was fine,” she licks her lips, dragging my attention to the scar in her upper lip, it snags her sharp cupid’s bow up a little higher on one side.

“But?” I cross my arms over my chest, leaning back against the opposite worktop, circular wooden dining table between us, six chairs tucked beneath it.

Haisley chews her bottom lip, slipping on a cropped black cardigan as Thorne re-enters the kitchen, passing the knitted item over to her with an outstretched arm. She flicks the end of her ponytail out from beneath the fabric and then looks back at me. Sighing, her shoulders drop and she rubs the side of her fist across her forehead.

“I think I might have upset her,” she hedges, swallowing and tangling her fingers together in front of her.

“Upset her how?”

I feel it then, that dark, whispering, poison filling my arteries.

Obsession.

“I’m not really sure, I think- just because- I don’t know… Maybe, she just wanted you, and I’m a stranger, just like everything else in her life right now. She probably just felt uncomfortable with me,” she shrugs, frowning down at her feet.

Thorne curls his hand beneath her chin, fingers spanning over her slim throat, his body towering over her short frame. The way they look at each other, hold each other’s gaze, it’s this filthy, possessive, ownership. He owns her. She owns him. And they both love it.

“I’m going to get Lu-” I start, but I don’t finish.

Luna pads softly into the kitchen, footsteps light across the stone tiles, blood smeared over her upper thigh, a limp white rabbit in her hand, the length of it swinging beside her shin, its back legs clasped in the delicate hold of her long fingers.

She swings the dead animal with casual movements, and drops it onto the laid table. Then she reaches up, long black hair in twin braids that hug the shape of her skull like thick ropes, and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, blood staining her pale skin, she licks it from her lips without even blinking.

Haisley makes a strangled sort of sound in her throat, but Thorne and I make no sound at all, watching her pause at the edge of the table, place her fingertips to the pale wood, the tips bending back sharply as she leans her weight forward on them.

“I’m not hungry,” she announces quietly, her breaths slow and even, her attention on the rabbit.

Then, she turns, unhurried, and exits the wide archway opening of the kitchen. Her steps are slow as she turns down the hall, and I watch her leave for a moment, listening to the creaks and groans of the wood echoing back to us. And then I move.

She knows I’m there, following behind her, my footsteps not shy, my boots heavy as she floats through the shadows. She doesn’t turn towards our makeshift bedroom. And she still doesn’t look at me. I follow her silently through the darkened halls, stone walls, and ancient wood flooring until we reach the morgue.

Luna isn’t shy as she depresses the door handle, opening it wide and taking the three steps down. She doesn’t flick on the bright overhead light as she passes the switch, the room is empty now, the shattered coffin burnt to ashes in the furnace room, all that remains in here now is a trolley of clean instruments, and the fixed slab.

Not fully entering the room, I stand on the top step, watching her shadowed form sweep fingers across the side of the tiled slab in the centre of the room. She circles it, her fingers bumping over the little dips of grout between the tiles.

This is an original fixture, most tables like this are crafted of metal now. It’s more hygienic, easier to clean, but I haven’t the desire to change it. This one’s been here as long as the house. Buildings live and breathe too. It felt wrong to rip it out.

Luna pauses at the drain end of the table staring up at me, my hands in my pockets, the black slacks too tight across my hips with both curled fists in my pockets, but I don’t withdraw them. Her blue eyes set my skin on fire as she leisurely roves her gaze up from my black, laced boots to my crisp, white, collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, the top few buttons open revealing the tanned, olive skin of my chest.

“Did you put me here?” she asks me quietly, in the same way she always speaks, that soft, cracked, whisper.

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