Page 38 of Wicked Court

I assure myself that a skulking, watchful form isn’t melting out of the fog before heading toward Gram’s home.

No, the boys use brute force in cornering me, making it clear what they want. They wouldn’t slink around the outskirts, waiting for me to make a mistake. Wilder chased me during a party, Cav cornered me in the parking lot, and Kaspian grabbed me at the fountain.

All in plain view.

The only one I’m unsure about is Axe, asocial and often appearing lost in thought, but who I’m convinced is eerily analytical. It’s the way he tracks with his eyes, his lips in a neutral line. You can learn a lot when everyone else does the talking.

The grandiose building looks more daunting and foreboding on a misty night like this. Steeples jut out like black talons, shadows dancing around me from the wind as I make my way up the stone steps.

Mom and Dad stayed at Farrow Manor, an estate willed to Mom through her parents who died before Maverick was born and where Mom stays now. Part of it was because Gram refused to move out of Wraithwood Manor, but compromised, saying my parents could live with her. I’m convinced Mom’s decision to move to Farrow Manor rather than live with her mother-in-law caused the bitterness in the air.

I enter through a side door with a key I keep on my school lanyard, the inside just as cold and musty as it was during our yearly visits. Old portraits of previous Wraithwoods hang on the walls, their eyes seeming to follow me as I flick on a single lamp near the staircase. I stop midway up the stairs at the portrait of my father, Darian Wraithwood, painted when he was in his early thirties. He sits in a red high-backed chair, almost throne-like, the background of what’s now Gram’s study giving it a traditional, serious vibe. The painting hangs in the middle of the double staircase’s mezzanine, just where Gram wanted it. A memorial to her dead, only son at the heart of the manor.

Maverick died before one could be painted of him.

I give a small-voiced, “Hi, Dad,” before my gaze slides away.

Even though I never knew him, it hurts too much to stare for long. It’s painful imagining what it would be like if he were here, helping me, helping Mom, get through our grief.

The place smells of old books, must and leather. Gram gets her home cleaned once a week, but in centuries-old houses like this, you can never get out that aged smell, no matter how much incense Gram lights.

Gripping my phone, I shake away the tragic memories of my family and resume my mission.

You’ve got this. Time to discover what makes this ruby so damned special.

Wraithwood Manor feels more like a museum than a home, each room a testament to the family’s long and storied past. I quickly check on Gram, ensuring she’s safe in bed and therefore willfully ignoring my calls rather than because something bad happened to her.

While Gram’s sound asleep, I start my search in the obvious places: the library, with its towering shelves of dusty tomes; the drawing room, where portraits of stern ancestors gaze down with silent judgment. But they yield nothing, no hint of a ruby necklace or the secrets it supposedly holds.

Not unless I want to pore over upwards of 1,000 books.

Part of me wants to hire the guys to help me, but that would mean working with them toward their unknown goal—and I can’t stand the unknown.

My stomach flips when I picture Kaspian in one corner with a sly glint in his roguish green eyes, silently ordering for me to press myself up against the bookcase so he can trap me.

Then Wilder storming in and hooking my arm, his whiskey stare on fire as he yanks me against his mouth.

I don’t know what Cav would do to me yet. Circle me until he sees the right time to bite, probably. And Axe … would he watch? Or would he step in and whisper what he wants to do to me in my ear?

“Omigod,” I say in a rush of breath and dart out of the library, away from that unexpected, unwanted fantasy.

What am I thinking, toying with those boys, even in my thoughts?

My frustration mounts as I wander through the dining hall, running my fingers over the cold, carved mahogany of the buffet, hoping for some hidden drawer, some overlooked clue. Nothing. The silence of the house presses in on me, a tangible reminder of the distance between the past and my understanding of it.

Dad passed away before I was an age where I cared about ancestors. Maverick might have known something, but whatever he found out, he took with him when he died.

In a place like Titan Falls, the founding families of the town are always intriguing, since the town itself was created through violence, blood, and fractured skulls.

I was 16 when Maverick died, and all I cared about was the right shade of blue to wear to my junior prom, afraid of what would clash with my hair.

If only I could go back to that girl and ask Maverick what I should have done to keep him safe, keep him inside.

Great, now I’m sounding like Mom.

I deliberately avoid the greenhouse, trudging up the grand staircase again to the bedrooms, methodically searching through the guest room. Gram leaves her jewelry boxes there, considering she has no guests and has turned it into another closet, but they contain nothing more unusual than strands of pearls and clip-on earrings from the 1920s to now.

My own room offers no secrets. It’s just as I left it, a stark contrast to the rest of the house with its modern conveniences and lack of history.

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