Page 41 of Wicked Court

I park at the base of a craggy outcropping marked on William’s map and step out of the car with the tentativeness of stepping into another world—one where every whisper of wind is a voice and every crackle of dry leaves is a footstep.

I’m here because of a faded map and a family legend that suddenly feels too real, too close.

My heart is a steady drum of excitement and fear, a rhythm I’ve tried to ignore since I left the safety of my car. The silence presses in as I follow a nearly invisible trail into the woods.

“Alright, Mr. William Jonquil. What were you doing for Sarah?”

I scan the area for any sign of what I’m supposed to find.

There.

Some kind of hole in the stone that grows larger the closer I get to it. By the time I’m at its mouth, the top of the opening is well above my head.

It gapes like a gateway to hell.

My shoes scuff against the dirt ground as I slowly back away.

I’m not curious enough to wander in.

After double-checking Jonquil’s journal, I confirm this is the spot. According to his notes, it used to be a mine.

Using my phone’s camera, I document the area; the flash outlining the surrounding brush and jagged stone like lightning.

I’m so lost in thought, tracing the path my great-however-many-times-grandfather might have walked, that I don’t hear anyone approach.

Not until it’s too late.

A hand on my shoulder, firm and unexpected, spins me around.

I choke on my breath, my heart becoming a sentient being who wants to rip open my chest and escape, as I come face to face with a man who seems to embody the very essence of the legends I’m chasing.

Black hair, sea-green eyes that pierce through the night, tall and imposing with a paleness that speaks of moonlight, not sunlight.

“You’re a long way from anywhere safe,” he says, his tone amused, yet somehow chilling.

I jerk away, not from fear, but from the shock of being surprised.

“Who are you?” I demand, more out of reflex than any real expectation of an honest answer. “Were you following me?”

He studies me for a moment, and I can tell he’s weighing his answer.

Then he releases a low chuckle, though there’s no humor in it. “I’m someone who knows the dangers of digging up the past. Especially a past as complex as Sarah Anderton’s.”

He doesn’t answer my second question and I sense it’s deliberate.

But his casual mention of Sarah makes me lurch. How does he know who I’m researching?

I’m about to voice my confusion when he continues, “You’re looking for answers about her, aren’t you? About her hidden ‘treasure’?”

The way he says “treasure,” like he’s mocking the very idea, piques my curiosity even more.

Despite the alarm bells ringing in my head, I press on. “Maybe I am. What’s it to you?”

He steps closer, and the moonlight catches in his eyes, giving them a predatory gleam. “Because, Elara Wraithwood, that ‘treasure’... let’s just say not all that glitters is gold. And Sarah’s legacy? It’s more curse than blessing. Many people have died trying to look for it.”

I’m taken aback by his use of my full name, a reminder of how little I know about him, and yet he seems familiar with me.

“You’re trying to scare me off,” I accuse.

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