Page 1 of Christmas with a Cursed Werewolf

The Castle Calls

BRIAR

"Iguess this is Frostpire Keep."

The wind whips snow against my face as I step out of the taxi, my boots crunching on fresh powder. Frostspire Keep looms before me, its stone towers piercing a steel-gray sky. My heart pounds as I take in the massive structure. It's both beautiful and forbidding, like something out of a gothic novel.

The taxi pulls away too quickly, leaving me alone in the swirling snow. I pull my phone out one more time, trying to find the email that brought me here. But just like the last dozen times I've checked, it's gone. Completely vanished, as if it never existed. The screen flickers once, then goes black.

"Perfect timing," I mutter, shoving the useless device into my coat pocket.

The castle's entrance beckons—an enormous wooden door with iron fixtures that have turned green with age. Intricate carvings cover its surface, wolves and ancient symbols that seem to dance in the fading light. Before I can reach for the handle, it swings open silently.

A tall, thin man in an impeccable butler's uniform stands in the doorway. His silver hair and faded blue eyes give him anotherworldly appearance in the dim light. He stands perfectly still, as if he's been waiting there for hours.

"Miss Everly, I presume?" His voice is crisp, formal, with a slight British accent. "I am Alistair Wren, the butler of Frostspire Keep."

"Yes, that's me." I try to sound confident, professional, despite the way my heart is racing. "I received an email about doing some historical research here?"

Something flickers across Alistair's face—concern? Confusion? But it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. His pale eyes study me with an intensity that makes me want to fidget.

"Ah yes, your... invitation." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Though I must admit, we weren't entirely expecting you. Not today, at least."

My stomach drops. "But the email specifically requested—" I reach for my phone again, remembering too late that it's dead. "I can explain?—"

"Please, come in out of the cold." He steps aside, gesturing me through the doorway. "We can discuss the details inside. The weather is turning quite fierce."

As if to emphasize his point, a gust of wind howls through the courtyard, driving snow against my back. I hurry inside, and Alistair closes the massive door behind me with surprising ease.

The entrance hall is vast, with a sweeping staircase and crystal chandeliers that must have once been magnificent. Now they're draped in cobwebs, casting weak light over faded holiday decorations that only emphasize the castle's air of neglect. The marble floor stretches out before me, its pattern reminiscent of waves frozen in stone.

A woman hurries toward us, her practical dress and warm expression a stark contrast to Alistair's formality. Her chestnuthair is streaked with silver, and worry lines crease the corners of her eyes.

"Welcome! I'm Giselle Hargrave, the head of household." She smiles, but there's anxiety beneath her warmth. "We weren't sure when to expect you."

"Or if to expect you at all," Alistair adds quietly, exchanging a meaningful look with Giselle.

Before I can respond, rapid footsteps echo across the marble floor. A young boy races past, his laughter bouncing off the high ceiling. His brown hair is disheveled, and his clothes look slightly too big for his slight frame.

"Nolan!" Giselle calls after him. "No running in the halls!"

The boy skids to a stop, turning back with a grin that falters when he sees me. His eyes go wide, and he darts away down a corridor, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind.

"My apologies," Giselle says, smoothing her dress. "My son can be... excitable."

"It's fine." I force a smile, trying to ignore how the temperature seems to have dropped several degrees. "About my invitation?—"

"Perhaps we should get you settled first," Alistair interrupts smoothly. "The weather is turning, and it would be best if you were comfortable before we discuss... arrangements."

I want to protest, to demand answers about the mysterious email that led me here. But exhaustion from the long journey is setting in, and the castle's chill has worked its way into my bones.

"This way, please." Alistair leads me up the grand staircase, our footsteps echoing in the empty space. Each step feels like entering deeper into a mystery I'm not sure I'm ready to solve.

The corridor he takes me down is lined with portraits, their eyes seeming to follow our movement. Dusty holiday garlands hang limply between them, as if someone made a halfheartedattempt at cheer and gave up. The faces in the paintings share similar features—strong jawlines, intense eyes, an air of barely contained power.

"The West Wing is strictly forbidden," Alistair says suddenly, gesturing to a darkened corridor we pass. "Mr. Wolfe's private quarters are there, and he values his privacy above all else."

My room, when we reach it, is surprisingly warm and welcoming. A fire crackles in the hearth, and the four-poster bed looks inviting after hours of travel. Rich tapestries adorn the walls, depicting scenes of wolves running through moonlit forests.

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