Page 92 of Grotesque Love

She was gone when the sun set, the summer day drawing out for far too long as we were forced to wait. Agitated. Restless. We’d known something was simmering in the air, there was a bitterness clinging to everything.

She is ours. She belongs with us, we love her. We are supposed to protect her from Carver.

Except we haven’t.

And when the sun had sunk down below the horizon, she was nowhere to be found.

Sax had told us to split up while we searched the entire estate, afraid that Carver might have taken her somewhere else. Someplace we couldn't go, bound to the grounds by our stupid curse.

I don’t know what made me fly straight to the West Wing. It was a tugging in my chest, something leading me there. The door was locked, and before sanity could make me second guess myself, I used my claws and tore the door from its hinges.

I hadn’t ever been in this part of the house. It felt wrong, like a black ink stain on the map of the manor. A suffocating space, filled with forgotten screams and a pulsing evil. Icould feel it now – pushing against whatever magic flows through me. Warning me not to get too close. Throbbing with an angry hunger.

Opening doors, I search for our little dove, but the first few rooms yield nothing. Just boxes and dust.

The next room makes me freeze. Something is throwing me off, my head fuzzy as I step into what looks like a private museum. The collection makes no sense, there’s no coherency in the items.

As if being pulled towards a cabinet in the far left corner, my body moves of its own accord. Tucked behind a spyglass, a pocket watch and some jewellery there’s a small leather notebook, bound shut with a faded cord and a tiny flower charm.

My chest feels like I’ve been stabbed, as I suck in a ragged breath, fear and pain washing over me. I didn’t need to breathe, so why was I feeling this? Like I’m suffocating.

Smashing my fist through the glass, I grab the book. The fragile thing feels flimsy and light in my large hand and as the pages fall open there’s something about the scrawled notes and poems that remind me of…I don’t know. I scratch the tip of my claw against the inkings of bluebells and nettles. The memory blinks away as fast as it came, like sand through my fingers.

I don't have time to chase smoke ghosts but as I go to replace the book of poems, my gaze snags on the name scribbled on the inside cover.

Jasper Francis White, 1829.

I freeze, unable to move. Unable to think.

What is this? What does it mean?

A shout pulls me out of the daze I’m in.

Arianwen.

I drop the book, letting it fall with a quiet clatter, pages coming loose and sliding across the polished floor. The past no longer matters because she’s our future and she needs us.

Voices seem to come from the walls as I start tearing down paintings and frames. Growling, I let out a frustrated roar. I know she’s close, but why can’t Ifind her?

Finally I land on the right portrait, the heavy frame coming away from the wall with a groan, revealing a hidden doorway.

It leads me down into a smugglers’ cavern beneath the estate. Carver has clearly had it made larger over the years, as it now fits an ornate cabinet, shelves and hooks with tools, a medieval torture device and a large stone altar.

There are candles lit everywhere, wax dripping down the surfaces but the dim lighting does nothing to hide the blood that’s been spilled here.

This is the evil heart of Clifton Manor.

A stone tablet is propped against the wall, surrounded by even more candles, the grainy surface stained with rust coloured patches. If Ari wasn’t bound to a chair, I would take more time to explore the horrors of this room.

Instead, I fly towards the Lord of the Manor, whose hands are wrapped around my love’s neck as he squeezes the life out of her. I can see the light fading in her ocean eyes as her long lashes flutter shut, soft pink lips parted with a strange smile.

Feral with rage, I fly towards him, and wrench him away from her, throwing Carver against the nearest wall. The sickening crack sends a sense of satisfaction through me, but I don’t waste my time on him. He isn’t my priority.

“Ari, little dove?” Using my claws, I slice through her bindings, the rope falling away. There don’t appear to be any wounds besides teeth marks on her cheek, but I notice the dried cum painting her thighs. I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from snarling.

I’m going to kill him. Tear him limb from limb.

But first, she needs me.

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