Page 69 of The Secrets of Roan Island

Contentment hits me in the chest at her willingness to be near me. My hearts constrict with satisfaction and gratitude.

My eyes slide to hers, then down at the journal. We read about my grandmother’s recipe for what she identifies as my grandfather’s favorite Mavarri dish, and for the first time I can see what Ruby was talking about. I can feel the love written into the silence between the words. It’s clear Ruby is right, my grandmother loved my grandfather, and it’s curious to me that I never would have seen it without Ruby’s observation.

She shifts, her head lulling farther down my chest, and I realize she’s fallen asleep. Carefully, I scoop her into my arms and carry her back to her bed in the parlor. Her mussed hair fans out across the pillow. Her skin glows with vitality, as if our love making has given her as much strength and nutrients as her blood has given me.

As I brush the hair out of her face, I recall her words about my grandmother:the treasure is rarely in the actual words, but in what we can read between the words, between the lines.It makes me smile. I wonder what she would read between the lines I write with my actions now, toward her. I run my fingers through her hair, content to touch her, to linger, as I allow myself to admit what I think I’ve known for quite awhile.

I’m in love with Professor Ruby Rose.

I don’t deserve her. I doubt she will ever share my feelings. Not after everything I’ve done. She said this was only for tonight, after all. She may be attracted to me, may seek distraction in my arms, but she isn’t the kind of woman who would love a man likeme. I’m not sure any woman could love me once they know what I am, what I’ve done.

But a quiet voice inside me whispers:what if? She sought her pleasure with me and offered her blood in return. She asked me to ruin her for another. Why would she offer such gifts if she didn’t have feelings?

I want to climb in bed and hold her through the night, but I’m not sure that’s what she wants. We may have sought comfort with each other tonight, but it doesn’t mean I can presume she wants more.

Careful not to wake her, I go back to the library and get the journal we were reading, then sit down in the hall outside her door to continue her research as I keep watch.

33

Ruby

Istartle awake, gaze flicking around the room. I’m not in the library anymore, and the room is dark. Too dark.

“Noah?” I whisper. I’m in a bed, which calms my immediate fear that I’m back in that morgue. I can just barely make out the shape of furniture around the room. I’m fairly certain I’m in the parlor where I’ve been sleeping. But something seems off. A prickle at the back of my neck, like someone’s watching me.

My heartbeat picks up, a loud percussion in my ears, overwhelming any other sound. I reach across the bed, needing to feel Noah near me.

Except the bed is empty.

He’s working. He’s just working. I fret, tossing and turning in the sheets without him. He must be working again, right?

I sit up, determined to go help him. But I need light first. Feeling around, I find the matches I left on the table near the bed. Before I can light one, a pungent smell, bright and cloying in my nose, makes me pause.

A flicker of fire sparks across the room. A match, lighting a face.

The light goes out too quickly for me to distinguish the features, but my pulse swells, painfully tapping out a beat that’s loud and deep in my ears.

“Noah?” I swing my feet over the side of the bed and wish I could see better in the darkness of the parlor. There aren’t any windows in the room—there are no operational windows in the Gate House at all—which makes the space unnerving.

“Would you please just light the candle? I can’t see a thing.” My voice wavers more than I’d like. Since coming here, I’ve had to face my fear of the dark more than any other time in my life, but it still plagues me. Fears like these don’t just go away.

I strike a match, and the light flares again, casting a horrible shadow over the face I saw before.

Not Noah. Hammish. He looks unhinged, his black eyes reflecting the flickering light back to me.

The match goes out.

My scream sticks in my throat the way screams sometimes do in a dream. Is this a dream? I pinch the flesh of my arm. It hurts.

With trembling hands, I drop one match, then strike the flint with another. The light flashes, revealing Hammish’s head, tilted in a strange, animalistic way.

I swallow, trying to get my pounding heart out of my throat.

“H-how are you here?” I squeak.

The bell didn’t go off. If it had, Noah would be here. Unless he’s hurt. Oh, please don’t let him be hurt.

The match dies, leaving behind the imprint of Hammish’s disturbing smile.

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