Page 13 of Wicked Beasts
Ten
He is not well.
He is not well.
He is not well.
For days, the words ring in my ears, again and again, and I cannot shake it. I have been sitting at my writing desk for over three hours now, and I can’t bring myself to do anything but stare at the blank page and the blinking cursor that mocks me. I can focus on nothing else:he is not well.
My gaze turns to the rose sitting proudly in the sleek, elongated vase. The petals bloom beautifully in the dark.
I decide to text Kehau and pick up my phone.
Hey are you up?
Yeah why? What’s up?
I think something’s wrong with my employer.
Oh God
Is he a weirdo?
I knew there was no way he wasn’t a weirdo
What 28 year old needs a live-in personal assistant
Did he do something to you?
Do I need to come get you?
I will.
No, I mean, I think he’s…sick. I think that’s why I was hired.
Aw…
I’m sorry to hear that
Is it serious?
I don’t know. They leave me in the dark.
Well that’s not fair
Is there any way for you to get some kind of answers?
I wrestle with my concern for the first few weeks of work. I rarely see Tristan, and the whispers of his ill health worry me even further. If he really is sick, why is everyone letting him work himself into the ground like this?
I consider the mysterious east wing I’m supposed to stay out of. I don’t know if I can keep my curiosity at bay any longer. I’ve tried, but there’s a lingering dark force that continues to stroke at my intrigue. I stick my phone into the back pocket of my pajama shorts and get up, the chair creaking slightly as I lift my weight.
As quietly as I can manage, I open my bedroom door and peer outside. No one has rattled my door since that first night,and Mortimer’s warnings about curfew feel like a ploy to keep me in the dark. The hallway is shadowy and foreboding, but empty as far as I can tell. A grim chill beckons me forward, and while I know I shouldn’t follow it, I need to find outsomething. Anything. I need to know if Tristan’s okay, at the very least. I need to know what everyone is so intent on keeping from me.
I slip out of my room and gently shut my door behind me. Every footstep I take feels so much louder than normal, as though it's echoing particularly tonight, alerting the rest of the household that I am out of bed past curfew. My heart quickens with every footstep as I cross through the foyer to the east wing, toward the heavy wooden doors that separate it from the rest of the house. The doors I’ve often seen Tristan disappear behind.
With a delicate touch, I attempt to open them, but they’re locked. I huff silently to myself as I turn around and look up the winding staircase. A faint smile crosses my face as I remember him standing up on the second floor, looking down at me from the gallery the very first time we met nearly a week ago. The memory calls me up the stairs, my body trembling as the wood softly groans with each step I take, my hand smoothly gliding up the cool rail.
I have only been upstairs once, when Gisella gave me a tour the first evening. I look over the gallery at the foyer below before I pivot on my feet, observing the space. Everything seems much more intimidating when I’m alone in the darkness, and I feel the prickle of hidden eyes watching my every move. I rub at my neck, trying to soothe myself, and my gaze catches a door she didn’t show me.
