Page 2 of Wicked Beasts
The mansion grows larger as we approach, its windows like dark eyes watching and judging my every move.
Kehau stops the car.
A shiver runs down my spine as I look up at the grand double doors, crafted from dark mahogany and adorned with entwined serpents so detailed, it’s as if they’re about to awaken and slither away. Subconsciously, my fingers tighten around the rose. I take a subtle but deep breath, trying to soothe my nerves.
“Are yousureabout this job?” Kehau asks again, as though she senses my hesitation.
The air between us grows heavy as she awaits my answer, and I struggle to find my voice. I want this job. I want a fresh start.
“Of course,” I say finally. The words feel forced in my mouth, so I glance back at her with reassurance. “But I promise I’ll call if I need anything—or if I change my mind.”
She gives me a hug, and I climb out of the car. I get my bags out of the back seat and inhale deeply as I stare up at the mansion. There’s a swell of emotions bubbling in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly, I’m unable to take a step. My feet plant themselves in the gravel under the thickening twilight. I’m not scared—at least, I don’t think I am.
I’m excited, I’m nervous, I’m curious of what lies ahead, what lies beyond those doors that are so close but so far. I’m filled with wonder of what this experience will do for me, how it will change me. I fumble with the stem of the rose againbefore I readjust the strap of my bag hanging from my shoulder, wrapping my hand around the handle of my suitcase.
Here goes nothing.
And everything.
Two
Goosebumps prickle my skin as I walk up the steps.
Up close, the entryway looks like a portal to another world, as if the walls of the mansion are alive, waiting to share their stories of love and loss from the restless spirits lingering around me. Darkness pools in the corners, a mysterious abyss that tugs at my nerves. Flickering lanterns line the stairway, casting eerie shapes across the walls, making me feel like I’m not alone.
Call it my writer’s imagination, but every obscured detail feels aberrant and looming.
Surely, it doesn’t look this terrifying during the day.
The heavy doors creak open before I have a chance to knock, and a figure emerges, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that seems to absorb the light around him. He is thin and frail, his face pale and expressionless, save for the eyes that shine with an unsettling intensity. My stomach twist and tighten at just a glance.
“Welcome, Miss Amara Rose,” he says, his voice smooth yet chilling. The air feels colder in his presence, and the faint scent of aged wood and something floral lingers behind him. It tickles my nose, but I can’t place it. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“You must be Mortimer,” I say. I offer him a warm smile, but he doesn’t return it. I end up wiping mine right off my face instead.
He steps beside me to grab my bag. Part of me is surprised he can lift it at all, but he carries it in with ease, without so much as a wince from its weight.
I step over the threshold, and the echoes of my footsteps fill the vast space, merging with the soft sighs of the house. At first, it feels like it’s welcoming me—but perhaps it’s warning me to turn around.
The foyer opens into a grand hall adorned with heavy drapes swaying gently in a non-existent breeze. A grand staircase spirals upwards, its banister carved with patterns that twist like smoke up to a gallery. In that moment, standing at the entrance of the mansion, I feel an undeniable connection to the shadows as they try to beckon me inside, tempting me with their secrets reserved for those brave enough to listen. Brave enough to approach. Brave enough to wander.
“The east wing is off-limits,” Mortimer says, his chilling voice tearing through my thoughts.
“What’s in the east wing?” I ask. He can’t tell me that andnotexpect me to ask.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says dismissively, finality in his tone. “It’s off-limits.” He ushers me forward. “Come. I’ll show you to your room. Miss Gisella will give you a tour.”
“When do I get to meet Tristan?” I ask as I begin to follow.
“Mr. Black,” he corrects.
My face grows hot. “Right, I’m sorry.Mr. Black.”
“Be cautious, Miss Amara.”
That strikes me as an odd thing to say to someone you barely know about someone I’ve never even met. I try not to let the comment unbalance me.
I clear my throat. “What do you mean?”
