Page 47 of Wicked Beasts
“Things are borrowed with the intent of return,” Mortimer adds.
“What exactly is it we’re talking about?” I ask.
“There’s a letter in your possession, isn’t there?” he says. “Please return it to where you found it.”
Mrs. Wong steps out of the room first, her movements sharp and calculated, eager to escape whatever terror exists in this room. Mortimer follows, standing straight beside the door frame.
“But what about the portrait?” I ask, my gaze drawn back to the face staring down at me from the wall. Dr. Shadow’s portraitis a study in dark allure, his eyes burning with an intensity that feels like it’s meant forme.
“What about it?” Mortimer’s voice is soft, almost dismissive, but there’s a subtle tilt of his head that makes it feel more like a challenge. The question is a trap, I realize—his way of testing whether I’ll admit to having been here before. Though I want to lie, to deny everything, I can’t shake the feeling that they both already know the truth.
Before I can respond, a piercing scream rips through the silence, so loud and sudden, it rattles the walls.Gisella. Her scream echoes through the manor, splintering the stillness and sending a ripple of dread through me.
Forty-One
Gisella is collapsed on the floor in front of the large window of her room when I find her. Her form huddled in a way that makes her seem smaller, almost fragile. The soft glow of the evening light falls across her in a way that could almost be beautiful but for the way it accentuates the tear-streaked mess of her face. Her skin is blotchy, an uneven red tint where the tears pooled and dripped down her cheeks. Her eyes are swollen, wide and glassy, as though she’s been crying for hours. Her hands tremble violently in her lap, fingers twitching with each breath she takes, and her body shakes as though it can’t find steady ground beneath her.
She turns toward me, her lips trembling, but not a sound escapes her, only the ragged hiccups, sharp and desperate, breaking the stillness between us. Each one forces its way out of her throat, a painful echo of something deeper—of something she can’t hold back. She looks so lost, so consumed by whatever it is that’s taken hold of her that, for a moment, I don’t know what to say.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as a crouch down, my voice soft but urgent, a knot tightening in my chest as I watch her tremble. I want to reach for her, to pull her into my arms and make it allgo away, but I don’t know where to begin. The words don’t come easily, and every instinct I have tells me nothing I say will be enough. My hand hovers at her back before I gently press against her spine, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breaths. I try to offer her some comfort, but the tremors only seem to intensify. The violent hiccups wrack her frame, like something fighting to get out, something she can’t control.
The room is thick with the sound of her shaky breaths, the quiet sobs she stifles between each hiccup, the desperation in her eyes when she finally looks up at me.
“He’s dead,” she whimpers, her voice cracking like dry leaves. The words hang in the air, heavy and hollow, as if they’ve been building up inside her for far too long. Her shoulders jerk with the force of her sobs, the hiccups no longer just a physical response but a reflection of the deep, wrenching grief consuming her. She presses her hands to her face, as if trying to hold herself together, but it’s no use.
My heart lurches in my chest, a sudden, terrifying weight pulling it down toward my stomach. For a split second, I can't breathe.
“Who’s dead?” I ask, my voice strained, tight with growing panic. My hands feel cold as I reach for the words, trying to make sense of what she just said. “Who, Gisella?” The demand is clear in my tone, the urgency creeping in like a shadow.
She doesn’t mean… She can’t mean…
Her trembling hand rises slowly, as if it takes every ounce of strength she has left to point. Her finger quivers, barely able to steady itself, but when it reaches the window, my blood runs cold.
She’s pointing outside, toward the brightening world of day beyond the glass.
I swallow hard, my throat tight, my mind reeling. The air between us feels heavy, thick with unspoken fear.
Slowly, almost as if my body is moving at half the speed, I push myself to my feet. Mortimer and Mrs. Wong stand in the hallway, their eyes wide with unreadable expressions. Mortimer remains perfectly still, like a statue blending in with his surrounding shadows while Mrs. Wong hurries to the window. I step closer, my heartbeat echoing in my chest as she pulls back the heavy curtains with a quick, almost frantic motion.
What I see outside sends a chill through me. A figure lies motionless on the ground, his clothes soaked in a crimson liquid, the dark stains bleeding across the fabric. His face is obscured, but my gut tells me it’s not Tristan. I would know him—his height, his frame—but the man outside is smaller, less imposing, his body slumped in a way that feels...wrong.
Is hedead? I can’t tell if he’s breathing.
I retreat, my breath shallow as I sink back down beside Gisella. I pull her into me, my arms finally following their instinct and wrapping around her, trying to shield her from the growing unease in my gut.
Mrs. Wong looks at Mortimer, and the two of them share a brief, silent exchange. There are no words, just a glance that speaks volumes—things I don’t understand.
Gisella’s voice, small and broken, drifts through the air. “Everyone says this place is cursed,” she whispers, her voice trembling with something between fear and regret as Mrs. Wong looks back at her. “I never should have come here.”
Mrs. Wong slowly lifts her gaze to meet mine, and I feel the weight of her stare—intense, almost suffocating. Her chest rises with a sharp, shaky breath, and I’m certain she’s holding something back. Her eyes lock on to mine, dark and piercing, and I have the strange sense she’s trying to say something, something urgent, but her lips remain sealed. There’s a warning in her gaze, like she’s begging me to understand her unspoken words.
But then, just as quickly as it started, the moment passes. She slips past Mortimer without a word, her footsteps soft but purposeful, and vanishes down the hallway, leaving only a lingering chill in the air.
I turn my gaze back to the window, but the thick curtains have already fallen, obscuring the bloodied scene from view. My eyes linger on the fabric, almost wishing I could will it away, to see more—understand more.
“Who was that?” I ask, turning back toward Mortimer, but he’s gone from the doorway.
“I don’t know,” Gisella whispers through her shaky breaths, hiccups still breaking up her words. “But it was like seeing him all over again.”
