Page 51 of Wicked Beasts
The voice sends a jolt through me, the unexpected sound cutting through the silence like a knife. I whirl around on my heels.
“You scared me,” I say, my pulse still racing.
Manu stands by the doorway, his massive form nearly blocking the entrance, his thick mane of brown hair covering his shoulders and bleeding into his beard. He shifts slightly, as if chuckling, but no sound escapes him.
“It’s easy to spook you, isn’t it?Girl.”
I refuse to react to his bait.
“It’s a spooky house,” I mutter, eyes shifting toward the window. “And someone was just murdered outside.” I turn back to face him, gesturing toward where he stands in the doorway, his bulk a looming presence. “Even you’re in the house. I didn’t think you went into any room but the kitchen and the dining room.” I lift my gaze to meet his; he hadn’t taken his eyesoff me since I turned around. “What did you mean? People underestimate the weight of knowledge?”
Manu inhales deeply, the sound of his breath filling the space as he takes slow, deliberate steps toward me. Each heavy footfall seems to shake the very floor beneath us, the sound of his boots echoing through the library like a distant drumbeat. Without a word, he reaches out, his large, calloused hands closing around the journal I’d just set down. His fingers, rough and steady, flip the pages with a flick of his wrist, his gaze intense and focused.
He pulls out the letter, the same one I’d tucked away moments ago. The parchment crinkles softly in his grasp as he holds it up between his thick fingers, the creases of the letter catching the dim light seeping in through the drapes of the window.
“This what you read?” His voice is low, steady. He briefly glances at his own hand, then back to me, his brown eyes narrowing, as if waiting for something to flicker across my face. Waiting for an answer to surface. I can’t hide the tension that rises in my chest. I’ve never been good at masking my thoughts, and right now, I’m certain my face betrays me.
He watches me for a moment longer, pursing his lips, his expression unreadable, before he nods. He looks back down at the letter, deftly unfolding it with one hand, his gaze sweeping across the page for only a second before meeting mine again.
“She was…an interesting one,” he murmurs, the words carrying weight, a knowingness that sends a chill through me.
My mind stumbles over his statement, trying to latch on to the meaning. I shake my head slightly, still trying to process the implications. “Wait,” I finally manage to say, my voice a little breathless. He doesn’t seem to notice as he carelessly tucks the letter back into the journal. “Youknewher?”
Manu scoffs, the sound harsh and bitter as he flings the journal back onto the desk with a thud. I flinch still, even though I expect it.
“If you can call it that,” he mutters. His eyes lock on to the unlit candle sitting on the edge of the desk. He stares at the charred wick, and a long pause hangs in the air before he shifts his gaze to me, his expression unreadable. “Love.” He says the word slowly, and he gestures toward the journal. “She speaks of love, but that wasn’t love. That was...possession. Witchcraft. Wicked woman.”
I blink, trying to make sense of his words, but they feel like shards of something broken—too sharp and too small to piece together. I open my mouth to speak, but only a breath escapes.
“I don’t know what any of this means,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper as he begins to move toward the door.
“It means you're in way over your head, Amara,” he says, his tone so matter-of-fact, it feels like a warning and a judgment all in one.
The way he says my name catches me off guard, like a hand closing around my heart. My chest tightens, and I blink rapidly, the realization hitting me like a splash of cold water. He called me Amara. Notgirl. Not the usual condescension.
My name. He said myname.
I look back at the desk, the flickering candle flame trembling in the dim light. My mind races, trying to wrap itself around everything he’s said, everything that’s happened. But as I turn back to the door, a sudden shiver runs down my spine.
Thecandle.
When did he have time to light the candle? I was watching him the entire time.
I glance back at the flickering flame, its soft glow casting eerie shadows across the room. A chill crawls across the back of my neck, and before I can think, I lean forward and blow it out. Iquickly scramble out of the library and back to the comfort of my own bedroom, suddenly terrified by one of the few rooms in the Black manor I felt at home in.
Forty-Five
Istand by the window, my gaze drawn to the garden outside, a scene both haunting and eerily serene. There, in the grass, I imagine him—limp and still—his battered and bloodied form hidden partially by the thick curl of the rose bushes, their petals a soft, silent veil whose crimson resonated with the color of blood. I think of Gisella waking to this ghastly sight at the break of dawn, her peaceful world shattered in an instant. She’s already been through so much; I worry for her mental state, her emotions. The weight of it presses against me, suffocating, as I try to understand the depths of her sorrow.
My thoughts swirl like a storm, spinning wildly through the events of the morning—Dr. Shadow’s eerie portrait in place of Tristan’s, the corpse outside, the letter. Everything Manu said—and, more disturbingly, the things he hadn’t. Possession? Witchcraft? My mind races, seeking some semblance of order in the chaos. Could the body in the garden be a dark offering? A ritual of some sort? A sacrifice?
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a figure by the trees—an indistinct shape, her pale, dusty blonde hair drifting gently in the breeze. She’s facing me, but her face is a blur, too far for me to distinguish. For a moment, I think it might be Gisella, butno, Gisella’s bleach blonde hair holds a brighter shade. She also wouldn’t be outside at a time like this, not after what she saw this morning. I consider the mysterious ‘C’ from the letter as I squint my eyes, trying to see her face in the shadows.
‘One day, you will love me too, and I will be here, waiting.’
When I blink, she is gone, as if swallowed by the air itself. A chill creeps up my spine, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise up. I draw in a sharp breath, disoriented, and shake my head, banishing the thought before it can settle.
Perhaps my imagination is getting the best of me.
