Page 55 of Wicked Beasts
She leans in close, and I’m frozen, unable to move. Her lips hover just inches from mine.
“My name is Cordelia,” she murmurs, her breath cold against my skin, sending a shiver through me. “Ask him about me. I dare you.” She steps back, her fingers slipping from mine. My hand instinctively curls inward, seeking warmth from my palm.
The winds stir, rising around us with a restless energy, whipping twigs and dry leaves into a spiraling dance of their own. She steps away from me, her arms lifting gracefully overhead toward the thick canopy of leaves and branches, and with a fluid motion, she twirls, her body flowing with the wind as if she's uniting with the forest itself. The air crackles with an ancient, wild power as she begins to move, and I know, in that moment, she's not just dancing—she’s calling something forth.
She stops and looks at me with a warning stare.
Forty-Eight
Iwake with a jolt, my breath shallow and rapid, sweat dripping down the sides of my face. I rip the covers off, heart racing, and scramble out of bed. My hands, cold and unsteady, tremble as they fumble for the doorknob. In a rush of panic, I swing the door open, stumbling into the hallway. I race to the kitchen, barely aware of my movements, and throw open the side door, stepping out into the night air with a desperate desire to catch what haunts my dreams.
Barefoot, I run toward the woods, the darkness still thick and heavy, untouched by the first light of dawn. The sun has just begun to creep over the horizon, barely more than a faint glow at the edge of the sky. The woods are a labyrinth of dark terror, the sun unable to pierce the canopy of trees overhead as it begins its ascent, the branches woven a bit too tightly, casting the path in deep, suffocating shadows. They stand silent, the towering trees like dark sentinels, watching without a sound. The air is thick with damp earth, and decay claws at my nose, the ground soft beneath my feet, almost too soft, as if the forest itself is preparing to swallow me whole. A chill runs down my spine, and the stillness seems almost unnatural, as if something—orsomeone—waits just out of sight.
Every rustle in the underbrush feels like a whisper, every crack of a twig a warning, and for a moment, I’m not sure whether it’s the woods that are haunted—or if I am.
I take a hesitant step back, then another, before instinctively turning and quickening my pace back toward the manor. A gnawing fear takes hold that if I don’t escape now, I may never find my way out.
Except I’m not sure if I want to escape only the woods, or also the manor itself.
My steps slow as I reach the edge of the forest, and I find myself walking through the garden, the tall grass swaying around me like a sea of green. The air feels lighter here, but the unease in my chest only deepens. I pause, my bare feet sinking slightly, stinging with cuts from branches and foliage I must have trampled over. I stop in front of my window, my gaze drawn to the broken rose bushes scattered near its base. A frown pulls at my face, the memory of the woman helping me through the window lingering, and my stomach tightens with a cold knot of fear. I remember the dream vividly, my feet landing on the thorns. I didn’t feel the cuts then, but I feel them now.
I shut my eyes as I try to push the thoughts far from my mind.
“It was just a dream,” I mutter to myself.
Just a dream.
But not even I believe that.
“You went with her.”
The deep rumble of his voice slices through my thoughts like a knife. My lashes flutter open, and I turn my gaze to Manu, who stands motionless, staring at the mangled bush and flattened roses.
“What?” I ask.
He barely shifts his gaze to look at me, and instead, he acknowledges the trail.
I look down at my bare feet. The grass beneath them is withered, lifeless. The trail—dark and barren—stretches straight from my bedroom window into the forest, and a sharp, cold terror grips my chest. “Th—that—was real?” My voice is shaky.
“Wicked woman,” he mutters, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I warned you.”
“You did not.”
“I can’t pick what you choose to believe,girl,” he says, pushing me toward the side door with a quiet urgency, eager to be rid of me. “Go wash your feet and stay out of the woods.”
I clench my jaw, hesitating, my feet rooted to the spot like a defiant child. I don’t know what to think anymore, what to believe. What’s real? What’s just a dream? With a swift motion, I pull open the kitchen door and nearly collide with Mrs. Wong, her tired eyes heavy, as though sleep long since abandoned her.
“I know what darkness you let creep into your bed each night,” she says, her voice firm, cutting through the fog in my mind and dulling the ache in my feet for just a moment. “You need to stop. You have no idea what you’re doing to Mr. Black.”
Mr. Black?
I can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen Tristan. I am flooded with guilt at the realization I haven’t thought of him in days, maybe weeks. When did Gisella leave?
When was the body discovered?
Time has been a blur, indistinguishable, slipping away from me unnoticed.
“What were you doing outside anyway?” she asks, her eyes flicking to the mud caked on my feet.
