Page 84 of Wicked Beasts
He hesitates, narrowing his eyes slightly, as though expecting me to take back the question. I don’t. Instead, I only raise my eyebrows, patiently waiting for a response.
“Dr. Wollstonecraft isn’t…likeother doctors,” he responds after a long pause, his words intentionally ambiguous, leaving the meaning unclear. “But if anyone can help Mr. Black, it’s him.”
More secrets.
I inhale sharply, my fingers tapping against the tome wrapped in my arms, catching Mortimer’s attention. “Returning something else you took?”
“Borrowed,” I sharply correct.
Mortimer dismisses me with a simple shrug before turning away and disappearing down the dark hallway. I continue toward the library, the quiet of the house wrapping around me like a heavy cloak, its silence unsettling in the stillness of the night. Before, the manor felt darker, with only Dr. Shadow in these halls, but now, without either of them, it just feels empty.
As I push open the library door, I'm greeted by the musty yet familiar scent of old books and aged parchment. The airfeels thick with dust; the room has been left to gather silence and neglect in my absence. I spent so much time here in the beginning, but after returning the letter and the strange interaction with Manu, I haven’t stepped foot inside in weeks.
I quickly reshelve the book of fairytales, but I let myself linger, drifting between the towering bookcases, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound as I wander through the shadows. I’ve never felt alone in the library. At times, the feeling has been almost comforting. Now, I feel someone hiding in the darkest crevices, eyes watching me from somewhere I can’t see. I find myself looking over my shoulder when a cool draft caresses my neck, the hair standing on end.
But nothing’s ever there.
With a sharp inhale, I walk toward the desk. The journal remains in the corner near the candlesticks, their frozen tears and everything else untouched, as though someone had gotten up in a hurry, but the desk always looked this way. I’m certain that, at some point, it was properly used and clearly well-loved, the wood grain worn, ink stains and carvings deep in the surface.
I trace a few scratch marks with the tip of my finger; the edges have smoothed over time, and a light glimmer catches my eye.
That’s when I see it. Goosebumps quickly ripple across my skin, even beneath the nightshirt I wear, traveling quickly to cover every inch of me. It sends a violent shiver down my spine and takes hold of every nerve in my body.
There, just beyond the journal, sits the ornate mirror I knocked off the wall and shattered in my room, every jagged shard perfectly aligned, as though it had never been broken at all. My heart hammers in my chest at the sight of it, and suddenly, I am rooted in place, unable to move.
My thoughts spiral, each one more frantic than the last. How did it get here? Who could have possibly put it backtogether? The questions seem to multiply, leaving me dizzy with confusion. My heart pounds so loudly in my chest, it's the only sound I hear, drowning out everything else.
And then, a hand grips my shoulder from behind.
Seventy-Four
My heart skips a beat as I find myself staring into those piercing blue eyes, barely visible through the curtain of long, straight, straw-colored hair falling across her face like a disheveled veil. The sight of her standing there sends a cold, electric tremor through me, needle-like chills pricking into my bones. My knees shudder and grow weak, and a heavy sense of fear anchors me in place.
I know she’s dead.
How is she standing before me? Is this a dream? I’m struggling to separate the false from what is real while keeping my grip on reality. My mouth moves to say her name, but no word manages to escape my lips.
“You interfered,” she says, her words sharp as her hand shoots out to grab my throat. Her grip is tight over the deep bruises left across my skin. “Tristan was supposed to kill himself, and you just had to get in the way and save him.” Her words are punctuated by the tightening of her fingers as they wander from my shoulder to my throat, squeezing gently, almost teasingly.
Then, her fingers clutch my skin. I claw at her hand, my nails desperately digging into her cold skin, but it’s like trying to cut into stone. She lifts me effortlessly, my feet leaving the ground,and all I can do is gasp for air as she holds me suspended in the air, her presence consuming every breath.
One hand reaches out blindly, flailing toward the desk, desperate to grab something,anything, to use as a weapon. Something I can hit her with. Something to force her to release me. Something to let mebreathe. I begin to grow faint as my eyelids start to flutter. They grow heavy the more I struggle to keep them open, and my vision blurs. I struggle to speak; I can’t even manage to make a sound.
“Cordelia!” someone’s voice rumbles loudly, tearing through the silence in the library. Her head snaps away from me as it captures her attention, and with an almost reluctant movement, she loosens her grip on my neck. I crash to the floor with a sharp thud, jolts of pain rattling throughout my body. My breath comes in desperate gasps as I tenderly clutch my throat, fingers trembling as I try to soothe the sting and force my windpipe open.
Slowly, I sit up from the floor, my hands still gently pressed against the bruising on my throat, hoping to ease the lingering pain. I cast a faint glance in Cordelia’s direction, but she vanished. A cold shiver runs down my spine, and goosebumps prickle across my skin as I scramble backward, pressing myself against the desk for some semblance of safety. My heart races as panic surges through me.
Where did she go?
I feel the solid wood of the desk behind me and glance to the door, to the figure who scared her away. Manu stands there, a sharp yet concerned glint in his dark eyes. Could he see her? He turns away without another word, and I force myself to my feet to scramble after him. My limbs feel unsteady and clumsy, and I nearly trip over my own feet as I chase after him, each step a struggle to catch up.
“Wait!” I shout, my voice cracking as I chase him down the dark hallway.
“She’s not done with you,” he says gruffly over his shoulder, not slowing his pace.
“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out strained, throat still throbbing from the pain of her cutting off my air.
“You need to get out of this house until Mr. Black returns.”
