Page 75 of Wicked Beasts
I struggle to pry the hands from my throat, clawing at them, but they remain, unyielding, forcing me deeper. My arms feel weak and the cold of the water is all-consuming. I twist, trying to pull my face to the surface, but the strength holding me down is relentless.
The weight of the hands, their grip becoming more suffocating, forces a memory into my mind—Cordelia. She was always there in the forest, watching, waiting. The thought of her drowning me should feel familiar, but these can’t be her hands. They’re too solid, too forceful, for them to belong to her.
As my fingers scrabble at the hand holding me down, something sparks in my brain.
A cold familiarity.
Just as I feel the sharp edges of panic begin to close in, a man comes into view beneath a top hat under the moonlight—Dr. Shadow.
The thought is like an electric shock. The hands that cling to me, the grip so firm, so much like a vice, aren’t hers. They’re his.
“Cordelia…” he growls under his breath, his tone filled with venomous disgust. The name is slurred and sounds muted from beneath the ocean surface.
I thrash, but the presence holding me doesn’t loosen. The murky depths twist around me, the sound of the waves no longer calming but deafening as my lungs burn for air. And still, he holds me under, his fingers like iron, and I can’t escape.
“I’m going to kill you once and for all.”
A shout cuts through the fog of my mind, distant and garbled from the shoreline, the words foreign and lost to the rushing of blood in my ears. My eyes feel like they’re being burned by the saltwater, each blink heavy. I struggle to keep my lids open as they begin to weigh down. My vision blurs, and the world around me twists, slipping further away. I try to focus, try to make sense of the sound, to make sense of the shouting, but everything is becoming darker, more distant.
Until there is nothing at all.
Sixty-Seven
The distant echo of shouting pulls me from the haze. My eyelids flutter open, heavy and reluctant, and the dark outline of my bedroom begins to take shape as my vision gradually sharpens. I’m propped up in bed, the sheets comforting and warm beneath me. Mrs. Wong sits quietly at my side, her hand gently holding a warm compress against my forehead. I feel the familiar, soft fabric of my pajamas, comforting against my skin, and my hair is nearly dry, still a little damp around the edges. The room is dim, but the quiet presence of Mrs. Wong offers a strange comfort, her expression hinting at compassion.
“What happened?” I croak, my voice rough and strained, each word scraping painfully against my throat. The burn is sharp, a cruel reminder of the thrashing, the feeling of being held down beneath the water. My chest tightens as the memory floods back, and I gasp for air. Mrs. Wong shifts beside me, sitting up to meet my frantic gaze.
“Calm down, Miss Amara,” she murmurs softly as she makes an attempt to comfort me, her hands soothing as they rest on my arm. She is surprisingly gentle and nurturing, and I am ableto steady my breathing in her calming presence. “You almost drowned.”
The way she says it almost makes it sound like an accident.
“There were so many butterflies,” I whisper, mostly to myself, shaking my head slowly as I try to piece together the memories of what happened.
Mrs. Wong's brows furrow in confusion, her expression questioning, as if she doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “Butterflies?” she asks finally.
“On the beach,” I say, lifting my gaze to meet hers. “So many dead butterflies.”
Her frown deepens, but she doesn't speak. Instead, she presses the warm cloth back to my forehead as I settle against my pillow. That's when I notice the scent around me—familiar and comforting. I don’t smell the ocean’s salt, but rather the soft, soothing fragrance of my soap and shampoo, the kind that always lingers in the steam of my showers and wraps me in its warmth like a soothing embrace. But then, a thought nags at me.
Had Mrs. Wong been the one to strip me of those sea-soaked clothes and clean me up?
I wonder, but I don’t ask.
It doesn’t make a difference either way, yet I can’t help but wonder if Mrs. Wong and I might be more similar than I thought—I know I would have done the same for her, or anyone, in my position.
I sink into the softness of my bedsheets and plush pillows, letting their warmth envelop me as I close my eyes. Just as I start to drift off again, the sound of raised voices jolts me back awake, the same voices that woke me the first time.
Even with my door shut, the argument echoes loudly from down the hall.
“What’s that about?” I glance at Mrs. Wong, noticing how she avoids my gaze as she adjusts the damp cloth on my forehead."What’s going on?" I ask again, my voice quiet but persistent. She doesn’t answer, so I peel the cloth off and toss it onto the writing desk. There’s only so much secrecy I can take. "Tell me," I press on, my tone firm now, demanding an answer.
Mrs. Wong purses her lips. “Dr. Shadow’s drunk and angry,” she says, her voice heavy with reluctance.
I furrow my brows, confusion flickering across my face. “As opposed to what?” I ask in reply, dismissing it as nothing new.
But then, the memory hits me—the muffled sound of his voice through the water, his hands tightening around my throat. For a moment, the memory had held only the sheer reality of a dream, but at her words, it crystallizes into fact. Goosebumps ripple across my skin as a chill shivers down my spine. My eyes widen in sudden realization, and I shove the sheets off of me.
“Miss Amara—please,” Mrs. Wong urges, her voice laced with concern as she gets up. “Stay in bed.”
