Page 7 of Wicked Beasts
He nods approvingly, his eyes glinting in the light. “Thank you. Your schedule for the week is in your room,” he says as I head for the door. He turns as I move, but his shoes don’t make a sound. “Please remember we all have dinner together in the dining room on Wednesdays.”
“Yes, Mortimer,” I say with a nod. “Thank you.”
“Have anything interesting planned for the weekend?” It’s a casual question, and it sounds almost ridiculous coming out of Mortimer’s formal mouth. I assume he’s curious as to whether I’ll be snooping about after I already broke a rule.
I keep my hands clasped around the coffee mug for warmth. It’s surprisingly cold in the kitchen, despite the natural light of the Hawaiian sun streaming through the windows. “I’ll be in the library doing some writing, actually. Gisella showed it to me yesterday, and it’s absolutely beautiful. I’ll probably spend all weekend in there.”
Mortimer gives me an approving nod, and I quickly leave.
I feel like I can still feel his eyes on me even after the kitchen door swings shut. I stop at my room to pick up my laptop and quickly flee toward the library.
I push open the heavy door, and the scent of aged parchment and polished wood engulfs me. The library stretches long and wide, even more enticing now with the golden glow of sunlight seeping from behind the edges of the heavy drapes obscuring the large windows. It chases shadows across the walls, revealing towering shelves that creak and groan under the weight of countless tomes with cracked spines and faded titles. A velvet chaise lounge nestled in a corner beckons me, and as I approach it with my laptop under my arm and coffee in hand, I noticea desk pressed up against the wall, lined with ancient scrolls. It looks more like a workbench from an old alchemy lab than something belonging in an otherwise-organized library.
Constructed from dark mahogany, it bears scars from experiments—a unique series of etchings depicting cryptic symbols and stains of mysterious substances that elude me. Vials and glass beakers sit precariously atop it, their contents glinting in the natural light, while a magnifying glass lies there, waiting for something it can reveal.
I can’t remember what Tristan is in college for—I think medicine, or perhaps science, though I suppose they’re in the same vein. Tall, elegant candlesticks stand proudly at either end, their wax drippings creating a sculptural effect as they descend like frozen tears. A tattered leather journal lies open near a corner, filled with elegant handwriting that hints at a mind teetering toward madness. It gets messier by the page, and a solitary pen rests nearby, ready to capture the next fleeting thought.
My fingers trace over the deep scratches and ink stains marked into the surface of the desk beside the journal. My breath hitches, and curiosity swells within me—but I shouldn’t read it. I wouldn’t want someone reading my journal, and I already got in trouble with Mortimer once this morning for breaking curfew.
I need to watch my step if I hope to stay longer than three months.
I swallow my curiosity and turn away. I curl up on the lounge chair and place my coffee mug down on the side table before getting comfortable with my laptop. A sudden coldness caresses my neck, causing the hair to rise, and I tense. I dare not glance up, fearing what might await me, lurking just out of sight, watching. When I finally work up the courage to look around,I am underwhelmed by the emptiness that greets me. Still, the feeling of being watched clings to me like a cloying, damp chill.
Six
The weekend escapes me, and it’s Monday before I know it.
Gisella stopped by the library a few times throughout the weekend, and while I normally don’t like being bothered when I write, I found myself grateful for her company, particularly during the times I felt an unsettling presence in there with me, almost like lingering eyes. I never voiced my concerns to her, though. I don’t want to scare her. She seems spooked by the house all on her own as it is.
Part of me does wonder if she ever feels the same way when she’s cleaning a room by herself. Does she intentionally seek out comfort from the living when she has an unnerved feeling in the pit of her stomach or a chilling prickle at the back of her neck? Perhaps the times she came to keep me company were more for her own benefit than mine.
I readjust the strap of my leather shoulder bag as I make my way to Tristan’s study and pass Mrs. Wong in the dimly lit hall. She’s dressed in a simple yet refined outfit, her presence commanding respect, her sharp eyes scanning every corner, as if by looking carefully enough, no secrets can escape her. I make a mental note to never try lying to her. She feels like a guardian ofthe estate, all-knowing and always watching. Her eyes lock with mine.
“Good luck,” she muses.
Her choice of words unnerves me slightly. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to thank her as my brows furrow a little, so I don’t. I just nod, give her a forced closed-lip smile, and continue on my way.
As I step into the study, the scent of old books and iron lingers in the air. Dim sunlight filters through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk, where meticulously arranged medical texts sit alongside peculiar anatomical sketches. The walls are lined with shelves brimming with leather-bound books, and just like the library, their spines are worn, many titles unreadable.
I jump at the sight of a detailed skeleton model leaning against the wall and smooth my hand over my rapidly beating heart in an attempt to calm my nerves. This house and my imagination twisted together make me oddly jumpy. I slip into the chair closest to the door and wait for Tristan as I lower my bag to the floor. I lean forward, curiously observing the medical diagrams and texts highlighting regenerative medicine and cell biology, but most of the words are too long and foreign for my comprehension, much too difficult to understand.
My work history for this job specifically involved being a teacher’s assistant in college. However, my actual degree was in English, and I am slightly intimidated by the sheer quantity of medical paraphernalia scattered around the room. My interview hadn’t specified what exactly Tristan Black was researching or needed assistance with, and my knowledge of the sciences is supremely limited. I really want this job—both for the freedom it supplies, and, well, there’s definitely a small part of my brain that wouldn’t mind getting to know Tristan a little better either.
I’ve always been impressed by scientific fields. As a more creative person, I often struggle with the details of the sciences, though I certainly appreciate their significance. If Tristan is willing to pursue a degree in anything related to the countless books in this room, it certainly solidifies his dedication to hard work in my mind.
Surveying the desk, I try to decipher one of the medical diagrams. I can’t make sense of any of it, so instead, I sit back in the chair and pull my bag into my lap as I wait.
A moment later, my phone buzzes.
It’s Tristan.
Good morning, Miss Amara. Please head over to the library and pull every book I have on biochemistry. I fear there is something I’ve overlooked.
Of course. Would you like me to leave them in your study?
Please.
After a few seconds, I find myself frowning at the messages.
