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THIRTY-ONE
October 5, 2010
October is bitingly cold in Devil’s Bay.
Kieran still remains away from the estates and like spring encroaching on a bleak, dreary winter, the house has taken shape. It’s almost like it’s my own home.
I’ve fallen into a routine. With my insistence, I have taken care of the plants in the solarium, made dinner at night and repeatedly tried my luck at exploring every inch of the East Wing. However, the adventures are always halted by the watchful gaze of Kieran’s mother.
Today, I’m standing in the solarium, documenting every strange plant I see. I hadn’t seen Christian in days, and I found my heart reacted strangely without his nearness. A week ago, I would have thought my answers about this world lay with Kieran Lazarus. I now suspect he’d never once pointed me in the right direction, likely on purpose.
Unfortunately, whatever it is about this world, the answers lay with the Lazaruses and that strange relic Kieran had wielded a few nights ago. The others, may lay in the hidden cove.
As I rudimentarily draw a flower that resembles a bell, a panic begins to pool in my chest. What happens if Christian doesn’t return for me? It’s an entirely new feeling I can’t wrestle with. That, and I have the sense that I know him.
What if he’s the man from the vision?
The ghost of those soft passionate lips devours me all over again. The kiss has risen many times, like tidal waves, crashing around my skull. What follows is a deep aching, then the arousal that has me standing in the shower to rid myself of the feeling. The urge to be near him, to be on top of him. To see those copper eyes contorted in the pleasure of me. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it; our lips had never even touched.
Deciding to watch the gray clouds roll across the sky, I put the drawing down and change tasks.
The weather didn’t follow its rules in Devil’s Bay. Actually, nothing followed rules in Devil’s Bay.
My reflection gazes back at me as I stand by the tall windows. Whenever I find that face staring back at me, I take the time to study my features. Think about who I am, who I could be. Am I a woman who couldn’t decide on a personality or couldn’t develop one? Was I the vulnerable woman or the fearless one?
You could be both.
A small chuff sounds behind me, Misty slithers by my leg and stops beside me like a little soldier. I’d become an overbearing dog mother since Dr. Marlowe essentially handed her over to me. She is mine, and I will be taking her with me when I leave.
“Wanna go for a walk?” Her ears perk up in response. I grab her shoes and parka—a series of stitched together cloth from what I could find—and wrap it around her. The fit of giggles that follows is not wholly my fault. She looks terrible in it, but it does the job.
Outside is dark yet damp with the day just leaving dawn behind and morphing into an overcast sunrise. We walk onto the vertigo-inducing patio. Misty sniffs around while I wait behind, close to the door. I can already tell that my canine wouldn’t be satisfied with just walking around up here, but I don’t want to go into the forest, not when the potential for those creatures still lingers.
Tepidly, I walk to the edge of the cliff, barricaded from the rocks below with an old balustrade. The waves lap and pull, those swirling tongues of the Devil. Shifting my gaze is all I can do to calm my thumping heart. Before a breath even passes, Misty dashes down the stairs. The last thing I see is her furry hind legs kicking away.
“Misty!” My voice fractures over the wind, muscles locked in place. Looking around shows no help that would accompany me to the shore. Bracing myself for the nausea that would surely follow, I hurry down the stone steps. This place, I imagine is beautiful in the summer, but with the graying sky and the blustering winds, it is merely a boneyard.
Misty keeps jogging along the shore, darting around driftwood, uncaring of the sharp stones or shells, or even the quicksand. Wind howls off the sea, sending salty spray across my face stinging my eyes and lips. My breath is ragged, warmth mixing with the iciness.
I kick into a jog with Misty just ahead, weaving around the beach with that careless joy that dogs usually have when they’re chasing a lead. She is fast, her lean legs barely hitting the ground as the sand and rock kick up behind her. “Misty! This isn’t funny!” My voice is barely audible over the roaring waves.
Misty keeps going, never looking back. Suddenly, she stops, giving me a few seconds to catch up to her as she sniffs an area scant of rocks. I bend down to her level, careful to watch her movements. Something about the way she now stands still sends a flicker of unease through me.
“Are we playing a game girl?”
Misty doesn’t look my way as she follows a scent on the wind with her nose. Ahead of us is a scattering of colossal boulders and fallen trees. To our right is the steep drop of the rocky cliff side, blanketed with ice and tiny evergreens. Directly above, I can see what the garden is outside of the kitchen and the forest that starts there. But nothing else.
A wet bark rips from Misty’s chest, startling the misshapen birds roosting in the evergreens.
We’re onto a clue.
“What is it girl?” I ask, softly running my hand through her fur. As if the words push her to move forward, Misty takes off once more, her paw prints imprinting into the cold wet sand. As I jog behind, the tide swells hungrily, lapping at my boots with its biting water. I don’t slow down, whatever has Misty so amped, I refuse to let her face it alone.
I run a few more paces, winding through large boulders, fallen evergreens, old seashells and then before me is the tail end of the cliff side that cuts across the shoreline. It houses a jagged crevasse that splits the large formation into two halves. One that’s connected to the main cliffside, and this smaller offshoot. It appears that thousands of years of erosion had created this strange passageway.
Misty stops at the entrance, her tiny frame peering into the darkness. The water trickles in and out of the crevasse.
The story of the cove. Was the Devil really lurking below the Lazarus Estate?
