Page 8
“Do you want to see the rest of the house?” Kieran asks.
“Yes. I think I would like to.” I offer him a smile I hope looks grateful and not calculating.
I need to know this place. If I cannot remember my past, I can at least map the prison I have woken into. A blueprint for my waking labyrinth.
At night, the grounds look like they belong to another world.
Is this another world? I fear I don’t want to know the answer.
The moon hangs high and pale, painting the estate in shades of ash and bone. Fog curls low over the forest, clinging to its sentinel evergreens. The house itself is a slate gray apparition perched on the cliff. It is vast enough that almost an hour passes as we roam through only the West Wing.
We walk along elegantly carpeted corridors and through overflowing rooms lined with paintings and oddities. The air is thick with a history I can’t place. Kieran remains quiet beside me, his presence steady. Occasionally I catch his domineering gaze flicking toward me.
I may have lost my memories, but not my senses. The man beside me has the allure of a devil disguised as a gentleman. The way his eyes trace over my skin sends goosebumps racing in their wake. Heat stirs low in my core, a wholly inconvenient reaction to the man who fished me from death.
I don’t know what to do with it. Is this normal? Does a near fatal drowning unlock some feral attraction to your rescuer? Maybe it’s a way for my body to ground itself. Maybe it’s a trick of this place. Can fear and comfort exist inside the same breath?
A yawn escapes as we step into a warm, cozy kitchen that looks more like an apothecary. Bundles of dried herbs hang from beams, filling the air with spice and earth, peeling wallpaper adorns the walls, and the scent of fresh bread lingers. Open shelves display neatly arranged dishes and glass jars filled with pickled items, that may or may not be old and rotten; everything looks touched and untouched all at once.
“You’re probably hungry,” he says, drawing my attention back to him.
I nod. Hunger has been gnawing at me since the beach.
He moves to the tiled island and reaches up toward a wooden beam, fingers brushing through bundles until he settles on one. “Chamomile. It will help you sleep,” he murmurs as he sprinkles it into a small teapot, then leaves it to steep.
Where did the hot water come from?
I watch him carefully. The quiet feels heavy, humming with the same dark presence that exists in my mind’s emptiness.
I can’t waste this opportunity.
“Have you contacted the police?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies immediately. “They are searching for any records that match your description. I will give them your name in the morning. It may help.” He pulls out two delicate cups, pours the pale tea, and hands one to me. There are specks of white petals floating in it.
“How long will that take?” I ask, staring at the liquid. My reflection pools weakly on the surface. There is a woman, shorn hair, a bandage above her eye, small bruises along her neck; the distorted reflection is a reminder of what was taken. Only I don’t know what I had, so I wouldn’t know what was taken.
“A few weeks at least. Perhaps longer. Devil’s Bay is not as quick as the rest of the world.”
As if to punctuate his point, the lights flicker twice and then surrender completely. The kitchen sinks into darkness and I steady myself against the island, keeping something solid between me and the shadow-ladened archways leading to the rest of the house.
Doctor Lazarus moves immediately. There’s a creak of a cabinet door, the clatter of glass. A moment later, a flare of light ignites as he opens a lantern. He sets it on the counter, then lights several candles in swift succession. The shadows leap back, snarling along the edges of the room.
“Rule number one here,” he says quietly. “Keep the darkness away as best you can.”
I part my lips to ask what he means, but a sharp, metallic clank echoes from the dining room. Metal on wood.
His head jerks toward the sound.
“What was that?” I whisper. The darkness at the edge of the archway seems to thicken. My legs move of their own accord, carrying me to his side. The fear feels irrational, like something a child would cling to, yet it grips me all the same. It feels as if something could crawl out of the thick darkness and drag me away.
Dr. Lazarus notices my apprehension and raises an eyebrow. “Scared of the dark?”
“Maybe. New place and all,” I say with a weak shrug, eyes never leaving the darkness.
“We’ll be okay, just give it a minute.” He tries to assure me but it’s not working.
Somewhere deeper in the house a clock chimes, the sound slicing through the tense quiet. I lift the tea to my lips, grateful for the distraction, but the warmth does little to loosen the knot in my chest.
