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I reach above the doorframe and grip the skeleton key in my hand. I know I have to be quick. If the men are downstairs in the wall, then they can’t be here, too. Right?
In one smooth motion, I jam the key in the lock and push on the door.
There’s no one in the painting. It’s empty.
I close the door and lock it, my eyes shifting side to side. They’re not chained up. They’re loose. They’re in the fucking walls.
Barefoot and shivering, I haul ass to Bard’s cottage in my towel. It’s freezing outside, but I don’t give a crap. I’m not spending another second in that house. They. Are. In. The. Walls.
Master follows close behind, refusing to be left alone in there either. We rush inside the cottage, and I immediately look for something to get warm. I find a clean towel in the bathroom to dry my hair. I still haven’t had the time to shop for new clothes, so I grab another pair of Bard’s gray sweats and a flannel shirt. Wearing his things, being in his empty house only makes my panic worse. He’s not here. I miss him. I’m worried what will happen.
I grab my phone and call the hospital to check on Bard’s situation. They say the brain swelling is under control, but he hasn’t woken up yet. His nephew, Mike, is finally there, though. I’m glad Bard’s not alone and that someone from his family is with him.
I leave my number with the nurse to pass along to Mike. “Please have him call if anything changes or if he needs something. Otherwise, I’ll be there in the morning.” It’s over an hour’s drive between the hospital and River Wall Manor, so I’m guessing Mike will want to stay somewhere closer to Bard. I wouldn’t offer Mike a room here regardless. Who knows if it’s safe?
“I’ll pass along the message,” she says.
“Thank you.” I end the call. My hands are still trembling from my revelation. Where is that Lake from earlier, the one who stormed out of the taxi this morning, ready to unleash hell on these…these creatures who’ve intruded on my life?
I have to calm down and get a grip. First, I should come up with a plan—something to hold things together until Bard’s awake. He’ll know what to do.
Until then, I can’t let Alwar and his men know I’ve learned their secret: They’re not chained up.
But why are they still here? Why pretend they’re prisoners?
I look at Master, who’s curled up on the couch. “Why do I feel like absolutely everyone’s lying?”
Master glances my way and closes his eyes.
“Thought so.” He’s useless.
My mind reels with what to do next. I do not want to go back in there, but Alwar said I have to feed them as part of an agreement between the Norfolks and themselves.
Another lie?
Maybe. Maybe not.
But every interaction I’ve had, Alwar’s begged for food. And now that I know the Wall Men aren’t prisoners, it’s important I don’t rock the boat or provoke them to make a move until I know what to do.
“Any idea what I should feed these bastards?” I ask Master.
Master still can’t be bothered.
I pivot in the center of Bard’s living room. He’s a chef. A damned good one. He’ll have plenty of supplies to make a meal.
I go into his small kitchen. It has an old gas stove and knotty pine cupboards Bard made himself. The curtains over the window above the sink are made from an old flannel shirt.
That’s Bard. Mr. Rustic.
I open the door to his walk-in pantry, which he also built when he did an addition some years ago.
I look inside the small room that’s bursting with supplies. On one side are typical pantry items, such as flour, sugar, spices, and canned goods. On the other side is his collection of cookbooks.
I don’t know what I’m searching for, but logic says if Bard has been feeding the Wall Men, he’s written down the recipes.
I start at the top shelf of books, squinting through the As. Ancient Rome, Ancient Aztec. Ancient Egypt.
Got enough ancient recipes, Bard? Why would anyone want to write a cookbook for a people who only had a handful of ingredients to eat. Maybe someday, I’ll read them and find out.
I jump to the second shelf. Most of the books are about BBQ and smoking, for both preservation and flavor.
My eyes skim the next seven shelves. There must be over two hundred books on foraging, nuts, bugs, mushrooms, game, edible flowers, ancient grains, dried fruits, and butchering animals.
Why does his collection focus on primitive cooking?
Bard is a Paris-trained chef. We’re talking delicate cream sauces, duck confit demi-glaces, and poached quail eggs with truffles. There isn’t one book on nouveau French cuisine. Nor Italian, Middle Eastern, Japanese, Spanish, or anything else. If I had to label it, I’d call the collection B.C. Before Cuisine. This is food in its most basic form.
