by Rachel Xu
He nodded, staring across the room at the unfinished unicorn. “Took about ten years to build. I'm still not finished.”
“No kidding? You actually hollowed out the tree, made the walls, the jewels, and all the carvings?”
He smiled bashfully. “Yeah.”
A thought came to her. “Did you sculpt all those gargoyles lining the pathway, too?”
“Huh? No.” He met her eyes and straightened his back, blinking once. “Oh, yes, I mean. Yes, I made those, too.” He looked down and fiddled with the edging of the tape that held the gauze in place on his arm.
“Ian . . . This might seem silly, but—please indulge me.”
He glanced at her and one of his dark eyebrows twitched. “Okay?”
“The first gargoyle at the entrance to the forest—he is holding an orb . . . ”
“Yes. They light up when they detect motion.”
“Yes, of course. I realize that. It's just that, two nights ago, I could've sworn I saw the first light fall to the ground. But when I came out here this morning, it was back in place.”
“That's not possible. It's attached to a wire which runs through the arm and into the base. You'd have to break off the fingers to remove the bulb.”
“So . . . you didn't repair it?”
“Nope. Wasn't broken. You must've been seeing things.” He went back to picking at the gauze on his arm, looking like a sulky little boy. He glanced at her sidelong. “Is that all you wanted to ask?”
“Well . . . ” She gathered her hair in one hand and let go again. “If you're open to questions, answer me this one: Why did my grandfather make us co-heirs? Surely you know. Hannah says we aren't related.”
A long pause.
“No, we aren't related, that's for sure. I was an orphan, the old man took me in. Guess he wanted some company in that ancient mansion of his.”
“So, you're adopted.”
“Not exactly.”
“But you can't keep a child that isn't your own without first going through some kind of legal process—can you?” She turned toward him, pulling a knee up on the bed and gripping her shin.
He didn't make eye contact—just sat there hunched over, fiddling with his bandages. A white scar ran along his jawline to his chin, about an inch long.
“No one ever came looking for me, so there was no need.” His dark hair was black in contrast to the bright multicolored walls. She wondered if this was actually his bedroom.
“Did you ever know your parents?”
A slight nod. “Yes. My mother was . . . ” He cleared his throat. “She was killed. And my father . . . well, I guess you could say he's dead, too.”
This was opening up way too many new questions and she'd barely begun to ask about the bejeweled tree fort they were sitting in. As much as she wanted to learn more, she needed to get things back on track or they'd be here all night.
“I know I've asked before, but how did my grandfather get to be so rich?”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, showing exaggerated patience. “Like I said the last time you asked—I don't know!”
“So, he never told you.”
“No—and I never asked.”
She huffed. It was like pulling teeth to get any information from him. “Why didn't he ever contact my mother? He left us to live in near poverty.”
“Lily—” He twisted to face her head on. “In all honestly, until he died, I had no idea you even existed.”
She searched his eyes, trying to read them. They were beautiful eyes, intense and provocative. But there was a certain coldness to them as well. She hoped it wasn't violence.
“Frankly, I was shocked when his will was read to me,” he went on, sounding truthful. “But now I must admit, I'm glad to have . . . met you.” He broke eye contact and she sensed that come-and-go awkwardness again. One minute he was relaxed and confident, the next reticent and bumbling. It was endearing somehow.
“Why?” she asked softly, hoping he'd tell her that he was as captivated by her as she was with him. He was so close she could smell his cologne: overwhelmingly masculine, but also faint. It suited him.
“Because now Hannah has someone else to fuss over—” he said, “making more breathing space for me.” He laughed and winked at her, no longer shy. The smile lingered on his face.
She smiled pleasantly to hide her disappointment. “And here I was expecting some kind of romantic, poetic lines about your undying love.”
“Poetry? The day I start spouting poetry, put me out of my misery.”
She let out a belt of laughter, swatting his shoulder. “You crack me up.”
The smile faded. “So, what's up with you and Mike?” He spoke in a lower tone now, dropping his gaze. The awkwardness was back.
“What do you mean?”
“When you had that scare in the pool room . . . he was the one you went to for help.”
“That's because I didn't know where your room was—and for that matter, I didn't even know if you were okay! The last time I saw you, you were unconscious in a puddle of your own blood.” She glanced at his hands and startled.
The abrasions on his knuckles were gone.
How could they possibly have vanished in only two days?
“Why are—” She hesitated. “What happened to the scuffs on your hand?”
He jumped to his feet, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling, and crossed the room in two strides, folding his arms. “Why can't you just mind your own business? Why must you continually badger me with endless questions? I have things to do.”
She left the cot and stepped in front of him, forcing him to look down at her. “Like what, Ian? Let me guess: You want me to leave so that you can just sit here and sulk like a child.”
“I think you should go now,” he said quite evenly, though his gaze was fierce.
She sighed. His unpredictable mood swings confused her; made her uneasy.
“Look—” he said, “you want to know everything about me, but you haven't told me a single thing about yourself.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and blushed. “That's because you've never asked me anything.”
He studied her face a moment, the angry look in his eyes fading and filling up with something else.
Her pulse picked up a notch.
Without warning, he wrapped his good arm around her waist and pulled her against him, pressing his warm lips into hers.
She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck and closing her eyes, heart pounding wildly.
He broke the kiss but didn't let go of her.
She was speechless and could only blink.
Ian's dark gaze bore into her own, eyes sharpening with passion. He leaned in to kiss her again, but stopped. Letting go of her waist, he stepped around her and leaned into the work table with his palms, his back to her.
Bewildered, she moved toward him and touched his shoulder blade with her fingertips. His back stiffened.
“What's wrong, Ian?”
He let out an exhale. “It's just that . . . ”
She pressed her hand against his upper back in a comforting manner. “It's just what?”
He sidestepped her hand and turned around, scowling. Something not unlike hatred flashed in his eyes, making her suddenly afraid. “This is no good,” he spoke in an undertone.
“What are you talking about?” She gripped her forearm in a self-conscious manner.
The passion was gone, like a snuffed-out flame.
He glanced toward the darkened window and swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. A look of fear filled his eyes. “What time is it?” He grabbed her wrist and tugged back the sleeve, exposing her watch. “Nightfall is coming—we need to go.”
She pulled her arm away and rubbed her wrist. “Or what—you'll turn into a werewolf?”
“Funny. Let's go.” He scooted her toward the ladder and she shucked hi
m off.
“I have my own two legs.”
With the way he was acting, she couldn't wait to get away from him.
As soon as they were out of the tree, Ian grabbed Lily's wrist again and fairly dragged her down the path, ignoring her protests. He hated to be so hands on but there was no time to explain.
It was twilight.
How had he lost track of time like that? Night was falling fast and he must get her out of the forest—now.
A faint tune of a bird's song filled his ears.
No—it couldn't be this late already.
Scooping her up into his arms, he pounded down the uneven path, struggling to see where he was going as she fought to break free from his grasp.
“Put me down—” she yelped, unable to move within the strength of his arms.
It was too dark to see her face clearly but he knew she was afraid of him. Nevertheless, he gripped her body tighter to his chest and ran. It killed him to be rough with her like this but she would just have to despise him—he wasn't about to slow down, and he wasn't going to let go of her either.
He strained to see the yard up ahead as he rounded the bend in the pathway. The white streams of light from the gargoyle orbs had the path lit up in zig-zags like Zebra stripes. He reached the ebony gargoyle and tore out across the grass.
The sky above hung low, pewter clouds blotting out the moon and stars.
He reached the mansion and yanked open the back door, barging inside. Setting Lily down on her feet, he whipped around and bolted the door.
It was over.
She was safe.
“Ian!” She stood glaring at him with feet wide apart and hair windblown, hands on her hips. “You're acting like a crazy person. What was that!” A pink flush mantled her cheeks, lips red, and green eyes wide and bright.
“I told you . . . there are, there are wolves out there,” he said lamely, rubbing the back of his neck. “They come out at night.” Ouch.
“You acted like a monster was at your heels.”
“Hey—you might not care about your life, but I'd rather not get eaten just yet.” Argh, this was impossible.
“So, you're deathly afraid of wolves—I get it. Yet, funny thing, no one's ever been attacked by one here. Yes—I've inquired.”
He stared at her wide-eyed, knowing she could see his desperation; there was nothing he could say to appease her now.
“I'm sorry, Ian,” she said, “but I think you've lived alone for far too long. When someone is kept away in a secluded house without getting out or seeing new people, it starts to affect them . . . ”
“You think I'm mentally ill.”
“I think you need help.” She dropped her hands to her sides.
That hurt. More than he cared to admit.
All he wanted to do was go straight back to his workshop and be alone—like the crazy person she thought he was. But he couldn't do that right now, not after the whole wolf story. He'd have to sleep in the mansion another night.
He narrowed his eyes and said nothing.
With a look of exasperation, Lily took off down the hall; he let her go without following.
Chapter 10
Lily sat on the gold damask fabric of one of the two matching settees in her room, her slippered feet crossed at the ankles and perched on the coffee table, her hands clasped behind her head. It was four in the morning and she hadn't had any success at sleeping. There was too much on her mind—too much uncertainty.
Though her room was heated by a cast iron radiator, she'd lit a fire in the marble fireplace, and had been prodding it now and again for the past three hours, adding more wood as needed. The night sky was cloudy and no moonlight shone through the windows. They were nothing but draped black wedges in the wall. A milk-glass lamp on the fireplace mantel provided an orange glow to the sitting area, as did a matching one on the end table next to the canopy bed. Otherwise, the rest of the room—the corners, the nooks, the ceiling—were dark and shadowed.
She didn't know what to make of Ian Hawke.
He seemed so normal half the time and then he'd say or do such bizarre things—really frightening things. How could a man who was so afraid of wolves, have the guts and daring to swim around in a tank full of sharks? She'd gladly face a wolf over a shark any day. And how had he carried her all that way with a mangled arm?
Earlier, she'd spent some time examining the carvings on her bed's headboard and the surface of the chest of drawers. The images were so similar to what she'd seen on the front of Ian's tree shed, she was almost certain he'd done this work as well. The carvings were remarkable and exquisite, carefully polished. He could make a fortune selling them. But then, he had no need of income. She wondered again if the jewels lining the walls of his work shed were real or just glass look-a-likes.
Hungry, she briefly considered investigating the kitchen pantry for a snack, but after her experience in the pool room the night before, she didn't have the nerve to wander around. It was also difficult to believe the police officer's deductions; they didn't add up. And with the way Ian had bolted the door that evening, she doubted the front door of the mansion had been left unlocked for anyone to just stroll on in. Then again, he did leave his work shed unlocked. Ugh. It was all so maddening. Perhaps he wasn't as cautious during moments of paranoia, if he was suffering from such a thing. But even then, if the door had been left unbolted, how could an elderly woman with dementia possibly have had the strength to drag Lily up the stairs and all the way down the corridor to the front entrance? And even more unsettling—how had the woman known her name?
A muffled cry sounded from out in the hallway.
Lily bolted to her feet and rushed to the door, straining to hear through the heavy wood. Someone was indeed crying again—just like the other night. But the cries were fading and moving away . . . downward.
She opened the door a crack and peeked out into the hallway. All the rooms were dark—no crack of light beneath any of the doors—and none of the wall sconces were lit. The hallway was tar black without moonlight.
Moving slowly, she reached out and felt for the staircase newel post. Finding it, she held the rail and followed the stairs downward, attempting to avoid any creaky spots.
The cries continued faintly below. Had Sally returned and broken in again, or was it Hannah crying, as she'd originally suspected?
A chill ran up her spine at the thought.
Was it possible that it was actually Hannah who had attacked her in the pool room?
She considered retreating, locking herself in her room and hiding under the blankets till morning. Pausing on the landing, she took a deep breath and tried to steady her nerves. The cries were only a few feet away.
“Hello?” she squeaked, gripping the railing like a life line.
The cries stopped and a figure, blacker than the darkness, leaped out from behind the staircase and started down the corridor.
“Wait—!” Lily hurried down the last four steps and went after it. The hunching figure was only a meter ahead of her now, shuffling as though tired.
“Stop—” she said, overtaking it.
“Get away from me,” a woman gasped as Lily grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.
“Oh, Hannah—what's the matter?”
Tears glistened on the housekeeper's face, her white hair all awry.
“I told you to leave me alone,” she cried, collapsing to her knees.
“Please talk to me, Hannah. What is it?” She knelt down next to the housekeeper and wrapped her arm around her shoulders for support. “You can tell me.”
Hannah lifted a soggy tissue and dabbed it at her eyes. “It's just . . . Auguste.” She moaned and put her head in her hands. “I miss him so much. I . . . loved him.”
Lily's heartbeat slowed with sudden understanding. The housekeeper was still in mourning. “Were you together?”
Hannah shook her head and sniffed. “No. I never told him my true feelings . . . ” She let out a sob and
stared up at the vaulted ceiling; indiscernible in the darkness. “My poor poor, Auguste. What happened to you?”
Lily didn't know what to say, so she gave the housekeeper's shoulder another squeeze.
Hannah looked at Lily. “He didn't die of a heart attack, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“You found his cane up in the attic—remember? He never went anywhere without his cane.”
“Maybe that's where he had the heart attack? Tried to hurry to get help and lost his cane?”
“No—it was that cursed attic! Whenever he went up there, he was never quite the same when he came back down again. Eventually he had the door removed and completely sealed up the entrance. I have no idea what he used to do up there, but it seemed to eat away at him.”
“Wouldn't the police have investigated if any foul play was suspected?”
“The police are fools,” she said bitterly, dabbing her eyes again.
Lily swallowed a lump in her throat, butterflies tingling in her stomach. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you—do you think he was murdered?”
“I know he was.”
“Does anyone else think so? . . . Does Ian?”
“We discussed it yesterday afternoon. He said the cane being there didn't mean anything.”
Lily pursed her lips. Perhaps the poor woman's grief was taking a toll. Surely the police would have investigated if there were any question.
“I raised that boy and I can tell when he's lying,” she said pointedly, locking gaze with Lily. She was no longer crying.
“Yes, I've noticed it's difficult to get a straight answer from him.”
“Mhm. He's like your grandfather in that way.” Hannah continued to speak in an undertone. “So secretive—shutting out anyone who tries to care for him. He really hit rock bottom after Auguste died. Spent his days locked up in that tree fort of his, not even joining us for meals. Until now.” She took Lily's hand in her own. They were soft and wrinkled. “Until you arrived.”
“What do you mean?”
“He likes you. But I doubt he'd ever admit it. He's a fool when it comes to emotions—just like Auguste was. Acts like he doesn't need anyone in the world. But when I look at him—at Ian—all I see is that poor little orphan boy. . . . A boy starved for love. You know, when he was young, he followed me around just like a shadow. Always needed someone to be nearby.” She sighed and let go of Lily's hand, looking over her shoulder at the cavernous corridor beyond them. “But as he got older,” she went on, “Auguste tainted him, I guess—turned him into a young version of his own, twisted self.”