20

T hey had caught me off guard.

Of course they had. I could not remember the last time I had seen another soul. I shuddered; that was not true. I remembered all too vividly the last person I had seen in the Manor with me, and I had watched her be gruesomely devoured in front of my eyes.

Though I hadn’t seen or experienced such evil or cruelty from the Manor, or anything within its walls myself, every fiber of my being buzzed with the need to protect. Protect the Manor, protect myself, but also protect the men who had no idea what they had stumbled into.

I brushed aside the overgrown greenery and pried open the nondescript door that led out to the back garden. They had been clever. I could award them points for thinking they had locked me in but I knew the Manor better than anyone.

The latch popped free of the wall and the door swung open. I could guess that they would be somewhere by the hallway, keeping an eye on the glass door to be sure I didn’t escape. If I skirted along the north side of the Manor I should be able to re-enter through the kitchen.

The men that had crashed into the room looked funny, dressed in clothing I had never seen before, but it had been a long time since anyone had dared wander close to the Manor; and in all my years here– however many there were, I had never seen another being be let in . I had no idea when in time I was.

The problem was that Orchid Manor had the tendency to put me to sleep, typically as punishment for acting out against it in some fashion. Sometimes only for a few days or weeks at a time, if I was behaving in ways that endangered me, like pushing against the barrier at the property line until I was thrown back so hard my ribs cracked.

Sometimes I was gone for what felt like years, especially if I tried to end my life. I shuddered at the memory of that most recent failed attempt. It made it impossible to really know when it was, all I knew is that time had passed. Regardless, the time did nothing to ease the burning need to be free. It never subsided, no matter how long I spent in the house.

I yearned for release; for freedom.

You belong to me.

The stone wall of the Manor seemed to vibrate against me as I quietly closed the door and leaned back against it. I was struck with the sudden urge to apologize.

“You’ve been so good to me,” I hummed quietly, a little piece of my resolve chipping away. I took in a deep breath of fresh air and, for the first time since waking, surveyed the expanse of the property around me. I was immediately struck by the height of the grass and the state of the overgrown and abandoned garden bed. I may have been asleep for longer than I imagined .

Quickly I picked my way through the overrun garden, careful to keep my body low and out of sight of the windows that covered the Manor. Hugging the wall, I made my way up easily to the kitchen door and slid in without issue. I let out a sigh as I managed to shut the door silently.

The kitchen had access to the servants' stairs that led up to the third floor where I most commonly found my favorite rooms. If I was able to make it all the way up unseen I might be able to have some time to myself to determine how best to persuade them to leave without upsetting the Manor.

It struck me as almost ridiculous, getting worked up over strangers, when I had spent years driving myself to madness in this solitary confinement. But the Manor had never allowed guests in before to my knowledge, not since I had arrived. Being the last to have entered, I was intimately aware of how Orchid Manor treated its guests, and if these men had families or lives out there they would want to return to… I needed to get them to leave as soon as possible. If the Manor would allow it.

I could hear them in the front parlor off the entryway. Their voices were deep and melodic murmurs through the walls that separated us. I paused in my path towards the servants’ door and instead re-routed and nestled myself between the wall of the parlor and the china cabinet in the staff dining room off the kitchen.

“It looks angry.” I recognized the voice of the one who was in the conservatory with me when I awoke.

“It is angry—we’ve been at this for ten minutes! This is the last stitch, you can do I— no, no, no, tie it off before you cut the thread you gobshite.” It must be the dark haired one that hissed but, despite the words, the delivery was light and jovial.

“ I’m the gobshite? You’re the one who got slashed open and then passed out while I stitched you up out of the very goodness of my soul. If anyone here is a gobshite it's you ...” The first voice responded, clearly enjoying the conversation. There was a softness between them that was easy to decipher even from behind the wall. “ ...Now apologize or I won’t kiss it better! ”

“Oh shove off you!” This was followed by some unplaceable noises—furniture being knocked over? And loud grunting until finally I heard “I tap! I TAP!” Followed by laughter.

Despite having looked around the same age, the blond man with curls and big green eyes was slightly shorter and had been wearing a black shirt with a strange image on it and denim that looked painted to his muscular legs. The taller one that arrived second had been dressed in a well-fitted, button-down and trousers. His dark hair had curled back off his forehead, and his blue eyes had been pensive, careful, and curious.

I pictured them now as I overheard the camaraderie going on in the other room. They seemed almost harmless in a way that I could not explain, like puppies, wrestling for dominance. But, in spite of my years of solitude, I was not about to go blindly trusting anyone—let alone any man who wandered into my home. I slid myself out of my hiding place and back into the kitchen. The Manor wanted me to play nice, and I would, but I would be a fool to not protect myself just in case.

At the opposite end of the range there was an assortment of knives, and my fingers kissed the handle of a small paring knife.

I stopped short of grabbing the handle completely, thinking about the reaction it would cause. They had guns and, well, I had tested the limits of injuries more than a few times over the years, but I had never tested guns.

I look toward the living room, their voices echoing softly among the books and furniture.

Would a gunshot end this nightmare?

“Turn around. Slowly .” A deep, thick voice with a muddled European accent spoke behind me and turned my blood to ice. My eyes flickered to the knives again, the shining metal staring up at me, tempting me to grab one. “Don’t,” the voice demanded.

There was a shotgun directed at my head, double barreled, similar to the ones that Matthew had used for hunting, except this one looked to have been sawn off to shorten it. I shuddered. Perhaps that would do the trick. In my time in the Manor, I had quickly learned that skin healed, blood cells reformed, and I couldn’t die. No matter how much I wanted to. A demented wonder filled my mind… could my head grow back?

He was tall—taller than the other two—and meaner-looking as well. Golden hair curled around his ears and licked at the nape of his neck, tucked messily into the collar of his leather jacket and tartan shirt. His hands flexed around the gun, his finger off the trigger, and his hard hazel eyes were trained on me. A feeling of familiarity thrummed through me, tangling with the caution that gripped my logical thoughts.

“Who are you?” He asked, tongue darting out over his bottom lip.

“I live here. Who are you ?” I steadied my voice in an effort to appear more confident than I felt, but I couldn’t seem to brush off the tone in his voice. Rough and demanding. A tone that was almost always followed by undeserved violence.

“No one lives in this place.” His broad shoulders angled around the long table in the middle of the kitchen, paper bags overflowing with food carefully set out on top. “Have you seen the state of it?” He scoffed.

How had I missed his arrival?

His eyes roamed down my body, no doubt taking in my odd attire, compared to his. I’d never evolved past wearing the clothing of my time. I didn’t know what was happening outside of this place, and it didn’t matter as I’d never needed to dress in order to impress anyone.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“You’re very quiet for such a large man.”

“You’re dressed pretty silly to be judging other people.” His brows furrowed.

“You’re being awfully aggressive for an intruder,” I noted, my agitation growing.

“I have a gun,” he responded.

His jaw ticked. I could see fire dancing in the golden flecks of his eyes and I angled my hand cautiously behind my back for the knife. He didn’t blink as the shotgun fired off to the left of me. My ears rang from the explosion of the gun at such a close range. Tiny shards of metal ripped through my shoulder and arm, blood pooling as my skin pinched and tore open.

“You shot me!” My mouth popped open in shock.

“I told you, I have a gun.” His voice was cool and calm, even as the blood rolled down over my skin and soaked through the sleeve of the blouse.

“Hey!” The blond, green-eyed man flew into the kitchen, the brunette on his tail without a shirt.

He slipped on his glasses and tugged the shirt over his painted arms, swirling black designs that covered every inch of his skin from wrist to neck. The markings disappeared as he buttoned it up.

“You shot her?” He exclaimed, walking toward us.

“It’s not a her .” The shotgun held steady, pointed at my face as he turned to give them a look. “It’s a ghost.”

“She’s not a ghost, Wes,” the blond said, putting out his hand.

“Look.” The dark haired one with the glasses moved closer, pointing to the blood seeping down my arm, and dragged Wes’s eyes to the scene. “She’s bleeding.”

“So it’s a ghoul.” He shook his head. “It’s not out of the realm of possibilities with the cops all being in a nest.”

“Wes,” the brunet barked. “You’re just pulling answers out of your arse.”

“Clay,” he sneered in response.

Learning their names was a small consolation for the holes in my flesh.The Manor seemed to throb in response, picking up on the racing of my heart. The cups in the cupboards rattled together as if the entire Manor was shaking, and a soft noise vibrated off them. The gunman, Wes, could hear it too, his eyes flickering to the space behind my head.

“Take a moment, think about it.” Clay turned his body, his back muscles straining under his shirt as the blond continued to inch closer to me out of their view, “Look at her hands,” he whispered, but the sound echoed in this old house, and nothing was sacred.

They were shaking, and I couldn’t get them to stop, no matter how much I tried to control them. Wes and Clay seemed locked in a hushed conversation as the other skirted closer. He put his hand out, wiggling his fingers in my direction, and smiled.

Green eyes twinkled. “I’m Koen,” he said.

He was talking to me directly, ignoring the look his counterparts tossed him for doing so. Wes tightened his grip on the gun and Clay turned to watch.

“I’m…” My eyes dropped heavily even though I could feel the Manor beginning to heal me.

The counter I was leaning on seemed to hum against me possessively.

Mine.

“Is she okay?” Clay stepped forward, lowering his face to look into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” Everything seemed to spin around me, and I let it sink me to the floor.