Prologue It Was the Worst of Times
Prologue: It Was the Worst of Times
Mina
One Month Ago, London, England 1888
A small smile pulls at my lips as I hear Reggie coo, talking to the animals that are slowly spinning on his mobile, the little happy noises just for them. I look toward the cradle as I carefully place a stack of nightgowns into the small trunk, tucking the bonnets in on top of them before I close the lid.
He’s so content.
It’s only been a few minutes at most since the sweet six-month-old boy woke from his nap, his eyes opening with a smile on his face. I gave him a bottle, sang his favorite nursery rhyme, then settled him in with his animals, and he’s been perfectly content entertaining himself while I finish packing his things. Packing everything for what will no doubt be a grueling trip.
A trip back home.
I pause at the thought, sighing as I try to push aside the melancholy that comes along with it.
The idea of returning to the place I once called home, a place that I never truly felt I belonged to, has brought on a depression so great I fear it could consume me.
The depression, the grief. The pain of leaving London. It’s been so deep that I feel it in my bones. If I didn’t have Reggie to care for, I know my thoughts would have pushed me into a melancholy so severe that Mrs. Hughes would have had no choice but to send me to the mad house.
Thank god for that sweet little boy.
He isn’t mine, not by any definition of the word, but that baby boy has been my saving grace in more ways than I can explain to anyone willing to listen.
There isn’t anyone who is, so I don’t have to try, but it doesn’t change my affections for him.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t change this all-consuming sadness, either, and I don’t understand it.
These feelings I have about returning to America are so bizarre, and so much stronger than anything I’ve felt before. Even when my father died, I wasn’t sad like this; I didn’t ache, didn’t feel like I’d be sailing to my death instead of a new life. I’m starting to wonder if I should take myself to the mad house since it’s been weeks of feeling this way without an explanation.
Ever since I was told I’d be leaving London.
It feels as though I’m being ripped out of my real home, torn from some profound sense of belonging, and deprived of a deep-rooted love.
The minute I set foot on English soil, my sad little soul flickered to life, and when I took my first lungful of London air, I knew this was where I was meant to be.
Mr. Hughes and his wife were visiting family in New York when they found out they were pregnant, and since they’d had so much trouble conceiving prior to that, they decided to stay until after the baby was born. Which is how I came to be employed by them.
My father worked for Mr. Hughes’ brother—a wealthy man who decided to set up a shipping business in New York that exclusively imported and exported goods from London—and he did so up until he became ill then died mere weeks before the couple came to visit. Since my mother passed during childbirth and my father was the only family I had left, Mr. Hughes’s brother took pity on me, the unwed spinster omega in her early thirties , suggesting they hire me as a maid in order to help the missus in her newly realized condition, to which they agreed.
I cooked and cleaned, ran errands as well as the house, and I made Mrs. Hughes as comfortable as possible while she experienced various complications with her pregnancy. It was tedious work, work I was used to since it was mostly what I was doing for my father before he died, but the couple treated me well, paid me better, and allowed me to live with them during their time in New York. I assumed it would end once Mrs. Hughes gave birth, I figured I’d be let go as soon as they were ready to return to London, but that wasn’t the case.
No, Mrs. Hughes asked me to come with them because she was so frail and had no idea what to do with a baby, and she trusted me after so many months of working for her.
While I was flattered to a degree and appreciated her kind words no matter how insincere they were, I knew deep down she wanted me to stay because she felt no real attachment to sweet little Reggie.
I became his nanny and developed my own ardent attachment to the fair-haired, blue-eyed babe, and separating from him didn’t seem like an option regardless of what my instincts were telling me.
What they’d been telling me ever since the head of the Hughes’s household shook my hand, scoffed in my face, and tried to make me feel small despite the fact that I’m taller by at least two inches.
My instincts said that Mr. Hughes wasn’t as straight and narrow as his more successful brother, and he was dangerous because of it.
I couldn’t care less about either of the slimy, little excuse for an alpha, or his waste of space omega. Reggie was my priority, and I wasn’t going to leave him alone with such awful people.
So, London became home.
Home in so many ways, ways I can’t put a name to, and don’t fully understand. It’s why, when my employers unexpectedly told me they were moving back to New York so the mister could aid his brother with the shipping business… That’s when the melancholia set in.
I don’t want to leave the city, but I don’t want to leave Reggie either, and my need to stay with him has only grown to rather urgent levels over the last few weeks. Ever since Mr. Hughes’s behavior took a turn for the strange and unusual.
With a sigh, I grab the next trunk and go back to packing.
Just the essentials Mr. Hughes had said.
Pack only what we absolutely needed, what could be carried by the few staff he’s bringing with us, and everything else would be shipped or repurchased once we arrived in New York.
Which was odd, considering the fact that my employers both seem to be very fixated on keeping up appearances, therefore have some of the finest clothing and furniture money can buy.
Money I’m afraid they don’t really have, so why leave most of it behind?
Not that it’s any of my business.
Outside of overseeing the staff and caring for Reggie, I have no business with the Hughes or their finances at all, but I may have done a little snooping one afternoon, and now know that the mister has a lot of debt. Almost fifteen thousand pounds of it, and I’m worried that has something, if not everything, to do with his strange behavior, and the sudden need to leave the country.
The man is definitely up to something, that I know for sure.
Long nights at work.
Secretive meetings with mysterious investors.
Mr. Hughes is edgy, jumpy almost, and he’s quick to anger over every little thing that happens at home.
He doesn’t like when Reggie fusses, claiming the noise gives him headaches then he’ll seclude himself in his office until it’s asleep . He’s become extremely terse with the missus, annoyed when she questions him, always giving her clipped or short answers. I don’t think I’ve seen them share a pleasant interaction in months, and Mrs. Hughes will be having her heat soon, which presents an entirely separate set of issues for them both.
If I didn’t know that they stopped sharing any kind of unplanned, voluntary intimacy after their son was born, and Mrs. Hughes was glad for it—she gets a little chatty when she indulges in her after dinner drinks—I’d be convinced her husband was stepping out on her, and they were having marital issues. But the missus has gone into great detail over all the ways he’s disappointed her in that regard, as well as how her husband couldn’t get himself a mistress because of it, so I doubt that’s it.
After taking a peek at his ledgers, I’m more certain now than ever that it’s related to bad business, and even worse choices.
Something that will affect all of us when it comes down to it.
I smooth my hands over the neat stacks of baby clothes then cover them with the linen before closing the second trunk.
Wait.
I open it again and glance around the room, my eyes landing on the rocking chair where Reggie’s favorite toy sits. It’s a rag doll fashioned to look like a bear, one that I made for him from scraps of fabric I collected from the sewing room.
“We can’t leave without Bear now, can we, sweet boy?” After crossing the small room, I retrieve the well-loved item with a smile on my face. “Bear has to come with us or else…” I frown when I realize Reggie has stopped cooing.
My eyes shift to the cradle, the baby silent and unmoving, and when I take a step toward him, I can see his bright blue gaze now fixed on the partially open bedroom door. My own follows as I clutch the bear to my chest, my feet carrying me slowly toward the hall, and as soon as I peer out toward the banister, a voice booms from downstairs, and I jump.
“It’s time, Hughes.”
I swallow thickly as I creep into the hall, stopping just shy of the railing so I don’t draw any attention to myself.
“I… Now see here, Pelifer, I told you I’d repay my debt so long as you agreed—”
“ Agreed ?” The unfamiliar voice chuckles. “So long as I agreed to your terms? Oh, I think not, Reginald.”
Slowly, I inch closer to the staircase as Mr. Hughes clears his throat. “If you could just give me, allow me a little more time… I’ve eight thousand pounds on hand right now, that’s more than half of what I owe. I’ll run up to my office and—”
“Enough!” I jump as the unknown man shouts, “Enough of your games, enough of your lies.”
He was lying.
Mr. Hughes’s office is downstairs in the back of the house, and the fact that this man knows my employer lied to him about it must mean they have a history. One that isn’t very pleasant if it meant he had to have looked into the Hughes’s estate deep enough to learn the layout because I know everyone who comes in and goes out of this house, and that other voice has never set foot inside until now.
“Midnight. You said I have until midnight,” Mr. Hughes pleads. “I’ll come up with the balance by then. I’ll do whatever I have to; sell my house, my belongings. I’ll—”
“If any of those things were viable options to obtain the money needed to pay your debt, why haven’t you entertained them until now?” There are a few seconds of silence, a silence so heavy I can physically feel it, before the stranger continues. “Just as I thought. Not only did you have no intent to pay, but you were going to leave before I had a chance to collect. Isn’t that right, Reginald?”
I lean a little closer to the railing, close enough that I can see Mr. Hughes at the bottom of the staircase, and for a split second I have to wonder if he’s standing there in order to prevent this Pelifer from coming up here and discovering Reggie.
Disconnected from the sweet baby or not, I’d like to think my employer isn’t so heartless that he’d allow any harm to come to a child, especially one he created with his wife after trying so long to do so. Something in the back of mind says otherwise, though.
Their child has been a burden, an inconvenience to both of them ever since he was born, and deep down I know Mr. Hughes isn’t standing at the bottom of the stairs in order to protect anyone but himself somehow.
“Correct again,” the unknown man—Pelifer—says, a hint of a smile filling his tone. I see a shadow move in front of Mr. Hughes then it goes back and forth slowly a few times, and I hear the man’s footsteps as he begins to pace. Then I hear another set of footsteps, heavy ones that remind me of a horse walking through a stable, but I can’t see where they’re coming from. “Since you made no real effort to honor our deal, I myself have decided to do the same. You no longer have until midnight, and since you cannot provide the fifteen thousand pounds you owe, I’ve come to collect the alternate form of payment.”
I watch on bated breath as the shadow stops moving, as the third person downstairs with my employer and Pelifer steps closer to them, though the strangers remain just out of view, and when Mr. Hughes gasps no, please! my eyes widen in horror.
Mrs. Hughes is shoved toward the bottom of the stairs, maybe a foot in front of her husband, her hands bound behind her back, her mouth gagged with her own handkerchief, and tears streaming down her usually flawless face.
“Please,” Mr. Hughes pleads. “Please don’t, don’t—no!”
Without so much as a word, Mrs. Hughes is forced to her knees, dropping in front of her husband with a painful thud. Two dark colored hands come into view next, a pair that begins working together to grip her forehead and tip her head back, while the other produces a dagger, and holds it to her throat.
“A body for every month you were late, Hughes.” Quicker than lightning, the right hand drags the blade across Mrs. Hughes’s flesh, her husband screaming as her blood spurts and splatters against the front of his suit.
I barely muffle my gasp as I watch in horror, the missus falling to the floor, her body completely limp and motionless, save for the way her mouth opens and closes like a fish on dry land. From here I can see her face, the way she fell, giving me a clear view so I can see the life flicker out of the lady of the house, see it drain from her eyes, and pool in the large puddle of blood gathering around her lifeless body.
Oh my god.
Oh my god, she’s dead .
That man, that stranger, Pelifer just murdered Mrs. Hughes in cold blood, killed her in her home right in front of her husband, and I saw it.
I saw it.
I shake my head as my eyes well with tears, as fear and disbelief begin pumping through my veins, every bit of my body shaking so hard it has my adrenaline spiking.
I should leave. I know I should leave. I should take off and run screaming from this house in search of help, but I’m rooted to the spot.
I can’t move, I can barely breathe.
My eyes are completely fixed on the murdered missus, and I continue watching as a shiny, expensive looking shoe steps over Mrs. Hughes, bringing with it an extremely fine maroon suit fitted tightly to a lean body. One that looks oddly strange and… Oh my god.
Beautiful, deep bronze skin, a face more perfect and flawless than any I’ve seen before, but completely covered in markings. Starting at the collar of his shirt there are tiny raised white dots that swirl in the most unusual patterns, extending from jaw to hairline where Pelifer’s hair is in thick ropes of deep black that fall to his waist. And his eyes? His eyes are just as black, and dark as the night sky. They are empty and hollow, yet somehow, still full of the only emotion I imagine he’s experienced; hate. A hate I can feel radiating off of him, even from all the way up here.
He leans toward a visibly panicked and fearful Mr. Hughes, sneering as he exposes rows of gleaming white, razor sharp teeth. “It’s time, Hughes.”
Without another word, Pelifer lifts his hand and slits my employer’s throat the same way he did to his wife. Mr. Hughes’s hands fly to the wound, grasping and trying to cover it as his blood sprays through his fingers then gushes as his body falls to the bottom stair with a sickening thud.
Tears roll down my cheeks as I watch Pelifer pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe the dagger clean, his stare fixed on the body at his feet, the body that twitches and jerks until it finally stills.
Dead.
My employers are dead, and I witnessed their murders.
Holy shit.
Which is the exact moment my instincts finally kick in.
Reggie.
With my hand still over my mouth to keep myself quiet, I carefully begin backing away from the banister, slowly putting that horrible stranger out of sight, but when I take a third step, my foot comes down over the only creaky floorboard in the entire upstairs, and Pelifer’s eyes snap to mine.
A slow, evil smile splits his lips, and for a moment, I’m frozen in place.
My entire body breaks out into goosebumps, rippling with a chill so icy I feel it wrap around my heart, tightening as it pounds furiously in my chest. The hate I felt from him amplifies, and it becomes consuming, almost suffocating, and then the undercurrent of his aura surges, and I feel a second wave wash over me; power.
Pelifer is full of hate, but he has a hunger for power, ultimate power, living inside of him so strongly it’s like a disease, a sickness that’s crawled through his veins and spider-webbed through every inch of his wretched body.
We stare at each other for a few moments, my legs unwilling to move no matter how hard I try, and just when I think this creature is going to leap up the stairs and drag me back down by my hair, a noise from behind him has his black eyes flicking over his shoulder briefly.
“Get her,” he snaps, breaking the spell he seemed to have over me, and I act quickly so he can’t cast another one.
I spin on my heel and run toward Reggie’s room, quickly scooping up the sweet baby, and clutching him to my chest. I dart into the hall as those footsteps, the heavy horse-like footsteps move up the stairs, and when what appears to be horns like that of a bull’s, sitting on a head full of long, dark brown and red hair comes into view, my fear skyrockets.
What is that ?
I run down the long hallway past my room, and the washroom, past the linen closets, and guest bedrooms. I keep running as I hold Reggie tight to my body, only stopping when I get to the Hughes’s master wing at the end, and pray the doors are unlocked.
Gripping the knob tight, I glance over my shoulder briefly, the thing with horns just now almost at the top of the stairs, and I have to scold myself for the curiosity trying to worm its way through the fear.
I want to see his face.
Quickly, I shake that thought away and push inside, lay the sweet little boy down on the sofa in the sitting room, then lock the doors, and begin barricading the heavy wood with everything I can. The writing desk, both high back chairs. I drag the fainting couch over then add the liquor cabinet just as the thing chasing me turns the doorknob.
I rush to Reggie and cradle him to me once again as a heavy thud bangs against the doors behind me, then run into the Hughes’s bedroom, where I repeat my actions, locking and barricading the door with everything I possibly can.
The sound of wood breaking and splintering rings out from the sitting room, and panic grips my heart, tightening and squeezing as I try to find a place to hide.
Try to no avail, until I remember the secret staircase.
The secret staircase that my employer had commissioned recently, most likely because of this very scenario.
It leads directly down to his office, which is only a few feet from the back door, and if I can get down there without being noticed, then I should be able to get Reggie and I to safety.
But it’s too late.
The second I move toward the door disguised to look like a shelf of books, the bedroom door bursts open and in stomps… a monster
Well over six feet tall, the enormous body looms in the doorway for a moment, and once again I find myself rooted to the spot, and far too curious for my own good.
Horns and the ears of a bull sit amongst the darkest brown hair, streaked in red, and falling in gentle waves past his shoulders. The face of a man, a painfully, terrifyingly beautiful man with almond shaped eyes colored the same as his hair—deep brown with red pupils. His face is covered in markings, patterns in black and red that are similar to Pelifer’s, but also different, almost as if they’re unique to him and him alone. And through his straight, almost boxy nose, sitting above full, Cupid’s bow lips, is a thick brass hoop, clearly a bullring, and it’s connected to a chain.
My eyes follow the links past rich tan skin, a wide muscled chest bare of anything but a smattering of dark hair and dozens more markings, toward a heavy leather belt where the chain appears to be connected before it splits in two directions. Again, my gaze follows the large metal links toward thick, corded forearms, arms that seem to have fur on them. There are shackles around each wrist above his hands, those a shade darker than the rest of his skin, and long fingers tipped in black flexing quickly at his sides.
I flinch as the thing— the beast— before me snorts and prods at the floor, which is when I all but scream in horror at what I see next.
The belt at his waist sits on top of what looks like a leather kilt, but what has my fear rising to a new level are his legs .
His legs that are identical to the hind legs of a bull.
Heavily muscled, covered in fur, bent and tapered in the exact same way as the animal, and completed by huge, black hooves that shift and move with agitation over the wood floor below them.
My stare snaps to his face again, the beast unmoving the moment our eyes connect, staring at me as he snorts and barely blinks.
He won’t hurt me.
The thought flickers in my mind briefly, and for some reason, I believe it.
Right up until the beast snorts again, prods at the floor, the tail I didn’t notice twitching out from behind him a few times just before he drops his head, and charges at me.
I press against the shelf behind me and squeeze my eyes shut tight, angling my body to try to cover and protect Reggie in what feels like the final moments of my thirty-four years of life, but death never comes.
Instead, I feel the beast stop with no more than an inch or two of space between us, the heat radiating from his body overwhelming, and oddly calming. He snorts next to my ear then sniffs my hair, and I swear I hear him hum in approval over the way I smell, so I try to use it to my advantage.
“Please,” I whisper, not above begging to get him to spare our lives. “Please, let us go. I won’t tell anyone what happened here, won’t tell anyone what I saw.” His nose traces the shell of my ear before pushing into my hair, the beast inhaling deeply, and in a way that has butterflies tearing through my belly. “Please… let me leave with the baby and—”
The beast pulls back abruptly, snorts and bellows before something comes down on the side of my head, and I drop to the floor in a heap from the pain that lances through my skull.
And as my mind goes fuzzy, as the world around me fades, the last thoughts I have are of Reggie.
I’m sorry, sweet boy.
I’m so very sorry.