4. Wolfe
WOLFE
I retreat to my bedroom, my heart pounding wildly.
My face burns beneath the mask, and not from the scars, but from shame, from exposure, from the memory of her eyes on my ruined flesh.
Except, she didn't… recoil.
The thought circles my mind like a predator, dangerous and impossible to ignore. I pace the length of my room.
Gothic decor meets modern comfort here: with an enormous four-poster bed with dark curtains, antique furniture alongside state-of-the-art technology hidden within vintage casings.
The walls are deep burgundy, lined with bookcases filled with everything from classic literature to technical manuals on everything from stage make-up to special effects.
It’s a reflection of my personal taste to a T.
I stop at the ornate mirror that dominates one wall, a relic from my grandmother's time.
Slowly, I remove the mask.
The face that stares back is the one I've lived with for eleven years. The right side—normal, unremarkable even. Strong jaw, green eye, lines beginning to form at the corner from age and stress. The left—a roadmap of violence. Scarred tissue pulls my eye slightly downward, then there’s the melted cartilage of my ear, and the rippled surface where skin grafts took but never quite matched.
The path of destruction continues down my neck, across my shoulder, and along my left arm where I shielded my face from the worst of the blast.
Ash saw this…the woman who stirs something inside of me I’ve long put to rest.
A knock at my door startles me and I quickly replace the mask. "What?"
"It's Ghost." His voice is muffled through the heavy wood. "We need to talk."
I consider ignoring him, but that never works. The bastard is persistent as hell.
I open the door and he pushes past me into the room.
"What happened in the gallery?" he asks.
"Howie's system malfunctioned," I reply flatly. "And he better fix it before someone gets hurt."
"Not what I meant." Ghost leans against the bedpost and crosses his arms. "Something happened between you and Ash."
“Why, did she say something?” The desperation in my voice sounds pathetic even to my own ears.
His expression is almost amused. “It’s just a hunch.”
I turn away, moving to the window where rain continues to lash against glass. Lightning flashes, illuminating the sea of mud below. "My mask slipped."
Ghost is silent for a moment. "And?"
"And nothing. She saw my face. End of story."
"Then why did you run off?"
I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. "I didn’t run off."
"Could've fooled me." He drops into a leather armchair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "You know what I think?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me anyway."
"I think you're more afraid of her not being horrified than you are of her being disgusted."
The accuracy of his statement hits like an arrow through the heart. I turn to face him, jaw clenched, and lie. "That's ridiculous."
Ghost raises an eyebrow. "You've built your whole identity around being the Beast of Marsden Manor. What happens if someone you have feelings for sees past that and doesn't run screaming?”
Feelings? "She's a photographer," I say dismissively. "She's…trained not to react. Doesn't mean anything."
"Keep telling yourself that." Ghost rises from the chair. "Power's still out in the west wing and the storm's getting worse. Lee says we might lose the main generator soon."
"I'll check the backup systems," I say, grateful for the change of subject.
"Already did. We've got a limited amount of emergency power if the main goes." He pauses at the door. "But you should take her around yourself while you can. Show her the place through your eyes."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you want to." He says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, then he leaves before I can argue.
I stand there, Ghost's words echoing in my head.
Then I head for the blue room. I tell myself I'm just being a decent host, but something deeper, something I've kept buried for years, whispers a different truth.
I knock sharply on her door. No answer. I knock again, louder.
"Ash?" I call, an unfamiliar nervousness creeping into my voice. "Are you there?"
Still nothing. Concern overrides hesitation as I try the handle. The door swings open to an empty room. Her camera bag sits on the antique writing desk, but there's no sign of her.
Does she ever listen?
I move through the manor with the casual ease of someone who knows every creaking floorboard, every hidden passage.
The main areas are illuminated by emergency lighting, shadows sliding over lavish wallpaper and priceless antiques.
I check the gallery first, then the library, then the music room. No Ash.
A scream cuts through the stillness, followed by a crash.
I break into a run, following the sound to the conservatory—a room we've transformed into the "Greenhouse of Dr. Moreau" during the season.
In the dim emergency lighting, the hybrid plant-animal sculptures Howie created look disturbingly alive.
"Ash?" I call, scanning the jungle-like space.
"Over here," comes her shaky reply from behind a massive prop Venus flytrap with human-looking teeth.
I round the installation to find her sprawled on the stone floor, surrounded by broken pottery. She looks up at me with a sheepish expression.
"I may have had a slight disagreement with a carnivorous plant," she says, attempting to brush dirt from her jeans. "The plant won."
Relief floods me, quickly followed by irritation. "What did I say about wandering around on your own?"
"Not to do it." She accepts my outstretched hand, and I pull her effortlessly to her feet. "The storm light was too gorgeous not to capture over here."
I notice her camera clutched protectively in her other hand, apparently unharmed despite her fall. “You could have broken your neck instead of a flowerpot.”
“But I didn’t,” she points out, still holding my hand. “I am sorry about the pot though.”
I wave her off. “It’s no big deal. But you shouldn't be in here. The conservatory glass isn't reinforced like the main house. If the storm gets any worse?—”
As if on cue, a tremendous gust of wind howls around the glass structure, making the panels creak ominously. Rain pounds against the roof like artillery fire.
"Point taken," she says, eyeing the ceiling nervously. "Lead the way, Beast."
I bristle at the nickname, but mostly because from her it sounds...affectionate.
Hell, I must be delirious.
We quickly make our way back to the main house. As we pass through the grand foyer, a massive thunderclap shakes the manor, and all the lights die at once.
Complete darkness envelops us.
Great, now what’s wrong with the emergency lights?
I feel Ash grab my arm, her fingers digging into my bicep. My pulse jumps.
"There are candles in the library. Stay close."
"Not a problem," she says, her voice closer to my ear than I expected.
I guide her through the darkness from memory, one hand on the wall. We reach the library without incident, and I locate the old iron tinderbox on the mantle by feel.
"My grandfather insisted on keeping these," I say as I strike the flint. "Said technology would fail you when you needed it most."
"Very wise," Ash comments as the spark catches, illuminating her face in sudden, warm light.
I light a candle, then another, placing them in heavy silver holders.
The flickering flames push back the darkness, revealing the library's grandeur—two stories of books accessed by a wrought iron spiral staircase, overstuffed armchairs arranged around a massive fireplace, and mahogany tables bearing antique globes and astronomical instruments.
"Wow," Ash breathes, turning slowly to take it all in. "How fitting that the Beast has such an amazing library."
I grumble, but can’t help but smile. "It was my favorite room as a child," I admit, surprised by my own candor. "I'd hide in here for hours."
"I can see why." She runs her fingers reverently along leather-bound spines. “Are these first editions?"
"Many of them." I light the kindling already laid in the fireplace, and flames soon spread across split logs.
Ash settles into one of the chairs, looking impossibly small against its large cushions. "So...tour guide...tell me about Marsden Manor, the home. "
I hesitate, then take the chair opposite her. The firelight dances across her features, highlighting the slope of her nose, the swell of her cheeks, the poutiness of her lips. For a second, I forget what she's asked.
"The manor was built in 1886," I begin, recovering. "My great-great-grandfather made his fortune in mining and decided Montana needed a proper estate to rival those in Europe."
"Hence the Gothic overkill," she says with a smile.
"Exactly." I find myself relaxing slightly. "It's been in the family ever since, though it fell into disrepair for a while. When I...came back from overseas, it was basically derelict.”
"And you restored it."
"I needed a project. Something to focus on besides..." I trail off and she nods.
She leans forward. "How did you come up with the haunted attraction concept?"
"Necessity," I say honestly. "Restoration costs were astronomical. I needed income, and the place already looked like something from a horror movie. It seemed apropos."
"The monster in the haunted house?"
I nod. "If people are going to see me as a beast anyway," I say carefully, "I might as well profit from it."
"Is that how you see yourself?"
The question catches me off guard. I stare into the fire, watching sparks rise up the chimney. "How else would you describe this?" I gesture toward my masked face.
"As evidence," she says softly.
I look up sharply. "Evidence of what?"
"Of bravery. Sacrifice. The price paid for saving others." Her eyes hold mine steadily. "Ghost told me, you know. How you saved your men."
Anger flares. "He had no right to tell you."
"Maybe not," she concedes. "But I'm glad he did. Because it proves what I suspected from the moment I met you."