22. Bram
Bram
I’m in a writing groove. There’s no way I’m going to bed for hours.
Two days ago, I couldn’t find a single word worth writing.
But last night during dinner, we all sat at the table.
Well, all except Victor. We laughed and joked.
We got to know Clara better. Somehow, through her, we even got to know each other better.
We’ve been a pack for years, but seeing my packmates take care of Clara, joke with her, find purpose in her, gave each of us a whole new side of one another.
I came to this house hoping the gothic atmosphere and secluded town would give me the inspiration I needed. But it’s Clara, with her haunting beauty and her clear apprehension about whatever’s going on here, that truly broke my writer’s block.
The story flows through me in a way it hasn’t in years. Yesterday I couldn't write a single sentence. Today, one page after another flows out until hours have passed unnoticed.
A noise pulls me from my story-induced haze. I blink around the office. My desk sits under a window facing the lake. A breeze pushes through the open window, rustling the pages of my notebook. I splay my hands across them to hold them down. As I do, I glance outside.
A man stands at the edge of the bluff, staring up at my window.
I jerk back, blinking rapidly.
He ’s still there. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a newsboy cap and a vintage suit. The moon behind him is nearly full, lighting him like a spotlight.
I bolt from my desk. If this is the guy who’s been breaking into our house and leaving his scent everywhere, I don’t want him getting away.
It’s no surprise when I find Victor in the living room, hunched over his new laptop. He’d immediately bought one after the disaster that was his old system. He’s been keeping odd hours since Clara’s heat spike, avoiding her during the day. He claims it’s for research for his next miniseries.
He looks up, clearly surprised to see me awake. His expression shifts—hopeful for a second, then scowling. Had he thought I was Clara? More importantly… had he been hoping for Clara?
“Come on,” I bark.
He’s already standing before his body catches up, his growl low and dangerous. I don’t usually snap at my packmates, but Victor’s behavior toward Clara has my alpha on edge. My dominant nature wants to snap him in line.
“I saw someone. An alpha. On the bluff. Could be the same guy who was in Clara’s suite.”
He scoffs.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t care what you think, Victor. There was a man. Out on our property. That’s trespassing.”
“The rental company’s property,” he mutters.
If I beat him to death, would the guy on the bluff help me sink the body in the lake?
Something in my expression must give away the thought, because Victor takes a half step back. Good.
I turn, and his footsteps follow. We head out the back door and down the porch steps. The bluff is empty. I walk to the edge, to the exact spot I’d seen him. Nothing.
The clink of a Zippo lighter behind me, and then the scent of cigarette smoke wafts through the air.
I swing back to rip into Victor and freeze.
“What?” Victor asks, catching my expression.
All the blood drains from my face.
A set of eyes stare at me from behind Victor. Pale blue against stark white skin. A newsboy cap pulled low. Hollowed cheeks and sharp cheekbones make his face otherworldly. He’s angled so I can see his full right side. In his right hand, a switchblade.
“No!” I shout, but it’s too late. The blade jabs into Victor’s side, lightning-quick.
“Ah!” Victor yelps, stumbling and dropping his cigarette.
I lunge forward, but the man is gone.
Just… gone. When I whip back to Victor, he's holding his side, but there’s no blood, no tear in his clothes. No wound.
“What the fuck was that?” Victor gasps. “I swear to God, I felt this pain! Shit, do you think my appendix just burst? Is the appendix on the left or the right?”
“Shut up,” I growl.
And Victor does, because I don’t lose my temper. Not out loud. Not like this. My emotions are usually written in ink, bound in paper. Not flung into the air like bats.
I scan everything. Nothing.
Victor, of course, doesn’t stay quiet for long. “Hey… my cigs are gone.”
I grunt, not caring.
“I’m serious. I just had them in my pocket. Right before that pain.”
“Probably fell,” I mutter, glancing around.
“Or he’s got ’em,” Victor says.
I whip around just as Victor points to the beach below.
There's the man. Standing at the water’s edge. One hand in his trouser pocket. The other holding a small white box.
Victor’s cigarettes.
“Who the fuck is that?” Victor growls, rage rising fast.
“I don’t know, but—” I don’t get the rest out. He’s already heading for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
I follow. Furious or not, Victor’s still my packmate.
He doesn’t understand how impossible this is.
The alpha I saw stab him should not have been able to reach the beach that fast. We shouldn’t even be able to see him.
It’s too dark even with the moon. And yet, somehow, he glows faintly—like the night makes space for him.
By the time we hit the beach, he’s gone again.
Victor walks right to the water’s edge. A few feet out, the cigarette pack floats on the surface.
I turn back to Victor who is staring toward the tree line, eyes locked on something in the woods. I follow his gaze.
The unknown alpha stands between two large oaks at the foot of the bluff that lead into a small wooded area. He turns, disappearing into the trees. Victor bolts after him. I sigh and follow.
When I catch up, Victor’s between the two trees, stock-still.
“Victor?” I approach, cautious. Then I see what he’s staring at.
Tombstones. Four of them. All in a row.
“What the fuck,” I whisper. Each one carved with names, pack roles, and dates. All alphas. All members of the same pack—Blackthorn.
Sorcha Doyle. Seamus Smith. Cormac Byrne. All three have the same date of death, October 29, 1903.
But Finian O’Connell? His death date is the same month and day.
October 29, 1904.
One year later.