2. Wolfe
WOLFE
“S he needs to go.” I pace the length of my office, fists clenched at my sides.
The floorboards creak beneath my boots, protesting each agitated step. Around me, shelves of books and vintage horror memorabilia watch my moves in silence.
Dev sighs, perching on the edge of my enormous oak desk. The leather chair behind it—my grandfather's—sits empty, as it often does when I'm anxious like this. "Unless you want me to build a bridge with my bare hands, she's staying the night, Wolfe."
"Then keep her far away from me." I stop at the window, watching rain lash against glass that's older than both of us combined. Lightning illuminates the sprawling grounds, now turning to mud under the deluge.
The room feels too small, the shadows deeper in the corners despite the warmth from the fireplace. "I don’t want her sneaking around or in my way."
"She's a photographer, not an invasive species." Dev smiles slightly. "Coming out early is actually a testament to her experience and expertise. Though, yes, she should have asked first."
A knock on the door interrupts my retort. Ghost enters without waiting for permission—one of the few privileges earned by a man who’s ridden beside me in a Humvee as we’re attacked with explosives. He closes the heavy wooden door behind him, its iron hinges squeaking.
"Lee says the bridge won’t be fixed before tomorrow afternoon, maybe longer if the rain continues." Ghost delivers this news with his usual even tone, his silhouette stark against the ornate wallpaper.
"Fantastic." I rake a hand through my hair. The fire pops and hisses in the grate. "Where is she now?"
"Settling into the blue room.”
“Why didn’t you put her in the west wing, on the opposite side of this place from me?” I ask, shaking my head.
“You know the west wing leaks,” he replies. “Any room over there would be drafty and damp.”
“Why do you care?” I move closer to him. “You interested in her?”
“No, I’m not interested in her.” Ghost replies. “Not the way you’re thinking.” He leans against a bookshelf. "She's not what I expected."
"What do you mean?"
He shrugs. "Just an observation."
I narrow my eyes at him. Ghost doesn't make casual observations. "Explain."
"Most journalists who come here are looking for the monster angle. The ones who want to make their careers off 'exposing' the freak show." His expression doesn't change, but his voice hardens slightly. "She looks at this place...differently. Like she sees what you built, not what you're hiding."
“You learned that just from showing her to the blue room? That’s a reach,” I mutter, turning back to the window. Rain streaks down the glass like tears.
He shrugs.
I hate when he pulls that I-secretly-know-things bullshit.
He knows the phantom mask I wear isn't just for show—it's my armor against the world.
The left side of my face tells a story I don't want strangers reading. Five surgeries later, and I still look like I went ten rounds with a flamethrower. The scars continue down my neck, across my shoulder, and along my left arm. It’s a road map of the day I dove on top of an IED to shield my unit.
They call me a hero. I call it survival.
"Wolfe, the magazine spread will be good for business," Dev reminds me, ever the pragmatist. The desk creaks as they shift their weight. "Their readership is exactly our demographic."
"I know." I do know. It's the only reason I agreed to this. Marsden Manor isn't just my home, it's my livelihood and the livelihood of everyone who works here. "But I set boundaries for a reason."
"Which we'll enforce," Ghost assures me. "But she's still stuck here tonight."
"Fine." I straighten my shoulders. "I'll lay low until tomorrow."
Dev and Ghost exchange a look I choose to ignore. A portrait of my grandfather frowns down at me from above the mantelpiece.
"What?" I demand.
"Dinner," Dev says. "Howie says we’re having venison stew. Unless you want to hide in your room like a sulking teenager?"
I glare at them both. "I'm not hiding. I'm avoiding an unwanted guest."
"Same difference," Ghost murmurs.
"Whatever, let’s eat at seven," I concede reluctantly. "And tell Howie to behave himself. I don't need him telling her all of our secrets because she bats her eyelashes at him."
Dev snorts. "Howie would sell all our secrets for a new fog machine, no eyelash-batting required."
Despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch toward a smile.
My crew is more family than staff. They’re the only people I trust completely. After my injury, when I couldn't bear the pitying looks from my former friends, these four misfits found me. Or I found them. Either way, we built something here that matters.
"I should check on the west wing," I say, moving toward the door.
"Already done," Ghost says. "Lee's handling it."
Of course he is. Lee Novak has been taking care of this property since before I was born. He worked for my grandfather, and now me. The man probably knows the mansion better than it knows itself.
"Okay, then." I drum my fingers against my thigh, restless energy building. The carved wooden moldings around the door seem to shift in the firelight, the faces hidden in the design watching me in my discomfort. "I'll be in the workshop."
"Wolfe," Dev's voice stops me at the door. "She's just doing her job. Try not to terrify her too much before the photoshoot."
"I don't terrify people," I growl.
Ghost actually laughs at that—a rare sound that echoes off the high ceiling. "Tell that to the college kid who nearly went catatonic in the Hall of Shadows last Halloween."
"That was Howie's animatronic werewolf, not me," I protest, but I'm fighting a smile now.
"Keep telling yourself that, boss." Ghost claps me on my shoulder as he passes. "Seven o'clock. Try to wear something that makes it look like you have a pulse."
“I am not going out of my way to impress her!” I roll my eyes and head for my workshop in the basement. It's where I create the masks and props that make Marsden Manor infamous.
And it’s my sanctuary.
As I descend the stone steps, worn smooth by generations of feet, the temperature drops noticeably. The familiar smell of latex, paint, and wood calms my nerves.
Until I remember those big brown eyes looking up at me without flinching. With her camera and her sharp tongue and her complete disregard for my rules.
I've spent years crafting my isolation, perfecting the art of keeping people at arm's length. One determined photographer isn't going to change that, no matter how good she looks in the twilight.
The workshop embraces me with its organized mayhem.
Half-finished masks line the shelves, hollow eyes staring from featureless faces.
Worktables covered in tools and materials fill the space, illuminated by bright overhead lights that contrast with the gloom of the rest of the manor.
I run my fingers over a gargoyle mold, my mind already shifting to the task at hand.
This is where I belong, creating monsters, not socializing with beautiful women who gaze at me like I'm a puzzle to solve.
I lose myself in work for the next hour, shaping and molding until a crash of thunder shakes dust from the ceiling. The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
The emergency lights kick on, bathing the room in a mystic blue glow. Not the backup generator—that would restore full power. This is the battery system that ensures no guest is ever trapped in total darkness.
Unless they're in the blue room, which runs on a separate circuit.
Errrgh.
I curse under my breath, reaching for the flashlight I keep under my workbench. Ash won't know about the manor's quirky electrical system. She's probably fumbling around in the dark right now.
Not my problem.
Dev or Ghost will handle it.
“Dammit,” I mutter, and grab the flashlight, heading for the stairs. Just to make sure she hasn't hurt herself in the unfamiliar surroundings.
It’s common courtesy.
The main floor is dim but navigable with the emergency lights. I take the grand staircase two steps at a time, my boots nearly silent on the aged wood. The blue room is past the gallery and the music room.
As I approach, I hear a muffled curse and something that sounds suspiciously like a camera shutter.
I press myself against the wall, a habit from my military days.
The door to the blue room stands ajar, a faint glow emanating from within.
Another click of a shutter confirms my suspicion.
Anger rises hot and fast. I push the door open without knocking.
Ash stands by the window, her camera raised, capturing the lightning that illuminates the mountains beyond. She spins at my entrance, nearly dropping her equipment.
"Jesus Christ!" she gasps, one hand pressed to her chest. "Make some noise when you move, would you?"
The beam of my flashlight catches her face—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, that stubborn chin lifted in defiance despite being caught.
"I told you no photographs," I say, my voice dangerously low.
"Of you ,” she says, not backing down. “I'm not photographing you ."
"You’re still in my home. And these are not authorized .”
"The lightning against the mountains is incredible," she says, turning toward the window. Behind her, rain streams down antique glass, creating watery patterns on the hardwood floor. "Look at that composition. Nature's own Gothic masterpiece. I couldn't resist."
Despite myself, I follow her gaze. The jagged lightning illuminates the mountain peaks in flashes of brilliant light, creating a dramatic silhouette against the night sky. It is spectacular.
"Delete them," I say, but with little conviction.
She studies me for a moment, then turns her camera so I can see the display. “Here, look.” The four-poster bed beside her is reflected in the screen, creating a frame within a frame for her landscape shot. "They're just landscapes, Wolfe. No secrets exposed."
Her casual use of my first name throws me.
Most people who've just met me don't dare such familiarity.
But when Ash says it…something inside me unfurls.
I look at the images on her display and have to admit they're remarkable.
She's captured the wildness of the storm, the primal beauty of lightning against the mountain.
"You have an eye for this," I concede reluctantly.
"Thank you. That's why magazines hire me," she replies, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I see things others miss."
Something about the way she says it, the way her eyes flick to my mask then away, makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"The back up lights should have come on by now," I say, changing the subject. My flashlight beam sweeps across the room.
"Maybe your haunted mansion is actually haunted," she suggests with a teasing smile. Behind her, an antique mirror reflects our figures—her small and defiant, me looming like the monster I am.
"It's the wiring. This place is over a hundred years old.
" I step further into the room, sweeping the flashlight across the walls to the where the fuse box is hidden behind a painting of my great-grandmother.
The beam catches on crystal decanters and antique perfume bottles arranged on a vanity, sending fractured light dancing across the ceiling. "The blue room has its own circuit."
I set the flashlight on a marble-topped table and move the painting aside.
Inside the fuse box, the main switch has tripped. I flip it back, and the wall sconces flicker to life. The blue wallpaper seems to shimmer in the renewed light, its pattern of faded peacock feathers almost moving in the shadows.
"The Beast of Marsden Manor tames the spirit world and electricity?" Ash asks with exaggerated wonder.
I turn to face her, irritation and something else battling in my chest. "Don't call me that."
She tilts her head. "Isn't that what everyone calls you? The Beast of Marsden Manor: the monster behind the mask."
"What the public sees isn’t exactly reality."
"Then show me the reality," she challenges. "That's why I'm here, isn't it? To show your attraction to the world?"
“Sometimes reality can be too frightening,” I reply.
She's too close now, close enough that I can smell her…so sweet and fresh. Not fit for this old house filled with darkness. I can see the bursts of amber in her brown eyes, the light dusting of freckles across her nose. The room suddenly feels far too small, its walls closing in around us.
"You're here to take approved photographs under specific conditions," I correct her, not moving away despite every instinct telling me to maintain my distance. "Nothing more."
"Approved photographs rarely tell the truth," she says softly. A flash of lightning illuminates her face, throwing her features into sharp relief against the blue walls. "And I'm always looking for the truth, Wolfe."
The way she says my name sends an unwelcome surge of heat through my veins. I take a deliberate step back, my boot heel connecting with the solid oak floorboard that always creaks—a sound that echoes throughout the room.
"Dinner is at seven," I say curtly. "The dining room is down the stairs to your left. Be careful, if the lights go out, and try not to get lost on your way."
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me at the door.
"I'm not afraid of you, you know."
I look back at her, this woman who's invaded my home with her camera and her fearlessness. She stands framed by the storm-lashed window, small but fierce.
"You should be,” I whisper, as I take my leave.