12. Willow
When I open my eyes again, I’m surprised to find a hint of daylight streaming through the crack in the curtains. Not only did I sleep through the night, but I must have slept hard. It’s an unsettling realization, considering I typically wake multiple times throughout the night, haunted by vivid dreams and nightmares alike.
I chalk it up to exhaustion as Fiona yawns and stretches beside me as if to say she had a peaceful night too. I scratch her ears and glance behind me, something like disappointment settling over me when I realize Azrael is no longer in bed. I was hoping to wake before him so I could examine those strange scars on his back, but it appears he’s already slipped out to do whatever dark overlords do during the day.
I’m not sure what time it is, but I decide I should probably get ready for the day myself. I’m certain my family is worried about me, and I need to dig through my belongings to find my phone.
That’s the plan, but something else occurs to me as soon as my feet hit the floor. I’m alone in Azrael’s room. So, naturally, I do what any woman would do in my circumstances. I snoop.
Starting in his closet, I rifle through his clothes, amused that the amount of darkness rivals my collection. While my wardrobe consists of black and red, his is mostly black. Many of the pieces seem to be vintage, but they are well-made, and there’s very little in the way of casual clothing. Out of curiosity, I reach for a long black trench coat, noting that it seems to be a favorite of his, judging by the worn leather and cologne still lingering on the material. Something about this piece feels special, and I’m not sure why. It’s just a feeling I get. I don’t know what possesses me to try it on and glance in the dressing mirror, but when I do, I can’t help being amused at how it dwarfs my frame.
The man is a fucking giant.
I keep it on while rifling through the rest of the belongings in his closet, turning up nothing of significance. Typically, a closet doubles as a hiding space for other things. Safes. Lockboxes. Dirty secrets. But if Azrael has any of those, they aren’t in here.
I return his coat to a hanger and move on to the rest of the room. I pick up every object to examine it, getting a feel for the space. Everything he owns serves a purpose. The furnishings and decorations all seem to be antiques or possibly family heirlooms.
I peek under the bed, not finding a single speck of dust. But inside the nightstand drawer, I notice the heavy gold ring he wore yesterday.
When I pick it up to look more closely at it, a wave of nausea overcomes me, and I have the strangest urge to hurl it out the window. Far… far away from me. I rotate the piece in my fingers, wondering what it is that’s making my gut churn. It isn’t until I notice the tiny lip and open it to reveal a hidden compartment that I begin to understand.
A lock of hair, the same shade of auburn as mine, rests inside. A cold chill creeps up the nape of my neck as a vision of Elizabeth swinging from a tree infiltrates my thoughts. It’s a vision I’ve had many times, but never as vivid as this. I can feel her agony coursing through me, the bite of wind against her skin as she takes her final breaths… the dark, piercing gaze of Isaiah Delacroix as he watches the life slip from her.
The ring falls from my fingers, tumbling back into the drawer as another wave of sickness seizes me. I clutch my stomach, holding back the urge to retch, and meet Fiona’s gaze. She’s watching me with worried eyes, her hair standing on end as if she feels it too, the hatred that lives in this house, even now. It’s something dark and sinister, something I don’t know how to protect myself against.
“Come on.” I grab Fiona and haul her into the adjoining room, shutting the door behind us. I need to gather my thoughts. I need space.
An hour and one entirely too hot shower later, I still don’t feel clean. Last night, I was so wrapped up in the moment I wasn’t thinking about how twisted it is. But now I can’t wash it away. Knowing that I not only allowed a Delacroix inside my body but that I enjoyed it makes me feel nothing but shame.
He’s fucking demented. That’s the only explanation there is. The fact that he not only keeps a lock of my ancestor’s hair—the ancestor his family murdered—but that he wears it disgusts me.
How could I let him touch me? How could I allow myself to enjoy it, knowing who he is? Knowing what he thinks of my family?
The evidence of my betrayal is still imprinted on my skin. The feeling of his fingerprints still lingers where he smacked me. The ache between my thighs reminds me that I welcomed him into my body.
Worst of all is the tattoo etched into my skin, his permanent mark on me. It’s a claim of ownership, a reminder that there is no escape. Even in death, his mark will remain.
Tears prick my eyes as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I always swore I’d never let him make me cry. But how can I not after what I just saw? It feels like my heart has been wrenched from my chest, and I can’t help but wonder if he’ll keep a lock of my hair like some twisted trophy when I”m dead.
A faint knock sounds at the door, startling me from my thoughts, and I wipe my eyes quickly before it creaks open. I’m sure it will be Azrael, so I’m surprised when I see a young girl peeking through the crack. She offers me a shy smile, her gaunt face and shadowed eyes catching me off guard.
“May I come in?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer hesitantly, unsure what to make of her.
She enters quietly, remaining near the door even after it’s shut, her hands clutched in front of her. She’s petite, and I can’t tell her age, but I sense something is off. She looks frail, her body swallowed by a large knitted sweater. The long white-blonde hair that hangs loose around her face is beautiful and unique, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s malnourished.
It looks like something has been sucking the life out of her, and I wonder if it”s this house. That same dark energy I felt lurking last night and today.
“Hello,” the girl greets me softly. “I’m Rébecca, Azrael’s sister. And I suppose yours now too.”
There’s a hopeful note in her voice as she says that last part, and something inside me softens. I honestly didn’t know what to expect from Azrael’s family. In my mind, I had assumed they may all be evil. But I don’t think this girl has anything but innocence and goodness within her.
“Hello, Rébecca.” I offer her a smile, hoping she doesn’t notice the moisture at the edges of my eyes. “I’m Willow.”
“You can call me Bec,” she says as she shrugs a dainty shoulder. “If you want.”
“Okay,” I agree. “Bec it is.”
At that moment, Fiona takes it upon herself to introduce herself, walking over to greet Rébecca by rubbing against her legs.
“Oh, my God.” Bec’s eyes widen as she bends to greet Fi. “You have a cat?”
“I do.” I smile. “I think she likes you. A rare honor with that one.”
Bec looks pleased with the idea as she scratches Fi’s ears. “What’s her name?”
“Fiona.”
“She’s so pretty,” Bec coos. “I love her.”
It’s such a small thing, but it makes me happy to hear that. “You can come visit her anytime you want.”
“I would love that.”
She spends the next few minutes petting Fi, much to the cat’s delight, before returning her attention to me.
“I wanted to ask if you might like to have breakfast together,” she says. “And then I could give you a tour.”
My stomach rumbles on cue, reminding me how long it’s been since I last ate, and I offer Bec a grateful smile.
“Thank you. I’d love to join you.”
Over a breakfast spreadthat could rival a luxury buffet, Bec and I get to know each other. She chats quietly, telling me about her hobbies and asking questions about me. I learn she’s fifteen, though she doesn’t look anywhere near it.
She glosses over that fact and doesn’t mention if she’s ill, though I suspect she is. While I eat what feels like half of the food on the table, she barely touches hers. It concerns me, but I don’t know her well enough to ask about it. However, I make a mental note to ask Azrael later if I’m forced to endure more of his company.
After breakfast, Bec begins a tour of the estate as promised. The house is, admittedly, beautiful. It’s a mixture of rich wood, stone, and dark, polished floors. Every detail is ornate, right down to the light switches. Large, arched windows dominate the house, lending light to the gothic vibe. A stunning deep green seems to permeate every space, whether in the form of furnishings or plants, and I find it fitting. It’s the same aura of color I see when I look at Azrael.
I suspect they spent a lot of time and money renovating the place over the years, but it still feels hollow inside, like a body with no soul. A family lives within these walls, but it doesn’t feel like a home.
It’s so different from the way I grew up. My family is close, and we spend as much time together as possible. I suspect that isn’t the case here. Bec and I have spent at least two hours together and still haven’t seen anyone other than the staff roaming these halls.
Bec explains a bit of the family history as she leads me through the lower level of the house. Her parents are long-deceased, as is her brother Abacus, which she tells me is more recent. A note of sadness lingers in her voice after she mentions his name, and it makes me curious how he passed, but I don’t press for details.
The Delacroixes have always believed it’s the Wildbloods and the curse between our families responsible for the tragedies that seem to befall them repeatedly. I’m not about to bring that up with Bec when she may be my only true ally in this house.
As she shows me through the library, the living room, and out onto the lower terrace, I get the sense that she deeply admires her two remaining brothers, Emmanuel and Azrael. But at the mention of her grandmother, Salomé, something shifts in her. It’s a subtle darkening of her eyes, a rigidness to her spine that didn’t exist before. But it’s gone in the blink of an eye as she moves on to explain how the house is divided.
“There are two wings,” she tells me. “My family maintains the west wing, but the east is closed off. You can’t go in the dark wing for your safety since it’s in disrepair.”
I nod, though I have no such intentions of making any promises. There must be a reason it’s closed off, and I want to know what it is.
A woman calls out Rébecca’s name from inside the house, and the tension returns to her face as she glances at me. “Come on, I’ll show you the grounds.”
“Don’t you need to see what?—”
Bec tosses me a pleading glance, and I halt mid-sentence. I suspect that must be her grandmother calling out for her, and it’s clear Bec doesn’t want to be found right now. So I follow her out onto the grounds of the property, taking in the views with an appreciation I didn’t expect.
The property is vast, shaded with ancient trees and beautiful foliage that lend a sense of privacy no matter where we stand. Well-maintained gardens dot the land and the dense woods surrounding us seem to go on for miles. I have an itch to explore them but have the sense that Bec wouldn’t be able to make such a journey, so I allow her to show me her favorite areas instead.
When we reach the glass-encased pool house, an equal sense of longing and foreboding lingers as I glance at the pool. I’ve always loved water. Growing up, I think my sisters and I spent so much time swimming I’m surprised we didn’t turn into prunes. But now, I can’t forget how dangerous it feels too.
“Willow?” Bec’s voice infiltrates my thoughts.
“Yes?” I blink at her, still slightly off balance.
“I asked if you liked it.”
“Oh, yes.” I force a smile. “Very much.”
“Maybe we can swim together sometime.”
I’m about to tell her I’d love that when a sharp voice from behind cuts me off.
“You will do no such thing, Rébecca. What did I tell you about befriending the witch?”
Bec’s face falls as she dips her head and slowly turns to meet the woman’s gaze. The woman, I presume, must be her grandmother, Salomé.
Before either of us can respond, Salomé directs her withering gaze over me, then to her granddaughter. “Get in the house, Rébecca. Now.”
Bec offers me an apologetic glance, her shoulders slumping before she takes her leave. Tension coils in my spine, and I have to bite my tongue as I watch her go. I don’t know the family dynamics yet, but I recognize that same dark energy I’ve felt within the house inside of Salomé.
“So you’re the Wildblood.” She says the name as if she means to say trash.
I offer her a sweet, condescending smile. “I am.”
“Marked by the devil, I can see.” Her attention drifts to the crescent moon peeking out of the décolletage of my black dress, and her face twists into a sneer as she takes in my visible tattoos and jewelry.
“If you say so,” I reply, refusing to let her see she’s getting to me.
“I suppose you’ll do,” she says after a beat. “After all, I doubt you’ll be around too long.”
Her words don’t sound like a prophecy but a threat.
“I suppose we’ll see,” I answer in challenge.
Her eyes narrow, and it’s clear she’s not used to anyone talking back to her. “Stay away from my granddaughter,” she issues the decree with unwavering authority. “Or you’ll see the devil come out of me.”
I roll my eyes and turn my back on her, choosing to walk away. But it doesn’t stop me from hearing her final words as I go.
“The only good Wildblood is a dead Wildblood.”