Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
FOREST
There’s a wolf head door knocker made of bronze on the door.
It has withstood the elements since the manor was erected almost a century ago.
Standing within the presence of the structure brings back so many memories, told in quiet whispers passing through the forgotten, dusty spaces of my mind.
The manor has always belonged to the Wilde family, but everything on the other side of it is newer.
The manor itself stands as a fortress between the outside world and the village that’s hidden from the outside world.
On the outside looking in, it’s nothing more than a strange wilderness retreat and wellness community.
On the inside looking out, it’s all that remains untouched by the stain of human excess.
The Wilds protect this place and the people in it.
If one were to believe in such bullshit.
By the time I hear the sound of the locks unbolting on the other side of the door, I’ve lost my patience.
Tucker answers the door, shirtless and with a hand pressed behind the back of his head with dark brown hair that’s wet. He looks different, cleaner than he did a few moments prior. I’m pretty damn sure he showered and changed his clothes before answering the damn door.
He turns to his side and gestures for me to come inside.
“Hi, Tuck,” I whisper as I shuffle past him, coming to a stop as I search the open foyer.
“I know it’s been a while,” Tucker says. “Do you need a tour?”
I don’t answer in words, taking in the familiar sights and smells of the manor.
Just in front of the foyer is an oak staircase that twists up the side of the wall to a landing with a bridge that has views of both sides of the manor.
That bridge circles around the upper floor in a square shape, and on the nearest end are the doors to the balcony.
The stairwell itself is lit with mounted candelabras.
I follow Tucker underneath the arch of the stairs and through the grand dining hall where a table is parked underneath a chandelier carved of animal bones. There are twenty-three chairs situated around the table, with one spot empty at the far end, a seat for the Wilds who is always present.
He cocks his head over his shoulder with a flat expression. “You look hungry.”
I shake my head, even as my stomach betrays me with a stifled grumble. “I’m good.”
On the opposite end of the wooden dining table is a fireplace, stacked high with burning logs.
The flames cast shadows that flicker over the room, dancing along the ceiling.
Above the fireplace, there’s a painted mural that stretches out along the entirety of the wall—a timeline of the Wilde family stretching back to the 1800s.
My portrait, untouched by tattoos and with long brown hair, sits near the end of the timeline.
Tucker, not a Wilde by blood or technically name, somehow has found himself immortalized in the painting, standing right beside me as if he’s been painted over someone else.
Tucker joins me in front of the mural, crossing his arms. “The family you left behind.”
“I don’t remember most of these faces.” I shake my head and inch closer, squinting my eyes to get a better view. I point to Bash and his siblings on the wall. “That’s Bash, and I know he has two siblings—”
“Darius and Zeva.” Tucker’s shadow falls over me. “Bash had a kid, but he died in infancy. Hasn’t produced another child since.”
The names ring a bell in the back of my mind. Faintly, Bash’s voice screams in the distance, gravel in his throat. Screaming in the pitch-black hours of nightfall, ‘Zeva, we have to go. Now!’
“Brother—” Tucker says, breaking through the echoes in my head.
I grit my teeth. “Please don’t call me that. It’s weird.”
He nods. “Because of what we did?”
I fail to see how killing someone would make that term weird, but Tucker has never been one to make sense.
“Because we’re not brothers. We’re step-brothers, although not really even that anymore since your mother is…
” I catch his gaze out of the corner of my eyes.
His face sinks, weighed down by the ghosts of yesterday. “Well, you know, since she died.”
“A casualty of the forest.” He clears his throat. “A constant reminder of the oath we swore to this place. It gives and It takes.”
That’s a poetic way of shifting blame for the things we did.
“How much do you remember about this place?” he asks.
“It’s slowly coming back to me in pieces. How about the rest of the tour?”
He nods and gestures for me to follow him out of the dining room and into the den.
There’s no electronics or anything of the sort.
The people here avoid technology as much as they can, but the humming of a nearby refrigerator shatters the illusion.
The floor-to-ceiling windows frame a greenhouse to the west, an indoor swimming pool to the east, and a tree-lined path to the north.
It’s through that path that the rest of the community resides.
I break away from Tucker, making my way to the glass windows of the pool. And then I’m in the pool, clawing at the hands of another who’s holding me beneath the surface. Air bubbles flood my vision as I inhale a mouthful of water, screaming screams that don’t break the surface.
Back in the present, my eyes remain fixated on the pool as Tucker approaches from behind, his reflection cast upon the glass.
There’s hesitation in his dark eyes before he speaks. “You’ve changed.”
“And you’ve stayed the same.” I turn over my shoulder to look at him.
“I guess that’s the karmic balance, circle of life, or whatever kind of shit.
” I turn back to the glass. “Besides, change is a good thing. Like a tree that keeps growing, or a flower that blooms in the spring. Changing means living. I’m okay with that. ”
He approaches from the back, the heat of his body warm against my damp clothes.
He shifts closer still, his body pressed against mine.
His head drapes over my shoulder. He stares into the same glass reflection, meeting me there.
“You’ve stained your body beyond recognition. The Wilds won’t be happy about this.”
“Yeah, I’m a dirty boy now,” I whisper, dripping with sarcasm. “I’m not staying for long.” I turn in a quick circle, our noses pressed together. I shift backwards, my back pressing against the glass. “I need to get out of these wet clothes.”
Tucker twists the knob on the door, but it doesn’t budge. He leans against it and uses the brunt of his shoulder to force it, the hinges screaming as it opens inward. He waits for me to enter before closing the door behind me, the hinges singing the same tired song.
When I’m alone, I toss my duffel bag onto a dusty bed without a sheet. The bedroom is smaller than I remember, and feels much more akin to a prison cell than actual sleeping quarters.
I take a seat on the edge of the bed, the tired coils letting out a metallic sigh underneath my weight.
It’s an indescribable feeling being back here, back in this place.
I remember my childhood bedroom like the back of my hand but I can’t recall any specific memories forged here.
There’s no shower, no closet. Just a bed, a nightstand, a rocking chair, an armoire, and a candelabra bolted to the wall.
All of it is covered in a thick veneer of dust, like the memories in my mind.
This room has been left untouched since the day I left, but without all the usual signs of a lived-in bedroom. No posters. No decorations. No mirrors. Just an empty shell of a prison.
I change out of my damp clothing and into a pair of black shorts and a black tee. I retrieve the note from the back pocket of my jeans before stuffing my clothes into the duffel. The door squeals behind me.
I let out a groan as I turn to find Tucker leaning against the door.
“You know you’re the only one who’s ever left,” he says.
I zip the duffel and stand up straight. “And I’ll be leaving again.”
“If you’re so antsy to run, then why in the hell did you come back?”
“I got your message.”
He narrows his eyes, dark and steely. “What message?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Tuck.” I grab the folded-up letter from my back pocket and hand it to him. “Nice drawing by the way.”
Tucker studies the letter, his eyes shifting from side to side. “Who sent this to you?”
“It was hand-delivered by a would-be assassin.”
He raises his gaze to meet mine. “You’re still alive.”
“I think I kicked his ass.”
“You think?”
“My memory isn’t so great anymore.” I shake my head. “I have episodes where I black out and can’t remember anything, but there was broken glass and blood all over my floors.”
But maybe my memory was never that great. After all, there are pieces of this place I can’t remember no matter how hard I try.
“Little Forest Wilde is a dangerous man now?” His lips slither into a half-tilted grin. “That’s what I’m hearing.”
“Little Forest Wilde has no patience,” I scowl. “What the hell is this about?”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve never seen this before.” He passes it back to me and crosses his arms over his bare chest. “Filo often talks about the dangers of the mind. It plays tricks on us. Maybe this is one of those tricks.”
The name of my father—Filo—fills me with dread. “It’s not a trick. Someone in this God-forsaken place came after me, and I need to know why.”
“Like I said,” he grits his teeth, a newfound sternness in the back of his throat, “you’re the only person who has ever left this place.”
And then he’s gone, walking out of my bedroom and away from me. That’s the sign of a guilty man. I give chase behind him, following him down the length of the landing.
“Then explain to me how someone showed up at my trailer in the middle of the night and left this for me?”
He comes to an abrupt stop and turns to me, shaking his head.
“I know people go on runs to nearby cities.” I point to his dark blue jeans. “Those weren’t made within these walls. Is there any chance someone went on a trip and never came back?”
“Impossible,” he scoffs. “There are only four people with keys to the gate, and they’re all four here right now. And yeah, sometimes people try to—”
He stops himself, dropping his gaze to somewhere over the railing. Somewhere out into the wilderness as if he’s waiting for it to tell him what to say next.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
He rolls his eyes and exhales. “A few men tried to escape yesterday.”
“And?”
“They did not escape.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I question as my eyes shift to his left hand.
To the fingers of his left hand.
To the fucking ring on his index finger.
And without complete venom in my throat, I scream at him, “Why the fuck are you wearing my mother’s ring?”
He instantly recoils, shoving his hand into the front pocket of his jeans.
Too late, asshole.
“Your mother is in the dirt. She can’t own anything.” He shrugs with apathy like he didn’t just say something borderline psychotic. “Besides, doesn’t it look good on me?”
“It looks ridiculous,” I seethe.
“You know, you’re right.” He pulls his hand free and admires the emerald-set ring under what little light shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I shouldn’t call you brother anymore. I should call you…”
He looks me straight in the fucking eyes before continuing, “Son.”
I say nothing. All I can muster is an incredulous laugh. He’s crazier than I remembered, and I remembered him to be a goddamn sociopath. I lean over the banister, my laughter echoing against the oak railing.
“A lot has changed since you’ve been away,” he says flatly. “I’m married to your father.”