Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
FENRIR
PRESENT
My eyes are weary as I watch Hayami settle in the large chair, a book in her hand like a shield.
The heaviness in them isn’t purely from lack of sleep.
I’m not sure how many glasses of whisky I drank last night, but however many it was, it was too many—my mouth had no restraint, unburdening my soul to the woman I’ve sworn to protect.
The whisky wasn’t just to blame. I’d have done anything, said anything to rid myself of the image of her standing under the camera, fingers shoved into the sides of her mouth, pulling at her cheeks as if she were trying to stretch her face beyond all recognition.
Then to have charged up the stairs to find her sleeping in her bed with no signs of the hideous show was enough for any man to question his sanity and push him to drink.
It’s no wonder I ended up unloading my past on her and confessing my sins.
When I returned to the surveillance room, I wondered if I’d done the wrong thing, shared too much, but I felt lighter somehow.
I’ve spent too many years keeping everything to myself—never opening up to anyone.
It’s only fair for her to know what kind of man she’s locked herself away with now that Willa is gone.
She needed to know who I am and what I’m capable of.
I didn’t expect her to run from me. I’ve known her long enough to see that she doesn’t frighten easily, but she needed to know I’m no hero. I’m not her saviour, and I never will be. Only she can take up that role.
This morning, when she arrived in the kitchen, she looked at me differently. She sees the real me, and I don’t know whether that’s good or bad. I guess only time will tell.
After sending Markus an update from Willa’s work phone, we grabbed some lunch and headed here to the library, Hayami insisting I get some shuteye.
“I’m fine,” I tell her as she curls her legs under her body, adjusting herself in the oversized chair.
“You haven’t slept at all. Just get an hour or so. I’ll be fine in here. How can anyone not be safe surrounded by books?” She eyes the shelves as if they’re a fortress.
“Fine, but I’m not leaving this room,” I say, last night’s vision still playing in my mind. Lowering myself into the chair opposite her, I cross my arms and close my eyes.
“You look about as comfortable as a gay man on a date with a woman.” Hayami’s voice lands in my lap as I open my eyes.
“I’ve told you, I don’t need sleep, just rest.”
She tuts, picks up her book, and brings it up to cover her face.
I close my eyes, rest my head back, and relive the moment in the garage when she’d had the gun in her hand and my arms around her.
I thought I’d felt something—a heat, a reaction, a fluttering of her body—but I’m sure it’s just wishful thinking on my part.
Instead, I try to shake it off and recall all the things I was taught in the army when I first held a gun.
Miraculously, I doze lightly. I drift in and out of a restless sort of sleep, the kind where you feel like hours have gone by when in fact it’s been mere minutes, before my eyes open. My brain refuses to shut down, and my legs feel like they’re going to seize up.
I stretch, levering myself out of the chair and perusing the bookcases. Hayami’s too engrossed in her book to even notice.
Various titles adorn the shelves. Nothing grabs me. Nothing screams out to be read. I’m about to give up on her suggestion that I find something to read when a spine catches my eye.
It’s dark blue, with a soft texture, but the thing that stands out is there’s no title.
I pull the book from the shelf and turn it over to reveal a blank front cover. One word’s embossed upon it in silver font.
Journal.
Flipping through the pages, I note the journal has been written in.
The first half is filled by simple penmanship that looks almost childlike in its heavy print.
The words feel almost like Braille with the pressure that must have been applied whilst they’d been written by a heavy hand and a basic ballpoint pen.
Returning to the front, I open it to the first page and read:
Journal of Junko Devall, Winter 2003 — Belial House
Day One
Fuck.
It’s her mother’s journal.
My first instinct is to close the book. I shouldn’t be reading this. It’s not my place. I should give this to Hayami. I’m about to hand it over, admit what I’ve just found, but I stop.
What if there’s stuff in here about her father? What if there are details in here about their marriage, what he’s done to her, what he’s made her do, made her feel? What if there’s sexual stuff? I can’t imagine Hayami would want to read about that. I’m not even sure I do.
I go to put it back on the shelf, until I remember what Hayami said about her mother coming to this house with her father and then never returning.
What happened here that made Junko Devall never want to set foot in this house again?
Does it have something to do with what I’ve been seeing?
Will it explain what’s been happening to Hayami at night?
I wonder if the answers are in these pages.
I should tell her what I’ve found, and I will. She deserves to know this exists, but I want to read it first. That way, I can prepare her if she needs it or burn it if there’s something in here she never needs to know.
And so, for the first time in years, I read.
I hate this house. From the minute we arrived, I’ve had this feeling of dread, like something is going to happen.
When I stepped out of the car, it was as if the house had been waiting for me, staring through its eyelike windows, clapping its hands in anticipation of my arrival.
It felt cold, foreboding. I’d told Barrett when he’d slung his arm around me and asked me what I thought.
“It’s just the weather,” he’d said, letting go of my shoulder and directing his staff to take our luggage into the house. “It doesn’t look as dark when the sun is out.”
I’d looked up to the sky, the thick grey clouds matted together as if they were shielding the blue from this house, and the thought came over me that this place has never seen the sun.
Inside was no better. Dark wood clads every wall, heavy drapes hang listlessly, and rich upholstery breathes. There’s no light, no movement, and I shuddered as I was led through the many rooms, contemplating how I’d ended up here, the lady of the manor, the new Mrs Barrett Devall.
Barrett and I have been married for five months. He’d seen me in a nightclub whilst on a business trip with several high-powered men in Japan. I’d been working as a waitress, serving him drinks, my attention given only to his private party.
He’s much older than I am, but still handsome. His skin’s a little weather-beaten, as if he’s been sailing on too many yachts. But he’s charming and dashing, the kind of man who has women falling at his feet.
And I was no one.
He’d asked if I spoke English when I’d brought him his third drink of the evening.
I nodded. The manager of the club had told me to act demure. These men didn’t like women who spoke, thought, or had an opinion. Barrett Devall wouldn’t want to know that I probably spoke better English than he did, something which usually occurs when someone has had to learn the language.
Every night of his three-week trip, he’d visited the club with his associates and dazzled me with his smile, his looks, and his velvety voice.
Rina, one of the waitresses and my closest friend, had said to me one night that he wanted me.
All the staff had noticed how much attention he’d been paying me, and my boss had been happy for me to entertain a man like Barrett Devall, as, according to my boss, he was very wealthy and powerful and an asset to the club.
I smiled, told Rina that he probably only wanted one thing.
She’d raised her eyebrows and told me that he had just lost his second wife and was, apparently, looking for a new one.
I’d laughed and told her not to pay attention to the gossip that floated around the club.
But I couldn’t help the sense of excitement, the feeling of something brewing that there might be a life outside those walls.
On the final night, he’d told me, “How would you like to leave this place?” His words were like the opening of a new page of a book, the excitement, the anticipation of what was to come. “How would you like to live in a mansion, want for nothing, have everything?”
What would anyone say to that?
My friends at the club were so jealous. It was everyone’s dream to meet a rich man who would sweep them off their feet with diamonds, jewellery, clothes, and the promise of a better life.
And they were happy for me, over the moon, along with my family, who cheered and clapped at how I’d done so well for myself.
And I’d bathed in the attention, basked in the joy that this new life would bring. Because that’s exactly what he did—sweep me off my feet.
It wasn’t until he brought me to the city of Rothkor and his mansion that my feet started to be pulled down to the ground.
I’m wife number three.
This is how the staff refer to me.
Number Three.
From what I’ve gathered from the murmurings of the staff and overheard rumours, wife number one was a white woman of outstanding beauty, with flame-red hair, emerald eyes, and a smile so dazzling it could blind you.
Barrett met her when he was in his thirties and, I believe, must have been the closest to love a man like Barrett Devall could have felt.
Their marriage lasted five years. Some say she was feisty, a real fire-breathing dragon who gave Barrett a run for his money.
Some say she was the love of his life. But for whatever reason, the marriage ended.
Some say it was because she was infertile.
Some say she didn’t want children at all, and some tales tell of a woman who’d had enough of being Mrs Devall.
The knowledge of wife number one, I can cope with.
She felt real, like they had met naturally and fallen in love.
It was when I learned of wife number two that my bubble began to burst. I thought our story was unique, that he had seen me, fallen in love with me, and brought me here to live with him in his castle, but I soon learned that this is exactly how he met wife number two.
She was also a Japanese woman, just like me, although he met her in Rothkor when she’d come over here to work.
Had he loved her? I think he must have. But it was sadly not to be, as number two died.
I’m not sure how. The whisperings through the household tell of a fatal miscarriage, a birth gone wrong, or something along those lines.
No one seems willing to talk about it. Apparently, Barrett’s never really got over her death, because she was pregnant and carrying his child.
And I can’t help thinking that he’s simply replaced her with me. A carbon copy of the woman who almost gave him a child.
So, now I am number three.
“Third time lucky,” one of the staff said when I arrived at his mansion, one small suitcase containing my scant belongings.
Since arriving in Rothkor and learning about his past wives, I realise now why I’m here.
There’s no love on his part. Lust, maybe.
I am aware of the beauty I carry, and maybe that’s what caught Barrett’s eye that night in the club.
But all he really wanted was a replacement for the woman who almost gave him what he truly desired. He married me for one thing.
An heir.
And that’s why we’re here at Belial House.
After five months of trying, I’ve failed to fall pregnant.
Barrett said we should get away from the estate and get some peace.
I liked the sound of that, something a little more normal, fewer staff floating about the place.
I thought getting away from the mansion might bring back the Barrett Devall I met in Japan.
That, away from his business dealings, he would be the man who captured my heart.
I had visions of a private beach with a luxurious holiday house or a fancy lodge at the edge of a lake, the kind of houses you see and only dream of. But when he’d told me where we were going, I’d shuddered at the name.
Belial House.
It hadn’t sounded luxurious. It sounded depressing.
And I wasn’t wrong.
There’s something about this house. Something that makes me want to pack up and leave. Something that makes me want to cry, scream, and run—everything all at once.
I’m not the only one who feels it.
The staff feel it too.
I see it in the way they move around, their arms clasped around their bodies as if trying to keep warm, or when they’re looking over their shoulder as if something is following them.
Because it’s exactly what I feel within these walls.
Evil, as if the devil himself has built this place.
“Wow, this has got to be a first.” Hayami’s voice snaps me from the page, and I almost drop the book. I must look confused. “You’re reading a book.” She nods to the journal.
“Yes.” There’s a distinct tremor to my voice that, thankfully, she doesn’t seem to pick up on.
“Any good?”
There’s a second where I consider telling her, but I’ve made my mind up. I’ll read it first. So I do what any discerning bodyguard would do—I protect her.
“It’s nothing.” I tuck the book into my back pocket.
She hesitates, as if she’s going to push the matter, but then her shoulders drop. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says, rising from the chair. “You coming to watch?” She smirks before I have a chance to reply. “Come on, big guy, you can at least stand guard by the door.”
We make our way upstairs, and I look at the walls, studying them, wondering what evil Junko Devall felt whilst she stayed in this house—and whether I’ve already seen it.