Duskmere Manor
Daphne
The thoughts raced through my head faster than the trees veiled by the mist outside.
My heart hammered against my ribcage, pain searing through my bruises with every jolt of the carriage. Trees flew past, their dead branches scraping against the carriage sides. The fog had swallowed the city lights. I knew we have left London, but where were we headed?
Cautiously, I reached for that door in my mind—the one I had kept carefully locked—and knocked on it.
No response.
The Unbidden remained silent.
I never thought I would miss the voice living inside my head since that dreadful night when my parents drowned, but here I was. The Unbidden stirred only near bodies of water—lakes, rivers, or God forbid, the sea. Its silence meant only one thing: I was nowhere near the Thames.
Sweet Lord, what nightmare awaited me at Duskmere Manor?
I urgently needed a plan, a story—anything—because if the monster suspected the truth, he would tear me apart.
I crossed my arms over my chest. Covered in bruises and scratches, with my hair hacked off above my shoulders, I’d hardly pass as a lady. A survivor of a pub brawl, more likely.
The night air grew colder, smelling of damp soil and rotting vegetation. The tunnel of trees swallowed the sounds of the horses’ hooves. Darkness slithered between the trunks, reaching for me.
Were they sending me on a mission—or was it all a trick? A diversion?
Maybe Arthur had finally decided to end me, and the hooded coachman would pull the reins, murder me in this godforsaken place, and dump my body in the woods.
For a heartbeat, I considered jumping from the carriage, but the unnatural stillness of the night outside was even more terrifying than the threat that might await me at the manor.
The memory of the demon in the alley still burned behind my eyes.
What if that creature still roamed the night?
I rubbed my temples, trying to clear my mind.
Since my parents’ deaths, I have lived in a waking nightmare. Fear had become my constant companion—sharp, familiar, almost useful.
Whatever awaited me at Duskmere Manor, it had to be better than the slow death of St. Dismas. If I found something useful—something Vexley and the Renegade wanted—I’d win my freedom.
And I knew exactly what to do with it.
I would escape to Paris or Milan and chase my dream of becoming a singer, even if I had to sell hats or scrub floors first.
Hope stirred in my chest. I looked outside.
As if the fog had carried me to another world, the carriage rolled to a hesitant stop.
I pressed my face to the window.
A rusty iron gate loomed ahead, its crooked spikes reaching toward the misty sky. A raven perched atop the gate’s iron crest, watching with eerie curiosity.
My breath fogged the glass.
The ancient gates groaned open.
And then—my heart caught.
A handprint appeared on the window glass as if someone had touched my face from the outside.
But there was no one there.
Only mist swirling in endless circles.
I reined in my fear.
Probably just another of the restless spirits wandering around since the landlord and his family disappeared.
Spirits didn’t scare me. Spirits would not drag you out of bed in the middle of the night and beat you until your pleas turned into whimpers.
Spirits wouldn’t hold a heated fire poker to your eyeball while screaming at you.
But hurt and unhinged men did this, men like Arthur and Vexley.
The door creaked open.
“Miss, we’ve arrived,” the hooded coachman said. “I cannot go farther. From here, you’re on foot. I suggest you run. The nights here are not safe.”
Oh, really. Who would have guessed?
I gathered my skirts and slid down from the carriage, the fog swallowing the ground beneath my feet.
“Good luck, Miss,” he added. The carriage vanished into the mist like a mirage.
The night air bit my skin.
I stepped toward the gate.
The sounds of the night—birds calling, branches rustling, hooves clicking away—suddenly paused. The world itself held its breath.
Invisible fingers brushed my cheek.
I shuddered.
The raven took off, disappearing into the mist as if inviting me to follow.
My boots crunched over the damp gravel of the courtyard, and I hurried toward the dark outline of the manor. The grand house stood before me, tall and solemn, its silhouette blending into the night, candlelight flickering in some windows.
Someone was there. Waiting.
My shoes clicked over the stone steps, and I reached the front door. It was made of massive oak, carved with sigils long worn by time, the iron knocker shaped like the face of some forgotten beast. I hesitated, my fingers grazing the chilled metal. But before I could move—
The door opened.
Not with a gust of wind nor with the creak of some hidden servant’s hand.
It opened on its own.
Ghostly fingers trailed along the back of my neck, making my pulse beat madly.
I looked over my shoulder before stepping over the threshold.
Dark silhouettes watched from the mist, silent as gravestones.
They faded, swallowed whole by the fog. Whatever awaited me inside, it was a better option than the cold menace those figures emanated.
“Get in, collect anything you can, and get out. Easy, Daphne,” I muttered and slipped inside.
A grand entry hall stretched before me, bathed in the flickering glow of candlelight. The first step I took felt like crossing into another world.
The door slid shut behind me, sealing me inside like the stone over a tomb.
Silence.
Not the empty silence of abandonment but something thicker. Silence that listened.
Smelling old books, dried roses, and a faint trace of incense lingered in the air—ghosts of a life once lived within these walls. I inhaled slowly, my muscles relaxing with the pleasant warmth inside.
No monster dug its claws into my body. No phantoms dragged my soul to hell. Actually, it looked like a nice upgrade compared to St. Dismas.
An unseen clock ticked in the depths, each slow tock carving through the hush like the beat of a heart.
The walls were high, lined with dark wooden paneling, their polished surfaces catching the candlelight. Countless portraits watched me. Twin staircases curved upward into the manor’s spine, their balustrades lined with wrought iron filigree, twining like the veins of something still breathing.
A faint shiver trailed down my spine.
It should have been cold. It should have felt lifeless. Abandoned.
But this place was anything but dead. It thrummed against my skin as if it was breathing. Waiting. Assessing me.
A fireplace glowed at the far end of the hall, its amber light casting shifting patterns over the faded rug and the black marble floor. A silver tray rested on a nearby sideboard, holding a crystal decanter, half-full of deep red liquid, two glasses set beside it—waiting, as if expecting company.
No servants stepped forward to greet me. No voices murmured from unseen rooms.
Yet I was not alone.
Then, from somewhere deep within the house, a sound. A violin. The melody, gentle and somewhat familiar, swelled through the empty rooms.
The monster played the violin? I took a cautious step forward and listened. The music was coming from the darkness beyond the curved staircase.
So, he was upstairs, I thought, stepping forward. Good. If he was upstairs and busy playing, that gave me an opportunity. What if I got into his study and find something—anything—and leave before getting caught? It was a desperate plan, but worth trying. Fortune favors the brave.
I took my shoes off and headed to the gallery between the stairs, darker than the entry.
The cold, polished marble floor bit my bare feet, but I was pleased with my progress.
Wax candles cast eerie shadows over the bleached silk wallpapers, and the darkness in the corners stirred, as if moving closer to see me.
The scent of old books got more intense when I peeked through a gaping door.
A library! Despite all odds stacked against me, fate was finally smiling at me.
I stepped into the room and looked around, holding my breath.
The golden letters on countless book spines reflected the warm light.
My feet sunk into a soft Persian rug, and the scent of aged parchment, ink, and something metallic tickled my nose.
Cool air rushed in through a cracked window, the night breeze filling the white curtains like the sails of a ghost ship.
And before the window–a desk. My heart hammered against the ribcage when I snuck closer to inspect the piles of paper.
A loose sheet quivered beneath a heavy candlestick, the wind lifting it just enough to tease movement before settling again.
The library was empty but soaked with a presence.
Hints of secrets and shadows, a distant whiff of black sage, bourbon, and smoke lingered over the leather chair.
The melancholic melody still spilled into the sleepy manor, and I let out a quiet breath.
As long as I was hearing this haunting music, I was safe.
“You got this, Daphne,” I whispered, pressing a hand to my heart to steady myself.
What if I find something of value? I could just hide somewhere until dawn and then run.
Vexley’s men would find me, and I’d get my prize.
“Now, let’s see what we have here.” I grabbed a pile of papers.
The first one was a sketch. A wide river with palm trees bending over the water and the silhouettes of the Egyptian pyramids in the background.
So, the monster was an artist? Next was a letter—an elegant handwriting in Portuguese, I believed.
The signature line was in English, and I narrowed my eyes, forcing the letters and syllables to stop their dance before my eyes.
I hope you’ll change your mind, Emrys.
Yours,
Camille
I nearly chuckled. This monster was slowly taking shape.
With each sketch and letter on the desk, he was looking more human.
And quite well traveled, judging by all the photographs and postcards littering the desk.
In my hands was the evidence of an exciting life, and somehow, it made me curious.
I dug deeper into the papers, but no sign of maps or any notes on the ley lines. Maybe in the drawers?
I pulled on the first drawer and scoffed. Locked.
Maybe if I pulled harder?
Nothing.
Irked, I crossed my arms at my chest and looked around. A sudden realization turned my blood into ice.
The music died mid-note, leaving behind a silence so sharp it pricked the back of my neck.
The candles flickered, and the air around me shifted.
Before I could react, there was a hand around my neck, large enough to crush my windpipe in a single move.
A human hand, not a monster’s, with long elegant fingers—the fingers that had sketched all those pictures before me.
It was the opposite of the cold, clinical touch of Vexley or the fists of Arthur; it was warm, the calloused fingers lingering on my skin like a warning.
The monster pulled me in and pressed my back against a hard plane of muscle, holding me tight enough not to run but not hurting me.
My heart was beating so loud that I was sure he’d hear.
I clawed at his grip, my mind racing—how had he arrived so fast?
My hand reached for the letter-opening knife a few inches away.
“I’d advise against that.” His voice was deep and warm but sounded detached. Bored. Unlike anything you’d expected from a frenzied demon. I swallowed hard.
“You startled me,” I choked.
“Did I?” Strands of hair so dark it nearly looked indigo tickled my bare shoulders.
His voice wasn’t loud. He didn’t need it to be.
There was something far more unsettling in his quiet composure, in the way he simply held me like he had all the time in the world to pick apart my presence here.
He knew perfectly well that I was at his mercy now.
I straightened, forcing the tremor from my limbs. “I was just looking.”
“Is that so?” His face was behind me, but I could swear he was smiling.
“I,” I stuttered, my fingers clawing at his steely grip, “I was just—”
“Looking.” He finished for me. “So tell me, little thief, what exactly were you hoping to steal?”
Then, he let me go. Instinct propelled me to the door, but it swung shut before my face as if moved by an invisible hand.
My momentum and the slippery stone underneath my bare feet made me skid, and I crashed against the wood.
My nails dug into the surface, and I slowly turned around, blinking. Something hot trickled down my face.
“You’re bleeding,” he stated cooly. He was tall, still holding the violin’s bow. His shirt was dark, unbuttoned at the throat, his hair slightly tousled—as if he had been alone here for hours, immersed in something only he understood.
He watched me for a long, unreadable moment—then smiled as if already weary of my lies.
“Who sent you here?” he asked again, softer this time. More dangerous.
A single step, soundless, predatory, brought him closer. His frame was lean but strong—a strength that didn’t need to be flaunted. And his face…
Now I understood what the Renegade meant about ladies who became… something else around him.
This was no monster’s face. He was beautiful, but so was the devil.
“Nobody,” I said, wiping the blood from my nose with the back of my hand. “I lost my way.”
When I blinked, he was at me, studying me under thick, dark eyelashes. His eyes flashed silvery-gray as if glowing with light of their own.
“I don’t believe in things lost,” he stated, tilting his head. “Just misplaced. So I’ll ask again: how did you end up here?”
My breath hitched.
He knew. Maybe not everything. Not yet. But enough. Enough to kill me.
I should have begged. I should have lied. Instead—for reasons I couldn’t name—I grinned at the devil and dared him to bite first.
I lifted my chin defiantly. “Who do you think sent me here?” I asked.