Page 104 of Magdalene Nox

“At least I got to take the important stuff out of my room,” Sam mumbled, succumbing to sleep.

As her lover drifted off, Magdalene softly whispered her confession, “So did Willoughby,” before placing a gentle kiss on Sam’s neck.

28

OF THE WOLF AT THE DOOR & BURNING MADNESS

With the eventful past few weeks, Magdalene had perhaps foolishly forgotten the essential truth about her own life. Nothing lasted. Especially silences. She had always been afraid of them. No matter how seemingly peaceful they were, her entire life silences felt like the calm before the storm. As if fate was loading its ammunition. Or digging a deeper hole.

Nonetheless, she had indeed been enjoying the quiet, albeit interrupted by the noise of an active demolition and construction site and by Sam’s soft breathing by her side at night. She had also been too busy to remember that this wasn’t in fact her life. That Magdalene Nox had no easy silences and no lasting peace. The wolf was always at her door.

He’d lured her into this state of peaceful joy, Sam’s scent, full of lily of the valley and woman, acting as the ultimate lullaby. But he’d been right there all along, and he was ready to tear out her heart. The one that Sam had finished mended. After all, he had been after that heart for so long. Or she, as it ultimately turned out…

Magdalene wasn’t even surprised. Not really. When Sam and Orla and Joanne busted into her office to reveal who the culprit behind the attic fire was, Magdalene took one look at George, and the puzzle pieces clicked into place, the bits of cardboard making that satisfying sound of fitting right in, all she could think was, ‘yes, of course…’

Despite the stillness that reigned in the small room as Orla and Joanne filed out to follow Magdalene’s instructions to summon Sheriff Green to the island, it thundered like the distant roar of a fast approaching storm.

Magdalene sat behind her desk in the workspace that had been set up for her in the only building left standing after the fire. Her hands folded on the shining new wooden desktop, she knew she appeared calm, but underneath it, underneath the quietude, that approaching storm was her own wrath. Her own rage.

She thought that if only she allowed it to snap, to find a crack, a vulnerability in her tightly welded armor, she would tear George to shreds and let all that blood, all that poison that had nearly ruined Magdalene’s life, drip down her fingertips and fall on the centuries-old floors that came so close to also being destroyed in the flames that this woman had unleashed.

The image of crimson on her pale hands still carrying the scars and bandages was so vivid and so seductive, Magdalene almost shuddered. But she did not take her eyes off George, who was silence itself.

Peripherally, Magdalene could hear Sam’s breathing, the sound piercing in the room’s eeriness yet vital to Magdalene’s sanity, because it broke that sheer stillness and anchored her in reality, in the moment, in the right now, and not in the years of terror and stalking, not in the months of horrid phone calls which only stopped once they moved here and disturbing letters; not in the decades of rumors and whispers and not in the minutes of horror of being burned alive.

No, Magdalene was grateful for Sam and to Sam. Because for all her own vaunted intelligence, she had never once suspected that the person who was hunting her was George, her best and at times only friend.

And so she sat unmoving and looked at George, breathing deeply since this was to be a difficult conversation, a painful one, and she needed to have all her wits about her—and not merely the ones that wanted to strike and claw.

George, in turn, was not looking at anyone in particular, her stare shifting restlessly from one object to the next, to the next, as if seeking purchase and not finding it.

Magdalene felt no sympathy. In fact, underneath the fire of anger, she felt nothing at all, a curious state of being, considering what was happening. Everything was falling apart, and nothing would ever be the same.

I trusted you…

The stillness stretched, filling the moments, first with an uncomfortable sort of disquietude, then slowly transitioning into downright untenable tension. Time felt viscous, like slime, slithering all over the floor as Sam’s breathing continued to be the only sound permeating the room. And then, when said tension was about to snap like a twig, George’s subdued voice broke the greasy detente.

“I could never outmaneuver you with silence, Maggie. You use it so masterfully. At times like a shield. Other times—like now—as a sword. And I could never win these games against you. I sure do enjoy playing though. I really do.”

And then George did move, hands flying to her own face, to her neck, touching and wiping and trembling. Yet Magdalene didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, merely looked on, knowing that her wordless stance pushed George onward to whatever brink she was sure to be headed towards. Under her desk, Magdalene keyed the voice recorder on her phone.

Either George saw her move that tiny bit, or Magdalene’s silence finally got to her, but suddenly, she was up on her feet, and her voice was full of abject despair.

“Maggie, say something.” For a moment, George kept wringing her hands, fingers trembling, before darting towards her, as did Sam, stepping between them. Magdalene’s heart wanted to bundle Sam up and take her somewhere safe and warm and comfortable, because she was so hurt. Just days ago Magdalene had almost lost her. And Sam was still limping a bit and clearly dizzy, because her gait was uneven, yet here she was, literally standing in front of Magdalene. If she hadn’t been so thoroughly in love already, she’d have fallen then and there.

The contrast could not have been more stark. Sam, lightheaded and unsteady, yet resolute, shoulders set and eyes blazing–and George, shaking and blubbering, lips trembling and cheeks wet. It wasn’t a fair comparison, since nobody could hold a candle to Sam anyway, but Magdalene didn’t care to be fair. Not then. She could still smell the blood she’d envisioned, and her rage had still not been sated.

She suspected it never would be. The treachery was too deep and too painful. But the least she could do was find out everything, even if she didn’t particularly care to know in that moment.

George laughed then, the sound, same as nails on a chalkboard scratching Magdalene’s very soul. She wanted it all to stop. She also wanted the truth. And then she only would want Sam, because Magdalene knew that when all was said and done, nobody but Sam could put her back together.

“You are such a guard dog, Sammy.” George spat the name, as if it was foul in her mouth, and all things considered, you would have to hate someone this much to want to burn them alive. Magdalene saw Sam fight the urge to wipe her face. She didn’t give George the satisfaction though, just stood there silently, and Magdalene felt both pride and protectiveness.

“Maggie, call off your dog. It’s not like I’d do anything to you! You know I’d never hurt you.” George’s voice cracked again, and the phrase sounded more like a plea instead of whatever aggravation she’d meant to convey.

It was Magdalene’s turn to speak, and she prayed her own voice would hold. That it would do what she needed it to do, instead of rise into a hysterical scream of vengeance and pain.

“Could’ve fooled me, George.” She sensed more than heard her words come out in the exact manner she had wanted them to, too distracted by the effort it took to speak.

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