Page 30 of Monsters' Manor

Some distant, dim voice calling from the corner of my mind is still telling me to leave. To get up, pack my bags, and get myself as far from Edgar’s Acres as I can. But I can’t listen to or obey it.

No, all I can do is surrender to sleep, letting that darkness pull me under completely.

10

If the Goddess had any mercy, my oblivion would have been dreamless.

But apparently she doesn’t, because I can’t find peace even in sleep. Instead, I find fitful dreams filled with fire and fear and hazy memories my mind can barely register before they’re gone.

I’m five years old, playing in the corner of my father’s workshop while he tinkers with some concoction that smells like sulfur and charcoal.

I’m eight, listening to the phone call that upended my world.

I’m twelve, and the burnt remnants of the book report I worked so hard on just to be given a C-minus are scattered on my bedroom floor. My mother appears in the doorway, and when she sees them smoking there, ashes curling in on themselves like withered leaves, she cries out in shock.

I’m twenty-three, blood rushing in my ears as a filing cabinet burns in front of me. A fire alarm is blaring and there’s shouting coming from somewhere nearby, but I can’t make out the words.

It’s not until I jerk awake with a sharp gasp that I realize what they are—dreams, only dreams—and they can’t hurt me.

Sitting up on the couch with an aching body and eyes that feel like they’ve been rubbed raw with sandpaper, I take a few deep breaths to try to calm the racing of my heart.

It only takes a few seconds for the memories to come crashing in.

Renwick. The labyrinth. My fire. Silas disappearing into the night.

With a groan, I drop my head into my hands. My earlier panic is gone, and shame creeps in to fill the empty space. I play the moments over and over in my mind on a loop, each detail horribly crisp and clear.

I could have killed Renwick tonight. If he were any normal human or a less-durable monster, I would have. He would be a charred crisp on the cellar floor.

Even though he seemed so calm about everything, even though he wasn’t afraid or angry or horrified by what I did, I can’t forget. Nor can I forget my soul-deep certainty that I need to get away from this place.

I don’t belong here. When I decided to come, I thought maybe…

There’s no use thinking about it. Not now. Not when I’ve already proven I’m a danger to everyone at Edgar’s Acres. The magick of this place draws my own too close to the surface, and staying any longer would be a monumental mistake.

There’s no use wishing things were different, thatIcould be different. There’s no use wondering if I should give myself some more time, find Renwick and apologize, give training another…

No.

I need to go.

Standing from the couch, I let out a low groan as my muscles protest being upright and moving again. I’ve got a half-formed plan in mind to go into the bedroom, pack up the few belongings I have here, and get the hell out of dodge, when I hear it.

“Rosemary?” Silas’s mist and midnight voice calls faintly from the other side of the door.

When I take a step closer, I can feel him. The magick of him, the gentle power that seeps beneath the crack in the door and wends its way around me.

I rest my forehead on the smooth wood, thoughts tangled, heart tugged in two directions.

I should tell him to go. I should tell him I’m leaving.

Even with the door between us, his darkness permeates the air. It’s cool and soothing, humming over my skin in an echo of the power I shared with him before.

“Rosemary,” he murmurs again.

I close my eyes. More of that darkness washes over me, and I realize he could come in if he wanted to. It would barely take half a heartbeat for him to appear in the cottage beside me.

But he waits. Still there, still leaving it up to me what I want to do.

---