My final option is to stay. To face the consequences of unveiling his secrets. To speak with him, face to face, and boldly confess what I’ve done. To demand an explanation from him.
I’ll have to go about it carefully. I thought I knew him well enough to share a life with him, but clearly I did not. He may try to kill me, and I have to be ready for that.
Whatever he is, whatever he has done, there is one truth to which I cling. Hewantsme. Craves me. Loves me, to whatever extent he is capable. He wanted to believe that he could trust me—he wanted that trust so desperately that he left me alone here, with the key. He desires a life with me, and that desire gives me some power over him.
When he returns, I will use every charm I possess, every bit of influence I might have. I will seduce a confession out of him.
Maybe I can change him, make him better. My love could tame his wildness, soothe his dark urges, fix whatever is broken inside him.
But first, I need to know what he is, and where he came from.
I spend another hour pacing the room and trying to rub the blood off the key, but at last I throw myself into bed and sink into restless sleep, during which I dream of shadowy demons and dark figures rising out of a crack in the Barrow.
When I wake, I have a new theory. Perhaps Beresford is a manifestation of the Barrow-Man, the entity with whom my father bargained for a son. Beresford’s fascination with me can’t be just a coincidence, not with the dark magic of Wormsloe seeping from beneath its boughs into the fields and farms beyond.
As soon as the idea takes root, I grasp it with all the fervor of a woman desperate for truth.
After dressing for the day, I write one note for Mrs. Nanterre, canceling the dinner party. I leave another note for my mother and sister in case they decide to show up at Valenkirk in my absence. I tell them that I’m running an errand in the city, but that Anne can feel free to show Mama around the main floors if she likes.
With those tasks completed and both notes laid out on the kitchen table, I put on my new red cloak, pack up a few supplies, and head across the fields of Valenkirk toward Wormsloe Wood, with the blood-stained key in the pocket of my trousers.
13
The morning air is viciously fresh, biting my cheeks with winter cold, raking through my hair with icy, breezy fingers until I raise the hood of my scarlet cloak. The distance from Valenkirk House to the edge of the forest is farther than it looked, but with every stride, the treeline is coming closer. The nearer I get to the woods, the heavier my heart becomes and the wearier my body grows, as if something invisible has crawled onto my back and is weighing me down with its malicious bulk.
I’m not used to entering Wormsloe from this direction, but I have a general idea of which way to go to reach the Barrow. What I’ll do when I get there is another question entirely.
In my satchel is a piece of meat, carefully wrapped in thick butcher’s paper, and some berries nestled inside a mug. I also packed a small knife, a half-bottle of leftover milk I found in the cold cellar off the kitchen, and a small jar of honey. I don’t have a full loaf of bread, but maybe these offerings will be enough to get the Barrow-Man’s attention. And I have the word that the dying demon gave me, the same word that was hidden in my father’s vial.
I have a suspicion that it’s more than a word—it’s the Barrow-Man’s name. Maybe if I pronounce it aloud over the food I’ve brought, he’ll come out and speak with me, even if it isn’t midnight. I’m not sure if he’ll allow a whole conversation or just one question, so while I’m traveling to the Barrow, I need to mentally prepare for both possibilities.
Pacing along the edge of the forest, I look for an entry point. The undergrowth is thicker here, interlaced with thorny vines, and I’d rather not tear up my clothes if I can avoid it.
Up ahead, I spot an area where the saplings, bushes, and branches have been crushed and snapped, creating a tunnel that runs deep into Wormsloe, as far as I can see. A shiver ripples over my skin as I stare into that gap. The branches are broken off in a wide swath, and the destruction continues higher up, into the canopy of the forest.
Something enormous passed through here multiple times, by the look of things. Something uncanny, unnatural, monstrous.
Once again, the image of the two-headed wolf floats at the front of my mind. It’s connected to Beresford somehow—no denying that fact. It’s the details that elude me. I need more information. Without it, my brain is going to keep screaming round and round in frenetic circles, crafting terrible possibilities.
The wolf, the Barrow-man, the bodies… and Beresford.
An ache started in the pit of my stomach when I opened the blue door. It’s worse now, and it pulses with sharper pain every time I think of my husband. His tongue, his chest, his hands. He came for me, came inside me. Dragged me out of the hopeless apathy in which I was mired. It’s not an exaggeration to say that he saved my life.
I love him, and I hate him for doing this to us, for keeping a secret so unutterably devastating.
“Fuck,” I whisper, stepping into the tunnel of bent trees and broken branches. Pulverized twigs crunch beneath the soles of my boots as I proceed into the forest.
Under the canopy, the breeze flattens into still, cold air tinged with the spicy rot of autumn leaves. Trees cluster closely, like they’re crowding together for warmth or making walls to defend against something.
Last time I entered Wormsloe, I felt the darkness, the wrongness, the creeping corruption. The farther I walk, the more strongly I sense it. Something has been disturbed or awakened. Something is stirring, and it is angry. It is hunting.
A chittering rustle shakes the remaining leaves as a breeze slithers between the tree trunks. The air current is slender, targeted, snakelike, winding around my body and lifting the edges of my red cloak. It flows beneath my hood, coiling around my throat.
This isn’t any normal breath of wind. It’s something else. An invisible tentacle, an extension of the foul presence that has infested the forest. It’s investigating me, searching me out.
The realization makes me panic. I shudder violently, voicing a little scream, and I take off running down the path, with nothing else in my head but the need to dispel the touch of that invasive, invisible force.
A threatening hiss slices the quiet of the woods, like the exhale of giant lungs through sharp fangs. As I run, I scan the trees to the left and right. Is it the wolf? Is it watching me?
