“Inside, before it finds us.” Mr. Thorn gestured for her to step in first. His eyes were on the full moon overhead. She ducked to step into the hollow of the tree.
The interior was deceptively large. A corridor with a carpet of bright green moss led onto an open living area and further down another wall. Lights hung from fibers in the ceiling and flickered a strange bluish-green. A single cot pressed against the wall was covered in a blanket that looked sewn together with bits of discarded fabric. Blue and red feathers poked out from within a hole in one of the patchwork seams. A cauldron hung on a hook over the cold fireplace, a pile of wood and kindling sat next to, as if the house’s owner had stepped out and would soon return to light the hearth. Mr. Thorn stumbled over to the cot and collapsed upon it. Feathers fluttered up, and an old musty smell filled her nostrils.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mr. Thorn tore off his sleeve and exposed the corded muscles of his arm. A bloody gash where the creature had bitten him bled, and from it, black veins traveled up and over his shoulder and under his shirt. Catherine turned away. It was inappropriate to stare. A blush burned the back of her neck. Of all the things she’d seen today, a man’s bare arm was what she was worried about? But he wasn’t really a man, was he? Catherine shook her head.
The musk of dried herbs drifted on the cool, damp air. The wall opposite the bed was lined with shelves hewn from the earth. Roots wove in and out of the wall and created hooks and lines from which herbs were dried. They were crammed full of strange odds and ends like water-logged plants, dried roots of indeterminate origin, what looked suspiciously like lizard tails floating in purple goo, and crystals that caught the blue-green light and sparkled faintly.
“Would you mind bringing me that opaque jar on the middle shelf with the green liquid?” Mr. Thorn asked. His voice sounded strained, as if he were holding back immense pain.
Having a task to focus on, she jumped to do as he asked. Her hand hovered over the assortment of jars, some with strange herbs floating inside and others with things that looked suspiciously like eyeballs. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Better not to wonder what it was all for. The bottle he’d indicated sat between two others of mystery liquid: one a dark red like blood with floating flakes of gold, and the other an inky black with what looked to be a white snake coiled inside. She snatched up the jar he’d indicated and scurried from the shelf to hand it over. He popped off the cork with his thumb and took a swig of the contents, draining it in one gulp. With a grimace, he set the empty jar on the nightstand beside the bed.
“Great Tree, that is awful.” He leaned back, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he took in deep breaths.
The top buttons of his shirt pulled, and the tanned planes of his chest peeked out from beneath. His breathing was returning to normal. But her reality wasn’t. The room remained the same—filled with strange curios. The man across from her had been bitten by the same creature that chased her. He himself was fae. Questions, doubts, and fears were rushing in like a river whose dam broke. Why was it whenever something strange happened he was there? Why had he endured such pain to protect her? They’d only shared a handful of words. In her favorite novel, Lady of the Moors, the hero Tristan took a shot for Angelique. But heroes weren’t accused murderers, and heroines weren’t mad women.
The very thought made her head spin. But was she mad? She fanned out her nails covered in grime from digging out the dirt. This place felt all too real. Too real.If she weren’t insane, then her treatment, those years enduring Dr. Armstrong’s cruel remedies, it was for nothing? Even more troubling if she weren’t mad, that meant Mr. Thorn was a killer.
Her eyes darted back to Mr. Thorn. They were locked alone here, and she had no clue as to where she was. She needed to get out of here. Back home to Thornwood, where everything made sense... She glanced back to the door. If she followed that path, would it eventually lead to the edge of the forest, could she follow it to the road and back home?
“Thinking of running away already?” Mr. Thorn said, cracking one eye and piercing her with it.
Her pulse jumped. “If you’re better, I should be getting back home...”
He sat up straight, elbows resting on his knees, and studied her a moment. “You’re not what I expected. Normally humans ask more questions about this.” He gestured around the room.
She wrapped her arms around her chest and resisted the urge to look around. She’d be lying to say she wasn’t curious. But this felt wrong and forbidden. What would Dr. Armstrong say? If she told him about any of this, he would have locked her in the room for a week or more. She shouldn’t be here. She lowered her gaze to the floor.
“If you would tell me the way, I will leave you be.” Her voice shook.
He heaved a sigh. The bed creaked as he stood and every heavy footfall as he crept closer to her felt as if echoed inside her. The ghost’s warning rang in her ears.You’ll be next.What a fool she’d been to trust him. She dug her nails into her arm until it ached. She backed up a step and collided with a chair. It tipped over with a clatter. She turned to run, but he was standing in her way.
“Stay back,” she shouted. She couldn’t breathe; her chest felt tight. Miss Ashton’s sightless eyes, her bloody clothes. The ghost with her carved-up chest. Mr. Thorn connected to both. How could she have trusted him for even a moment?
He held up his hands to show her no harm. There was a dagger at his hip that she hadn’t noticed before. Was that what he’d used to kill the others? “I know it can be overwhelming at first...” he said.
“The ghost, she warned me about you. Please, I saved your life, don’t take my heart.” Catherine’s voice wavered. She clutched the fabric over her own heart, and her eyes darted toward his weapon. If she were very quick, she might take it from him and then and then...
“You saved my life, Lady Thornton. To the fae, that is a debt that must be repaid. Until it is, I cannot possibly harm a hair on your head.”
It might be a trick. It might not. She wasn’t sure what was real anymore. Before she could second-guess herself, she lurched forward and grasped for the dagger. Her fingertips brushed against the hilt before he had his hands around her wrist and pulled her backward.
She stood back, chest heaving. She’d been too slow. Perhaps a bit reckless too. There wouldn’t be a second chance now. She looked around, searching for an escape.
He watched her with a smirk playing on his lips. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting that from you, Lady Thornton.”
He drew his dagger from the hilt. Catherine wriggled free of his grasp and backed up until her back hit the cold earthen wall. Her eyes widened as he raised the dagger until it was inches from her throat. She clenched her eyes shut. This was it, the end to her miserable life.
Seconds passed, and the blade didn’t pierce her skin. She peaked an eye open to see the dagger hovering over her skin, blocked by an invisible barrier. Mr. Thorn’s face contorted with effort. He hadn’t lied; he really couldn’t hurt her.
He took several steps back and then held out the dagger to her hilt first. “Take it if it will make you more comfortable.”
He watched her, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. She eyed him for a moment, wondering if this, too, were a trick. She reached for the dagger slowly. The hilt was warm from his grip, and the weight of it felt strange in her hand. But it was a comforting weight. She’d never been given the means to protect herself before. When she had a firm hold of it, he stepped back again.
“There we are. And while we’re on the subject, I didn’t kill those girls.”
If he hadn’t, who had? Her shoulders slumped. Had she accused her savior without cause? On the word of a ghost... To even consider believing a ghost’s word felt absurd...
“Why did that—” She couldn’t say the words aloud. As bizarre as this all was, she still couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the madness of it all.
