CHAPTER 27
ALEX
Alex slept only fitfully that night. The house sighed and whispered and she tried to ignore it. But the sounds crept into her dreams, twisting them into moans of pleasure, and that damned laughter, until she woke up sheened with sweat and breathless, staring into the darkness.
She had the distinct impression that the darkness stared back at her, smiling like a wolf. She was dreaming. She had to be. This was not real. Just another nightmare.
The bed dipped. The voice was barely there. The faintest whisper, but close now, too close, like someone was leaning close to her ear.
‘Do you not remember what I can do, my Alexandra?’
Alex sat up abruptly, lashing out and meeting nothing in the dark. As she fumbled with the switch of the bedside light, phantom fingertips brushed the back of her hand and she bit back a gasp.
That soft chuckle of laughter came again.
‘Stop it,’ she hissed at her own imagination, as she finally clicked the switch. The light was a warm glow, a blessed relief.
And the shadow at the foot of the bed faded with another barely heard laugh.
She had been dreaming. That had to be it. A nightmare. That was all. Another bloody nightmare.
She sat there for some time forcing her breath to calm and her heartbeat to slow again before getting up, wrapping the dressing gown around her, grabbing her phone and padding downstairs in search of a cup of tea. Because she wasn’t going to go back to sleep for some time. She knew that much.
It was 3 a.m. Nick’s bedroom door stood open and Alex couldn’t help but glance inside. It was empty, the bed still neatly made. Was he still up? Unless he’d taken himself off up to the old servants’ quarters on the top floor, in among the eaves, far away from her. But no, they were attics, not bedrooms. She’d looked at them early on, so chock-full of the junk of generations piled on top of itself that she’d just shut the door and walked away. Or maybe Nick preferred to camp out in the forest, she thought with a half grin, like the wild man she had first taken him to be.
She took the old servants’ stairs, a quicker and more direct route down to the kitchen from her room. They were plainly decorated in comparison to the main stairs, simple stone steps and a solid curving rail. Every so often there were paintings, mostly landscapes but a few portraits as well. She glanced at the faces as she passed and tried to shake the thought that they were looking back, their eyes following her.
Like she was an interloper in this place. Perhaps she was. It was their home, not hers. Or their prison if Nick was to be believed. She could definitely sense their judgement. Like she was somehow failing them, the constant disappointment.
It was starting to get irritating.
The sense of being watched was everywhere. The mirrors and the windows with darkness pressed close outside were the worst. She caught flickers of movement out of the corner of her eye and pressed on, telling herself it was just her reflection caughtin glass and polished surfaces. By the time she reached the kitchens, she was trembling, and not just from the cold.
But it was cold down here. It was like walking into a fridge. Her breath misted in front of her mouth and nose. Old buildings had no insulation, she reminded herself. It was the middle of the night. And the weather had been all over the place since she had arrived here. No wonder it was cold. She pulled her dressing gown closer as she busied herself putting on the kettle and getting out a tea bag and milk.
Noises behind her, in the darkness. Laughter, murmurs, a distinct sigh, a gasp of pleasure…or pain…
She ignored them religiously. She had to. They couldn’t be real. Not unless she captured them on a recorder. On several recorders to rule out errors. Not until she had real, solid evidence. She refused to believe anything until then.
‘Alexandra.’
That voice again, soft and dark with promise, amused at her defiance.
The noise of the kettle boiling filled the room, drowning out anything else again, and she gritted her teeth. Her head swam and she felt sick, like she was about to faint or throw up and it would be anyone’s guess which happened first.
A psychic drain, Daphne would say, nodding sagely but sympathetically. But there was no such thing. Not really. A blood sugar crash was more likely. Or any number of things. A reaction to stress. Post traumatic stress disorder, even.
Or something more ominous.
Perhaps she should see a doctor, a specialist of some kind. Call Dr Neary again at least. Perhaps…
‘My Alexandra…’
She froze, leaning on the counter, staring at the mug. She couldn’t seem to move. Like the other day in the study, when she’d seen that black cloud of nothingness rise to tangleitself around her. Right before Nick had arrived. She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. And yet that tell-tale heat was sweeping through her again, that ache…
A hand slid up the side of her leg. Just for a moment. As real and solid as anything around her. Teasing. Questing. Determined.
‘No!’ she said as firmly as she could, and twisted aside. The sensation vanished. Not real, she reminded herself. This was not real. Her voice shook. ‘You can’t do this. None of this is real.’
