As he slipped in and out of the mist, he replayed every detail of their dinner. Sweet Corabeth had tried to be so brave. But Rooke noticed it all. The horror that set in when the candles on his side of the table flared to life. Every spike of her pulse. The way she tried to hide the trembling of her hand.
She was scared of him. Good. That meant there was still some life in her, even if she had considered death a mercy mere days ago.
Rooke struggled to remember the last time he had a conversation with another human. The animals in his woods had become scarce, leaving him to his frenzied hunger. The unsuspecting humans who ventured into the forest often died before they could utter a single word.
The thrill of the conversation, of the little cat and mouse game Corabeth had so willingly stepped into, had Rooke humming in his own skin. It was a different kind of chase that he was now resolved to keep going.
Corabeth was like a little bird in the palm of his hand. He needed only squeeze too hard, and she would never be able to leave him. But he wanted to feel the lively flutter of her wings. Wanted to nurse her back to life.
For now, he did not think it might mean her leaving. For now, he simply wanted to see fire instead of that hollow, haunted look in her eyes. For a moment, he had seen it when she talked about what the village had done to her. It had been another indication that she had not completely surrendered.
If Corabeth knew how many times Rooke thought about killing her that first night, she might have fled. Those thoughts did not come from his own desire. It was more like instinct after decades, centuries of living as a beast. It had eaten away at his personhood. But some remnants remained. And now Rooke was fighting to find his way back to them. He would sink his cursed fangs into them and hold on until his dying breath.
Now, when he thought of killing Corabeth, it was more like a dread, a panic that he might lose control and do it. He had resisted the first urges, and that felt like a victory.
Rooke circled back to the manor that stood unwavering and proud after all these years, the dark windows like unblinking eyes keeping watch. On the second floor, there was a single light on. The winds shifted around him, branches bending and tangling in his cloak, but still he stood and stared up at that window.
Then, movement.
She was not asleep after all.
Corabeth’s form slid across the curtains. Even her shadow was meek, drawn in on itself as if trying to disappear. The way life had been drained from her enraged Rooke. He knew without being told how conniving the villagers were.
They used his bloodlust against him, distracting him with the blood-painted animals. Time and time again, he let himselfbe fooled, because during the Night of the Beast, he was more beast than man. The cycle had started anew. But this time was different. This time, there was Corabeth.
She was the only thing that smelled of life amongst the rot and decay that surrounded him, a flower, not quite yet blooming, but he could see the buds. There were thorns too, hidden but sharp and ready. Rooke wondered if she herself knew about them.
Rooke decided then that he would have to coax her out gently. Be too intrusive and she might retreat even further. Leave her to her own devices and she might drown in her grief. He needed to lay out a trail that she might follow. That would allow her to think it was all her own doing.
If he could save this one person, perhaps there was still hope for him as well.
Eleven
Corabeth
The next evening, dinner was waiting for Corabeth in the dining room once more. A hearty stew with meat and root vegetables. Rooke, however, was missing from the other end of the table.
Corabeth took her meal alone in silence, but when she left the dining room afterwards, she noticed the door to the library open, a stretched out rectangle of light falling onto the floor in the hall. She had started to suspect that open doors were like an invitation in this house. If not quite invitations, at least a sign that she needn’t stay away.
It was a mix of curiosity and boredom that made her walk over to the cracked door and knock quietly.
“Rooke?” she called and waited.
“Corabeth?” he answered just a moment later from the library.
Corabeth pushed the door open and peered inside. Towering shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with neatly stacked books. At the heart of the room was a massive fireplace where a blaze was devouring logs. Its wooden mantle depicted two lions facing each other. The mahogany of the interior seemed to drink in the warm light. Facing the hearth at an angle were two high-backed leather armchairs. One of them was occupied by Rooke, dressed in black, as always. An open book rested in his lap, his gaze watchful and steady.
There was a pleasant smell of aged paper and smoke that lingered in the air. Dust motes floated lazily through the beams of golden light as Corabeth entered.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said, suddenly remembering her manners, and walked to the nearest bookshelf. It was somehow easier to look at the titles than at Rooke.
“Do you like to read?” Rooke asked, keeping his gaze on Corabeth. She tilted her head to better read the spines and slowly moved on to the next shelf. The shelves were filled with books on different topics: alchemy, botany, the occult, geography, biology, medicine.
Corabeth shrugged. “I think so. I can’t say I had a lot of time or even enough books to develop a real passion.”
“What kind of books did you like when you had the time?”
“I doubt you have the kinds of books I read,” Corabeth said with a small smile, stealing a glance at Rooke. He had closed his book but kept it in his lap.
