Jane knew the only animal she could possibly find under there would be dust bunnies, yet something cool roiled in her belly, telling her to crawl into bed and turn a blind eye, and wait for the safety of daylight so that Mrs. Foster could take on the responsibility instead. Then again… if Janedidn’tcheck, that part of her brain that remained like that of an animal, hellbent on survival, would nag at her like a disgruntled grandmother until she’d give into its whims and look anyway.
The floorboards were cold beneath her as she lay down on her belly. She had been holding her breath and only dared to let it go when she, at last, saw the entirety of underneath the bed—in all its empty glory, awash in the lamp’s dim yellow glow. No eyes glowing red, no slobbering teeth waiting to gobble her up, no hands reaching to defile her. Only crooked shadows that ran along the lengths of the boards. Heat flooded her cheeks and she huffed out a small laugh that then rolled into a disappointed grumble.
“Christ, Janet… You’re no child, letting your imagination run wildly like that—” she growled under her breath as she started to rise, but as she took the lamp in hand, she noticed its light snagpeculiarly across the floor. The lines she saw were not straight and uniform in a way that would hint at natural patterns or wear in the wood, but rather in shapes that were arched and curved in too-complex designs. Had there been even more scratches from the thing that’d assaulted her door?
Bringing the lamp with her as far as she could without catching her sheets aflame, Jane flopped back onto her belly to scoot her way beneath the bed. Dust wavered around her in a golden haze and she bit her lip in an attempt to fight against a rising sneeze, especially as she narrowed her eyes to better understand what she was now looking at.
There were carvings, many of them. Some of them were maddened, nonsensical scratches, as if the carver made a mistake and attempted to claw it out of existence, while others were clearer patterns Jane traced with her pinky. Horseshoes, crosses, large, unblinking eyes with runes in place of a pupil. The most prevalent were looping, wheel-like patterns resembling flowers with six petals.
Jane was unsure of what to feel: fear in knowing this was hidden beneath her the whole time, a battling confusion and curiosity as to why Old Man Hayes—as she couldn’t think of anyone else doing so—would make such carvings.
She shimmied back out from under the bed, reached into her bag for a sheaf of parchment and a piece of charcoal, and returned to lay amongst the dust with a new sense of excitement sparking in her heart. With her own scribbles, she started to trace the carvings.
Again and again, she drew horseshoes and evil eyes until a small stack of drawings piled beside the lamp. If her door weren’t locked and if she weren’t so scared to see those scratches scarring the threshold, she’d sneak down to the sitting room to retrieve oneof Old Man Hayes’ books to decipher the markings—and perhaps figure out why they were under the bed. It’d be a new assignment for her, now that Terence’s fossils had been, for the most part, identified, and, hopefully, one to rescue her from another day riddled with apprehension and boredom—and pouring her deepest feelings of inadequacy to a man she’d only known for days.
Just as a triumphant heat swelled between Jane’s breasts, a scream echoed outside her window. She jumped at the sound, causing the bed to shake when she hit her head against its metal frame. She seethed as pain ebbed in her rattling teeth.
Another drone of thunder snarled against the window until it melted and gave way to a howl, one that came from a mouth, not the sky. It was haunting, shrill, too much like that of a human scream than the bray of a wild beast.
It struck Jane deep in her chest, with emotions reminding her of the thing that’d scratched at her door: Terror. Dread. Horror. But also a deep, unmoving curiosity.
Emboldened by the fact the howls echoed from outside in the rain rather than outside her bedroom door, Jane scuttled from beneath the bed and staggered to her feet. Dust painted the front of her night dress, charcoal stained her fingers. The floor was bitingly cold, and she held her excess skirt in one great fist as she took small, cautious steps toward the window. Her breath fogged the glass when she peered into the night swollen with rain and thunder.
That was when she sawit—just a great, dark mass that moved along the distant treeline, but Jane knew it to be the animal, she was sure of it! What else could it have been, other than some apparition crafted from darkness playing on wavering reeds and shrubbery?
A flash of lightning illuminated its sheer size, and Janestumbled back from the window with a gasp. It was a large animal. Too large for her comfort. It was the size of a horse, if not bigger, with a bulk like that of a bear. Even from a distance, she saw its eyes glowing yellow. Was the forest even capable of hiding an animal of that size during the day? Perhaps it was another poor creature stranded in the marshland by the floods, just as she and the staff were. But why or how would it end up inside the house to claw at her door? What kind of animal of that size would even be roaming English marshes, unable to swim and so afraid—if not incompetent—that it allowed itself to remain trapped? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to explore and find out, not yet, anyway. That courage was reserved for daytime hours, and daytime hours only.
Jane stared intently, not daring to blink as the shape lumbered into the shadows of the trees, and from their depths rang another screaming howl, like the echoing moan of a man, lost, afraid—and hungry.
CHAPTER
Nine
Mistletoe was dead.
Near the stables, in a distant, waterlogged corner of the property, everyone stood around the horse’s carcass when Jane crossed the lawn to join them. She had seen them from the guest room window, and it wasn’t until she was washed over by the coppery reek of blood that she realized what they were gathered around.
As she approached them, she kept a wary eye on the woods—and the fresh tracks that now marked its border. She couldn’t see yellow eyes watching her, only the ravens.
Mrs. Foster was crossing herself, Ms. Hudson held a palm to her mouth to hide quivering lips, and Ruben wept as he knelt beside the horse, blubbering something Jane’s ears couldn’t workout through the discordant sounds of his grief. Terence had been standing between them all, looking especially discontent and noticeably disheveled when Jane caught his attention.
His stride swallowed great lengths of earth as he came to meet her. “Look away, Jane! Please, go back to the house,now—”
He reached to grab her arm but she stepped back with a scowl. “What? You think of me too delicate to see blood—”
But it was too late. She caught a glimpse of the body and bile surged into the back of her throat.
The mare lay on her side, belly split open to reveal what remained of her organs—a mess of viscera, congealed blood, and entrails strung like pearls between broken ribs. Her throat bore a gaping hole, the wound ragged along its edges from being torn asunder by horrible teeth. The kill was older, not fresh enough to steam in the November chill and blood having long since moldered into a brownish maroon. It was a slaughter, one that frightened Jane so because this was not just the death of an animal typical of nature’s cruelty. It was the intentional desecration of something tame, domestic,civil. A kill done for the sake of a killing, for the sake of channeling rage. Survival was not what occupied this beast’s mind as its teeth ruined flesh. If the beast maimed a horse, how much longer until it sank its fangs into one of the staff, Terence—intoher?
Taking her elbow, Terence whispered harshly, “Jane—inside with Lottie and Georgianna. Please.” His words stumbled and his tone was tense as he hissed that final syllable.
Jane looked up at him with her own wordless plea, tongue paralyzed. His hazel eyes were a storm, winced and shadowed with a despair that’d begun to frighten her. “T-Terence—”
Before Jane could even have a moment to ask more about Mistletoe, Mrs. Foster swooped over and replaced Terence’s touchon her arm to usher her back to the house.
“Y-yes—yes, come, Miss Sterling. It’s gnarly, garish business, it is.” Mrs. Foster’s chatelaine jingled with every step, the sound shuddering as fiercely as her bony fingers that dug into Jane’s arm.
Jane looked behind them as Terence tore a hand through his hair and returned to Ruben, still hunched over Mistletoe.
