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Intuition exists to protect you, when all else fails, listen to her.

The next morning, I woke and stretched. I noted a remarkable lack of stiffness in my neck and shoulders.

For the life of me, I couldn’t recall a time when my neck didn’t ache.

After I’d turned twelve, I’d thought that was just how I was.

Climbing from bed, I changed into my clean clothes and enjoyed the memory of Rook knelt over the stream.

With it came the same unsolicited heat that had burned my cheeks when he’d kissed me.

At the vanity, I ran a brush through my hair.

I tucked a lock behind a pearl studded barrette and left the rest tumbling down my back in a golden wave.

It was strange that Rook hadn’t come to call on me yet, and I decided to head downstairs. I passed my satchel and paused.

Take it with you.

Though I couldn’t fathom any reason why I’d need my bag, I’d learned long ago not to argue with my intuition.

I swung the satchel over my head and tucked it at my side.

Before reaching the foyer, I peered in the red room.

The bed was made. No Rook. I continued down and into the library, but Rook was nowhere to be found.

Meaning to check the kitchens, I headed to the castle basement.

On my way down, I passed a door and stopped dead.

The door Rook forbid me from entering.

I held still for a most admirable moment. I glanced at the door, then down the hallway to the kitchens…and back to the door.

Do it.

Don’t do it.

Open it.

Don’t open it.

OPEN THE DOOR!

I grabbed the knob and exploded into the room.

A single candle flickered to life. The room was vast and without windows, and the meagre light conveyed a sense of…

hopelessness. Immediately, it was obvious why Rook wanted to shield me from this place.

Chains attached to metal collars and cuffs lined the walls.

All around, wooden tables were littered with what I could only describe as ‘tools’, and luckily, I didn’t know what their purpose was.

Certainly, it was a somber room, made all the more grim by the object in its centre.

A guillotine.

A bit rough around the edges, but a guillotine, nonetheless.

I took a step and kicked a metal tool under the table. Stooping, I grabbed for it. I withdrew large pliers. This tool I knew; Ruven used it at the smithy. I set them down—and drew back.

Teeth.

Two sharp teeth sat on the table.

I stared at them, not really seeing them. Instead, I saw Rook sitting before the setting sun. He smiled, and his sharp canine tugged his lip. I leaned against the table, nudging a tooth with my quivering fingers.

When people had toothaches back in town, they often visited Lauren, the old blacksmith.

Nasty business, ripping teeth from people’s skulls.

The wails that carried from the smithy on dental days were enough to haunt even the strongest passerby.

I always wondered: How much agony would someone endure before they willingly submitted to such torture?

The enormity of Rook’s torment sunk in. I had a feeling Rook removed these for a very different reason. And to no avail.

How long had it taken them to grow back?

I wanted to run, to leave this room and never think of it again but, there’s an allure to the macabre. I couldn’t look away—I wanted to know. Even if it was ugly.

I skirted a pile of wood and made my way to the guillotine. More wood, which had been roughly cut, was strewn about the base. No denying why they were there.

Practice.

A rope hung from the trigger; it carried all the way to the floor, so that whichever wretched soul lay on the chopping block might reach it.

And yet, it wasn’t the guillotine or the practice blocks that made my stomach turn.

No, the most uncomfortable discovery was the sticky red stain coating the blade.

What did I really know of Rook’s torment?

There was a surprisingly urgent spring in my step as I left the cellars. “Rook?” I called to the empty castle.

Had he gone for a walk?

I ducked into the library and exited through the veranda.

Just then, the sound of chopping floated from the distant trees.

The image of the guillotine, hacking through wood—and other things —intruded into my mind.

Shaking away the thought, I chased the noise down the lawn and hurried across the stream.

There, I found Rook, axe in hand, felling trees. Seeing him, the tension melted away. White shirt strained through, Rook’s skin glistened beneath the morning sun. Letting the axe rest at his side, Rook beamed and dragged a drooping suspender back over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Rook spun the axe and laughed. “Is that a trick question?”

“I mean, I don’t know. Isn’t it a bit…early?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I just…” Rook pushed a hand through his hair.

“I needed to do something with my hands.” Indeed, Rook possessed a frantic energy.

He reminded me of Lottie on hunting days.

Excited but tinged with wildness, which always left me wondering what terribly unhinged thing she might do next.

Rook rested the axe at the crook of his neck and moved to the next tree.

Sliding his hand down the axe, he raised it above his head and— CHOP!

The axe wedged into the thick trunk. Rook wiggled the handle and dislodged the head.

He raised the axe and struck again. This time, a loud crack rang out and the tree listed.

It tore through the canopy and thudded to the ground with a booming crash.

Rook looked on as I approached the stump.

It was thicker than a dinner plate. It would have taken Lottie and me a hundred blows to fell a tree like that.

Rook had done it in two.

“Do you ever worry you’ll run out of trees?” I asked, staring at the stump.

“Ah!” Rook tapped his nose. “Come with me.” Axe on his shoulder, Rook headed into the wood. Soon, we came to a clearing, filled with knee-high saplings. “To plant trees is to believe in tomorrow.” Rook smiled. “My mother used to say that.” Rook crouched and brushed a leaf. “Oak. She’ll be strong.”

A piercing cry shattered the serenity in the clearing.

It was familiar, the same cry we’d heard the day prior…

right before I was snatched by the so-called Lady of the Lake.

Rook stood and reached for me. Warm, calloused fingers intertwined with mine.

Part of me recoiled at Rook’s touch, hissed at me to pull away, and yet… my hand remained.

Rook pointed to the far end of the clearing. He palmed the axe, and said, “It came from the mausoleum.”

“Should I wait here?”

“Not this time.” Rook shook his head. “Stay with me.”

“We should go back,” I said, digging my heels in. “I don’t care what’s over there. Whatever it is, it’s dangerous.”

Rook threw his head back and laughed. “Worse than me?” He squeezed my hand and dragged me forward.

“No good can come from investigating.”

“Regrettably, this is my home. I’d like to know who disturbs my peace.” Rook strode toward the cry, each step more confident than the last. “I can handle it.”

Something was wrong. What exactly, I didn’t know. But I did know one thing:

The Hollow rewarded arrogance with a swift death.

As we reached the edge of the clearing and entered the ancient trees, I scrutinized each shadow and trunk. A grouse flew from a bush, nearly stopping my heart and earning a mighty laugh from Rook. We walked carefully, listening to every crack and chirp. The cry came again—farther this time.

Luring us deeper.

Gradually, the trees gave way to headstones; they dotted the grass like pebbles.

Amongst all the stones, a mausoleum sat in the centre.

It was built to match the castle, with ornate stone arches and iron spires that reached for the sky.

A prominent door sat at the mausoleum’s front like a great mouth, ready to devour those foolish enough to step inside.

“Rook,” I cautioned, “this feels wrong.”

But Rook wasn’t paying attention to me. His eyes darted between the headstones—and his nostrils flared. The axe slipped from Rook’s shoulder; he held it with two hands. The movement sent a shiver through me.

Why did he need a better grip on the weapon?

“I’m going back,” I whispered.

“Let us be swift,” Rook growled, and then backtracked into the trees where he stopped. I peered around him. A shadow ducked behind a trunk—not just one. Many shadowy figures crept between trees, blocking the way we’d come. “Back away.” Rook pushed me toward the mausoleum.

My calf brushed something that moved. “Agh!” I stumbled into Rook.

Crouched behind me, like a spider ready to pounce, was a living corpse. Milky eyes stared out from an emaciated, grey face. My mind cycled through creatures, finally settling on the name of the vile thing crouched at our feet.

Ghoul.

“I’ve seen them in the shadows,” Rook muttered. “They’ve never approached me.”

“They?”

Rook nodded to the sea of graves.

I didn’t see them at first; their bodies blended with the stones. Wide-eyed ghouls peeked from behind every headstone in the yard. A few paces away, a ghoul perched like a gargoyle, on a monument of one Seerinth Martell . The ghoul’s shoulders touched its ears.

Our catching sight of it had interrupted it from pouncing on our unsuspecting backs.

The ghoul I’d bumped bobbed and sniffed the air. It dragged our scents in, tasting us. Ghouls didn’t frequent the Hollow, so my father never warned me of them. I didn’t know of their weaknesses or how to avoid them. The only thing I knew for certain was that they ate one thing and one thing only.

Flesh.

The ghoul let out a piercing screech, sending strings of spittle from cracked teeth. The graveyard came to life, and one-by-one, the ghouls shrieked. With a snarl, the ghoul nearest me lunged.

“Agh!” Dirty nails dug into my calf. Rook’s axe crushed the ghoul and sent black blood into my face.

“Run!” he bellowed.