Page 46 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Forty-Five

I stand by the window, my gaze drawn to the garden outside, a scene both haunting and eerily serene.

There, in the grass, I imagine him—limp and still—his battered and bloodied form hidden partially by the thick curl of the rose bushes, their petals a soft, silent veil whose crimson resonated with the color of blood.

I think of Gisella waking to this ghastly sight at the break of dawn, her peaceful world shattered in an instant.

She’s already been through so much; I worry for her mental state, her emotions.

The weight of it presses against me, suffocating, as I try to understand the depths of her sorrow.

My thoughts swirl like a storm, spinning wildly through the events of the morning—Dr. Shadow’s eerie portrait in place of Tristan’s, the corpse outside, the letter.

Everything Manu said—and, more disturbingly, the things he hadn’t.

Possession? Witchcraft? My mind races, seeking some semblance of order in the chaos.

Could the body in the garden be a dark offering? A ritual of some sort? A sacrifice?

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a figure by the trees—an indistinct shape, her pale, dusty blonde hair drifting gently in the breeze.

She’s facing me, but her face is a blur, too far for me to distinguish.

For a moment, I think it might be Gisella, but no, Gisella’s bleach blonde hair holds a brighter shade.

She also wouldn’t be outside at a time like this, not after what she saw this morning.

I consider the mysterious ‘C’ from the letter as I squint my eyes, trying to see her face in the shadows.

‘One day, you will love me too, and I will be here, waiting.’

When I blink, she is gone, as if swallowed by the air itself. A chill creeps up my spine, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise up. I draw in a sharp breath, disoriented, and shake my head, banishing the thought before it can settle.

Perhaps my imagination is getting the best of me.

The faint sound of footsteps drifts through the hallway, soft but purposeful, and I turn toward the door, half-expecting the police to question me—to demand answers, to ask me where I was during witching hour, or his time of death. But only silence follows. No one comes.

Rather than remain in my bedroom, idly waiting for nothing, I step outside into the muted quiet of the afternoon.

I wander along the manor’s perimeter, tracing the line of overgrown bushes that cling to the stone walls, the faint rustle of their leaves swallowed by the heavy stillness.

The only sound is the slow, deliberate scrape of my boots against the weathered stone pathway, each step a dull echo in the solitude that surrounds me.

A strange unease coils in my gut, something I can’t quite shake.

It’s far too quiet, especially considering the crime scene discovered this morning.

Shouldn’t there be a flurry of activity?

The police, the whispers of an investigation, people moving through the house, searching for answers?

Yet, there’s nothing. The silence presses in.

My stomach churns as I walk slowly around the house, the sun a relentless weight on my skin, its rays cutting through the air with an intensity that scorches my cheeks.

The wind whips at my hair, as if trying to pull me into the silence.

I stop at the scene, my eyes drawn to the stone path where blood should stain the earth, clinging to the cracks, with the last drops still seeping into the roots of the bushes nearby, the body sprawled in its grim stillness in a pool of its own drying blood.

Except the ground before me is pristine.

I stand there, staring at nothing. The air feels heavy with the imprint of what occurred.

I blink, shake my head, and step carefully around the withered foliage, my gaze searching, instinctively trying to find what isn’t there.

My jaw clenches tightly as I start upturning stones, searching for even the smallest drop of blood.

There had been a body. I had seen it clearly from Gisella’s window—his body, lying lifeless in that very spot. I saw him, I swear I did.

But there’s no blood.

There’s… nothing .

My gaze drifts once more to the shadowed woods, and there she is—the same woman I had glimpsed from my window. Her long, lackluster blonde hair floats in the breeze like fragile strands of silk. She watches me, unmoving, her gaze steady and knowing, as if she's waiting for something.

I remember watching Tristan wander into those woods, as if drawn by some invisible force. Manu’s warnings echo in my mind, pressing on my chest, heavy against my lungs.

I wonder what lies hidden there. What secrets are being kept from me, buried deep within the darkness of those trees? Who is she?

There’s a magnetic pull in my chest, a force drawing me toward the woods, as though something within me is tethered to that dark, silent place. I take another step, my eyes fixed on her, unable to tear myself away. Her face remains a blur, elusive, hidden in the shadows of the trees.

The crunch of dead leaves underfoot seems to amplify each step, melding with the soft, haunting whistle of the wind. It carries a faint, almost melodic hum—a love song, gentle and persistent, calling to the trees. It’s faint at first, but it strengths with every step. A summons.

A cold, firm grip suddenly seizes my arm, and I whirl around, the pressure tightening.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mrs. Wong's voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, shattering the haunting melody of the wind. She begins pulling me back toward the house, her fingers digging into my skin as she tugs me away.

I glance over my shoulder toward the woods, but the woman is gone—vanished, like mist.

I blink rapidly, as if trying to clear the fog clouding my thoughts.

Am I losing my mind?