Page 2 of Worse Fates (Soulmates Suck #1)

Present Day, England

Living in an abandoned mansion has its perks.

Sure, it's cold and damp, and let’s be honest, definitely haunted. I haven’t seen any ghosts yet, but there's more dead people than alive, right?

It’s just odds.

But I’ve got a roof over my head, shadow puppets to keep me company, and an old guitar I found under piles of dusty bedding.

So, a couple of possible ghost roommates aren’t the worst.

I strum my fingers down the broken guitar’s strings. I’ve got the musical talent of a brick, but even I can tell it needs a good tuning, and make up songs by the light of candles I found on my second night here.

Cold eats at my fingers, making them stiff as I play. But the off-key melody brings me comfort, and I’m reluctant to stop, so I keep at it even as the strings leave dents in my skin. It’s nice to have a little company on these long, cold nights. I’ve laid my head down in worse spots than this, so I’m lucky, really.

It’s all good.

I’m all good.

I have to be.

It’s easy to pretend the nagging pain twisting in my empty stomach is because I’m saving myself for a big dinner. Easy to imagine I’m shaking not from the cold settling in my bones, but because I’m so damn good at music. Easy not to be lonely…

Slowly, hesitantly, I wake up my nearly-dead phone and play a voicemail.

“Hey, goofball! Pick up, already. Your favourite person is bringing home burgers, what sauce do you want? Love ya.”

Jace’s voice is exactly as I remember, strong and sure of himself. And difficult to listen to.

I shove my phone into my ripped jeans and jump up. Lounging on a fancy old sofa is nice, but I need to get my blood moving. I grab the guitar strap and sling it over the black combat jacket I found just last week.

The guy I took it from was a wanker, so it doesn’t count as stealing.

“Let’s see if I’ve missed the five-course meal I forgot packing,”

I mutter as I dig through my ratty backpack and come up empty. Unless you count a dirty sock as dinner, and I’m not that desperate, yet.

I don’t even know where the second one is, and if you’re going to eat a sock it’s at least gotta be the pair.

As much as I wish a magical fairy, Father Christmas, or, I dunno, Jesus? snuck a steaming burger and chips into my bag, it’s the fifth time I’ve looked today.

“Would’ve been nice, though.”

I found a mint yesterday, and that was pretty exciting.

Heaving a sigh, I grab my bag and stand, popping my fists onto my skinny hips and tapping my booted foot while I think.

I’ve been slumming here for three days now and explored everywhere. The list of treasures I’ve found begins and ends with this shitty guitar, which I can’t eat or sell.

A sudden stab of pain doubles me as a cramp bites into my stomach and twists until it gnaws at my spine. Slumping, I hug my middle, shushing it like a pissed-off cat but only get an annoyed grumble as an answer.

Time for dinner.

When the pain passes, or I’m starting to get used to acid eating my ribs, I straighten and leave the room I’ve made comfortable. The curtains and sheets might have holes and smell of mildew, but get enough of them together, and I’ve stayed pretty warm; the candles helped, too.

I grab one to help me light my way as I exit; it makes me feel like a hero in a movie, like an old treasure hunter scavenging the ruins of a long-dead duke who went mad and killed the family goldfish.

The cold slaps me in the face once I step out of the room and into the hallway, stealing the little bit of warmth I had stored.

“I hate winter.”

Clenching and unclenching the hand not holding the candle, I bounce on my toes to get warm blood pumping through my veins. But as I’m starting to get feeling back into the tips of my fingers, another cramp has me gasping, my vision doubling and I cling to the wall to stop from falling.

I’ll worry about freezing to death later; right now, I need something in my stomach.

Floorboards creak as I make my way towards a grand winding staircase. All the windows are knocked out and boarded up. Rotted wallpaper hangs off the walls, most of it crumbled onto the floor.

I wonder what colour it used to be. I bet red or navy, maybe purple. Rich people love that shit. If my friend Kai was here, he’d be able to tell all the colours that sound like ice cream flavours, like periwinkle and marigold.

The steps groan as I make my way carefully down, testing the aged wood before gradually putting my weight on it. It’s a slow process, but the foot-shaped hole on the second step taught me a valuable lesson.

And if I listen carefully, I can still hear my scream echoing around this place.

The landing is spacious and was probably grand back in the day, like a hotel I used to sneak into. The bathroom attendant would give me all his tips if I let him watch me jerk off in an empty stall.

He gave me a cheese sandwich after.

Damp stains the ceiling, making this ancient mansion stink like an old man’s sweating balls.

I stroll through rooms, hand tucked in my black jeans, that definitely have holes in them to look cool and not because I’m homeless. When I stumbled on this place in the middle of nowhere, I hoped to sell some of the rich shit, like a vase or an Air Fryer. But the only thing that might be worth money is a sofa in semi-good condition.

However, I don’t have a car, and it might be a bit noticeable if I drag it towards the bus stop, and drawing attention is the last thing I need right now. Since I’m hiding from, well… everyone.

I push the barely holding on door into the kitchen. My candle lighting up the bare room. It’s kind of sad looking, like it should be full of warmth and laughter. But it’s empty, abandoned, like everything in this mansion.

I’ve searched through the cupboards, scoured under the sink and only found cobwebs. I even pried up the floorboards, hoping the previous owners hid a bottle of something very, very alcoholic—but nothing.

At least the water is still running.

I place my candle into a broken mug, then turn the faucet on before shoving my head under the tap. Filling my mouth with shockingly crisp water until I can convince myself I’m full.

I wet my hands and run them through my dark curls and across my face. The chill bites at my skin, making me wince, but I’m feeling marginally fresher—if only a little less like a homeless loser.

I have a guitar and live in a mansion, after all. That’s gotta give me some cool points.

Placing my hands on the counter, I jump up and sit there, feet kicking the cupboard door that won’t fully close and think through my options.

“Even if I had money, I can’t go back to the city or I’ll be killed. And I can’t go anywhere else, or buy food because, well, I’m broke.”

I pause.

“Okay, so things aren’t looking great.”

I rub my face and let out a loud groan, before jumping down, starting to pace.

“C’mon, Golden, think of something. Starving to death in a mansion feels like the start of a shitty joke.”

Pressure builds behind my eyes as I pace back and forth, annoyed at the situation I’m in and can’t find an escape. Feeling like a boiling kettle with no hole to scream out my steam.

I pace faster, leaving footprints in the dust. Only a few weeks ago I thought I was done with sleeping rough and empty stomachs. But maybe that’s too easy, maybe I don’t get easy.

But, why the fuck not?

The building pressure finally breaks and a yell bursts out of my chest. Kicking over an old chair that shatters into pieces.

In the silence after, with my rage dying down, my outburst is satisfying for exactly five seconds.

“For fuck’s sake…”

More steam puffs out of me until I’m dropping on the ground next to the broken chair.

Without the pressure, I’m left with too much empty space for the cold and the hunger and everything else to seep in. Until lying in the dirt is the easiest thing to do.

“You really fucked up this time, Golden.”

And it was big time, too. Apparently leaving quietly ain’t my style.

I watch the fluttering shadows the candlelight brings, the door under the sink squeaks as it’s blown back and forth by a chilled breeze. And I allow myself to be sad, just for a bit.

For exactly five seconds.

Then I stand up, because I always stand back up no matter what and dust myself off.

This place is huge, and I must’ve missed something. I grab my candle and summon my inner treasure hunter—time to go searching.

I go through room after room. I open drawers and tap on walls like I’ll find a hidden door. I search under wet newspaper growing mushrooms that I shouldn’t eat…

Right?

I shake the idea away and quickly go to the next room, not trusting myself.

I reach for the door, but something makes me spin around.

A shadow?

I search the dark corridors for…I don’t know what. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I stand there for a long time with my candle flame flicking, hoping nothing—or no one—is there.

After a long pause, I turn back to the door, chuckling nervously at myself as I go inside.

“The library,”

I say as I roam.

All the shelves are empty, dust motes hanging in the air like ghosts. I might've already checked this room over, but I still get onto my tippoes to search the higher shelves. Just encase.

Huffing out a breath when I come out empty, I take a few steps back when my foot breaks through a weak floorboard.

A scream shoots out of me as I fall back, blunt paint rushing up my tailbone when I connect with the floor. Somehow, still managing to keep hold of my candle.

“Shit!”

I cry out, grimacing as I rip my foot from the floorboard and hug my leg close to my chest to see if I’ve damaged myself. But apart from a couple of splinters, I’m left unharmed.

Sighing and cursing, I’m about to stand when something sparkles in the hole I made. Excitement buzzes through my system. Leg forgotten, I crawl towards the new hold, eyes wide as saucers as I bring the candle closer.

“What have we got here…”

Reaching inside, I brush away the debris, to something gold and red and very shiny. Sinking teeth into my bottom lip, my fingers wrap around a smooth surface, cool to the touch and free it from its hiding place.

“Treasure…”

I breathe, opening my hand to see a fat gold brooch, red rubied, ripe as grapes, pressed into the precious metal.

Floorboards creak behind me.

I snap up and whip around, searching for the noise. But when I see nothing a small giggle bubbles up in my chest at my paranoia. I’ve been alone way too long, that’s all this is.

I’m about to turn my attention back to the brooch, but the floorboards creak again and my heart stops. A cold sweat slicks my brow. My eyes won’t seem to focus, but at the same time won’t move from the open door as another creeeak sends spikes of fear into my brain.

There’s nothing there…there’s noth—

Candlelight catches a hunched silhouette.

I freeze, a scream lodged in my chest as, from the doorway, a thin, impossibly pale hand grips the frame, its fingers curling slowly. Long, yellowed, nails scraping around the aged wood.

“That…doesn’t belong to you,”

a voice hisses, like sandpaper rubbing against metal.

My lodged scream rips free, and I drop the candle as a hulking figure pulls itself into view.