This can't be happening! This can't be happening! This can't be happening!

I can feel Ransford's pain and suffering, both physical and mental as if it were my own. It is dripping from him, along with the blood trails running black down his fingers, splattering on the ruined rug.

Why is he doing this to himself?!

A girl with long, stringy dark hair, sitting crouched at his feet, turns her head to hiss at me; her mouth is wet with blood, drizzling unhindered down her chin.

I breathe in frightened puffs, very close to hyperventilating, when she gazes at me with black eyes devoid of any humanity. Sniffing the air, she slowly runs the tip of her tongue over her sharp canines, causing fear to ripple coldly down my back, digging its sharp talons into my skin.

Are canines called fangs when they look like that?

I can see that all these girls have them (whatever they're called) when the other three also turn their unwanted attention to me. What kind of Vampire nightmare am I trapped in now?! 

I don't like vampire movies and novels! I want to wake up now!

I'm torn between running to Ransford and away from him because my need to be with him and save him is trying to override my logical instincts for survival, screaming at me to get out of here. I step closer, my eyes frantically casting around, looking for a weapon while I'm shaking so badly that I doubt that I would be able to hold it in my hands if I found one.

"Not her," Ransford mutters, and all four girls snap their attention back to him. I groan in pain, my heart lurching, seeing their sharp teeth sink into his neck, his wrist, his arm and his thigh, creating fresh springs of blood for them to enjoy. If it hurts me this much, how bad mustn't it be for him to endure?!

He finally lifts his eyes to look at me, the irises blinding white lights in the blue-toned darkness. They hit me with a force hard enough to expel my breath in a rush as I'm propelled backwards, ejected from the room, weightlessly reversing along the route I came. The furniture and walls are a blue blur as I travel, unable to fight the powerful push.

Nooooooooooo! I need to get to him! I need to save him, though I have no idea how.

I'm trying to scream, trying to fight the force, but I am powerless against it, and in mere seconds of blinding speed, pushed through a dizzying haze of half-recognised hallways, I land on my mattress, bouncing on my back.

"Ransford!" I sob.

Soul-scarring, kill-your-friends and eat-a-fairy gangster rap stabs me in the head, and I open my eyes with a horrified grunt, stretching out a hand to find my phone on the nightstand and end the torturing noise. It is morning, and I chose that puke-inducing piece of non-music for an alarm tone because it would definitely not inspire me to hit snooze and hear it again in five minutes.

I've lost so many work hours; I want to be up and at it as soon as possible today, and I am, therefore, not allowing myself the luxury of waking up in five-minute increments. Alaric might already regret hiring me because I'm constantly sleeping on the job!

Stretching, I sit up with a yawn, pleased to see my phone screen informing me that it is Wednesday, the day after yesterday, not Wednesday, a week from yesterday. It is rather disturbing that verifying this has become part of my waking-up routine now.

I am amazed at how well-rested I feel today! That capsule of Liam's did wonders. I did not wake up even once last night. There were no weird dreams, no hovering men playing Batman to my sleeping beauty, just pure rest.

Nothing strange happened at all!

Last night, I closed my book, turned off the bedlamp and fell asleep, waking up seven hours later, roused by that horrible alarm. I'm refreshed and eager to start my day. All the gloominess I'd been fighting since my arrival at Peace Haven has dissipated. With a spring in my step, I dance to the bathroom to prepare myself for the day. I'm looking forward to some antique appraising fun!

I'm somewhat confused when I step into the shower and notice the water swirling at my feet turn from clear to dirty before I even start using the body wash. The floors in my room and the hallways all seem to be cleaned quite often; still, I'm not usually barefoot when I walk around the place. I didn't bother to slip on my fluffy slippers when I went to the toy room to get the rabbit. I suppose there's more dirt on the floors than I'd thought.

I even have to retrieve a tiny piece of blue and grey carpet stuck on the grill covering the shower's drain and drop it into the waste basket. I don't remember seeing a rug like this anywhere in my wing. Perhaps it got tread in here from another area of the house.

It doesn't take me long to be clean, dressed and well-fed, and I cheerfully retrieve my laptop from the study and hurry to the office, eager to see Alaric.

What?! No! That's not it!

I'm eager to start working on the report I must submit to Alaric on Monday! I'm pleased, and rather surprised, that I don't need to consult my map even once. I am truly getting the hang of navigating this dark maize... at least the part I've used multiple times now. Even the two tricky junctions with their identical branches don't mislead me today, probably because the lighting in here has improved quite a bit.

Entering the office, I learn another important fact right away. I don't like walking in here and being greeted by Alaric's empty desk, standing all alone and sad at the window with no man with piercing grey eyes seated behind it, looking up at my arrival.

This is not bringing me any joy at all! I drag my feet, crossing to my desk.

Today, I want to start by displaying all the final information I can accumulate on the items I examined in my bedroom in an informative way, and I am happy to see that there are many new emails in answer to my questions and requests for additional information from various official sites and professional contacts. I've been meticulous in all my queries, not to divulge any Slatherty secrets by wording my requests as generic as possible while still being useful.

"His Grace and Mister O'Neill are visiting the mainland," Leopold informs me later when he brings me some coffee, and I ask him about the whereabouts of my elusive housemates. "Master Liam is at the clinic in Slaughtaverty; he took Miss Saoirse with him."

"And Ransford?" I ask, feeling rather lonely being abandoned here with Leopold and the staff. Last night, I sent Billy a message, telling him he no longer has to pick me up on Friday; I have transport and can meet him in town for lunch if he's still keen. This morning, it still looked like he hadn't received it.

So much for coming running if I should ever need him.

"I have no idea, Miss," Leopold surprises - and disappoints - me with a lack of knowledge for once. I know it's ridiculous, but I swear, I can feel Ransford's presence in the mansion; it is faint... very faint and tangled up with so many other presences I cannot quite distinguish from one another. I suppose the ability to sense the presence of people accurately takes time to master. I don't think I had it before... Still, I have a strange certainty that Ransford is around...

I suppose the Q&A session is over because the butler gives me a polite bow and leaves the office so that I can drink my coffee in solitude while gazing out at the cliffs plummeting into the ocean and the visible sections of the winding road that brought me here.

"Ransford..."

Saying his name causes a painful stir in the pit of my stomach, and I run my mind over our rather sweet interactions yesterday while playing the piano and discussing Saoirse. Thinking about those gentle moments brings a burning sensation to the back of my throat, and I hurry to take large sips of coffee to stop the bile from rising in my gullet.

I suddenly have a strange taste in my mouth, almost like rot, and even the coffee does not chase it away. I wonder if I could ask for some tomato juice.

Placing my empty cup in its saucer, I sit back in the chair to enjoy the cloudy view a little bit longer. There is something quite serene about the white, watery wisps gathering in the sombre sky, turning into ever-thickening dark clouds, wrapping the world outside in a hushed cocoon, casting darkening shadows into the room.

I believe we are about to have some more rain.

"You are a Dankworth! Little girls should do what they are told and not ask so many questions! Don't you realise what a privilege it is to be here?! You ungrateful brat!"

A hand slamming down on my desk and a shrill voice, stabbing at me in needle-sharp shards bursting from overly red lips, jolts me awake. With a strangled gasp, I sit upright, anxiously scanning my surroundings, looking for the woman who towered over me mere seconds ago, spitefully pushing her sharp nails into the skin above my collarbone.

I'm all alone in the office; my laptop is open before me, and there is a drop of drool on the desk's wooden surface where the side of my face was resting for a while. I hurry to use the serviette under my empty cup to wipe my mouth and the desk, mortified to realise that I've been lulled to sleep by the raindrops drumming hypnotically on the window near me.

Feeling unnerved, I hit the space bar on my laptop, relieved when it wakes up and the screen springs to life, showing me that it is still Wednesday and I've only lost about five minutes. I only fall asleep on the job or take sudden naps when I've been working nonstop until late into the night. How did I doze off? I was feeling so refreshed less than two hours ago! I did work hard and made a lot of progress since I sat down, but not that hard. Flustered and uneasy, longing for Alaric's presence in ways beyond any reason, I close my laptop and unplug the machine, placing the mouse on the lid. 

The mainland... 

He might as well be on another planet! To reach it, one has to take a boat ride that lasts for hours and hours! I strangely feel like a lost little girl missing her daddy... just very differently, because once I've found Alaric, I would love to be held by him and to kiss him again... and not in a daughterly way... Oh, why do I miss him so desperately? It makes no sense! I don't even like the cold, aloof man!

Little girl...

My heart skips a beat and then another as the memory of the dream I just had hits my mind with a sharp, almost audible crack now that I'm awake. Who was that woman? Why did it feel like a memory and not like a dream? It couldn't be! My grandfather raised me, and when he died in that freak accident, I was fostered by his dearest friend.

There have never been any women wearing too much lipstick, with beautiful cat-like eyes and sharp nails in my life. I never knew my mother, but the photographs of her I saw didn't look like that woman at all.

The woman in the dream terrified me.

Gathering my laptop, phone and mouse in my arms, I cross the floor towards the door. I am not aware that I've made a pit-stop until I'm sitting in Alaric's chair, my equipment discarded on the surface of his desk. I relish his distinctive fragrance lingering in the air - though it could be wishful thinking - it doesn't matter because I am happy sitting in his seat and touching the surfaces he'd touched. It is comforting. Like a lost puppy, I curl up on the padded seat and close my eyes, trying to picture him holding me.

"Alaric... If only I could hear your voice and gaze into your silver-green eyes..."

No! Alaric's eyes aren't green; they're grey and scary! They can see through walls and right into my soul!

"Honestly! What is wrong with you?! Will you stop?!" I snap, opening my eyes and sitting up straight, startled to find Leopold looking at me from the other side of the desk. His usually expressionless face seems uncharacteristically perplexed. Well, he just discovered a grown woman curled up on her boss's chair, acting like a needy toddler.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Since I was talking to myself, it should be Ransford standing here, looking at me with a haughtily raised eyebrow. I am profoundly disappointed that it is not him... as embarrassing as this situation would've been if it were him.

"Nothing, I'm sorry," I mutter, getting to my feet.

"As you requested earlier, your lunch will be served in an hour in the garden on your terrace, Miss," Leopold says, pretending not to be aware that I'd acted like Alaric's abandoned pet two seconds ago.

"Thank you," I smile, glancing at the window, surprised to find that the rain has stopped again. I knew that Peace Haven gets lots of rain all year round, but it will take some time to get used to these on-and-off showers.

Moving around the desk, I'm about to retrieve my laptop when I stop, gazing at the butler's wrinkled face with concentration before I take one step closer and then another. I notice that the poor man is narrowing his eyes, looking rather concerned now - I've never paid him this much attention before – but he is bravely standing his ground, valiantly trying to be as stoic as always. Perhaps he is mercifully unaware that I am testing this strange new skill I have acquired of becoming utterly spellbound by men's fragrances and the texture of their skins...

The only thing I'm spellbound by right now is how incredibly awkward this is.

There is absolutely no fragrance coming from Leopold. Not a pleasant aroma or an unpleasant one, simply zero scent. He doesn't even smell like dust, mothballs, clean air, bath water or cologne. Nothing. I feel no radiating pull from him, no desire to feel the texture of his skin... which is probably a blessing. No warmth or cold is flowing from him, either.

It is as if he isn't even here.

"Is something the matter, Miss?" he finally asks when I lower my eyes with a long sigh, and it becomes clear that he is in no danger from me.

"No, Leopold, all is well, thank you," I mutter, slightly unnerved by this unsettling result of my experiment. Is Leopold an android? He doesn't smell metallic, either. "Do you still have no idea where Ransford is?"

"A while ago, I saw him take his horse for a run, Miss. He might be back by now."

I almost giggle when I picture Ransford running over hills and through forests with his horse on his heels. Actually, anything horse and run-related seems like too much activity for someone partial to silk shirts and rather formal pants and absolutely immaculate hair. It is easier to imagine Ransford lounging in a beautiful wingback chair from the 1700s.

My heart jolts painfully at the thought, stifling any mirth I've been feeling.

I hurriedly thank Leopold, and no longer enjoying the languid atmosphere in the office, I gather my phone, laptop and mouse and hurry out into the hallway and down the stairs, deftly navigating my way to my quarters, not even stumbling once in the darker hallways or stubbing my toe.

"Impressive!"

After brushing my teeth and freshening up in my bathroom, I gaze into the mirror, trying to figure out what it is about my face that seems so different. It's subtle, and I cannot put my finger on it. My skin is in startlingly good condition - noteworthy and rather pleasing - but the main change seems to be in my eyes. They are glowing with an inner light I've never noticed before; then again, they are focussing quite sharply lately. The world is no longer bathed in a comforting haziness when I remove my glasses.

I have, therefore, not bothered to wear them today.

My hearing has also become surprisingly sensitive and precise. I can hear the water slowly dripping from the wet ivy leaves outside the bathroom window, and somewhere, an insect is happily buzzing away. Though faint, I can also hear voices and something like wood striking against wood coming from outside.

Curious, I turn my back on the mirror and open one of the stained glass windows to let in a fresh, wet breeze and more of the sounds that baffle me. At the edge of the gardens, in a clearing embraced from the back by high, ivy-covered stone walls on three sides, two men are trying to murder each other with what looks to be sturdy sticks.

They are quite terrible at hitting their targets, though, which is good since they are striking and stabbing at each other with enough force to do severe damage should the sticks meet their marks. I quietly watch them for a while and soon have to change my mind. I was wrong; they are not inaccurate in their strikes; they are, in fact, exceptionally good at evading each other's blows.

Their movements are powerful and graceful as if they're participating in some exquisite primitive dance. Mesmerized, I watch them run and jump and tumble, landing on their feet like gymnasts while they dodge each other. It is a thing of true beauty and rather exhilarating due to the perilous way they attack each other. I would've been quite alarmed if this rather breathtaking display was not accompanied by occasional laughter.

My heart leaps with happy recognition when a ray of sun breaks through the thick clouds and alights on a crown of red hair, and I identify Billy Doyle as one of the fighters. I admire how he strikes at the other man, who casually twirls his heavy stick with one hand and expertly, with a loud crack, blocks the blow that would've brained him.

Ransford!

I did not recognise him, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, his ash brown hair sparkling silvery in the light. I cannot fathom why I would feel such a profound relief to see him alive, well, and physically active, yet I am affected by the sight strongly enough to bring tears to my eyes. Why on Earth wouldn't he be alive and well?

"Honestly, Aubrey! Get a hold of yourself!"

I glance away for a second to swipe at the ridiculous tears, and when I look again, Ransford is standing on one of the high walls, mockingly laughing at Billy standing at the bottom, looking up at him, hurling insults. How did he get up there?! I see no ladder or anything he could've used as stepping stones.

"I am goin' to knock yer pimply arse right off that feckin' wall, ye blindin' muppet!" Billy threatens, backing up several steps, still looking up at Ransford and even from this distance, I can tell he is glaring at him. 

This is not the kind and gentle Billy I got to know.

"I can assure you, Billy, that my arse has no pimples on it," Ransford says in the same tone he used on my first night here when he told me that his brother is horribly sexist. I believe him about the lack of pimples on his bottom. I don't think any blemish would be crass enough to mar the perfect beauty of any part of that man.

I gasp in shock when Billy rushes to the wall, tossing his stick high enough into the air to cause it to go into orbit. In the same motion, he runs up the wall, almost making it to the top, before he has to grab hold of crevices, pulling himself up the rest of the way and snatching the stick out of the air on its way down.

What?! Is that even humanly possible?!

Well, that was rather impressive and startlingly fast, but it was still not in the blink of an eye as it took for Ransford to get on the wall. There must be something he'd used for leverage. I am flabbergasted when their spirited fight resumes, and they move along the edge of the wall as if they are still firmly on the ground. What are these people?! I've seen these kinds of moves only in movies with hidden props to help the actors along.

This does not seem possible.

As if he senses me watching them, Ransford's head swivels, and he looks up at me. I can feel his gaze burning into mine even though he is too far away for me to see any fine details. That second of distraction is enough for Billy's next strike to connect with its target, and I watch in horror as Ransford disappears, knocked off the back wall.

"No!" I growl, nearly leaning halfway out the window to see if he is alright when I realise that Billy is cheering and laughing, holding his stick above his head in triumph. That probably means Ransford is alive and well, though I cannot see behind that wall. I doubt that his serious injury or demise would provide Billy with so much joy.

My theory is confirmed a second later when Billy is struck off the wall by what appears to be a huge clump of hard mud. My sharp intake of breath leaves my lungs in relief when I watch him do a mid-fall twist to land on his feet.

Is he part cat?!

It suddenly dawns on me that if Billy is in the garden, trying to kill Ransford, I can speak to him about our arrangement for Friday. Closing the window, I hurry out of the room and by the time I reach the kitchen, I fear that the trek from my quarters to the ground floor has taken too long, and Billy might be long gone. Perhaps I should at least learn the short-cut route through the tunnels from my wing to the kitchen. The idea makes me shiver apprehensively.

That's a definitive 'no' from me.

Surely Billy would stop to say hello to me? Well, he didn't on Monday, but perhaps he would've if I hadn't fallen asleep in the salon and woke up yesterday afternoon. He also seemed to be on a mission to retrieve a chest from Liam the last time I saw him. He might've been in a big hurry. I really want to see him today and talk about Friday.

I'm huffing and puffing as if I've taken part in a gruelling sparring match of my own by the time I enter the empty kitchen. I need to get fit! Sleeping a lot is clearly not contributing to that. I'm wondering if I shouldn't have used the front door instead, in case the men are no longer in that clearing and Billy is about to drive home, and I am relieved to hear their voices coming from the open back door.

"Yer seriously slow today, Mate," Billy remarks, entering the kitchen when I've taken several steps over the tiled floor, hoping to meet them. "I almost slayed ye a few times out there. Have ya been out drinkin' last night?

"Well," Ransford answers, entering behind him. "I certainly got drunk."

They stop when they see me standing in the middle of the kitchen, probably looking like a deer trapped in headlights, and Billy hurries over to hug me, then decides against it since he is dirty and all sweaty and opts for a peck on my cheek instead.

"Howya, Aubrey," he grins, and I answer something that almost sounds intelligible, hiding the fact that I have lost the ability for human speech.

Though a sight in itself, it is not just the fact that they're both rather dishevelled and covered in pumped muscles due to the exercise that has me staring at them in stunned silence. Billy is wearing a generic white t-shirt that probably was clean once upon a time. It bulges rather pleasingly over the contours of his awe-inspiring physique. I knew he was the strong, athletic type, but I didn't know it. I know it now... boy, do I ever!

It is Ransford who is truly turning me slack-jawed and causing my IQ to drop several points. I've never seen him all ruffled and human-looking before. I thought he was the passive type, made for warm fireplace-lounging with a glass of cognac and his own smile as company. To see him standing here, all active-looking in a light pink T-shirt, is almost obscene, regardless of how pleasingly the material flows and curves over every ridge and valley of his beautiful torso.

The corners of my mouth tweak into an amused smile while my eyes run with envy over the fluffy white bunny, gleefully playing its drums between the twin boulders of his pectoral muscles. It is the kind of T-shirt that would look adorable on a toddler if the bunny's expression wasn't a bit rabid-looking. On Ransford, the shirt is making my cheeks flush rather hotly.

As promised, Ransford Slatherty is rocking the famous pink Iron Bunny Sunday T-shirt for you, @K_Blackwood 😜🤣🧡.

"Hey, Foxy Mama! Wanna beat my drums?" he asks in the weirdest rendition of Johnny Bravo I have ever heard. "You can do it in slow motion if you want to. Hoohah!"

I choke on a laugh, my eyes growing wide, while I watch him grin at me in that slow, seductive way in which he loves to taunt me.

Did he see the family tree I made? Did he hear me?!

Billy is frowning, his eyes flicking from me to Randsford and back; he seems to have no idea what Ransford is on about, which is a huge relief. If Ransford somehow knew what I'd been up to, he clearly didn't tell Billy about it.

"Yes," I hear myself say, stepping towards Ransford. Stopping with a gasp, I catch myself and shake my head with a strangled giggle. "No."

Oh, my word! I sound like a 12-year-old schoolgirl!

I don't know if it is the fact that my cheeks are so red and hot you can fry an egg on them or the drool dribbling down my chin or Ransford's come-hither grin that mobilizes him, but Billy suddenly leaves my side, rushing Ransford and making a grab for his shirt.

"Alright! That's enough!" he growls. "Give me that shirt, ye plonker!"

"No! I'm rocking this shirt!"

"I'm goin' to rock yer bollox!"

"Ah! That is indeed a generous offer," Ransford responds in a highly polite tone, which I don't think is typically used during a brawl. "I must, however, respectfully decline. Thank you, all the same, Mr Doyle."

"Oh! Houl yer whisht!"

I did not know that Billy and Ransford were close. It seems that I need to re-evaluate his relationship with the Slatherties, but I'll do that later because, though I have no idea what I'm witnessing, I'm rather enjoying the show.

I need some popcorn for this!

I shuffle towards a stool near the preparation table and lower myself onto it, accepting a mug of fresh, steaming coffee with a whispered thank you, not even noticing who is kind enough to place it in my hands. I thought we were alone in here. I'm only vaguely aware of a woman wearing the white shirt and black slacks most of the staff favours, scurrying out of the way of the tussling men.

Did I ask for coffee?

That hardly matters; I'm always happy to have some. While I sip the delicious, frothy brew, I observe the rather bizarre banter and strange wrestling match happening before my eyes... and are they delighted by the sight?!

"It is my shirt, Billy," Ransford objects to Billy, trying to remove it forcibly from his body. "I lost the bet fair and square; if you wanted to wear it, you should've lost."

Apparently, Ransford is now trying to remove Billy's shirt, too. I am not sure why, and I don't think he knows either, but he is certainly dedicated to the task.

If I still had a brain left, I would've wondered how Ransford could effortlessly rip most of Billy's shirt right off his chest, but... well... I don't have one anymore. I gulp my coffee, my eyes appreciatively scanning Billy's tanned torso, pleased to see that he is indeed all sunshine and vigorous health.

I'm slightly alarmed to notice some injuries in various healing stages scattered on the otherwise smooth skin. He couldn't have sustained those cuts and bruises during their match just now, as none looks fresh. Did he sustain these during previous sparring occasions?

Do they have to be so rough with each other?!

"Oh! Please do forgive me, Mr Doyle," Ransford says, sounding just like Alaric, while he gazes forlornly at the pieces of cotton material in his hands. "I am so terribly sorry! I did not mean to do that. I know how attached you were to this exquisite one-of-a-kind shirt; though it might be virtually impossible, I shall do my utmost best to try and replace it as soon as possible."

"Seriously, shut up, ye bleedin' yoke," Billy grunts, removing the rest of the rags, and I cannot suppress a happy little giggle escaping from my throat. I have not had this much fun at the movies... ever. They both turn to look at me in surprise, and I do believe they'd completely forgotten about my presence for a moment.

Billy's startled expression softens into a broad grin while I dimple and blush, admiring this rather wonderful sample of male beauty. Suddenly, Ransford is trying to dress Billy in the pink shirt, using more force than the task should require. I didn't even notice him taking it off.

There is something very complex and strange about this male mating ritual, but what do I know of the behaviour of men and boys? I have often heard that they are considered to be a rather weird species. However, I have no complaints while my eyes lovingly caress the flawless expanse of creamy gold skin sculpting Ransford in true mythical god fashion.

I'm in heaven.

"I don't want to wear yer shirt; it's covered in sweat!"

"Billy," Ransford says patiently as if he is offering him lessons in using a sandwich press. No, that's not accurate! There is no seduction in his tone; he sounds more like Leopold about to ask me if I am quite all right after finding me curled up on Alaric's chair. "I do not sweat."

That is startlingly true!

Despite the extreme activity they'd both been involved in, Ransford's hair, though messy, is clean and dry, and so is his shirt. It is a rather strange phenomenon, which I cannot try to unravel right now because I'm too busy watching Billy pull on the pink shirt.

The bunny looks extremely surprised to find itself stretched rather tautly over his broad chest, and I finally give in to the peals of laughter that have been building inside me for a while now.

"Mr Slatherty, Mr Doyle, you two are both idiots," I inform them, rising to take my cup to the dishwasher.

~~~

Note:- Thanks, @K_Blackwood, for lending Reid's T-shirt to Ransford... It might be a couple of sizes too big for him now after these two had a hold of it.🤣🧡 

Read more about other fun uses for that shirt in the second book in the fast-paced, thrilling Dark City Chronicles series, The Demon's Scion. - Click on "External Link" below the "Continue to Next Chapter" button to find this exciting series.