The words felt wrong, chilling Liam to the bone. He flinched, staring at the letter in his hand. That awful, fancy writing, the seal that felt like ice even through the paper. And that new line... "We always come back to each other." What did it even mean?
He traced the cool silver of the moon pendant hidden beneath his shirt. "What... what does that mean?" he whispered, his voice shaky. "'We always come back to each other'?"
Aisling felt the fear twist inside her, sharp and cold, then explode into hot fury. "I don't know!" she snapped, throwing her hands up. "I don't want to know! Why won't it just stay gone?!" Her eyes burned with a desperate, wild look. She wanted to snatch the paper, tear it into a million pieces, watch it burn again.
Liam pulled it back gently, his own fear a pale shadow compared to her rage. "Don't, Aisling. We don't know what it is. We just need to... think. Be calm."
Calm? How could she be calm? The letter, the one they had watched turn to ash, was back. Lying right there. It was impossible. It was terrifying. And it felt like it was watching her.
"Just... put it away, Liam," she whispered, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had risen. Her voice was small now, trembling. "Hide it. Please. Somewhere else. Somewhere it can't just... show up again." The thought of it being anywhere near her, anywhere visible, made her skin crawl.
Liam nodded, his face as pale as hers. The fear was clear in his eyes now, a stark contrast to his usual quiet strength. He folded the letter carefully, his fingers not quite steady. "I will. And... we have to tell Father. The second he's home. Whatever this is, Aisling, he needs to know."
Aisling just nodded, her throat tight. The horrible smell – like old roses and dried blood, the scent that had clung to the burning letter – seemed to fill the air again. A phantom smell, a reminder of the impossible. Father wasn't home yet. The night pressed in, dark and heavy, and the phantom scent lingered, a promise of dread. It was still here. And now, it knew she had tried to destroy it.
***
She was running. Or floating. It was hard to tell in the dream. The air was thick with a strange, metallic smell. She was in a vast, empty hall, the floor cold marble, slippery beneath her bare feet. No, not water. It was dark, sticky. Blood. Her stomach churned with cold dread.
Candles flickered on the walls, casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to writhe and whisper her name. They watched her from the corners of her eyes. And there, in the center of the hall, was her.
Not her, not really. Clothed in dark red silk, rich and heavy, puddling around her like another pool of blood. Her neck... a jagged, horrible wound gaped there, yet she stood tall, impossibly graceful. And she was smiling. A slow, sad, terrible smile.
No, Aisling thought, a silent scream caught in her throat. This isn't real. This isn't me.
The figure turned, smooth and unnatural. Her face was Aisling's, same high cheekbones, same auburn hair, but older. Wiser. Haunted. And dead.
"He's come back for me," the woman whispered, her voice like dust motes in the air, yet it vibrated deep inside Aisling. "The Wolf of Westmarch."
Her dead eyes, the same piercing emerald as Aisling's own, met hers. They held a sorrow that reached through the dream, chilling her to the bone. "But I'm not me anymore, am I?"
Aisling ripped herself awake, a strangled scream tearing from her lungs.
She was drenched in sweat, heart hammering against her ribs. The room was dark, moonlight just a sliver through the curtains. Her eyes darted around, searching the familiar shadows. And then she saw it. Just for a second, a faint glimmer on the edge of her vision before it vanished into the gloom.
The crimson wax seal. It had glowed. Faintly. In the moonlight.
***
He came home as the sky was just starting to lighten, the grey dawn filtering through the dirty windows. Aisling was waiting in the sitting room, the crumpled, unburned letter clutched in her hand. Liam was there too, pale and quiet, sunk deep in his armchair, watching them with wide, anxious eyes.
Fionn Rutherford, who used to fill a room with his presence, now looked hollowed out, smaller somehow. The lines on his face were etched deep, his once-sharp grey eyes clouded with tiredness and something Aisling couldn't name. He stopped in the doorway, his gaze falling first on the letter, then on Aisling's furious face.
"Aisling," he said, his voice rough, like gravel. "What is...?"
"Don't," she cut him off, her voice shaking with barely contained fury. "Don't you dare pretend. I found this. Under your chest. Yesterday."
She thrust the letter at him. Fionn took it slowly, his large, rough hands trembling just a little. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the words he clearly knew too well. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled with questions she didn't ask and answers she dreaded.
"The Wolf of Westmarch," Aisling whispered, the name from her dream tasting like poison on her tongue. She still didn't understand why she knew it, why she said it.
Fionn flinched. He looked up, meeting her gaze, and for a fleeting second, she saw something like shame in his eyes. "I got it... a few months back," he admitted, his voice barely audible.
"A few months ago?!" The control Aisling had held onto snapped. She surged to her feet, pacing the small room like a trapped animal. "And you didn't say anything?! You hid it?! While we're selling off everything just to eat?! While Liam is fading away upstairs?!"
"I had hope!" Fionn roared back, his own temper flaring. "I had that deal! The shipping! I was sure it would work! Enough to pay off everything! To make this... this awful thing unnecessary!" He waved the letter, his hand shaking. "I thought I wouldn't have to tell you. I thought we'd be free!"
He sank into the old, cracked armchair, the leather sighing under his weight. "But it failed. I was tricked. Lost every penny." He looked at the letter again, his face hardening into a grim mask. "There's nothing left, Aisling. Nothing else we can sell. Nothing else we can do."
He met her eyes, his own storm-grey ones hard and unmoving. "This is the only way. Everything gone, debts cleared. No harm to me. Liam will get better. It says so. Right here."
Aisling stared at him, horror making her stomach clench. "You can't be serious! Marry him?! A monster?! Father, the rumors! You know the rumors!"
"Rumors!" Fionn scoffed, but the sound was weak, unconvincing. "Just gossip and old stories!"
"He's a vampire!" Aisling shot back, her voice rising. "His family supports demons! They're hated everywhere! Everyone knows the Hawkrige name is cursed!"
"He's offering us salvation, Aisling!" Fionn shouted, pushing himself back up. "He's offering your brother's life! He's offering us a way out of this hell!"
Liam shifted in his chair, clearing his throat softly. "Father, Aisling... please."
"Stay out of this, Liam!" Fionn snapped, though the anger in his eyes softened a fraction when he looked at his son.
Aisling turned to Liam, her eyes wide and pleading. "Liam, tell him! Tell him I can't! Tell him it's crazy!"
Liam looked from Aisling's desperate face to his father's set jaw. He sighed, a soft, weary sound that cut through the tension. "Father, maybe there is... another option..."
"There is no other option, Liam!" Fionn's voice was final. He turned back to Aisling, his expression a mix of pleading and challenge. "You found the letter yourself. Saved me the trouble. It seems fate has made the choice for you."
Aisling felt a cold dread coil in her gut. "I won't do it," she said, her voice low, trembling, but firm. "I will not marry him."
Fionn's eyes narrowed, his temper flaring back up. "You will, Aisling! You will save this family!"
"By giving myself to a monster?" she challenged, planting her feet. "No! I won't!"
Fionn stared at her, his chest heaving with fury. Then, a dangerous stillness settled over him. His eyes glinted. "Fine," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "You won't sign. You don't believe it." He walked to the small writing desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, dipped the quill into the ink. "Then I will write back. I will tell Baron Hawkrige that the Honored Miss Rutherford has received his offer." He paused, looking right at her. "And I will invite him here."
Aisling's breath hitched. "Father, no!"
"Yes, Aisling," Fionn said, his gaze locked on hers, daring her to defy him. "He will come here. To this house. To this room. And you can tell him yourself. You can look the Wolf of Westmarch in the eye and say no to his face!"
He began to write, the scratch of the quill on paper loud, terrifyingly loud, in the sudden silence. Aisling watched him, heart pounding, frozen by terror. He meant it. He was bringing the darkness to their door.
The crimson seal, the chilling words, the smell of blood and roses... it all rushed towards her, an unstoppable wave of dread. Could she stand against it? Could she refuse the creature who had sent that letter, the one that returned from the flames, the one who now knew she existed?
Liam coughed weakly, a thin sound in the tense room. He looked at her, his green eyes wide with fear, silently begging her.
The quill scratched on. He was coming. The Wolf of Westmarch was coming.