Lily's head hurt and she groaned out loud, clutching it.
At first she had no clue where she was. Then the memories of the attack in the pool room washed over her consciousness like a crashing wave. She snapped her eyes open and lifted her head. She lay in a heap in the front entranceway of the mansion, just beyond the Persian rug. Moonlight poured in through the window, reflecting off the black marble floor beneath her and accentuating the trailing white veins. Farther down the corridor, where the moonlight failed to reach, was a gaping darkness.
Far off, deep within the mansion, someone was crying again.
Faintly.
Lurching to her feet, Lily stumbled up the staircase and frantically yanked open the door leading into Mike's bedroom. Pushing it shut behind her, she turned the lock and ran to his bedside—nearly tripping over a pile of clothes in her haste.
He was already awake and turning on the lamp on his nightstand.
Mike's room was like hers but flipped, with a similar sitting area surrounding a fireplace and a hand-carved canopy bed. She climbed up on it and sat at the foot.
He struggled to sit up and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index. "Lily?" He blinked at her. "What's going on?" The room was mostly dark but thanks to the lamp, the area around his bed was suffused in muted orange light.
She hugged her waist, heart racing. "S-someone's after me—" Her back was painfully rigid and she struggled to control her breathing. She took a deep breath. "I didn't know where else to go—"
He leaned forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. "What are you talking about?"
She gave him a frenzied look. "The baths, the murdered maid—!"
"Ahh. You're delirious then." He exhaled and let go of her shoulders. "You must have had a nightmare." He scratched his head and gave her a curious look.
Lily reached around to touch her lower back, flinching, and withdrew her hand—holding it out for Mike to see. Her fingertips were wet and red.
Mike's eyes widened and he threw back the blankets, jumping from the bed. He examined her back and helped her down. "How'd this happen?" he asked, dropping his voice to a cautious undertone and casting a glance toward the closed door. He sat her down on a ladder-back chair at his desk.
She tried to explain the attack, piecing together the fragmented memories; but the more she said, the crazier it sounded.
Mike switched on an overhead chandelier and scrounged around in a nearby cabinet, withdrawing a First Aid kit.
"Could've been caused by anything, I guess," he said, sounding calm again. "Are you sure you didn't just scrape it against a statue while the lights were out?"
She straddled the chair and held the back of her shirt partway up. "I . . . I don't know."
He examined her back again. "It's not as bad as it seems," he said, setting down the kit on the desk and opening it. He disinfected the wound and she bit her lip to lessen the sting. "I don't think you need any stitches," he said. "It's just superficial—about two inches long."
She was beginning to feel embarrassed, but even if she had inflicted the wound herself on a statue, surely she hadn't imagined the voice or the breathing? or the white robed arm that grabbed her and knocked her out?
There was also the question of how she ended up at the front door.
Mike finished taping the wound over with gauze. She turned around in the chair to face him. "Shouldn't we call the police or check up on everyone to make sure they're okay?" she said. "What if whoever it was is still here?"
Mike shook his head decidedly, eying her as though wary of her sanity. "I'm sure if someone was here, he or she would be long gone by now." He sat down on an upholstered settee and hooked his arm over the crest rail, facing her directly. She noticed for the first time that he was in cotton pajama pants and an undershirt.
"But someone knocked me out and dragged me to the front corridor, I'm sure of it. Why not just leave me in the pool room? It makes no sense. We really should call the police."
He shook his head again. "No, we'll check in the morning to see if anything's missing and worry about it then." He sighed. "It's been a long day for you, Lily—the accident with Ian, probably really shook you up. And the lights going out in the basement . . . I really just think your mind's playing tricks on you. I'm sorry you got hurt though." He gave her a look of pity and she broke eye contact, resenting his patronizing tone.
"How is Ian, by the way?" She met his gaze again. "I wanted to go see him—but Hannah wouldn't let me. I have no idea where his room is either."
"He's just down the hall right now, actually. Temporarily. Last room on the left. But seriously, Lily, next time you get the urge to explore in the middle of the night, come get me first, okay? As I'm sure you realize by now, it's not a safe thing to do." Again with the patronizing tone.
She leaned forward so the wound wasn't pressing against the back of the chair anymore. "I can see that now," she said flatly, cheeks prickling. He didn't believe her account; thought she'd simply hurt herself on a statue and had imagined the rest in a state of hysteria.
"Well," she said, folding her arms, "seeing as how it's the middle of the night and you don't want me wandering around alone—can you take me to see Ian?"
Mike rubbed his knee, frowning. "Now?"
She stood up. "I need to know he's okay. It's been a, weird day, to say the least."
Mike stood too. "Fine. But let's get you a clean shirt first."
"You don't think red is my color?" She laughed, trying to lighten the mood.
"I think any color would look good on you, but a bloody shirt will send Ian off the deep end. He'd probably blame me for it, too."
She searched his face a moment, nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't want to distress him."
To ease her nerves, Mike scoped the hallway first and then her bedroom, assuring her that no one was lurking about. He waited in the hall while she changed her shirt and rinsed her hands in a ceramic basin. They went to the last door on the left, walking quietly to avoid waking Hannah. There was no sound of crying now.
"Do you want me to go in with you?" Mike asked.
"Yes, please." She gave him a weak smile. "I don't want to barge in on Ian like I just did with you." She blushed at the memory. "In retrospect, it's pretty embarrassing."
He laughed and gave her a side hug. "No worries—I got your back."
She winced at that.
They entered Ian's room, which was just a guest room, and Mike turned on a double sconce lamp next to the door. It wasn't enough light to wake Ian but provided enough that they could find their way around the room without tripping over furniture.
The room was tiny compared to the others, with a rose-patterned settee and a dresser on the left-hand side of the room, and an iron Victorian bed in the center. On the right-hand wall was an arched lancet window with a trestle table beneath it. Atop the table were some medical supplies—gauze, tape, antiseptic, and a ceramic water basin and pitcher.
She wondered why Ian had been brought to a guest room rather than to his own bedroom, but decided to ask later. Mike motioned to her that he was going to wait by the door and she nodded distractedly. With soft steps, she went to where Ian lay sleeping. When she reached his side, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at his peaceful, sleeping form. He didn't look like he was in any pain—there was no visible tension in his features. His face was so serene she almost wished she could trade places with him and sleep away the nightmares of the day.
Though he was covered to the chest with a rose-patterned counterpane, he wore no shirt and both arms rested on top; his left arm heavily bandaged in gauze, and abrasions on his knuckles. Even in the dull lighting she could make out the stains saturating the layers.
Someone had taken the time to comb his dark hair, and for a second she had the urge to touch her fingertips to his cheek. But why so protective of him? After all, he was a stranger; and one that had been rather hostile at times. Nevertheless, she reached for his good hand and held it in her own as a silent gesture of care and concern.
Without warning, his left hand jerked forward and grabbed her wrist. His eyes snapped open and he stared at her in cold fury.
She gasped.
"What's wrong?" Mike asked, approaching the bedside.
"Oh—it's you," Ian said, relief draining the fury from his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," she said, pulse dropping back down again. "I startled you, I . . . Ian—your hand." He was still gripping her wrist with a strength that shouldn't have been there.
He let go, gauzed arm falling limp against the blanket.
She rubbed her wrist. "Doesn't your arm hurt? Your muscle was . . . shredded. I saw bone—"
"Painkillers."
She clasped her hands together in her lap and nodded. "I'm sorry for waking you—I just wanted to see for myself that you're okay. I couldn't sleep."
"It's okay," he mumbled, voice thick with a slight slur. She wondered if he was under sedation. He flicked his dark gaze away from her and onto Mike.
"Don't be mad," Mike said, taking a step backward. "Lily had a fright and wanted to see you."
"Why would I be mad?" He glanced at the digital clock on his night stand and knit his brow. "Three a.m.? Why are you both up?" He looked from Mike to Lily with narrowed eyes.
"We weren't together," she blurted out, surprised at herself for needing to clarify that. She opened her mouth to explain further but weakness washed over her and she closed it again. She had no energy to recount for a second time all that had happened to her in the pool room. Besides, Ian didn't need any more burdens on his plate.
"There's something you're not telling me," he said.
"Oh, Lily hurt herself," said Mike flippantly, as though he'd been holding his breath. "She says she was attacked by someone in the pool room."
"What—" Ian scooted up to a sitting position, eyes wide. "By whom?"
Instantly averting her gaze from his bare chest, Lily debated how to explain. "Well, it was actually . . . a woman, I think." She met his eyes, bracing herself for a rebuff.
His eyes smoldered in response. "Did you see who she was?" The slurred thickness was gone from his voice.
She shook her head. "No, the lights were out."
"What were you doing down there in the middle of the night, Lily? Are you nuts?" He was angry now.
Her lower lip began to tremble and she blinked back tears.
"Ian, just chill man," Mike cut in. "We'll talk about it in the morning. Let's go, Lily."
Ian leaned back against the headboard and shut his eyes in what appeared to be resignation. "Fine, you're right," he said without tone. "She should go and get some sleep."
"Would you both stop it already?" Lily snapped, tears drying. "Since the moment I got here everyone has been treating me like a child." She crossed her arms over her chest and spoke in a level voice: "I own half this place now, buddy, and if I choose to go wandering around in the middle of the night, it's none of your business. Got it?" She let out a snort. "Mind you, after tonight, I don't know if I should stay here even one more day . . . "
Both men stared at her but neither spoke.
"Oh, and one more thing," she went on. "I will decide myself when to go to sleep, thank you very much."
Ian exchanged a glance with Mike. "There's only one thing to do in a situation like this," he said.
"What's that?" Mike raised an eyebrow.
"Back away, slowly."
A smile tugged at her lips but she forced herself to scowl at Ian instead.
"Fine, fine," he acquiesced, "go to sleep whenever you want—but I'll be keeping an eye on you."
"What?"
He grimaced. "That came out wrong."
Something niggled at her then and the smile died on her lips. "What were you doing in the pool yesterday?" she said. "Were you in there while I was using the bathtub?" The question had troubled her all afternoon and evening but she hadn't allowed herself to face it fully—until now. True, he'd been in the hallway when she ran straight into him after the bath, but in the time it took her to dress, he could have changed quickly enough and waited for her to come up.
He blinked once but his expression was unreadable.
Butterflies picked up in her stomach.
"No, I never go in the tank before the sharks are fed," he said, maintaining steady eye contact. "And I would never . . . spy on you like that," his voice trailed off and fatigue filled his features. He looked away.
Mike cleared his throat but she ignored him. She had to know if Ian was telling the truth. "But why were you in the tank?" she pressed. "Is that something you do often?"
It occurred to her then that the large black form that had slid under the aquarium glass prompting her flight up the stairs, may have in fact been a scuba diver. But if that were true, it couldn't have been Ian.
Mike's presence prickled in her peripheral then and she shuddered inwardly.
Was there not anyone in this house she could trust?
Ian focused his gaze on the lancet window and didn't answer.
She stood up. "We'll talk about it later, Ian. Glad you're okay . . . " She turned and started for the open door. Mike followed.
"No—wait."
She pivoted.
Ian was struggling to get out of the bed, his bandaged arm making it awkward. "It's not safe—" he said, "not until we can be sure your attacker is gone." He winced when he tried to stand, and sat back down. "I'm going to—stay with you. On the couch." He tried to stand again, holding the bed for support with his good hand.
"Don't be silly," she said. "I'll lock my door."
He caught her gaze then. "That's—that's not good enough."
"For Pete's sake," she said, "get back in bed." She crossed the room to his side and gently pushed him back against the pillows.
"Mike," he said over her shoulder, raising his voice, "go warn the others—make sure their doors are locked."
Lily pulled the sheets and counterpane up over his pajama-clad legs, holding up his bandaged arm so it could rest on top.
As she pulled the blankets the rest of the way over his bare chest, she stopped short, breath catching in her throat.
Jagged scars ran criss-cross over his toned pectoral muscles as though he'd once been attacked by a bear.
She blinked, pretending not to notice, and tugged the blankets up to his underarms. He laid his head against the propped pillows and shut his eyes.
"I'll watch over her," Mike said from beside her. "I'll just grab a blanket and sleep on the couch."
"No. It's best she stay here with me." Ian opened his eyes and locked gaze with Mike. "I'm better trained to handle a situation like this."
"You can't even get out of bed." Mike moved closer, arms folded over his broad chest, looking Ian up and down. "Better trained are you? Were you a ninja in another life?" He let out a sharp laugh. "Look man, you were nearly eaten by sharks today. Do you seriously think you could do a better job watching Lily tonight than I could?"
"Guys—come on," she said, "let's not make a big deal of this. I'll just sleep on the sofa over there if that'll make him happy. All right?" She went to the dresser and searched the drawers for blankets. There was a quilt in the bottom drawer. It smelled fresh enough so she unfolded it and plunked down on the stiff settee, trying not to yelp when her back pressed against the wooden arm.
Mike stared at her in stunned silence and she waited with interest to see what would happen next.
"Well, I'll see you in the morning, I guess," he said, unfolding his arms. He crossed the room without another glance and closed the door behind him as he went out into the hall.
Lily kicked off her shoes and pulled her knees up to her chest, tucking the quilt about herself and trying to get comfortable. Not too likely with a cut on her back and no pillow. The settee wasn't long enough to stretch out her legs either. She glanced at Ian but couldn't make out his shadowed facial expression from this distance. The dim streams from the wall sconces just weren't bright enough.
He wasn't looking at her either but rather at the door.
Oh, right—she hadn't locked it.
"I'll lock it," she said, throwing back the quilt and going to the door. The hardwood floor was slick beneath her socks.
"Please take the bed," he said gruffly, pulling the covers back again and sitting up straight. "I'll take the couch."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous." She started toward him, intending to lay him back down, but he was already standing to his feet. "Ian, come on—what are you doing? You're impossible." She avoided looking at his scars as he went to the dresser. He crouched down and tugged open the middle drawer with his gauzed arm. He pulled out another folded blanket with his good hand and brought it to the settee, arranging it as a pillow. He laid back against it, long legs draping over the side of the couch.
"You gonna sleep like that?" she asked. "Half hanging to the floor?" She walked up to him and pulled the quilt from his lap. "What was that, anyway?"
"What was what?"
"You tugged the drawer open with your injured arm. You shouldn't be able to—" She dropped the quilt to the floor and grabbed his bandaged forearm.
He winced and yanked it from her, cradling it to his chest. "Ga-a-ah—it hurts like heck when you do that."
She let go and softened her tone, earlobes burning. She hadn't meant to hurt him. "May I change those bandages for you?"
He raised an eyebrow, considering for a moment. "Oh, fine," he said with a half smile. "Let's see what kind of hack job Hannah did on me. . . . Can you turn on the overhead light?"
Lily switched on the light and carried the trestle table across the room to the settee, taking care not to slosh the water. She squinted at Ian in the incandescent lighting and on second thought, went back to the window to grab the waste basket.
Ian moved stiffly to the end of the settee and she sat down next to him.
She reached for him with a tentative hand and unraveled the gauze, tossing bloodied sections of it into the waste basket one layer at a time. "I need to tell you something," she said suddenly, heartbeat racing as a memory came to her like a slap across the face. He met her eyes and she noticed they were brown, not black like she'd originally thought. She resumed the unwrapping. "The sharks, I saw them, and . . . I think they might be dead."
"Mmhm."
" 'Mmhm'? That's it?"
"Yes—I had them put down."
"What!"
"Why would I want to keep a tank full of man-eaters? Something was wrong with them—sand sharks don't behave like that. I've swam with them for years now and they've never been a threat to me before. They were also injured and would have required medical attention. I don't know what happened to them." He shrugged his right shoulder. "What choice did I have?"
She stopped unwrapping the gauze and dropped her hands to her knees. "So—instead of figuring out what was wrong with them, you killed them. Just like that." Her pulse pounded, heat coursing through her body. He could have at least acquired a professional opinion from a marine biologist before doing something so rash—and so cruel.
Then again, maybe she'd feel differently if she was the one who'd nearly been eaten for lunch.
"I had my reasons," he said. "I know a lot more about the situation than you do."
"Yeah? So, why don't you enlighten me for a change? I've been kept in the dark about everything else, it seems."
He looked away.
The silence grew awkward and she lifted his arm again and unraveled more of the gauze, tempering her frustration. When she reached the final layer, she peeled it off gingerly, grimacing on his behalf.
"You sure you wanna see this?"
She smiled with sympathy. "If you can handle it, I can handle it."
"Well, if you throw up, aim away from me."
With a nervous laugh, she tossed the final piece of gauze into the bin and examined his arm.
It was swollen and red with uneven purple lacerations in a semi circle on either side of his forearm. Hannah had done a decent job of stitching up each cut, but the wounds were gruesome; though not nearly as severe as she'd recalled.
Her stomach clenched and she had to turn away to collect her bearings and swallow down the nausea.
"Think they'll scar?" he said.
She met his gaze and found him grinning.
"How can you joke about it?" She gaped at him. "What if you never regain full control of your arm or hand? What if it gets infected? You could lose your arm, you know. I highly doubt Hannah is trained in nursing—or is she? You should be in the hospital. You should also be in horrible pain, but you seem—well—rather fine to me. Just what meds are you taking anyway?"
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his good hand. "Would you rather I rolled around on the floor groaning? I can do that if it'll make you feel better."
"Maybe you're still in shock."
"You seem to know a lot about this, is there a book on how to react to a shark bite? I must not have read it."
"Oh, you're hopeless—" She flung her hands upward. "So, what now—any treatment or just fresh bandaging?"
"A quick rinse with water and new bandaging will be fine."
Ian focused on the red digits of the alarm clock by his bed while Lily dabbed a damp cloth on his arm. Her touch was soft and gentle and caring. He flinched a little each time she applied pressure. It was 4:19 a.m. and Hannah would be around within the hour to check on him. He was going to be in for a verbal beating when she found Lily lying in his bed instead of him—that is, if he could actually convince Lily to sleep there while he took the settee. Hannah would go on and on about his need for bed rest and he'd have to assure her he felt fine.
He'd been through it all before.
Many a time.
Lily dried his arm with a clean hand towel and wrapped gauze around it, one layer at a time, taping it as needed. She was so focused on what she was doing that he allowed his gaze to linger. She was very pretty; those long lashes brushing against her cheeks, latte-brown hair mussed up and half tucked behind her ears. She smelled like flowers. He felt silly even just to think it.
"There," she said, patting his arm lightly when she was done. "Now, where's the pain killers? You in for another dose?"
"Hannah will bring them." He was exhausted and did not need a sedative.
"Now, back to bed," she insisted, standing and rinsing her hands in the water basin, drying them on a towel. She reached for his good hand.
He pulled it from her grasp. "No-no, I'll sleep here."
"I'm not taking the bed, that would be absurd."
Ian leaned back against the blanket pillow he'd arranged earlier and pulled the quilt up to his chin and shut his eyes.
At the sound of her leaving his side, he peeked through the slit of one eye in time to see her switch off the overhead light. She left the sconce lights on and to his relief, went to his bed. Pulling the blankets up, she plopped down on top of them and turned onto her side, facing him. It was too dark to see if her eyes were open but when she tucked her hands under her chin, he presumed she was going to try and sleep.
He tried to relax, mentally cursing Auguste for his taste in Victorian furniture. It was nice enough to look at but rigid to lounge on, let alone nap. But at least his arm wasn't throbbing anymore.
He should have been more careful. Lily was too savvy to keep making careless mistakes around her. What had he been thinking using his injured arm to grab her wrist like that? Instinct, he supposed. This was the very reason he'd always instructed Hannah not to disturb him while he was sleeping. He didn't trust himself to be woken that way. He'd been jumpy since childhood. Everything was a threat and for good reason. And why had he gone and opened the drawer with his bad arm as well? Such an obvious and thoughtless mistake. He'd have to be much more conscious of what he was doing from now on.
Now that Lily was here.
And what should he do with her anyway? It was too dangerous to let her stay, especially now that she'd been attacked by something.
A very bad sign.
He shuddered involuntarily.
Several minutes later the door burst open with a lingering creak and he opened his eyes. A disheveled Hannah stood in its frame, suffused by the sconce light; the hallway cavernous behind her. She had sunken eyes and a haunted expression; long hair all a-toss.
Without noticing Lily, her gaze went straight to Ian and she crossed the room to him, thrusting her hand out from behind her back.
She was holding Auguste's cane.
"I've been wanting to tell you—"
Ian motioned toward the bed and she followed his gaze with a jerk. Surprise visibly replacing the look of distress, she asked no questions but gave him a look of stern warning and left the room, closing the door behind her.
No one else had found that cane since Auguste's death, though Ian had known where it was all along. Hannah must have been in the attic recently, despite him forbidding her to do so. She'd barely spoken two words to him while tending his wounds and putting him to bed earlier, but each time she'd checked on him there'd been a look of grief and fear in her eyes and in the lines of her face. Several times she'd started to say something but had bit her lip instead. Had the discovery of the cane been troubling her all this time?
He would have to talk to her about it in the morning.
If you liked this chapter, please vote and comment. I'd love to hear from you! :)