The Secrets of Roan Island

15. Ruby

15

Ruby

I f what Noah promised is true, this is officially my last night on Roan Island. I should be relieved to be leaving this foreboding place, but instead I’m wound up with an edgy energy that threatens to burst out like the fireworks lighting a dark sky during the Summer Solstice party in New Essik. I replay each of Noah’s touches, his words, the way I was certain he wanted to kiss me. I think about the corridor, the rooftop, the words left unsaid. If this is going to be my last night at the Roan Estate, I’m going to spend it doing something reckless. I’m going to settle my curiosity and learn what they’re hiding behind that painting.

Without second guessing the decision, I slip out of my room and rush through the corridors. I don’t linger at any of the paintings or the doors, walking straight to the portrait of the woman in white. Then stumble.

The door isn’t sitting flush against the wall. Instead, it’s slightly ajar, propped open with a book.

Replacing the book with my foot, I read the title: A History of San Vertu by Graham Miliken. It’s the book Shemaiah gave me to read. After skimming the rest of it and finding nothing of interest, I’d returned it to the library earlier today. I scan the hall, searching for Shemaiah. Is he trying to tell me something? But there’s no one around. No footsteps. No voices.

I hesitate, wondering for a moment if this is a good idea, but my curiosity is overpowering. It drags me forward like an animal on a leash. There’s something going on here at the Roan estate, and I can’t leave without trying to find out what it is.

I step through the doorway and replace the book before taking in the dark passage. I’m grateful for the dim light of my candelabra, though the murky gloom of the stairwell is enough to close my throat. As much as I want to discover Roan Island’s secrets, the darkness and the unknown freeze my courage.

Imagine your sister’s final cries, David’s voice taunts.

The shadows close in, and I stumble back, bumping into the frame propped open behind me.

David. Always David. And my terror about what happened to my sister. Tears threaten, stinging my eyes and my throat.

But rather than succumbing to them, they make me angry. I don’t want to be afraid. I don’t want to give David my power anymore. I’m here to take it back, so even as I fear that pervasive darkness, I ease down the steep, curved stairs, my curiosity stronger than the anxiety that haunts me.

The muted light from the candelabra reveals stones much like those that line the hallway where Noah took me earlier today. Unbidden, my mind takes me there once more, with Noah’s face near my neck, his breath teasing the sensitive skin. I grip the candelabra tighter.

“Focus, Ruby Rose,” I whisper and force myself to continue, one hand on the wall, the other clutching the candelabra.

Suddenly, everything around me shifts.

I stop.

The stairwell swirls and swivels, as if I’ve flipped over onto my head, my stomach slowly dropping through my body to follow the rest of me. But I’m still standing where I stopped, my hand pressed against the stone. The cool rock feels smoother beneath my fingertips. My stomach lurches, and I wonder if I have one of those horrific headaches coming on. And at such a time!

When I get my bearings and the nausea subsides, I find myself walking up the stairway rather than down. Everything is the same: the stone, the steps, the darkness. I consider turning around, but some instinct tells me to press on, so I continue up until the passage comes to a dead end. When I push, the wall gives, swinging open to reveal a mirror image of the hallway I left.

But it isn’t the same hallway.

The book isn’t here.

The lights are different.

And the paintings. My stomach seizes as I look upon them, my steps faltering the further I walk. Each frame seems to be in the same place, but the art depicts scenes rather than people. A realistic depiction of a man holding a woman, blood dripping from his lips at her neck, her mouth open and eyes closed in ecstasy.

My skin tingles at the garish painting. The violence shouldn’t turn me on, but the intimacy of it makes the space between my legs throb.

Painting after painting depicts two people locked in a kind of battle, clearly sexual, though bloody.

I swallow, unnerved, but continue.

When I reach a turn, only one way is lit with flickering candles. I follow the light down the stairs and through another hall, a mirror image of the route I’ve taken every day from my room to the library. It’s clearly the path whoever went before me took, and I have a creeping suspicion they lit the lights to lead me here. Am I following a guiding light or walking into a trap?

The last thing I want is to find Hammish Roan at the end of this trail.

The library door is open, light streaming into the hall. There are no sounds coming from inside, so I venture forward, cautious and attuned to sudden noise and movement. The room I’ve spent days in isn’t the room I’ve been in at all. Books line the walls, but this room is brighter, lit by strange lamps glowing with a blue-white flame. Rather than busts of noteworthy men, the shelves are lined with additional books, holders to contain loose-leaf papers, and binders marked with handwritten labels. The tables are strewn with open books, and instead of portraits, maps decorate the walls. Maps of the island, maps of the surrounding region, New Essik, and maps I don’t recognize. Maps of strange topography I’ve never seen. This is a library in use, rather than one that serves as decoration.

“I knew you’d come.”

With a start, I spin to face the voice.

“Shemaiah.”

He’s leaning back in a chair with his feet crossed casually over the table, his hands interlocked over his stomach, staring straight at the door. Waiting. His lip twitches ever so slightly, so fast I almost miss it.

I set the candelabra down on a small desk close to me and put out the candles. They aren’t necessary. “What is this place?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes! Yes, it matters.”

Shemaiah puts his feet down on the floor and leans forward, elbows on the table. He takes a deep breath and huffs a slight groan, then clears his throat before saying, “We need your help, Miss Rose.”

“Who are you talking–”

At the sound of Noah’s voice, I whirl toward the fireplace. Except instead of a fireplace, as in the other library, it’s Noah standing in a wide doorway. Beyond him is a bright room that looks like the laboratories in the science department at the university.

When our eyes catch, he scowls and his eyes dilate, so dark they almost look black. He presses both hands into the doorframe on either side of him as if he’s trying to hold himself back. Muscles flexed. Expression hard. His gaze jumps from me to Shemaiah. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Matters are dire,” Shemaiah replies.

Noah’s chest heaves as he draws in a deep breath. “You shouldn’t be here.”

It’s clear he’s talking to me, even though he keeps his gaze averted.

“Where exactly are we? What’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Noah says at the same time as Shemaiah says, “The Gate House.”

I’m not sure what he means, but I’m more concerned with the look Noah is giving me. There’s a broken intensity in his eyes. It’s the look of a man defeated, but it’s matched by a buzzing, coiled tension like he’s holding back a powerful force, keeping the tide of whatever personal battle he’s immersed in at bay.

“Take her to her room,” Noah says to Shemaiah, his voice harsher than I’ve ever heard.

“And waste an opportunity? No.” Shemaiah ignores Noah’s glare and turns to me. “You’re a researcher, aren’t you, Miss Rose?”

I nod slowly, unsure what is happening between the brothers but aware I’m suddenly between them. My skin feels hot, and my stomach clenches with unease.

Shemaiah stands and crosses the room.

I retreat a step, though I don’t normally feel fear when it comes to either Shemaiah or Noah. Something is different, and I can’t identify why.

“Shemaiah,” Noah warns.

Shemaiah stops in front of me and casually puts his hands in his pockets. “We have something that needs researching.”

“We don’t need research,” Noah snaps. “We need answers. Experiments.”

“And how’s that working out for you, brother?” Shemaiah asks without looking away from me. “You’ve missed something.” His lips faintly quirk once more as if he’s enjoying the moment, a victor of sorts, but the smile fades just as quickly when his serious eyes—as dark and dilated as Noah’s— connect with mine. He leans closer and inhales.

Noah growls.

“Did you just sniff me?” My gaze darts to Noah. I think of the paintings in the hall.

His lips are pressed in a tight line, but his eyes aren’t on me, they’re burning a hole into Shemaiah’s back

Shemaiah dips his chin once, then advances, pausing when we’re shoulder to shoulder. “Don’t let him push you out.” His gaze holding mine, he subtly tucks a crumpled piece of paper into my hand, clearly not wanting Noah to see. I step away from the intensity of his look, something dangerous lurking in the depths of his eyes.

“Noah will never admit it,” Shemaiah says. “But he needs the help. We all do.”