The Secrets of Roan Island

35. Ruby

35

Ruby

T here are splinters in my hands that I can feel but can’t see. Sharp bits that sting and pulse under my skin. Despite that, I continue to slam my hands against the wooden door.

“Let me out,” I scream. “Let me out!”

Fear wraps around my throat and squeezes.

I spin away from the door to look into the shadows of another stairwell. It twists and turns out of sight. Unsure what to do, I climb. At the end is another door, this one metal. I press my palms to the smooth surface, sighing at the cool relief it brings.

When I lean against it, the door opens with a click.

Darkness greets me.

Taking a breath, I push the door wider and step through. It’s time to save myself. To find a way out of here.

With my hands out in front of me, I venture into the shadows.

The darkness is pervasive, a deep gloom that breathes around me.

I pause, listening.

My breath flows loud in my own ears. In and out.

I hold it.

A second breath whispers around me—in and out—like the darkness is an entity, a presence enveloping me in its murkiness.

A sound, as if wind, tickles my ears. A voice, singing, as if far away.

“Hello?” I call, sliding my foot in front of me, searching for obstacles. I hit another step. More stairs. “Is anyone there?”

The hairs on my arms and neck rise.

I’m not alone.

“Who’s there?” I hate how meek I sound.

My mind spirals into the dank cellar where they found my little sister’s body, where the last hours of her life must have been a horror. Tears spring to my eyes, hating the way my breath hitches with guilt and pain and grief.

“I’m not there,” I whisper to myself. “I’m going to get out of this.” I need to get back to Noah.

Resolute, I move slowly through the darkness, my eyes adjusting to the nuance of shades. I wish I could see the rest of the space to take inventory of where I might be, what I might have to do to survive this. I swallow bitter tears, hating that I had to live through David’s torture only to face this with Hammish, hating the weakness that threatens to steal my hope and will.

A scent I don’t recognize flows around me, reminding me of Noah, but not him. Different. Something sweet but spicy.

“Hello?” I ask again.

A breath.

“I’m Ruby,” I say, quietly. “I’m just looking for a light.”

And suddenly light flares. I squint and shade my eyes. When they adjust, I find a woman with a lantern standing on the other side of the room. She’s breathtaking, and… familiar. Her dark hair spins in glossy waves around her shoulders, her white nightgown genteel.

My hand flies to my mouth. “You’re the woman from the painting at the entry to the Gate House.” Her name comes back to me in a flash of recognition. Noah’s sister. “Zarah,” I breathe. “I thought you were dead.”

“I may as well be.” Her dark eyes watch me warily. “And who are you?”

“Ruby Rose.”

“Is that name supposed to mean something to me? Why would my father trap you in here? Are you a feeder?” She smiles and shows her fangs. I have no doubt she would stalk me, feed from me, and leave me for dead if it served her purpose.

I quell my rising fear with a breath. “No. I’m….” What am I exactly? “A… friend of Noah’s.”

She straightens and takes a step toward me. “Noah?” She sniffs the air. “You’ve seen my brother.”

She looks so much like him they could be twins. Maybe they are. I wish there was more light.

“Yes. I was with Noah… Trying to find a solution to the venom problem.” Perhaps if she knows what we were doing, she’ll trust me and become an ally.

“I can smell him on you.” Her look is penetrating, a surgeon separating muscle from sinew.

I blush and turn away. “Where are we?”

“My prison,” she replies austerely. “Come with me. We won’t have long to wait, but we might as well be more comfortable.”

“Wait for what?” I ask, scrambling after Zarah as the light disappears through a doorway.

“Winter Solstice. The moons will rise soon, and he’ll come for me. You too, I suspect.”

The room is comfortable, with a neatly made bed and a desk on which sits a closed, leather-bound journal that reminds me of Noah’s great-great-grandmother’s journals. A fire dances behind a grated fireplace, a tin beside it filled with wood. An abandoned embroidery project lays haphazardly on a small sofa. In the corner, a copper tub sits beside a wardrobe and a dresser with a mirror. A bookshelf graces the other wall and a table with two chairs fills the middle of the room. Everything an imprisoned person might need.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, turning to take in the room.

“Too long.” She stills, then sits on the sofa. The embroidery hoop slips and clacks against the wooden floor. “Sit.”

I don’t. Instead I study her, unsure. “Why are you here?”

She raises her eyebrows at me as if the question is absurd. “Have you met Hammish?”

I guess it’s not surprising that a man like that would keep his daughter under lock and key. He’s a monster. I bet he uses her against her brothers for his own sick pleasure the same way he tortured Shemaiah to punish Noah. I swallow the tears that rise in my throat. “He tortured Noah.”

“I hate him.” When I look up, startled and confused, she clarifies, “Hammish.”

She waves a hand at the chair near the table and again tells me to sit, her voice softer this time. I drag it closer to her and sit down.

“Where are Shemaiah and Jafeth?” she asks.

“Gone. To collect the women for tonight.”

She nods. “They’ll be back soon.” Standing, she silently paces. “Why are you here, Ruby Rose?”

I don’t know her, and yet, I find myself telling her everything. Well, almost everything. I mention the research and Hammish’s invitation. I tell her about the new moon party, leaving out private details, of course. I tell her about discovering the Gate House and the morgue.

She listens, attentive and thoughtful. When I tell her about helping Noah with the research, she tilts her head, a shrewd and intelligent look in her eyes.

After I finish telling her how Hammish brought me here, she stares at me unnervingly.“You love him?”

“Excuse me?”

“Noah.”

I swallow. My heart picks up speed, my stomach light and twitchy. Do I love him? I remember the pain of learning about the women in the morgue, of what he’s done. I think about my longing for him. I think about coming together only hours ago, and the gentle, beautiful meeting of our bodies and minds. Of wanting to take care of him, just like his grandmother’s journals described her desire to care for her mate. As much as I want to deny where my feelings have taken me—and it would be smarter to deny it—I can’t.

Voice caught in my throat, all I can do is nod in affirmation.

“I need you to see something.” Zarah moves to the desk and back so quickly, I’m not prepared, nearly toppling backward on my chair. She grasps the chair’s back to keep me upright, then holds out a book. It’s just like the journals from the Gate House, aged leather and pages that seem ready to crumble with a touch.

“This was one of the books my father dumped in here to keep me entertained.”

I open it to see the familiar script of Noah’s great-great-grandmother. “Another journal.” It’s in Mavarri like the rest “Has Noah seen this one?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

“I don’t have any translation glasses.”

She moves to her knees before me, a hopeful air surrounding her movement. “Here. I’ll show you.” Taking the book from my hands, she flips to the page she wants. “My father. He has it wrong. I’ve tried to tell him, but he won’t listen.”

“Has what wrong?”

“The turning.”

“With all those dead women, I would guess so.”

She gives me a bored look. “Stick with me.” When I nod, she continues. “He thinks it’s by chance. That it has to do with the women themselves not being strong enough. That at some point he’ll find someone who is. But he’s missing a vital ingredient.”

“And it’s in her journal?” What could have happened if Noah had this journal instead of Zarah? A chill skates my spine as I realize it probably wouldn’t have changed anything. Zarah already said Hammish didn’t listen.

Zarah holds the book out to me and points. It’s a word I recognize. Ta’ari . My heart stutters in my chest before slamming up against my ribcage. “What is that?”

“My love. Or my mate. My ancestors were in love before she was turned. And she wasn’t the first one, she writes of two other women who were turned long before her. They were all in love. I think that’s the key.”

Love.

Oh Stars!

I’d seen it between the lines and had said as much to Noah, but hadn’t considered it an ingredient. An emotion, a feeling as the key to how venom might impact tissue.

“A changed pheromone or something,” Zarah continues while my mind spins. She waves her hand dismissively. “Noah would know more about that. But I’m convinced that without love, there will be no turning.”

But does Noah love me?

When I try to dismiss the possibility, I can’t. You’re mine , he said. I wanted to keep you safe. How many times has he tried to get me to leave? He insisted upon it just hours ago. Just before we made love—yes, love, because that wasn’t a casual fuck. Noah’s gentle touch and attention. The way he claimed me. That was something more.

But he’s never said it. And he still wanted me to leave him.

“Does he love you?” she asks.

My eyes jump from the fire dancing in the hearth to Zarah. I swallow. “I don’t know.”