Chapter 8: The Letter

The mansion greeted me with its usual heavy silence. And the words of the girl in the library clung to me the entire drive home.

Don't ask questions. Not here. Not about them.

Aunt Neela handed me chores, remove the dust covers from the furniture, wash them, re-cover them neatly. Her tone was clipped, her instructions precise.

The work dragged through dinner and stretched into night. My muscles ached by the time I collapsed into bed.

But quiet never lasted long in this house.

In the middle of the night, I bolted upright, my heart hammering. This wasn't the crash of falling furniture. This was raw, human, torn from the throat of someone in pain.

From the attic.

I crept into the hall, bare feet silent on the wood. A flicker of light glowed at the staircase.

Aunt Neela.

She moved quickly, her lamp swaying, her steps steady. I froze at the base of the stairs, straining to hear.

Her voice floated down, soft but urgent.

"Alpha, calm yourself. Please… you must endure it."

Her words vanished into the dark above. The screaming ebbed. Silence swallowed the house once more.

I stood motionless, too afraid to climb, too shaken to return to bed.

The next morning, I could barely focus. My notes blurred. Every sound dragged me back to that scream.

At breakfast, Aunt Neela sat straight as ever, tea steaming beside her.

I watched her, trying to read any crack in her perfect mask.

Finally, I whispered, "Last night… Aunt Neela, who were you talking to?"

She didn't look up. "No one."

"That wasn't no one. I heard screaming."

Her cup clicked against the saucer as she set it down. At last she met my gaze, her eyes sharp.

"You heard the wind in the beams. This house is old."

"That wasn't wind," I pressed. "You said a name. Alpha."

Her face didn't change. But her hands tightened ever so slightly.

"You must have dreamt it," she said evenly. "Dreams cling longer in this place."

I opened my mouth to argue, but something in her stare stopped me.

Her voice softened, but the softness was colder than steel. "Cosette. If you value your peace here, you will not wander in the night again."

A shiver crawled down my spine. I nodded mutely, though unease knotted tighter in my chest.

Still, crashes appeared. The townspeople moved too precisely. Their laughter rang hollow. Their words, rehearsed.

And Kieran, he was at the center of it all.

Students stepped aside when he passed. Teachers ignored his lateness. Once, I saw him stroll into a fight, say nothing, and watch it dissolve instantly.

A whisper followed him.

"Beta."

Another piece of the puzzle.

Alpha. Beta.

And a town that spoke around, never through, its secrets.

Friday afternoon, drained from the week, I pulled into the mansion's garage.

That was when I saw it.

The mailbox by the gate, usually empty, held a single envelope.

I tugged it free. The paper was thick, the ink careful. On the front:

To: Aslan Crimson

The name stopped me cold.

I'd seen it before, etched beneath the portrait in the hallway. The young man with golden eyes. The portrait that had vanished.

My breath quickened.

The mansion door creaked open.

"Cosette."

Aunt Neela stood in the doorway, lamplight glowing behind her. Her gaze went straight to the envelope in my hand.

"Aunt Neela," I said slowly. "This letter, it's addressed to—"

Before I could finish, she was beside me. Her hand darted out, snatching the envelope too quickly, too sharply.

"I'll handle this," she said. Her voice was calm, but her knuckles whitened against the paper. "Go inside."

I hesitated. "But—"

"Inside, Cosette."

The finality in her tone left no room. I obeyed, but as I passed, I glanced back. For the first time, I thought I saw it, fear flickering across her composed face.

That evening, I couldn't concentrate on anything.

The name circled endlessly in my head.

Aslan Crimson.

Who was he?

And why did the sound of his name feel like another key sliding into a lock, one I wasn't sure I wanted to open?

The next day, I stayed longer on campus, hoping the library might yield something, even scraps.

But the shelves where the town records should have been were still empty.

When I left, the late sun burned low, shadows stretching long across the quad.

Kieran waited outside, leaning against the railing like he had been expecting me.

"Mansion girl," he greeted lazily, arms crossed. "Rough week?"

I stiffened. "Don't call me that."

"What should I call you, then?" His grin was sharp. "Cosette Zedler, new tenant of the Crimson House? Or should I say…" He leaned closer, his breath brushing my ear. "…keeper of Aslan's ghost?"

The name hit me like a stone. My pulse stuttered.

He saw it. His smile widened. "Ah. So you do know him."

"I don't," I said quickly, too quickly. "I just saw the name. Once."

"Tell me," I demanded. "Who was Aslan Crimson?" I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. "Why do people keep saying Alpha?"

That made him pause. His grin slipped entirely this time, and his expression darkened.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Everywhere," I shot back. "The bookshop. The town. Even—" I stopped myself before mentioning Aunt Neela.

Kieran studied me for a long moment, then gave a short, humorless laugh. "Of course. They'd sniff you out immediately. You don't belong, and they can smell it."

"What does it mean?" I pressed. "Alpha. Beta. All of it."

He leaned close, his voice dropping so low I barely caught it. "It means you should be careful who you stand next to. Because some people in this town aren't people at all."

I recoiled. "What are you talking about—"