Eleanor’s POV
The reality of what I was doing crashed down on . I saw the terror in her eyes, felt the frantic beat of her pulse against my palms. Revulsion flooded my system. I released her so suddenly she crumpled to the floor in a heap, gasping and choking for air.
The second she could draw breath, she used it to scream. "HELP!! SHE IS TRYING TO KILL ! SHE WANTS DEAD!"
The sound of running footsteps echoed through the hall. Servants appeared, their eyes wide with shock.
Then my parents arrived, their faces a mirror of horror as they took in the scene: Priscilla on the floor, sobbing hysterically, and the vivid, angry red marks blooming around her pale neck.
My father’s face contorted with a rage I’d never seen before. He crossed the distance in two strides. "You monster!" he roared, and his open hand connected with my face with a force that snapped my head to the side and sent sprawling to the cold floor. Pain exploded across my cheekbone.
Priscilla pointed a trembling finger at , her cries becoming theatrical wails. "She’s so scary! She’s insane!"
"How dare you!" my father bellowed, looming over . "How dare you lay a hand on your sister!"
On cue, Priscilla dissolved into a fit of violent, convulsive coughing, clutching her chest. "She... she said she wouldn’t give her blood or kidney!" she choked out between gasps. "She said she’d rather kill and... and take Dickson for herself!"
My mother rushed to Priscilla’s side, cradling her, shooting a look of pure venom. "I didn’t raise you to be this cruel! You vicious, wicked girl! You’re an animal! A heartless, jealous brute! After everything we’ve done for you, this is how you repay us? By trying to murder your own sister out of spite?"
The words washed over , but they didn’t stick. I was still on the floor, my cheek burning, my mind reeling. I couldn’t process their anger. All I could see was the mory of my own hands on Priscilla’s throat.
Why did I do that?
It wasn’t . It couldn’t have been . My body had moved on its own, possessed by a fury that was not my own. I had felt a strength I didn’t recognize, a cold, murderous intent that was utterly foreign. I stared at my trembling hands as if they belonged to a stranger. What was happening to ?
My father’s voice cut through my daze. "Restrain her. Take her to the cold cell in the basent. She can rot there until she learns her place. Perhaps when she’s on the brink of death, she’ll understand the value of the life she tried to take."
The servants didn’t hesitate. Their hands were harsh and unyielding as they grabbed my arms, hauling to my feet.
I didn’t struggle. What was the point? The strange burst of power, had drained out of , leaving behind a hollow, trembling shell. They half-dragged, half-carried through the familiar halls, down a narrow servants’ staircase, and into the dank underbelly of the house.
The cold cell. I hadn’t been down here for a very long ti, locked away for so minor transgression against Priscilla. The mory of its chilling air and utter darkness was a ghost that had haunted for years.
They threw inside. I stumbled forward, my knees buckling on the hard, stone floor. The door slamd shut, plunging into near-total blackness. The lock turned with a sound that felt like a death sentence.
Silence. Then, the cold began to seep through my clothes, a damp, penetrating chill that went straight to the bone. I tried to shift, to find a more comfortable position, and my body scread in protest.
I gingerly grazed my arm where one of the servants had gripped too hard and winced at the sharp pain. A bruise was already forming. My cheek, where my father had struck , throbbed in ti with my heartbeat.
In the suffocating silence of the cold cell, the voice returned.
Pathetic. You should have finished it. You had your hands right there.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pulling my knees to my chest. This was it. This was the final proof. I was truly losing my mind. I had so kind of ntal illness, sothing new and terrifying that doctors had no na for. A sob caught in my throat. "I’m going crazy," I whispered into the darkness.
The voice answered imdiately, its tone laced with contempt. No, you’re not.
I flinched. It had replied. It had directly replied to my spoken words. A violent shiver wracked my body, and I clutched myself tighter. "It’s the cold," I muttered, my teeth chattering. "It’s just the cold making hear things. It’s a hallucination. There’s a scientific explanation."
The voice let out a sound that was almost a ntal groan. Can you be serious for once in your existence?
"No," I insisted, my voice trembling. "You’re not real. It’s a chemical imbalance. A tumor, maybe. Sothing... scientific."
Oh, of course, the voice replied, dripping with sarcasm so thick I could almost taste it. A tumor that gives you murderous impulses and a running sarcastic comntary. Yes, Eleanor, you’ve finally cracked. It’s a spectacular, world-class ntal breakdown. They’ll write papers about you.
The sarcasm was so blatant that it cut through my panic. "...Really?" I asked, a sliver of doubt piercing my certainty.
The voice sighed, a sound of utter exasperation that echoed in my mind. No, I was being sarcastic. Honestly, how do I even have you as my owner?
The word hit . "Owner?" I breathed, the cold forgotten for a mont. "What do you an... owner?"
Are you seriously asking that? The voice sounded genuinely astonished, and maybe a little insulted.
"Yes!" I whispered fiercely into the dark. "Of course I’m asking! You’re a voice in my head!"
And all this ti, you truly had no idea who—or what—I was? The disbelief was palpable.
"Does my behavior since you started talking suggest I had a clue?" I shot back, a flicker of my own frustration breaking through the fear.
There was a mont of surprised silence. ...You make a point. A rare occurrence, given the parade of profoundly stupid decisions you’ve made over the last few weeks. The voice seed to gather itself. Very well. I suppose introductions are in order. My na is Beatrice. And I am your inner wolf. Suppressed for your entire pathetic human life, and now, finally, gloriously awake.
I stared into the blackness, my mind completely blank for a second. Then a hysterical little laugh escaped . "Yep. Okay. The cold. It’s definitely the cold. I’ve got hypothermia and I’m hallucinating a furry therapist."
For the love of the moon, Beatrice groaned. Fine. Let’s try a practical demonstration. Have you noticed you’re not in pain anymore?
The question was so odd I actually stopped. I looked down at my arms, and i don’t feel the pain anymore, neither can i feel the injuries. I tentatively touched my cheek. The throbbing pain from my father’s slap had vanished completely.
"I... I was hallucinating the injuries?" I mumbled, utterly confused.
And the cold? Beatrice prompted. Are you still shivering?
I wasn’t. The damp, bone-deep chill was gone. I felt just a teeny bit cold.
"What’s happening?" I asked, my voice small. "Are you... doing this?"
? No, Beatrice said, as if the idea was ridiculous. It’s your body. It’s just finally working the way it’s supposed to.
"Why?" The question was a plea for any logic, any reason.
Do I really have to spell it out for you? she asked, her tone dripping with exasperated sarcasm. Honestly, the density is astounding. Eleanor, you are obviously a werewolf.
A what??
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