Midnight Whispers - Paranormal Romance

The rain was
falling softly, like a cloudy mist, coating Kyra’s fine black dress in a sheet
of moisture. She barely felt the cold as she stood in the grass, her spine
rigid as the priest’s voice droned on and on, reciting the funeral rites. Her
eyes remained fixed on the two wooden caskets that sat next to the freshly dug
graves, and she wondered how she could feel nothing at all. No anger, sadness,
fear, or regret. She had loved her parents dearly, and their deaths had been
both painful and unfair. Shouldn’t she feel
something?

When the
rebels had taken control of her family estate she had felt something then.  Overwhelming,
undeniable fear. The terror had ripped through her like jagged shards of glass
as they broke through the heavy oak doors, as they’d hacked and slashed at not just
the furniture and family heirlooms, but at flesh and blood. The lovely
tapestries her mother had hand-woven were sliced to ribbons, the marble statues
her father had looked so fondly upon smashed beyond recognition. Spatters of
blood had stained the rugs and the walls, and if one of the servants hadn’t
grabbed her and smuggled her out, she knew her own lifeblood would have been
spilt as well.

It was only
later she had discovered that her parents hadn’t made it out alive. The
constable hadn’t permitted her to view the bodies—one of the neighboring
nobles had been called out to identify, likely so that she could be spared the
horror of their mutilation. She remembered being angry with that. After all,
they were
her
parents. It was
her
duty to ensure they were taken
care of. But no, she hadn’t even been allowed to handle the funeral arrangements.
Everything had been taken care of, so that she’d been forced to sit aside like
a lifeless, useless doll.

Hot tears
pricked her eyes now as she stared hard at the caskets. She longed to rush
over, to rip open the lids and drink in her fill of their faces before they
were forever lost to her. She knew in her heart that the sight would probably
give her nightmares for years to come, but something inside her was restless,
unsatisfied, despite the numbness she’d allowed herself to sink into these past
couple of days.

The tears
scalded her cheeks, startling her into the realization that the rain had
chilled her skin almost unbearably in contrast. She felt the moisture begin to
cool on her cheeks, but did not wipe it away until after the priest had finished
the rites and her parents had been lowered into their graves. As their only
child, she was the first to step up and toss flowers into the graves—a
parting gift for them to take to the afterlife. As she looked down into the
deep, dark holes, she briefly contemplated what it would be like if she fell in
and was buried with them. Would she be at peace, like they no doubt were? Or
would she shriek and writhe as maggots crawled up the insides of her nostrils?

Shuddering in
revulsion, she moved away, for the first time thankful that she was alive, that
they hadn’t dug a third grave for her today.

At the end of
the procession, her Aunt Sylvia approached her; a small woman with silver hair
and round spectacles perched on a pert nose. Her black muslin dress was serviceable,
though not nearly as graceful looking as Kyra’s taffeta gown. Kyra’s heart
filled with dread—she’d known this was coming.

“It’s very
hard to know that they’re gone,” Aunt Sylvia said, taking Kyra’s arm. She
brought the black lace parasol she held in her gloved hand up to shield them
from the rain—an accessory Kyra should have remembered, but had
forgotten.

“Yes.”

“I understand
that the rebels destroyed everything and took all the family jewels and gold.”

A lump formed
in Kyra’s throat. “I have nothing.”

Her aunt
patted Kyra’s arm sympathetically. “You have me. My home is always open to
you.”

Kyra glanced
askance at her aunt. Sylvia lived in a small cottage on a farm in the
countryside—the same farm she and Kyra’s mother had grown up on. They
were the daughters of an impoverished nobleman who had to resort to working the
land to make a living. Kyra’s father had owned property out there at one time,
and during his country escapades met and fell in love with her mother. She’d
come here to live with her father, but Sylvia had been content to live her life
on the farm as a spinster.

“I have never
lived on a farm,” Kyra said softly. “I’m not certain how I will do.”

Sylvia smiled
slightly. “I won’t work you to death, child. But you’ll have a warm roof over
your head, a full belly, and clothes on your back. And you won’t be beholden to
another noblewoman as a companion or a governess or have to deal with the
whisperings of society.”

Kyra nodded.
That much was true. The nobles would likely be divided between sympathy and
scorn over her downfall. They were like a ravenous pack of wolves; pouncing on
every tidbit of gossip they could get their greedy paws on. Kyra had never
taken to that sort of behavior, which was why she’d never made very many
friends among them. There were certainly none now rushing to her aid when she
was most vulnerable and in need of it.

“What shall I
pack?”

****

They traveled
by stagecoach a few days later, with what was left of Kyra’s belongings packed
into the valise she had clutched in her lap. It was a miracle she’d had
anything left at all to bring. The dress she’d worn at the funeral had been
loaned to her and was now returned, and none of her black clothes had survived,
so she was dressed in cream sprigged muslin, with a black armband around her
wrist to signify she was in mourning.

The grief had
weighed heavily in her heart as she and her aunt had made the last of the
arrangements, selling what they could and tying up any legal ends they had to
with the family solicitor. Now that they were in the coach, moving away from
the tragedy, she felt some of the weight lift from her body. Sitting close to
the window, she inhaled deeply now that her chest was not so constricted with
sadness, and tasted the spring air. It cleared away the ashes of death that
seemed to coat her tongue so liberally these past few weeks.

Her aunt
nodded in approval. “I think the country air will do you some good, Kyra.”

The
stagecoach traveled a full day before they finally arrived. Kyra stepped out of
the coach and onto a gravel path, wishing for a bath. She swore she could
practically hear the granules of dust rubbing against her skin through the
muslin.

Trying to
ignore it, her eyes traveled over the plot of land as she waited for her aunt
to disembark, taking in the grassy field peppered liberally with tiny white and
yellow flowers. Smack in the center was a charming thatched cottage with baby
blue windowpanes and new paint on the walls. Not far off stood a stable and a
pig pen, and from the smells wafting her way she gathered both were occupied.

“What do you
think?” her aunt asked after paying the driver and sending the stagecoach on
its way. Kyra wondered how she’d managed to get the driver to drop her directly
at the farm—usually stagecoaches had specific places they stopped at. But
her aunt had always had a way about her.

“It’s…
charming,” she managed, trying her best not to wrinkle her nose.

Laughing, her
aunt patted her on the back, and then moved past her and down the path toward
the house. Kyra followed her in, and was shown to a small, but serviceable room
at the end of the hall. After washing up, she allowed her aunt to show her
around the farm, introducing her to the dairy cow, the plow horses, the
chickens and the pigs. She was taught how to feed and water all of them, and
where the tool shed was for days when they would have to muck out the stalls.
She was shown where the vegetable patch was as well, and they dug up some
carrots, onions and potatoes, and then took them inside for a beef stew.

The sun had
well gone down, and they were sitting at the small wooden table in the kitchen
spooning up their bowls when Kyra heard an eerie howl. Her head came up sharply
as chills ran down her spine.

“Did you hear
that?”

Aunt Sylvia
frowned. “Hear what?”

“That howling.”
It came again, more sharply this time. “There, that. Did you hear it that
time?”

Her aunt
nodded. “We do get wolves roaming the nearby forest,” she said
conversationally, but her eyes shifted uneasily. “I would strongly suggest you
stay out of there after the sun goes down, or really at all. They are not known
to be forgiving creatures.”

Kyra nodded,
but her eyes narrowed slightly at the undercurrent to her aunt’s
tone—there was something she was not saying. “I’ll make sure to stay
away.”

They cleaned
up and retired early, exhausted from the day’s travel. Kyra slid into sleep as
soon as her head touched the pillow. Immediately, a dream that was becoming
familiar rose up to greet her—an image of her parents walking hand in
hand on the manicured lawns of their estate, faces wreathed in smiles as their
cheeks were kissed by the sun’s rays. Kyra was a young girl, rushing up to
greet them, carrying a small bouquet of freshly picked flowers in her small
hands.

As always,
even though she pumped her little legs as fast as she could carry them, the
dream changed before she could reach them, the landscape melting from summery
outdoors to pitch-blackness inside the manor. Shouts and sobs and death screams
tore through the air, along with the battle cries of maddened men. Blood
sprayed across the stone walls and carpeting, and she stood in the hall,
cowering behind a corner, hoping that no one would find her.

She heard
footsteps shuffling; trembling so fiercely she was surprised the wall wasn’t
shaking with the force of it. Torchlight illuminated the hall, and she saw the
long shadow of a man. He came around the corner, and she gasped in
astonishment. This was not the rebel she dreamed about—the one with blood
flecked cheeks carrying an axe, who always swung it toward her head right
before she woke up. This man was tall and muscular, with shaggy dark hair that
nearly reached his shoulders and a day’s growth of beard on his swarthy face.

As he turned
to face her, yellow eyes gleamed out of the darkness, a hunger in their depths
that both chilled her and sent streaks of lightning through her blood. As she
stared into them something shifted, her vision wavered, and then the head of a
wolf loomed over her, long incisors bared as he stretched his maw and howled.

With a strangled
scream, she jerked up, awake and in her own bed again. It took her some time
due to the blood rushing in her ears to realize that the howl wasn’t a part of
her dream. The sound of animals baying carried clear across the field and
straight through her closed bedroom window.

Sighing, she
wrapped her arms around herself to still her shivering body and lay back
against the pillow. The howls continued long into the night, and she did not
get very much sleep.

****

The next few
days passed, and Kyra gradually settled into country life, becoming more
accustomed to farm chores. She asked her aunt once more about the howls she’d
heard that night, but Sylvia only shrugged and wouldn’t answer any questions
except to tell Kyra to keep away from the woods. But the howl continued, and
with each passing night Kyra became convinced that it was more than simple wolf
cries.

One morning,
as she was feeding the horses, she thought about this. The howls were infused
with a kind of emotion she’d never heard from animals—sometimes an
overwhelming joy, others a crushing sadness, and yet others with a kind of fury
that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Each one tugged at
her heart, building a longing within to find the true source of these sounds
that she did not know what to do with.

Sighing, she
finished up with the horses, then returned to the cottage, stomping her boots
on the mat before coming inside.