Page 6 of Ravished By the Revenant

She retraces her steps and finds the staircase leading upstairs. My sanctuary since Greta and Konrad passed in their sleep, days apart, with no living heirs to take over their duties. I have not had much reason to descend… until her.

She pauses at the painting Lukas painted without me knowing. After he was thrown off his horse while riding to town for supplies, I had his son frame and display it. The little intruder bites her lip as she gazes up at it. At me. Then she frowns and looks at the plaque. Does she suspect something already? I know things change rapidly outside this castle—my servants told me about contraptions such as bicycles and telegrams—but ‘an ancient, decaying revenant lives here’ is likely not the first conclusion anyone would arrive at. Especially since witches are no more. Not since the Trials.

Upstairs, she takes a step into my solar, then retreats. Same with the library. What could she possibly be after if not the treasures they hold?

She does fully enter my dressing room. I’ve long since been without a valet, and there is no one alive to wash my clothes anymore, so I have had to make do myself. Thankfully, my well has not dried up over the years, and my clothing is fresh. Is that why she is smelling one of my shirts?

My heart quickens at the sight of her nose pressed against the fabric, my pants growing uncomfortably tight. I bite back a curse and retreat. Behind the corner, I stare at my crotch, at the evidence of my arousal. My breath comes out in staccato puffs, and I’m about to ease the strain by unbuttoning my pants when I hear the intruder attempting to open rooms that have been locked for decades. What is she doing?

From the shadows, I see her enter my bedroom with a smile on her face. My mind instantly conjures images of her in my bed, wearing nothing but that smile. I shuffle closer, stifling a groan of discomfort. Maybe I should… relieve myself before the image of her in my bed does so for me.

Instead of commandeering my bed, she lights a fire in my hearth, takes off her boots, and picks up the book I just put down before her arrival. She looks… comfortable.

But if my little intruder knew just how starved for touch I am, she would run out screaming. Not that I would allow it. I already decided she isn’t going anywhere without repaying me for my hospitality.

5

CLARA

Imust have fallen asleep. It takes me a moment to remember what happened and where I am—coming to Germany for Marco’s ‘business trip’, running away from him and his goons, being chased through the Black Forest, stumbling upon this old castle—but when I do, my eyes pop wide open with a gasp. I’m still in front of the fireplace, the fire down to slowly cooling embers. The book I was reading is lying face down next to me, and I can hear morning birdsong coming from outside.

My socks look dry, so I pull them on, sighing at how warm they are. Next, I test my boots before lacing them up, then walk over to the shutters. It’s time to see Blackthorn Keep in daylight.

The window and shutters open easily enough, confirming my suspicion that this room gets used at least occasionally. Cold morning air slaps me in the face, waking me up better than any sugary Starbucks drink.

This bedroom overlooks a huge garden that seems oddly well-maintained. If I crane my neck, I can just see the gate I stumbled through. Did I close it behind me? I can’t remember, but it’s definitely closed now.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten in a while. I squint, looking down at the garden. Are those strawberries? Sounds like breakfast to me.

I open shutters as I retrace my steps to the vestibule, letting light in so I can give my flashlight a break. My battery’s getting low, and I still have no signal. I’m going to need to shut it down soon to preserve what’s left, so I can call a taxi when I leave.

Back on the ground floor, I slowly spin in a circle.

“If I were a garden door, where would I be?” I ask the castle. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t reply. But really, if it did, I’d be pretty freaked out.

I turn left, in the direction I think the bedroom above is, letting some more light in as I go. The candelabras and sconces answer my question of how the hell people see anything here at night. It’s not like there’s a bunch of flashlights lying everywhere. In general, this place feels like it froze in time decades ago.

The first door I try is a dry pantry: candles and soap, sacks of flour and beans, barrels of salt and blocks of sugar, spice boxes, nuts and dried mushrooms, jars of vinegar and oil, bundles of kindling, and clay jars labeled in old German. None of it smells stale, and there are no indications of rodents chewing on anything. Fascinating.

I close the pantry and move on, getting lucky on door number two—the garden. I’m so mesmerized by the sight that I shriek when something brushes against my legs, yowling softly.

“Jesus jet fuel Christ!” I yelp, nearly jumping out of my skin. My hand is at my throat as I gawk at the cat staring up at me like I hurt its feelings by being afraid. “It’s not me, it’s you,” I assure the offended feline.

If cats could roll their eyes, I’m sure this gray furball would do just that. Unbothered, it flounces down the path, heading straight for the berries like it knows my destination.

“Hey, wait for me,” I mutter, following its lead. Now I know why there are no rats in the pantry. But who’s feeding this blue-eyed earmuff after it exterminates all the pests?

I crouch down by a garden bed overflowing with strawberries. The scent is intoxicating, and I take a deep breath, closing my eyes.

Scratching sounds catch my attention, and I squint at the cat. It’s currently digging in the soil. I wrinkle my nose when it turns to place its furry little butt over the hole it made.

“Excuse you?” I grumble. “I was having a culinary moment here.” Sighing, I start picking the strawberries—a girl’s gotta eat, even if she’d rather not have known the source of the fertilizer.

With a full mouth and pink fingers, I start exploring the rest of the garden. It has a little bit of everything: cucumbers, tomatoes, string beans, bell peppers, cabbage. Toward the back, there’s even a field which I guess will yield potatoes and corn. The other side has a small orchard, the apples just starting to ripen.

The cat follows me around, occasionally stopping to sniff at things like a dog.

“You’re peculiar,” I tell it. When it looks up at me like it knows I’m talking to it, I frown. “What should I call you, anyway?”