The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

I dared to step closer when one wagged his tail with friendly interest. Matching leather collars adorned their necks, tags engraved with their names. “Well, well, well, Carnegie and Astor.”

I cringed when I realized everything about this house—this family—seemed lost in a time warp. The first painting I’d seen at the library had been of two wolfhounds at Usher House, their master towering over them with the day’s kill.

Yara’s yappy little library dogs—I’d thought the names charming at first, but now...now every living thing seemed only as relevant as its role in history repeating.

Where did Thax fit into this?

And how did I?

My fear grew frantic as I turned, marching directly to the large iron gates that sealed Usher from the rest of the world. I wrapped my fingers around the iron bars and yanked. It was as immovable as the brick wall that bracketed it. I shrewdly assessed the pointy, rusted iron spears that poked from the top of the wall like deadly birthday-cake candles. My heartbeat surrendered control as it throbbed in my ears. Pain rushed through my synapses as my headache returned with renewed determination.

No way could I climb these walls. No way could I leave this place without Thax. The only way out, felt like it was back in.

I turned, adrenaline shredding my good sense as I returned to Carnegie and Astor. They sat waiting and watching, hardly the vicious guard dogs I suspected they were meant to be. I patted Astor on the head, wishing I could see this place from his point of view.

And then a crazy idea came to me.

“Hey, boys.” I pushed a hand in my pocket and pulled out the finger bone and key. “Show me where the bodies are buried.”

I was only half joking, until Carnegie sniffed it once and stood, trotting off down the path that led into the walled garden. I followed, Astor lumbering along after us as I slipped in between the rusted iron garden gate that hung on a single hinge.

I rushed to catch up to the dog as he slipped under thorny brambles and through rambling rose bushes. I cursed when something sliced into my arm, little drops of red blood pooling instantly and coloring the hem of my cream sweater.

A black thorn was jammed deep into my skin. I winced, pulling it out and pressing my thumb over the wound. I pushed through anyway, afraid to lose both dogs that had already turned the corner. I sped my feet, nearly slipping on the damp grass as I turned the hedge and found them both sitting in wait at the base of the fountain.

“Good boys,” I whispered as I approached.

My eye tracked up the height of the fountain. It was chipped and pock-marked by the salted ocean breeze, but the core elements remained. The round cheeks of a sweet cherub child, curls wrapping around his ears and tiny little horns peeking through the locks of hair.

His body wasn’t chubby like a usual cherub though, he looked more like a tiny Greek warrior with a leather strap crossing his chest and arrows pointing from a stone quiver.

Climbing up the edge of the fountain, the toe of my sneaker cracked some of the stonework and caused it to break off and fall onto the pathway. I frowned, feeling like all of Usher was crumbling beneath me. I found more secure footing and stood to my full height on the edge of the fountain, now nearly face-to-face with the warrior cherub. I found tiny gouges in the stonework, like something had chipped away at the base. I pressed my fingertips to the cool stone and pushed softly.

The stone crumbled and I realized some sort of plaster had been packed on top of the bottom half of the cherub’s torso and legs. I frowned, wondering what I might find if I continued to swipe away at the tiny pebbles. Instead, I walked carefully around the edge as Carnegie and Astor’s big eyes watched me with interest.

I nearly tumbled when I turned the corner of the fountain, stabling myself against the back of the cherub only to have another chunk crumble and break.

And then I saw it.

The cherub wasn’t just a cherub—he was a centaur—his body half carved like a powerful horse, right down to the hooves. I continued to crack away the cheap white plaster, wondering if whoever had done this was a bad attempt at fixing the fountain, or hiding something from view.

I brushed the almost chalk-like powder away from the back hooves of the cherub, drawn to the dark pink shading of the plaster at the base of the hooves. I was content to wipe away until the pads of my fingertips were raw and a soft drizzle of rain ran down my cheeks.

The wetness made the plaster harder to remove and with my fingers raw and no closer to any answers, I kneeled at the base and pressed my forearm and head against the statue. Tears burned as stupidity washed through me. I sniffed, forcing my mind to push away the frustration in favor of my mission.

Thax.

And then I was surprised for the second time by the statue—a tiny glint in the dim light. I slipped my fingers between the crack I’d created at the cherub’s hooves and found something small and metal. I pushed away at the plaster, chipping it quickly with my fingernails and revealing a tiny silver trinket box, half the size of a matchbox and still completely intact, despite how long it might’ve been buried within the fountain stonework.

I yanked the box out and heard the clang of metal echo inside. I slipped the lock without hesitation to reveal a tiny iron skeleton key.

A skeleton key that matched my own.

I set the box down, nesting the key in my palm and wondering where it might unlock, and why someone had bothered to hide it here, of all places.

I stood on the edge of the fountain, eyes scanning