Lady Fourie led her guests through the estate's vast gardens later that morning. The sky was overcast, casting a muted light over the manicured hedges and vibrant flowerbeds. Fenrir maneuvered his wheelchair along the gravel path with ease, his pale eyes keenly observing their surroundings. Mary Ann walked silently at his side, her presence as unnerving as ever.
Lady Fourie maintained her pleasant demeanor, pointing out various plants and statues, but her heart raced with anticipation. Her gaze flickered toward a secluded section of the garden, one she had meticulously prepared for this very moment.
"This way," she said, her voice light. "There's a patch of rare wildflowers just ahead. I thought you might appreciate their beauty."
Fenrir nodded politely, his expression unreadable. Mary Ann offered no response, her gaze fixed ahead.
As they entered the patch, the air grew denser, the foliage closer and more tangled. Lady Fourie walked confidently, her skirts brushing against the plants around her. Fenrir and Mary Ann followed, seemingly oblivious to the sinister vines of poison ivy intertwined with the flowers.
Lady Fourie's pulse quickened as she watched them. They brushed against the leaves, their gloved hands briefly grazing the plants. Any ordinary person would have felt the effects within hours, their skin reddening and blistering.
But Fenrir and Mary Ann remained unperturbed, their movements as smooth and deliberate as ever.
"They're lovely," Fenrir remarked, his tone neutral. "You have a fine eye for detail, my lady."
Lady Fourie's smile tightened. "I'm pleased you think so."
As they returned to the main path, Lady Fourie's mind churned with frustration. The poison ivy had failed. Again, her carefully laid trap had been rendered useless.
That evening, Lady Fourie paced her chambers, her composure unraveling. "Devil's luck," she muttered to herself, her voice trembling with rage. "They must have the devil's luck."
She slammed her hands against the desk, scattering papers and quills. No matter what she tried, Fenrir and Mary Ann seemed untouchable. Were they truly human? Or had Clara been right after all?
______
Meanwhile, Fenrir explored the manor's library, his pale fingers trailing along the spines of ancient tomes. The room was dimly lit, the faint scent of aged paper filling the air.
His attention was drawn to a shelf partially obscured by a velvet curtain. He pushed it aside, revealing a single, unmarked book bound in cracked leather. Intrigued, he opened it and began to read.
The pages detailed forbidden arts, recounting rituals and pacts that promised power beyond comprehension. One entry caught Fenrir's attention—a failed attempt by Lady Fourie herself to form a bond with an angel.
The passage described how Lady Fourie had sought divine favor, hoping to elevate herself above the mortal plane. But her heart, twisted by ambition and malice, had repelled the celestial being. Instead of blessing her, the angel had cursed her, branding her soul with a mark of corruption.
Fenrir closed the book, a faint smile playing on his lips. "So that's the truth of her," he murmured.
Mary Ann appeared in the doorway, her presence silent and unsettling. "Did you find something?"
Fenrir held up the book. "Our dear hostess has a rather fascinating past."
Mary Ann's lips curved into a cold smile. "Then we should thank her for sharing it with us. Do you want me to deal with it?"
Fenrir paused, but then he smiled at his beautiful companion in a way that could melt hearts and replied, "No, there is no need for you to get involved yet. I will take care of this myself. Instead, you should focus on the news we are about to get soon."
______
Lady Fourie sat in her study, nursing a glass of wine as the moonlight spilled through the tall windows. Her elegant facade was beginning to fray, her mind haunted by the failures of her schemes. Every attempt to undermine her sister and that unnerving servant of hers had backfired, and the whispers of doubt had grown louder.
She turned sharply when the door creaked open. Fenrir entered, his wheelchair gliding silently across the polished floor. He held the leather-bound book he had discovered in the library earlier.
"My lady," Fenrir greeted, his voice soft but laced with an edge of amusement. "Forgive the intrusion, but I couldn't resist the allure of a late-night chat."
Lady Fourie straightened, forcing a smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Fenrir held up the book, letting the moonlight illuminate its cracked cover. "I came across this fascinating tome in your library. It seems... deeply personal."
Lady Fourie's eyes narrowed, her grip on the wineglass tightening. "That's private," she said sharply.
"Of course," Fenrir replied, his tone gentle. "But its contents are quite revealing. Your ambition, your attempt to bond with an angel... and the unfortunate consequences."
Lady Fourie froze, her breath catching in her throat. "You dare—"
"I dare only to understand, my lady," Fenrir interrupted smoothly. "To admire your determination. Even when cursed, you refused to bow. That is commendable."
His words struck a chord of pride within her, but they also felt like a blade pressed lightly against her throat
"I wonder," Fenrir continued, his tone thoughtful, "what drove you to seek such divine power? Was it not enough to command this estate? To wield influence over the lesser nobles?"
Lady Fourie's eyes flashed with anger. "You presume too much, servant."
Fenrir smiled faintly, unfazed by her outburst. "Forgive me. I merely see a kindred spirit. Someone who desires more than the hand she's been dealt."
Lady Fourie's defenses faltered. "What are you implying?"
"That your ambitions need not end here," Fenrir said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You sought the favor of an angel, but their judgment is harsh, their power distant. Perhaps you sought the wrong kind of ally."
Lady Fourie studied him, suspicion and curiosity battling within her. "And you would suggest...?"
Fenrir leaned forward, his pale eyes gleaming. "There are other forces in this world, my lady. Forces far closer, far more willing to assist someone of your... unique talents."
Lady Fourie hesitated, her pulse quickening. "You speak of dark powers."
"Call them what you will," Fenrir replied, his tone calm. "But they do not judge as angels do. They reward strength, ambition, and resilience."
The room grew silent, the weight of his words hanging between them. Lady Fourie's mind raced, torn between temptation and fear.
"You would have me betray my principles," Lady Fourie said at last, her voice shaking slightly.
"I would have you embrace your true self," Fenrir countered. "The self you tried to show the angel, only for them to reject you. The self they feared."
Lady Fourie's lips pressed into a thin line. "You speak as if you know my soul."
"I know enough," Fenrir said, his smile returning. "And I know you are not a woman who accepts failure."
Lady Fourie sat alone in her study, the crackling of the hearth her only companion. The faint scent of charred wood mingled with the floral notes of her perfume, but neither brought her any comfort. She swirled the wine in her glass absently, Fenrir's words replaying over and over in her mind like a haunting melody.
His tone had been calm, his gaze steady, but there had been something else. A flicker in his pale eyes, a subtle shift in his expression when he spoke of ambition and power. Was he toying with her? Or was there a deeper, hidden truth?
Lady Fourie's reflection shimmered in the wine, her beauty undeniable even in the dim light. Fenrir had studied her with a peculiar intensity during their conversation—one that lingered just a moment too long. Could it be that his interest wasn't merely political or manipulative?
She placed the glass down and leaned back in her chair, the thought growing more alluring with each passing moment. Could he have fallen for me? she wondered, her fingers brushing against the delicate pendant resting at her throat.
It was plausible, wasn't it? Fenrir was intelligent, composed, and had seen through her charms with unnerving ease. Yet, beneath that icy exterior, could he have been swayed by her grace and beauty?
But then, another thought struck her—one far more chilling. What if his words were a ploy? What if Fenrir, that pale, enigmatic figure, was using her? Perhaps his master was not Mary Ann but someone—or something—else entirely.
Lady Fourie frowned, her mind racing. Fenrir's arrival had already disrupted her carefully curated plans. His presence, his cryptic remarks, and his apparent immunity to her traps all pointed to a man who was far from ordinary.
"Is he the serpent," she whispered to herself, "or the savior? Only time will tell. But I, for one, need to make a decision."
The female was torn between her desire and her true calling. But the call of the unknow was an allure she could not turn away from. In the end, she was destined to fall into the temptation known as desire.