CHAPTER 28: I WON’T ACCEPT THIS

Eleanor’s POV

I stared into the darkness, my mind refusing to process the words. "I’m sorry, could you... could you repeat that?" My voice was a thin, reedy thing. "I think my ears are hearing double. It sounded like you said... werewolf."

I did not stammer, Beatrice replied, her tone flat and utterly serious.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat. "Okay. Right. Yeah. I’m now one hundred percent convinced. This is a mental break. A full-blown psychotic episode. This is what it feels like."

Oh, for moon’s sake! Beatrice’s frustration was a hot wave in my mind. The healed bruises? The vanished pain? The fact that you’re not currently freezing to death in a stone icebox? Does any of that strike you as ’normal’? Or are you just willfully ignorant?

"It’s not normal!" I admitted, my own frustration rising to meet hers. "But that doesn’t mean I’m going to believe the first insane thing that pops into my head—or that a voice in my head says!"

Fine, she snapped. How about this? Can you see right now?

I blinked. And then I really looked. The basement wasn’t pitch black anymore. I could make out the rough texture of the stone walls, the grain of the wooden door, the faint outline of my own hands in my lap. I could see perfectly.

"no i can’t see anything."

Don’t even try to lie, Beatrice cut in. I can feel your surprise. You can see in the dark.

I shut my mouth. She was right. I could see. But admitting that felt like admitting everything else.

"Why?" I asked instead, deflecting. "Why are you here? Why now?"

Do you remember the accident? Beatrice’s voice softened slightly. The hit-and-run? The day that waste of space Dickson broke up with you?

A cold knot formed in my stomach. "I can never forget that day." The memory of the pain, the crushing loneliness, the sheer physical agony—it was etched into me.

Your bones were shattered, Eleanor. Your organs were... rearranged. You should be dead. Haven’t you spent even a single moment wondering how you’re not just alive, but perfectly intact?

"I have!" I cried out, the words echoing in the small cell. "Of course I have! But that doesn’t explain you! It doesn’t explain... this!"

I was suppressed, she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Your human nature kept me locked away. That day, the physical trauma, the emotional devastation... it was like a dam breaking. I could finally reach you. Your body could finally begin to heal itself the way it was always meant to. Your abilities started to manifest.

"I am not a werewolf," I insisted, the denial a weak reflex.

Enhanced hearing, Beatrice fired back, relentless. You could hear your neighbor’s music with crystal clarity through a wall and a pile of clothes.

"The volume could have been up!" I argued, desperate for any rational explanation.

Oh, spare me, she scoffed. Then explain the car crash with your friend. The one you just walked away from. Explain jumping from a moving vehicle and being fully healed from what should have been catastrophic injuries in less than a day. Go on. Give me a ’scientific’ explanation for that.

I opened my mouth. And then I closed it. I had nothing. No excuse, no logical thread to cling to. The memory of the crash, of the impossible shield of energy, of Mira and Roxy’s shocked faces... it all crashed down on me. The final pillar of my denial crumbled into dust.

I had no argument for that.

"I... I can’t accept this," I whispered. It was too big, too world-shattering.

I understand, Beatrice said, and for the first time, her voice held no sarcasm, only a weary empathy. You’ve lived your entire life as a human. A human who has been treated like garbage, told you’re worthless, conditioned to believe nothing extraordinary could ever happen to you. Of course this feels impossible.

Her words stung because they were true. They cut right to the core of every insecurity I’d ever nursed. "That’s not what I meant," I denied weakly, out of habit more than anything.

It is,

she insisted, her tone gentle but firm. I know what you feel, Eleanor. You can’t hide it from me. So stop trying to deny what you already know is true.

A new, more terrifying question surfaced. "Are you... are you the one who says those things?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Those vile things? Telling me to... to kill someone?"

Shouldn’t that be obvious by now? she replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Why?" The word was a horrified breath. "Why would you say that? I strangled my sister! If I hadn’t... come back... I could have killed her!"

And the world would have one less viper in it, Beatrice said, her tone utterly remorseless. I feel no pity for creatures like that. They are a blight.

A cold dread washed over me. "So you made me do it. You made me attack her."

No, she corrected, her voice sharp. I did not. I only gave the suggestion. The impulse. You are the one who acted on it. You chose to put your hands around her throat. Your will, your anger, fueled the action.

"That’s a lie!" I protested, recoiling from the idea. "I don’t have that in me! I don’t have the guts to even punch someone, let alone try to strangle them!"

Really? Beatrice’s voice was dry. What about the man in the alley? The one you punched so hard he flew backward and lost consciousness? Was that also me ’making’ you do it?

I froze. Roxy. The alley. The surge of fury thinking about Dickson. The impact of my fist.

Your emotions are a powerful catalyst, Eleanor, she continued. When they are triggered, when that quiet resilience of yours finally snaps, you are capable of things your meek human persona can’t even conceive of. What happened to your sister was just the most recent example. Your rage, my encouragement... it was a potent combination.

"You have to stop," I pleaded. "You can’t just... suggest I hurt people."

That isn’t happening, Beatrice replied, her tone final. I don’t have a choice in the matter. My purpose is to help you survive, to make you step out of that suffocating comfort zone you’ve built. We are quite literally stuck with each other. For life.

The finality of it made my stomach clench. "I don’t like the sound of that."

Tough, she said, not unkindly. And just so you’re aware, you know I can feel everything you’re feeling right now, don’t you? The fear, the resistance... it’s all a bit loud.

Before I could respond, the heavy lock on the basement door clanked open. I heard the familiar voice of a senior servant. "...should be punished longer, Miss Priscilla. She doesn’t deserve your forgiveness after what she did to you."

Oh, I can guess who that is, Beatrice muttered dryly.

Then, Priscilla’s voice floated down. "I just don’t want my only sister to suffer any more than she already is. Please, just leave the door open and give us some privacy. I’d like to talk to her alone."

The servant fawned over her magnanimity. "You are too good, miss. Far too good." Their footsteps retreated.

A moment later, the bulbs in the basement ceiling flickered on, its harsh light blinding me for a second. I blinked, raising a hand to shield my eyes.

Priscilla stood in the doorway, backlit like an angel. She stepped gracefully into the dank room, her nose wrinkling slightly at the smell. She looked perfectly healthy, not a trace of the coughing invalid from earlier.

"I must say, Eleanor," she began, her voice a low, confidential purr. "I don’t know what possessed you to try and strangle me, but it has worked out rather splendidly in my favor. Everyone is so concerned for me now. And you..." She smiled coldly. "It seems you’re finally losing your mind. Which is excellent. A madwoman can’t very well refuse to donate a kidney, can she?"

Inside my head, Beatrice was practically vibrating with fury. Oh, I want to pluck her hair out. One by one. Then maybe use them to floss my teeth before I knock every one of her perfectly straight, ridiculously white teeth down her lying throat. Can I? Please? Just a little bit? Her violent fantasy was so bizarrely detailed and oddly humorous that it was almost distracting.

"What do you want, Priscilla?" I asked, my voice flat. I was too tired, too overwhelmed to play her games.

She gave a light, airy laugh that echoed mockingly in the stone room. "You already know what I want. Your blood. Your kidney. Your compliance. But right now?" She took another step closer, her eyes gleaming with malice. "I just came to gloat. I would have brought you a blanket, but where’s the fun in that? I’d much rather watch you shiver. And to listen to you beg to be let out."

The cold wasn’t affecting me, thanks to whatever... thing... was happening with my body, but the humiliation was a different kind of chill.

If you don’t get her out of here, Beatrice’s voice cut in, sharp and impatient, I am going to start reciting vile things to do to her. At full volume in your mind. I will not watch this walking infection taunts us.

The idea was somehow more terrifying than the cold cell.

Priscilla was thrown by my lack of reaction. She was waiting for me to crumble, to plead, to be the Eleanor she knew.

Instead, I let a silence hang in the damp air, then sighed, the sound weary and utterly bored.

"You know," I said, my voice calm and devoid of any emotion she’d expect, "for someone who’s supposedly dying, you put an incredible amount of energy into being tedious." My eyes were dry.t. "Are you sure your illness isn’t just chronic mediocrity?"

Priscilla’s gloating mask shattered. Her jaw went slack. The color drained from her face, replaced by a blotchy, confused flush. She blinked, utterly stunned, as if I’d suddenly started speaking another language.

Inside my head, Beatrice let out a low, appreciative whistle.

Burnnn,